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strawberrystepmom · 4 months

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pairing: Kenjaku x F!Reader, past Geto Suguru x F!Reader

word count: 3.6k

about: you become kenjaku's captive to ensure that he will not miss his opportunity to fight the strongest after his return from the prison realm. the temptation of being this close to the last remaining earthly fragment of the man you once loved, suguru, proves too much to resist and you give into your desires despite the hole they're bound to leave.

contents: NSFW - MINORS DNI. DARK CONTENT WARNING, MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS FOR CH 236 AND BEYOND | dubcon, manipulation, violence against reader, asphyxiation, kidnapping | reader is a sorcerer and went to school with geto and they had mutual feelings for one another, mentions of religion and references to god, kenjaku retained some of geto's memories and knows reader through them, reader has breasts and descriptions of vaginal anatomy are given, rough piv sex with little prep, reader is referred to as "girl", major character death (off screen).

notes: i've uh....been going through some things lately LMAO tbh i started this awhile back before thanksgiving but have felt weird about posting it and it very nearly stayed in the "between me and god" folder so i held back but today i said fuck it. if you read, thanks and i hope you enjoy!!!

header art is by jenny holzer and divider is by @/cafekitsune ♡

“The old occupant of this vessel was very fond of you, you know?”

How dare Kenjaku mention Suguru so casually, as if he were a tenant to his own flesh and bone instead of its rightful owner?

“You know nothing about him,” The words are full of venom, flying from your mouth not unlike the way you spat at the curse user’s face two days prior to now. He chuckled when the fluid hit his cheek, wiping it off without a second thought. “Or me.”

You felt so guilty for spitting at his face, the face of a man you once believed that you loved, that you wept until you began to dry heave atop the futon mattress in the room that has been designated as yours. It’s the same bed you rest on now, duvet over your knees that are hiked to your chest. It’s a means to protect yourself from any vulnerability but it’s truly no use. If Kenjaku wants to harm you, he will.

He has insisted your accommodations be comfortable since arriving three days ago given you are collateral and not a captive, his own clever wording for the situation, but you’re more than aware that if you were to attempt to escape from the cage that you’d hit the window just as all birds hungry for a taste of freedom do. There are no cuffs, chains, or bars but your freedom is no longer yours. It is a prize to be won pending the defeat of the man standing across from you in the doorway, shoji door open beside him, flowing hair as dark as the midnight sky brushing the backs of his elbows.

For years you wondered what you’d do if faced with Suguru again. Would you strike him, insisting he deserved it for all the hurt left in his wake? Ask him why in a scream so powerful your shoulders would shake with the weight of your fury? Perhaps you’d forgive him, as you’d been taught and encouraged to do your entire life, and those mumbled prayers cast to the God you believe in above you would be true for the first time since they’ve left your treacherous lips.

“I forgive him, I hope you can, too.” You have begged God aloud and silently since sixteen years old. You have always been devout in your faith despite abandoning most of the tenets that make someone a believer, your lack of devotion not enough to deter you from selfishly asking for absolution for a man who you know deserves none.

God’s answer is clear when faced with the fact that this is not Geto standing in front of you. There is no less mercy a person can be shown than their body being used as a sick prop after their death.

The space where his thoughts and dreams and hopes used to lie is occupied by something far worse than just visions of a world purified through means of violence, a place where people like you could live without the threat of death and sacrifice to keep others safe. Granted, that wasn’t exactly a noble purpose either, but at least it didn’t threaten your life the way that whatever lives inside of his skull does now.

“I know more about both of you than you think.”

Kenjaku’s words drip with smugness and your stomach flips. The natural responses of your body to a man who looks and sounds just like Suguru make you sick but you cannot focus on fighting them off and keeping yourself protected at the same time, you have to simply make peace with the butterflies in your stomach that feels like something is punching you in the gut over and over again. He dares enter the room and you scoot further up the futon, hitting the wall behind you and leveling a glare in his direction.

Suguru’s body reacts to you, as well, something that Kenjaku planned long ago to use to his advantage. It started with hazy dreams, a face he recognized as yours drifting through them, your thighs and your lips and your skirt. It’s a version of you a little younger, a little warmer - less edgy than you are now. You are sharp and finely tuned to harm while the version of you that lived in Geto’s mind will forever stay soft, a freshly unfurled rose.

“All you’ve done is vandalize him,” you accuse and he shrugs, dressed in a cotton yukata rather than the robes he stole in addition to the body they dressed. It’s easy to imagine another life where this is Suguru and you are you and he’s coming to your shared bedside, kneeling on the ground the same way Kenjaku is now while he invites himself to the only space you currently have as your own.

“You’re a smart girl, don’t play dumb.” Your glance moves from the doorway to him, disgusted by how brave he is getting this close to you. “Perhaps I’m simply using the power this body holds in the way he was too cowardly to attempt.”

Despite your current state of sitting in nothing but a yukata yourself, you are physically strong from spending the last decade of your life as nothing more than a glorified weapon to use in the fight against evil. Even if your Cursed Technique would be unlikely to have any effect on the man, you could be a difficult problem for him if you wanted to be, yet you sit and do nothing but wait and refuse to respond to his words. He chuckles at your stubbornness and reaches across the bed and your body to grab your chin between his thumb and index finger. He shifts your head until you’re staring directly at him and a smile crosses his lips.

You do not fight him off.

“Tell me, sorcerer,” he starts and you swallow, bottom lip quivering. You want to reach out and slap him away, to scream and kick but your body stays still, the only place blood is pooling between your legs and in the heat of your face. “Where are those teeth and claws you were so eager to show me on your first night here?”

He reaches his thumb upward and presses it against your mouth, stopping the shake with a single touch - your body’s natural reaction to a man you are now certain you loved, given it’s the only explanation for your behavior. It’s a form of trust, the muscle memory of a kiss he gave you in your dorm room at the school you once shared. The first night you were spitting and hissing, now you’re so placid.

“Nothing to say for yourself?”

Stubbornly, you shake your head and Kenjaku chuckles again, pulling his thumb away from your lip but maintaining the grip on your chin. You know this is not Suguru, it’s as clear as the stitches across the forehead of the practically empty vessel that further closes in on you. He moves silently until he’s mere inches away from you, his head hovering over your knees that are still pulled against your chest. You watch him with narrowed eyes, tucking against yourself tighter than you ever have as a means of comfort, but it does nothing to stop him from lingering.

“I could just make you speak if I wanted to,” he warns. The power in this situation belongs to him.

“What’s the point of fighting you? You’re going to do whatever you want with me anyway.” You admit, defeated. Whatever fight you had left in you was smothered weeks ago during the attack on Shibuya. Even the release of Gojo is not enough to fill you with hope for the future. It’s pointless to keep fighting when the only outcome is going to be loss.

The shaky sound of your voice makes the curse user move closer to you and you shut your eyes tightly, refusing to look at him lest your body continue with these inexplicable natural responses. Heart pounding against your chest, it’s inexplicably frustrating that it cannot seem to separate what your brain knows is true from what your body wants to believe.

It isn’t him, you scream within the confines of your own mind but it does not prevent your palms from feeling clammy and the squeeze of your inner thighs against each other to provide some relief against the heat in your core.

It isn’t him. It isn’t him. It isn’t him…

Chanting the words internally, you open your eyes and are met with a pair of golden ones staring directly at you. They’re the same that stared at you in a dorm room a decade ago although they’re missing the warmth they had back then, dripping honey sweetness hidden in the irises turned to tar.

“You’re right, I can.” He nods and dark hair falls over his eyes, catching your eye. Your stomach turns when you spot the stitches across his forehead but your gaze returns to his so quickly you can hardly think about it. “But will it be what I want or is it what this body desires, I wonder?”

This piques your interest and Kenjaku tilts his head to the side inquisitively, dark hair sweeping over your knees and around your body. It feels like a curtain, a veil like the ones you are so used to using to keep people safe and ignorant and outside of your world of sorcery.

“What do you mean?”

A smirk is the response you are granted and he moves closer to you, one of his hands reaching for the duvet you’re using to cover you. Pulling it back gently, your robe covered body coming into view and once again, you make no effort to fight. With this barrier removed, he runs his palm over the outside of your thigh. Muffling your whimper at the touch, you attempt to hide your face in your shoulder but he stops you, still grasping onto your chin and still holding your gaze.

“Interesting.”

His hand travels from the outside of your thigh to the insides and you gently spread them to allow him access before realizing what he’s searching for. Attempting to cut off his access by closing your legs, he holds your thigh in place and lets his fingers dip lower along the soft skin. You quiver and shake beneath him like a leaf clinging to the branches of a tree in winter, desperate for somewhere to remain, and those fingers inch closer and closer to your core. He stops when he feels the coarse hair covering your mound and dares to dip a single fingertip between your folds, raising his eyebrows when he feels the arousal seeping from you.

“I knew it,” he whispers so low you wonder if you were even meant to hear it but the way he gazes at you, like that of a man starved, tells you that the words were meant for no one but you.

Your hand shakes as much as the rest of you when you finally lift it from your side, reaching out to him and taking a strand of hair between your fingers. It feels just as you imagined it would, silk between your digits, and a breathy sigh leaves you before you begin to cry. Dropping the small strand, you choose to reach out toward his forehead and use your hand to block the stitches covering it.

“Suguru.”

You babble the name like it is precious, your lip quivering just as it did before, and the evil man shakes his head, capturing your wrist with the hand he just removed from your chin. He lowers your hand enough that you can see the stitches unobscured.

“Kenjaku, actually.”

He lowers your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, amused when you squirm where you sit, practically delirious with lust and confusion. You do not want this, at least that’s what you tell yourself while parting your legs further and panting, chest heaving with every breath.

Wordlessly, he uses his free hand to untie your robe and it falls off of your shoulders, exposing you to him fully before he can blink. This is something he remembers seeing in one of those dreams but you look different than whatever the imagination of a man who was infatuated with you was able to come up with during his loneliest hours. It amuses Kenjaku that he is the one to see you like this, bare and willing.

Tracing down your belly and lower, he stops between your legs which makes you whimper. You’re so desperate to be touched, to pretend he is someone you’ll never have the opportunity to love as properly as you could have if you’d both lived a different life, that your hips actually arch off of the bed eagerly. It should embarrass you but you are past the point of humiliation, willing to be fucked by evil incarnate just for the sake of a taste of Suguru Geto.

“Pathetic little thing,” he coos and you say nothing in return. You’re well aware of your failings as a sorcerer and a human being as his fingers spread your labia to get a glance at what you have to offer. For a moment, you consider praying for Suguru again; to selfishly beg God to make sense of your own actions but you know that he no longer has mercy for an ill behaved member of his flock. You will simply accept the consequences, whatever they will be.

His thumb brushes your clit and you moan, tipping your head back and toward the ceiling. You wait for the sensation of pleasure to climb through you again but it doesn’t come until you look downward again, eyes fluttering open.

“Eyes on me or you get nothing.”

Too afraid to look away lest it keep you from the only good thing you’ve felt in who knows how long, you keep your eyes glued to Kenjaku’s face while his hand works between your legs, spreading the slick from your cunt toward your clit and back down. If you could just shut your eyes, you could pretend, but they’re open and glued between your legs, watching every feathery stroke of his fingers through your folds.

Kenjaku’s cock hardens against your thigh and for a moment you dare to feel powerful knowing you aren’t the only one surrendering to the most base of your needs. He drops your hand and reaches for the tie of his robe, opening it and giving you the only look you’ve ever been lucky enough to get of Suguru’s bare body.

Scarred, honed, a tool - just like yours. If you weren’t so lost in the moment, the lifetimes you have imagined for years would be playing through your mind.

You gasp and knit your brows together, bucking against the increasing pressure of Kenjaku’s fingers while he brings you back to him and out of your head. Whatever you’re thinking about doesn’t matter when he inserts a finger inside of you, only testing how wet you are with no intention of preparing you for his cock.

When he’s satisfied with how wet you are, he withdraws his finger and you whine. The sound is the most he has heard from you since the first night and it makes his eyes widen in interest. He shifts until he is standing between your spread knees and the realization that this is really happening hits you at once, your face flaming with desire.

“You’re so impatient.”

The curse user tuts at you with a roll of his eyes and spreads your legs as wide as they can go to accommodate the width of his body. He’s broad in shoulder and hip and you bite your lower lip when he runs the head of his cock through your folds, following the same pattern of his fingers. You expect the teasing to last longer but it stops abruptly. Before you can take a breath to prepare yourself, his cock is buried to the hilt inside of you, and you gasp with wide eyes, shocked.

“As good as you imagined?”

Words come to your mind but do not form enough to leave your mouth while he thrusts roughly, your body jerking violently against his. It’s painful, the size of him with little prep in conjunction with how he uses your body as nothing more than a glorified place to take his aggression out, but all of the numbness within you thaws and for the first time since you realized Geto was no longer Geto in Shibuya, you feel.

It’s hard to name all the emotions you are experiencing because they blur into something barely comprehensible. Pleasure and pain and bone chilling sorrow, the kind that makes tears silently drip down your face while he takes what he wants from you. He doesn’t bother to play with your clit and there is no need to, the joy you’re taking simply from being used by Suguru’s body enough that the knot inside of you is slowly beginning to unravel.

Skin on skin punctuated by his low grunts and your whines fill the small room and you are so lost, you lift yourself halfway up to meet Kenjaku and consider kissing him. Would it be close enough to kissing Suguru that you could eventually justify it or would it just sully the one good memory you have of him?

You don’t have long to think about it before you are pushed back down to the bed, one of his hands caging your throat and keeping you pinned to the bed below. A reminder that this is for his pleasure and not yours although you feel yourself coming closer to the edge than you were just moments prior, shutting your eyes tightly. All of the motion inside of you stops, the hard thrusts of his cock ending, and your eyes shoot open.

“Remember what I said. Eyes on me or you get nothing.”

Nodding, you keep them open and he begins again, pace rougher than before. You can do nothing but grunt and struggle to breathe, his cock carving out space inside of you that didn’t exist until he entered you. Every kiss of his tip against your insides knocks the breath out of you and finally you cum in a strangled moan, walls quivering around his length.

His hand inches further up your throat and squeezes experimentally. As expected, you do not fight back and he takes his indulgence with a grin, choking you with varying degrees of pressure and feeling your cunt spasm around him when he surprises you by tightening his grip.

You like this. You want this.

He leans forward and shifts his weight to his arm and hand, finally spilling inside of you with a deep moan. Warmth fills every inch of you and you wish that you felt as full in your heart as you do in your cunt but a void remains.

Kenjaku’s other hand slides up your body and wraps around your neck, both of his palms resting on either side of your neck and fingers splaying over your throat. It’s dangerous to let him have this much access to any part of you that he could possibly crush but you do not move, tearfully looking up at him and sniffling. He increases his pressure, not enough to harm you, but enough to make you work hard and you realize how easily he could just…end this.

“Please kill me,” you beg while struggling to breathe, realizing what you’ve done now that the afterglow of orgasm can no longer protect you from the cold hard truth.

You are a betrayer. You slept with the enemy to sate your own selfish desires and death seems almost too kind to beg for, yet you do.

“Kill me.”

Your face turns in shade and your vision is dotted with darkness, a miserable end to a miserable life you consider, but at least it will be over. The pressure of Kenjaku’s hands around your neck continues to increase until you are certain you are taking your last breath, lungs aching until he abruptly stops. He glances down from where he rests above you, half swollen cock softening and letting his cum leak out around the tip of it that is still inside of you and onto the sheets below.

“I will not give you the satisfaction of death until you give me the satisfaction of watching you fight for it.”

Removing his hands from around your throat completely, he glances down at the pressure indentions of his fingers with a smile. Your eyes flutter shut, you’ve passed out from lack of air, and he admires the heap he has left you in, reaching for your robe and wiping the remnants of his release and yours on the corner of it.

Nobody is coming to save you, a secret Kenjaku knows that you are not yet aware of. Satoru Gojo is dead, defeated at the hands of Sukuna. The news broke this morning and he was preparing to come to your room to let you know until this little distraction occurred. He had an inkling you were susceptible to Suguru Geto’s charms even from beyond the grave but he had no idea it would be this easy, your slumped form resting on the futon beside him. He pats your head as one would a treasured dog, long and loving strokes that do not stir you, your bare breasts swaying slightly with every breath you take.

The new world is on the horizon and he may keep you around as a plaything for a little longer than he originally intended.

#kenjaku x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #kendall writes

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enhypens-hoe · 3 months

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YOU’RE PATHETIC ⛪️ - teaser!!!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡𐙚 summary: Jay and you go to the same church school. He and his friends make fun of you for actually following the rules. You think he hates you, but little do you know about his obsession.

pair: park jongseong x goody too shoes reader (fem reader)

warnings: nsfw, cursing, smut, bj, corruption kink, hard dom? jay, sub reader, talk about religion, masturbation (jay), jay and reader go to a church school, jay’s 20 and readers 19 turning 20. + more coming soon

p.s. in no way am I trying to mock anyones reilgion. I mean no harm this is all fiction and in creative fun. If you are not comfortable with this topic please do not read and look for something else.

series: 80’s love

There he was for the third time this week, fist pumping his cock with the swollen red tip sticking out. Moaning your name like it was some sort of ritual because he couldn’t stop thinking about you and your pigtails. Oh, how much he wants to tug on them and push you to your limit while fucking you hard. He really shouldn’t be doing this and if his parents found out he’d be in so much trouble but that doesn’t stop Jay. It didn’t stop him when he was 14 so why would he stop now at the age of 20.

“yea- oh f-fuckk” he grunts as white ropes spill out of him onto his hand. His breathing is unstable as he closes his eyes imagining how you’d clean him up so well. You’re so vulnerable and pure, that’s what Jay loves most about you. You’re always following your parent’s rules like a good Christian girl, but Jay always wonders if he could change that. Minutes pass by and you’re the only thing running through his mind.

He flinches when he hears the front door open letting him know his mom is back from the store. Jay groans wiping his hand with a napkin and yanking on the nearest pair of sweats before running to go wash his hands. He runs downstairs taking the bags from his mom’s hands setting the bags on the kitchen counter and taking out the groceries.

“Thank you. Oh, guess what that girl.. the one with the pigtails. We saw her and her family at church on Monday. I saw her at the store today and she helped me carry my bags to my car. She’s cute and seems like a good girl… hmm?” Jays head rises suddenly not interested in what his mom bought.

“Oh, ___?” his mom snaps pointing at him meaning he guessed right. “She’s annoying and such a crybaby. I’m not even worried about girls right now mom.” He hates how nervous he gets talking about you. The more he tries to conceal his feelings the more they pour out. His mom just laughs putting some groceries in the fridge. “Hey! Be nice.”

She looks up at him her look suddenly showing some disappointment. “I thought I told you not to skip church school yesterday. -” I know I’ll go tomorrow, Mom. “Park Jongseong I’m serious. You’re a Christian man you need to continue on the right path. You’re a good kid you always have been.” Jay just looks away and nods not wanting to argue with his mom. His mom is trying to study his expression wondering whether to drop the conversation or not.

She sighs before speaking again. “Well, go upstairs and shower then come help me cook and set the table.” his mom softly tells him rubbing his shoulder. Jay listens dragging his feet across the floor and up the stairs.

Your white sneakers hit the floor as you walk in the halls, skirt slightly swaying. Books pressed up against your chest like someone will steal them. Your friend throws her arm around your shoulder, and you flinch looking up before smiling. You guys walk to your locker telling her updates on your new pet bunny.

And well Jay watches you from across the hallway…

jazi’s note: this teaser is ass but I wanted to put this out because im almost done with Jay’s oneshot. I’m not sure If I will include this first “scene” in the actual one shot because it will be a little longer than I wanted. If you guys want me to keep it in lmk. love you guys hope you enjoy the oneshot when i put it out💗

taglist: n/a (open)

@enhypens-hoe 2024 - do not steal, copy or translate.

#enhypen #jay enhypen #kpop smut #park jongseong #park jay enhypen #jay enha #jay smut #jay x reader #park jay x reader #park jay fluff #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enha #enhypen jay

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grimoireofhayley · 9 months

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Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA, Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ Content, Stalking, Possessiveness, Dirty talk, Religion talk, Suppressed Mental Health problems (I.e., reader has some issues that she isn't aware of)

Word Count: 1k

Tag List: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @fanfic-enjoyer123 @darkenwolfie @juda-the-simp @colsons-baker @junnniiieee07 @elevenpurple @ok-boke @ren-ni @katie-tibo @bruce-yamada

A/n: I have no idea why some of the tags aren’t working, if anyone has a clue on how to fix it, please for the love of mercy, let me know 😭

All chapter links! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 11

You were flustered, yet confused. What could he possibly mean by that? The question kept repeating itself in your head, making your mind hurt, almost scrambling your brains. It was that intense, that severe.

“Time’s up.” Brinks suddenly spoke from behind the door, turning the knob, but to his dismay, it was locked. “What the?” He groaned, clearly annoyed. “Why is this damned door locked?”

You quickly let go of Billy, pushing him away for the second time that night, stepping aside and flattening your disheveled hair. To Billy’s disappointment, he couldn’t do much, but let go of you.

You sniffled, grabbing the hems of your gown, playing with it out of nervousness. As the weight of what he had said earlier and what almost happened laid heavy on your shoulders, causing you to both physically and mentally buckle under the pressure as you fell into a chair.

You gripped the sides of your head, panting, a panic attack on its way.

Billy immediately went to your side, wanting to comfort you; but you dismissed him, swatting his hand away, glaring.

His eyes widened slightly at the sudden harshness, especially from you; the one he loved and so desperately craved.

“I am not a whore.” You spat, gritting your teeth and narrowing your brows, “I am not a fantasy, I am a human being with feelings, needs and wants. I am not a secret toy you’re hiding from your girlfriend. I am not going down that route again, especially with you.” Your lips trembled, “I want to be loved, not hidden away and only pulled out when YOU need something. I’m not going to get hurt again, my heart won't be able to take it.” You frowned, wanting to break down, this whole fiasco was enough to crush you under a boulder.

Billy knelt down in front of you, shakily placing a hand on your thigh, fearing you may react differently again.

He’s never showed much emotion, but when it came to you, he was different, like his walls would tumble around him the moment you were near or even at the sound of your voice, though, when he had you at your most vulnerable, his stomach churned, he wanted to see you like that again…

He sighed in relief as you didn’t move, n’or swat at him again.

“(Y/n), I never meant to make you feel like that, but—“

Billy was disrupted by the sound of a key unlocking the door and Officer Brinks stepping through.

“Why was this door locked?” He asked, tapping his heavy boot off the ground, until he noticed the position you both were in; a crying you and a concerned Billy at your feet.

He didn’t press on any further, but nodded towards you, “(Y/n), the Sheriff will schedule an interview with you tomorrow, but it’s time for you to go.” Officer Brinks motioned you out the door, you happily obliged, not wanting to be here any longer than you needed to.

He shut the door soon after, and you didn’t look back, but you knew Billy was watching you from the glass…

You wiped your eyes, briefly looking at Sidney, your stomach twisting into knots. You didn’t want to face her, but eventually you knew you had to. Unfortunately, it would be sooner than anticipated as you both were spending the night at Tatum’s.

“God, this is going to be a long night…” You groaned, throwing your head back in frustration.

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#fanfiction #scream 1996 #billy loomis #billy loomis x reader #billy x you x stu #scream franchise #stu macher #billy loomis x female reader #billy x stu #stu macher x reader #stu macher x female reader #billy loomis smut #stu macher smut #stu x reader #billy x reader #billy imagine #stu imagine #stu x you #Billy x you

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crowchemicals · 1 year

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Things i think Lucifer would do while you're dating

♥︎fluffy fluff all over, sfw

✧ i don't think there's any warnings i should put here other than me projecting onto my favourite babygirl. and very soft Luci 🙏 (my personal religion)

☆ these are purely some scenarios i like to think about often in my lil fantasy world in my head, (and yes this is still and art account i don't write much<33)

• He keeps a list of things you like so he can get them for you. He's very observant, especially when it comes to his beloved, so if he sees something catch your eye while on an outing or you've liked/shared an item on your story/ saved something pretty to pinterest (which he follows but won't admit it. it's not like he really uses the app for anything other than gift ideas for you anyway) he will keep it in mind and write it down in his notes app when you're not looking/there.

• He brings you flowers every week. He learns flower language so he can give you the most meaningful bouquets he can. When they start wilting he immediately replaces them with fresh ones, but he doesn't throw the bouquets away, he proudly displays them in vases around his study.

• You mentioned your favorite snack/sweets (that you can't find in the devildom) once in a conversation with Asmo that he overheard and since then he periodically goes up to the human world to stock up on them so you can have a treat whenever you like :)

• He asks you to do his nails one time as an excuse to get away from paperwork for a little bit and spend some time with you, and you both started gossiping and just talking about RAD, his brothers, etc, and this has since become a routine between you two, one day a week either in his room or yours you get together to sit on the floor while you do his nails and gossip

• he has awful night terrors and has no idea how to cope with them, of course he can't go telling anyone about them that would be embarrassing but he also doesn't want to worry anybody. he's the big brother he's not supposed to show any weaknesses so that his brothers have someone to rely on (shhh I'm projecting) so he distracts himself with work and music, he's lost too much sleep over these kind of nights. One night after you two had been dating for a while though he woke up in a cold sweat and while his first instinct was to go to your room there was something stopping him. So he turned to distracting himself again this time by putting on your favourite show/movie. And he continues doing this every time he has a nightmare until he feels comfortable sharing such vulnerability with you. He finds it oddly comforting even if it's a genre he wouldn't typically enjoy, remembering you talking so fondly about it gives it a different kind of vibe, sometimes depending on how exhausted he is or how bad the night terror was he'll fall asleep with it in the background.

• Takes interest in your hobbies and makes sure you never run out of supplies and new things to try out. And if he sees you eyeing anything relating to your craft or a game or ANYTHING REALLY you'll have it the next day

• Will ask you to come do your work/chill in his study while he's working as a way to spend time together, in the beginning he says it's bc you'll be able to focus better since no one will disturb you there and there's less noise but later he realises that your presence helps him be more productive so when he feels his motivation and focus slip he'll come into your room to do the rest of his paperwork next to you or if you're sleeping in his bedroom that night he'll come work at his desk there, as long as he can be near you he has a reason to finish his work faster.

• Lucifer being an exhausted older sister™️, never really gets to let his guard down so when he trusts you enough he'll finally let his mask slip and give up control for a moment (something all of us wish we could do tbh). someone go bigspoon this man he needs it.

• ^ so he likes to walk up to your/his bed after a long day and just plop on top of you in his pjs and demon form, he knows he's heavy, he knows you were reading but tbh he doesn't care he needs to be held right this instant. bonus points for you if play with his wings, scratch his head esp near the horns or rub his back. you're never getting rid of him now.

• he's so interested by everything you tell him, you wanna explain the plot of a new book in excruciating detail? tell him all the hot gossip you've been hearing from your friends at RAD/Asmo? Make him watch a 10 season long show while explaining every minor thing? go ahead, he will literally give you his full attention if he's not swarmed with paperwork. he'll remember 99.9% of what you tell him too.

#hes my baby i love him #obey me #obey me swd #obey me lucifer #lucifer obey me #lucifer x reader #lucifer x gender neutral reader #omswd #obey me lucifer fluff #soft luci #obey me shall we date #obey me hcs #obey me headcanons #obey me fluff #⭐.omswd #🖍️.crowwrites

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theetherealbloom · 1 year

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NOTRE DAME - CH. 1

Chapter 1: At Least I’m Looking Down

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. In a city of darkness, will their connection illuminate a path to salvation or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, friends-to-lovers, Religion, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT,

Word Count: 8K

A/N: Hiya! Yep, I love Matt Murdock too! Lowkey took a small break from writing since I was getting overwhelmed with life ;-; I was inspired to try writing about Matt by these lovely authors @courtforshort15 and @bellaxgiornata <3 Am I writing two fic series at the same time? YEP. It’s going to be a very busy summer for me :>

Song: notre dame by Paris Paloma

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dividers @/saradika-graphics

HELL’S KITCHEN, CLINTON CHURCH – NIGHT

As you diligently clean the hallowed halls of Clinton Church, your sweeping broom becomes a rhythm that lulls you into introspection. Memories flicker like shadows, teasing your mind, fragments of a past shrouded in mystery.

Amidst the dimly lit corridor, a whisper of a recollection dances on the edge of your consciousness. A stormy night, with rain and gunshots mingling with thunder. But the details remain elusive, like shards of a shattered mirror reflecting only fragments of truth.

With each stroke of the cloth, another piece of memory surfaces. An explosion of blinding light, a surge of energy, and a sensation of weightlessness. You were suspended in time, caught in a transformative moment that forever changed you.

Heart racing, you struggle to grasp the images. A younger version of yourself, eyes wide with wonder and fear amidst the chaos. But who were you before that night? What led you to that pivotal moment?

Memories slip through your fingers like grains of sand, but faint impressions remain. Faces and voices haunt you, leaving you with a longing for answers. Father Lantom, a guiding presence of solace, and Sister Maggie, a beacon of compassion within the church walls.

As you continue your tasks, the fragments fade once more, leaving unanswered questions lingering in your mind. But you find solace in the belief that one day, the scattered memories will converge, revealing the truth you seek.

Amidst the quiet diligence of your cleaning, a gentle tapping sound breaks through the stillness, drawing your attention. Your gaze shifts, and you find yourself captivated by the sight of Matt Murdock gracefully making his way toward the confessional booth. The name alone carries a weight, one that has reached your ears through the whispers of Father Lantom and Sister Maggie. With each step he takes, every subtle reaction and the enigmatic aura surrounding him stirs a sense of intrigue within you, casting a shadow of suspicion upon his every move.

With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you choose to remain silent, your steps light as you retreat to the elevated vantage point. Hidden amongst the shadows, you observe him in the sanctuary below, your gaze fixed upon his approach to the confessional booth.

The murmurs of conversation, muffled by the confessional's veil, reach your ears as fragmented whispers. Though you cannot discern the words, you recognize the timbre of his voice, the weight of his confessions, as if they bear the burdens of a lifetime. In the quiet solitude of the rafters, you witness the profound moments of vulnerability shared within the confessional. In these moments, you feel a kinship, a shared understanding of the weight he carries upon his shoulders.

As you observe from the rafters, his confession comes to an end, and he exits the confessional booth. There's a subtle shift in the air as he stands still, as if he senses your presence lingering, watching him. A sudden jolt of realization runs through you. Did he just sense your presence? The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and a chill creeps up your spine. A moment of panic washes over you as you question whether your hidden position has been compromised.

You gather your thoughts and focus your mind, honing your ability to manipulate perception. With a quick burst of mental energy, you conjure an illusion that makes you disappear from sight, creating a diversionary tactic, a mirage that distorts the surroundings. The sound of a gust of wind sweeps through the rafters, rustling the shadows and masking any traces of your presence. You now vanish from Matt's limited perception.

Confusion etches itself on Matt's face as he stands there, his heightened senses attuned to the shifting atmosphere. He tries to make sense of what just happened, relying on his remaining senses to decipher the situation. Was it merely a trick of the wind? Or something else entirely?

Matt's head tilts slightly as if trying to catch any lingering sounds or vibrations, but the absence of visual confirmation hampers his ability to comprehend. His brow furrows as he ponders the inexplicable occurrence. Though he cannot see, he can't shake the feeling that someone was there, observing him. The mystery of the vanished presence lingers in his thoughts, leaving him with an air of intrigue and a touch of frustration.

Meanwhile, you retreat further into the shadows, holding your breath as you watch his perplexed demeanor. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the faint sounds of the church. As you observe him from your hidden vantage point, your heart races with a mix of adrenaline and uncertainty.

As Matthew turns towards the grand church doors, the rhythmic tapping of his cane reverberates through the hallowed halls, a somber melody that fades into the distance. Curiosity guides your gaze, and you find yourself peering through the nearby glass window, watching his silhouette as he gracefully walks into the embrace of the night.

A familiar voice, Father Lantom's gentle call, interrupts your reverie, and you reappear as your illusory form dissipates like a shimmering mirage. His eyes meet yours, holding a knowing glimmer, and you offer a sheepish smile in response. "Can you please come down from there?" he requests, a tone of warmth and concern lacing his words. "We could use your help in preparing dinner for the children."

Your sheepish smile widens, accompanied by a nod of affirmation. "Of course, Father Lantom. I'll be right down." As you descend from your hidden perch, you find yourself walking beside Father Lantom towards St. Agnes, the orphanage that holds pieces of Matthew's past. The curiosity that has been brewing within you finally finds its voice, and you can't help but inquire about the enigmatic young man who had just left the church.

"Father Lantom," you begin, your tone gentle yet inquisitive, "I couldn't help but notice that Matthew, he... he was one of the orphans here at St. Agnes, wasn't he?" You glance at the revered priest, hoping to glean some insights into Matthew's formative years.

Father Lantom's eyes reflect a mixture of fondness and understanding as he nods. "Yes, my dear. Matthew was indeed a resident of St. Agnes. He came to us with a quiet resilience, a determination to rise above the challenges life had presented him. Despite his circumstances, he displayed remarkable intelligence, compassion, and a sense of justice that would shape his path in profound ways."

You listen intently, absorbing the fragments of Matthew's past that Father Lantom is willing to share. The mention of his resilience and his unwavering commitment to justice only deepens your intrigue, strengthening the connection you feel towards the man who has become a subject of fascination in your life.

As you enter the bustling kitchen of St. Agnes, the aroma of warm food fills the air, and the sound of utensils clinking against pots and pans accompanies your every step. Sister Maggie and the other sisters are busy at work, their movements synchronized and efficient.

You join their silent dance, preparing the ingredients with care and precision. Sister Catherine, a gentle and nurturing presence, works alongside you, her kind eyes filled with compassion for the children in their care. Together, you create a symphony of flavors, each dish infused with love and warmth.

After the satisfying meal is served and the children's laughter echoes through the dining hall, Sister Maggie beckons you to a quiet corner. Her eyes carry a touch of concern as she shares her worries about one particular child who has been plagued by nightmares, struggling to find solace in sleep.

"Dear one," Sister Maggie begins, her voice a soothing balm, "we've noticed that little Sarah, who recently arrived at the orphanage, has been having trouble sleeping. Her nightmares have left her restless and weary. We've tried our best to comfort her, but I believe your presence and your unique abilities might offer her a measure of peace."

You feel a surge of empathy for the young girl, your heart yearning to alleviate her pain. With a gentle nod, you agree to assist Sister Maggie, grateful for the opportunity to extend your kindness and offer a glimmer of hope to someone in need.

Together, you and Sister Maggie make your way to the children's dormitory, where soft sobs and hushed whispers fill the air. The dimly lit room casts elongated shadows across the beds, a tangible manifestation of the children's fears.

Drawing upon your own experiences and the innate power that courses through your veins, you sit beside Sarah's bed, your presence a comforting presence in the darkness. With a gentle touch, you reach out, intertwining your fingers with hers. A soft glow emanates from your touch, casting a warm light that dispels the shadows.

At that moment, you become a conduit of solace and tranquility, soothing Sarah's troubled mind. Through the power of empathy and your own inner strength, you weave a tapestry of soothing images and peaceful dreams, gently guiding Sarah into a restful slumber.

As you withdraw your hand, a sense of fulfillment washes over you. Sister Maggie, who has been silently observing, offers a grateful smile, her appreciation evident in her eyes. It is in these moments of compassion and connection that your powers find their true purpose – to bring comfort and healing to those who need it most.

Once the turmoil has subsided, you and Sister Maggie quietly make your way out, seeking solace in a peaceful evening walk. The gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead as you and Sister Maggie stroll side by side. The moon casts a soft glow upon the grounds of St. Agnes, creating an ethereal atmosphere. In the quietude of the night, you find a moment to share your thoughts with Sister Maggie, a confidante and wise presence within the church walls.

"You know, Sister Maggie," you begin, your voice carrying a sense of wonder, "ever since I arrived here, I've been listening to the prayers and expressions of gratitude that echo within these sacred walls. Lately, I've noticed a recurring theme—a cascade of thanks directed towards a mysterious figure, someone in a black suit. It's as if this person has been saving lives, responding to desperate pleas for help."

Sister Maggie's eyes glimmer with a knowing twinkle, her response carefully chosen. "The workings of divine providence are often veiled, my dear. The Lord's angels can manifest in unexpected forms, cloaked in darkness yet bearing light. It is not for us to decipher their true nature, but rather to trust in the goodness they bring."

Her words leave you with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. The identity of the man in the black suit remains shrouded in mystery, and Sister Maggie's cryptic response does little to quell your wonder. As you part ways and make your way back to the rafters, your mind dances with possibilities, eager to uncover the truth behind the enigmatic savior who has captured the hearts and prayers of those he has touched.

HELL’S KITCHEN, CLINTON CHURCH – MORNING

With eager anticipation, you gather your belongings, ready to embark on your journey to the community center nestled in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. Tuesdays and Thursdays hold a special place in your schedule, as they are dedicated to community outreach and engagement, allowing you to make a positive impact on the lives of those around you. As your footsteps echo through the corridors, a sense of purpose fills the air.

Passing by Father Lantom, who is immersed in the task of lighting candles, you offer him a warm smile and bid your farewell with cheerful words. "Goodbye, Father!" you chirp, the excitement evident in your voice. In response, Father Lantom's caring gaze meets yours, and he gently reminds you, "Be sure to return before darkness falls, my dear." His words carry a hint of concern, a reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows of the city you aim to uplift.

The bustling and busy streets of the city fill your ears as you make your way to the community center. People walk hurriedly, their footsteps echoing on the pavement, their urgent movements revealing the importance of their destinations. The city's energy envelopes you, blending with your own sense of purpose.

As you reach your destination, the community center comes into view. Its vibrant exterior stands out amidst the surrounding buildings, offering a haven of support and care. The sound of laughter and chatter emanates from within, a symphony of voices that lifts your spirits.

Stepping inside, you are greeted by Maria, an experienced social worker, and a familiar face. Her warm smile instantly puts you at ease, and you exchange pleasantries.

"Hey there! Good to see you," Maria says, her voice filled with genuine warmth.

You return her smile, grateful for the camaraderie and support that Maria provides. As you settle into the familiar rhythm of your work, you can't help but overhear snippets of conversation around you. The topic of discussion revolves around the Russian mobs that have been causing fear in the community.

"It's been the talk of the town lately," Maria says, her tone tinged with concern. "The Russian mobs are causing chaos and everyone in the community is scared out of their minds."

Your heart sinks, knowing all too well the impact such criminal activities can have on the lives of those you serve. "I've been hearing similar stories," you reply, your voice laced with empathy. "It's really tough to see how much it affects the people we work with, you know?"

Maria nods in agreement, her eyes reflecting shared worry. Together, you exchange stories and observations, discussing the challenges faced by the community in the face of these criminal elements. Amidst your conversation, you notice a group of elderly residents gathered in a corner, engaged in their own hushed discussion. Curiosity piques your interest, and you discreetly listen in.

"Did you hear about the masked vigilante?" an elderly man whispers, his voice filled with awe. “He's like a shadow in the night. Creeping up on those Russian thugs and striking fear into their hearts." Other elderly voices join in, sharing their own accounts and opinions of this mysterious figure who prowls the streets of Hell's Kitchen, delivering his own brand of justice.

Intrigued by their tales, you find yourself captivated by the notion of a dark avenger fighting for justice. The stories resonate with the underlying frustration you feel toward the criminals plaguing the community. As you continue your work as a social worker, the whispers of the elderly and the legends of the masked vigilante linger in your thoughts. Deep within, a flicker of admiration ignites, acknowledging the complexity of his methods and the results he achieves.

As you carry out your duties at the community center, a familiar face catches your attention amidst the bustling chaos. It's Claire Temple, a compassionate nurse known for her dedication to healing and her involvement in the community. She offers a warm smile, acknowledging your presence, and you find a moment to exchange greetings.

"Hey there! Long day?" you ask, attempting to strike up a conversation.

Claire nods, her eyes reflecting a hint of exhaustion. "Yeah, you know how it goes. But it's worth it. How about you? How's the community center?"

You smile, leaning in slightly. "Busy as ever. The Russian mobs have been causing a lot of fear in the neighborhood lately. It's disheartening to witness the toll it takes on the people we work with."

Claire's expression turns somber as she glances around. "I've seen some of it at the hospital too. It's a tough situation."

As the conversation comes to a natural pause, you feel the urge to express your concern. "Hey, Claire, everything alright? You seem a bit off. Is there something on your mind?"

She hesitates for a moment before offering a reassuring smile. "Nah, just a rough night. But I'll be okay. Thanks for asking."

You nod, not fully convinced, but respecting her choice to keep things to herself. "Alright, just remember, I'm here if you ever need to talk. Take care, okay?"

As you turn to leave, a thought crosses your mind. "Oh, by the way, Claire, why don't I come over to your place later? We can bring some snacks and wine, and have a little girls' night. It might be nice to unwind after everything that's happened."

Claire's eyes light up, a grateful smile playing on her lips. "That would be great. My place could use some company. Come on over."

Hours pass by as you diligently work at the community center, engrossed in the needs of those you serve. Time slips away from you, and before you realize it, nightfall has arrived. With a sense of urgency, you gather your belongings, eager to honor your commitment to Claire.

As you rush through the dimly lit streets, your phone buzzes with a notification. Glancing at the screen, you see a message from Father Lantom. It's a relief to know that he's aware of your whereabouts and won't be worried. You send a quick reply, assuring him that you're on your way to Claire's apartment and that everything is fine. The gesture brings a small sense of comfort, knowing that you have someone looking out for you.

As you approach the apartment building, your footsteps quicken with a touch of anxiety. You had also texted Claire that you would be running late. You can't help but worry that you may have kept Claire waiting for too long. Your delay was unavoidable, as you had to make a quick stop to pick up a bottle of wine for the evening. With the wine safely tucked in your bag, you take a deep breath and push open the door to the building.

As you reach the landing of the stairs, a shocking sight greets your eyes. A man in a grey suit lies unconscious, blood trickling from a wound on his head. A fire extinguisher rests beside him on the ground, a jarring juxtaposition to the serene surroundings.

Your heart skips a beat, and your mind races to make sense of the scene before you. Panic sets in as you instinctively realize the gravity of the situation. Without conscious thought, your powers surge, causing your form to flicker and vanish from sight. In an instant, you become invisible, your presence hidden from prying eyes. It's an unintentional reaction, triggered by the shock and uncertainty that grips you. It's as if your very being seeks to protect itself from the unknown dangers that surround you.

In the hushed atmosphere, you strain your ears, capturing faint murmurs drifting from above the stairs. Slowly, your gaze lifts to find Claire, her expression filled with disbelief and uncertainty. "What do we do now?" she whispers, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and confusion.

Before you can fully process her words, another voice interjects, the urgency palpable in its tone. "There's someone else... one floor up, watching us. Oh, no. He's young. He's scared." The words hang in the air, and your eyes widen as you spot Santino, a young man you've assisted with tutoring on multiple occasions.

Without hesitation, you witness Claire lean over, her concern evident as she calls out, "Santino?" However, the young man doesn't respond. Instead, he swiftly retreats from view, disappearing back into the safety of his own apartment.

Intrigued and compelled to uncover the truth, you make a silent decision to ascend the stairs cautiously, keeping your footsteps light and your senses sharp. As you ascend, you observe Claire engaged in conversation, her voice carrying a tinge of familiarity. "He's the one who found you in the alley," she reveals, her words drawing your attention.

Step by step, you ascend further, your eyes scanning the surroundings. And then, in the dimly lit corridor, you spot a figure clad in sleek black attire. A mask conceals the upper portion of his face, leaving only his mouth and stubble. It dawns on you that this is the vigilante everyone has been talking about.

"He's seen my face, too?" he questions Claire, a mix of curiosity and concern in his voice. Without missing a beat, she affirms his inquiry, her voice carrying a weight of truth. "Yeah."

The Masked Man lets out a weary sigh, his voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and determination. "Claire, go upstairs and find him. We're going to need help carrying Detective Foster to the roof," he instructs, his words laced with urgency. As he pushes himself off the wall, a grimace of pain crosses his face, his hand clutching his side. It's at that moment that you truly take in his appearance—completely battered, bloodied, and bruised.

You remain invisible, carefully observing his movements as he slowly approaches your position. Swiftly, you sidestep to give him room, ensuring not to impede his path. Claire, perplexed by the situation, breaks the silence with a mixture of concern and confusion. "What the hell are we going to the roof for?" she questions, her voice tinged with apprehension.

The vigilante, his steps weakened but resolute, begins his descent down the stairs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Less chance of someone in the building hearing him scream," he replies, his words carrying the weight of the dangerous reality they find themselves in.

You trail behind them, ascending to the rooftop, silently observing their actions. Your gaze fixes upon the Masked Man as he deftly ties the wrists of Detective Foster with a piece of rope, suspending him from the bars of a metal ladder. As he secures the rope, his attention turns to Claire, seeking information. "You find anything?" he inquires, his voice a mix of urgency and determination.

Claire's eyes shift to the cracked phone in her hands, a hint of frustration evident in her expression. "You smashed the hell out of it with that extinguisher," she remarks, the weight of the damaged device lingering between them. In the brief pause that follows, you take the opportunity to discreetly move across the rooftop, perching on the ledge as you listen to their conversation unfold.

"He had a badge," Claire continues, her voice tinged with uncertainty. The Masked Man remains silent, his thoughts concealed behind the mask that shields his face. Claire presses on, her voice filled with doubt, "What if you're wrong?" Without missing a beat, he retorts, his conviction unwavering, "I'm not."

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him hobble toward your position. Invisible, your powers working in tandem to conceal every scent, heartbeat, and sound, you remain undetected. In the midst of their exchange, you hear Claire's voice echo through the night air, laden with a sense of unease. "This is way past what I signed up for."

With a slight shift to the side, you create space for the vigilante as he leans against the ledge beside you. The moonlight casts a dim glow upon his features as he poses a question to Claire, his voice tinged with curiosity. "What exactly do you think that was?"

Claire takes a few measured steps toward him, her voice laced with a mix of frustration and determination. "I found a man who needed help, so I helped him," she asserts, her gaze unwavering. The Masked Man responds with a hint of skepticism, "Oh, yeah? That simple?"

With a pause that carries the weight of unspoken tension, Claire walks closer to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Do you really want to get into this in front of him?" she questions, a flicker of concern crossing her face. He responds with his firm voice, "He's out." Their attention briefly shifts to the suspended figure, and Claire suggests, "Maybe he's faking."

He then tilts his head for a moment, focusing his hearing on the man’s heartbeat before lifting his head again and shaking his head. "He's not," he concludes, the certainty evident in his tone. Claire points at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Okay, that right there, that's what I'm talking about," she retorts, her finger emphasizing her point.

As the Masked Man slowly removes his gloves, Claire presses on, her voice filled with a mix of astonishment and exasperation. "I find a guy in a dumpster, and he turns out to be some kind of blind vigilante who can do all of this... this really weird shit," she gestures emphatically, trying to find the right words to capture the extraordinary abilities she has witnessed. "Like smelling cologne through walls and sensing whether someone's unconscious or faking it. And on top of that, he can take an unbelievable amount of punishment without one damn complaint."

He responds with a charismatic shrug and a knowing smile. "The last part's the Catholicism," he quips, a touch of humor in his tone, revealing a glimpse of his own understanding of the role faith plays in his resilience.

Oh, God. As the words sink in, your heart skips a beat, and you feel a surge of mixed emotions coursing through your veins. It's him. It's Matthew Murdock. The realization hits you like a tidal wave, threatening to shatter the fragile balance you've managed to maintain. For a brief moment, doubt and uncertainty cloud your thoughts, and your powers waver, almost revealing your presence.

In the midst of this inner turmoil, you notice a subtle shift in the Masked Man's demeanor. His heightened senses catch a hint of your scent in the air, an unfamiliar yet strangely familiar aroma. Confusion flickers across his face, and instinctively, he turns his head to the right, as if searching for the source of the elusive presence that has caught his attention.

You hold your breath, frozen in the realization that Matthew, the man you've admired and been drawn to, is standing just inches away from you. The connection between you feels tangible, like an invisible thread linking your fates. But for now, you remain hidden, concealing yourself in the shadows, grappling with the overwhelming revelation that threatens to unravel the carefully constructed walls around your heart.

Claire, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, breaks the silence with concern etched on her face. "What is it? Did you sense something?"

You see Matthew's brow furrow behind the mask slightly as he tilts his head around, his heightened senses still on alert. "I'm not sure... I thought I detected someone else's presence, but... never mind.”

Claire's frustration is evident as she lets out a sigh, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "So, what? I'm supposed to take it on faith that I'm on the right side of this?" She points to the man unconscious behind her. Matthew lifts his chin, steady and determined. "You don't carry a masked man bleeding to death into your apartment on faith. You knew which side you're on the moment you found me."

Claire takes a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze briefly shifting towards the unconscious man tied to the ladder. Matthew's question lingers in the air, and she turns to face him, her expression filled with a mix of determination and compassion.

"I'm a nurse. I work in the ER at Metro-General," she begins, her voice steady. “A few weeks ago, cops bring in three men. Said they were robbing tourists, beating them up pretty bad. Apparently, a man with a black mask took issue with their activities and decided to step in. I counted nine broken bones between them.”

There's a brief pause before Claire continues, her voice carrying a touch of vulnerability. “A few days after that, EMTs and my friend who’s a social worker brought in a 19-year-old waitress, said… some guy she knew waited for her after work in the parking lot, attacked her… tried to drag her in the alley. She said she screamed and screamed, and a man in a black mask heard her… and he saved her life.”

Matthew remains silent, his unseeing eyes fixed on Claire as she continues to voice her thoughts. The weight of her words hang in the air, the struggle between belief and doubt palpable in her expression. She gestures towards the unconscious and wounded man, frustration evident in her voice.

“So, yeah, word’s getting around.” Claire says, her voice tinged with a mix of skepticism and hope. "And I want to believe in it. I really do. But this?" She points to the man tied to the ladder, emphasizing the severity of the situation. Matthew, his masked face hiding half of his features, takes a moment, the silence pregnant with unspoken emotions. He licks his lips, a nervous gesture, before finally responding. "I know you're afraid," he says, his voice steady and determined. He takes a step closer, "But you can't let fear control you. If you do... these men, they win."

The tension between them is palpable, an undeniable connection tinged with both attraction and uncertainty. Sensing the weight of the moment, you turn your body away, facing the view of Hell's Kitchen. Swinging your legs gently, you take in the cityscape that never sleeps, the distant sound of sirens piercing the night. It's a moment of anticipation, waiting for Foster to regain consciousness.

APARTMENT ROOFTOP – NIGHT

Half an hour passes in tense silence as Matthew senses Detective Foster beginning to regain consciousness. Claire swiftly covers her face with a piece of white cloth, a makeshift mask to conceal her identity. Matthew turns to her, his voice low and commanding.

"Don't say anything, Claire," he advises, his tone firm yet measured. "Let me handle the interrogation." Claire nods, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and determination.

You move away from the ledge, positioning yourself a few feet behind them. The weight of the imminent violence hangs in the air, a familiar presence that you've encountered before. Your powers shimmer, rendering you invisible, your senses heightened and ready for the events about to unfold.

Detective Foster's eyelids flutter as he gradually awakens, disoriented and dazed. His gaze shifts, and as his vision clears, he realizes he is restrained and surrounded. His eyes settle on the imposing figure of the Masked Man and another presence standing just behind him, invisible to his senses.

Matthew takes a calculated step forward, his presence radiating intimidation and menace. The air around him seems to thicken with an invisible weight, amplifying the aura of fear he effortlessly commands. His voice lowers, taking on a deeper, more menacing tone as he addresses Detective Foster.

“Here’s how this is gonna work.” Matthew asserts, his words laced with an unmistakable intensity. “I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re gonna answer them. If you’re lying to me… trust that I will know…” he warns, a predatory growl resonating beneath his words. “And I will be unhappy.”

The atmosphere on the rooftop becomes electric, charged with an unspoken understanding of the power imbalance at play. Detective Foster remains silent, his eyes darting nervously between Matthew and the concealed figure standing behind him. The weight of the situation hangs heavily in the air, anticipation building as Matthew prepares to extract the information he seeks.

With a calculated intensity, Matthew initiates his interrogation, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Where's the boy?" he demands, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity. Foster, attempting to maintain a facade of defiance, nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders and utters a blatant falsehood. "He's dead," he states, his voice laced with false conviction.

But Matthew, honed by years of honing his senses and instincts, instantly detects the deception. Without hesitation, his fist swiftly connects with Foster's head, the force of the blow causing him to cough out blood and reel from the impact. A mix of pain and realization flashes across Foster's face as he comprehends the gravity of the situation.

"This is what unhappy looks like. Where’s the boy?" Matthew asserts, his voice dripping with cold determination. The message is clear: the consequences of deceit will be met with swift and punishing retribution. At that moment, the power dynamic between captor and captive crystallizes, leaving no doubt that Matthew holds the upper hand.

Foster wheezes, his voice strained, as he tries to maintain a defiant front. "Why do you care? If he's not dead yet, he will be," he retorts, a hint of malicious satisfaction in his tone. Matthew refuses to be deterred, pressing forward with his interrogation. "Why did you take him?" he demands, his voice low and intense. Foster responds with an unsettling nonchalance, "Figured you'd come running."

Matthew's jaw tightens as he struggles to contain his anger and frustration. "And after I was dead?" he probes further, his voice laced with a mix of desperation and determination. Foster's expression remains indifferent as he casually replies, "Sell the kid, like all the others."

The weight of Foster's callous admission hangs heavily in the air, a chilling testament to the depths of his depravity. Matthew's control slips, fueled by a surge of righteous anger. With a swift and forceful blow, he strikes Foster once again, unable to tolerate the man's unrepentant guiltlessness.

Foster groans in pain, his facade momentarily crumbling under the weight of the assault. Through gritted teeth, he manages to utter, "I was telling the truth on that one," his words laced with a twisted mix of sincerity and indifference. Matt's frustration grows, his fist clenches as he deepens his voice into a growl, "I know."

Foster, unfazed by the gravity of the situation, chuckles audaciously. "We got you good, didn't we?" he taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. Matt refuses to be provoked, his focus unwavering. "Who do you sell the children to?" he demands, his tone hard and unwavering.

Bleeding from his mouth, Foster nonchalantly shrugs, a chilling indifference in his demeanor. "I don't know. Whoever has the money," he replies, his words devoid of remorse. Matt's gaze intensifies as he leans closer, his voice low and dangerous, "Where's the boy?"

With a smirk, Foster taunts, relishing in the power dynamic of their exchange. "So you find him. So what? We'll take another. Kill me, somebody takes my place. Long as people are buying, we'll be selling," he states with a derisive shake of his head. "Nothing you do tonight will change that."

Frustration boils within Matt, his injured form visible through his labored breathing. Foster cruelly points out his condition, mocking his endurance. "But go ahead. Keep hitting me. Let's see who drops first," he challenges, a twisted glimmer of defiance in his eyes.

As the intensity of the interrogation grows and the urgency to obtain crucial information mounts, you recognize the need to take direct action. With determination in your eyes, you swiftly move to Foster's side, reaching out to grasp his wrist which is still tightly bound.

Drawing upon your powers, you tap into the depths of fear and horror, channeling them into a potent projection aimed directly at Foster's fragile psyche. With a surge of energy, you unleash a chilling manifestation of his worst fears, tailored specifically to exploit his vulnerabilities and force him to confront his darkest demons.

Foster's eyes widen in terror as the illusion takes hold, his screams of agony piercing the air. He thrashes against his restraints, desperately trying to escape the relentless torment of his own mind. Matthew and Claire, taken aback by the sudden eruption of fear and chaos, are momentarily frozen in confusion, unsure of what is transpiring before them.

To their amazement, Foster's torment continues unabated, despite their static presence. It becomes evident to them that there is an external force at play, something beyond their understanding. Foster's screams pierce the air, growing more desperate with each passing moment.

Suddenly, Foster's pleas for mercy are stifled as Matt's gloved hand forcefully covers his mouth, silencing his cries. His eyes dart around in confusion, searching for the source of his torment. His nose begins to bleed, a visceral manifestation of the sheer terror gripping his being.

Matt's grip tightens, a mixture of determination and concern etched across his face. He senses a force at work, but the identity and motives of this mysterious presence remain elusive. Uncertainty fills the air, mingling with the intensity of the moment.

And then, as your strength wanes, you can no longer maintain your hold on Foster. He pants heavily, clearly in psychological and physical pain. Sensing an opportunity to intensify the interrogation, Matthew seizes the moment, grabs Foster's collar, and menacingly states, "You're right... what you said before. I kill you, somebody takes your place, but they'll end up back here just like you, and sooner or later, one of you is gonna tell me what I need to know."

Matthew swiftly reaches for one of the ladder rails, pulling out a small knife and cutting the rope that restrains Foster. With a firm grip, he carries Foster to the edge of the rooftop, half of his body hovering over the precipice. His baritone voice deepens as he emphasizes, "This is important." Foster groans, and Matthew shushes him, whispering, "Shh! Listen, I need you to understand why I'm hurting you. It's not just about the boy. I'm doing this because I enjoy it." Matthew then pulls Foster up, fully leaning his body over the edge, and from your vantage point, you observe the unfolding events while trying to catch your breath.

Foster's desperate pleas of "No, no, no!" fill the air as Matthew whispers, "Where is he?" With no response from Foster, Matthew's anger erupts, his voice booming, "Where is he?" After one final menacing shove over the ledge, Foster gives up the location, gasping, "Underneath Troika restaurant. Eleventh and 44th."

Matthew pulls Foster back up and away from the edge, ensuring his safety. Once Foster is on his feet, he chuckles mockingly, taunting, "They'll be waiting for you. If you're lucky, they'll kill you before they start on the boy. It would be a shame for you to witness what they do to him." Matthew grabs Foster by the shoulder and forcefully pushes him off the rooftop. Claire shrieks in shock as she watches the man plummet, a loud crash resonating as he lands in a dumpster below.

"It's all right. He landed in the dumpster you pulled me out of," Matthew pants out, his strength waning. Claire's voice trembles with concern as she asks, "Is he dead?" Matthew tilts his head, listening for Foster's heartbeat, and shrugs, "He'll live."

As Claire gazes over the ledge, Matthew hobbles away, urging her, "You need to gather your things and leave. Don't disclose your destination to anyone." Matthew retrieves the remaining rope hanging from the ladder, while Claire turns to find him walking away. "What?" she questions, perplexed. Matthew grunts in response, "If he wakes up, he'll be back... and he won't be alone next time." He cuts the rope in half using the small knife and tosses it to the ground. Claire lifts up her cloth, expressing relief, "But he didn't see my face."

"That was just for effect, to scare him. He knew you were lying when you answered your door," Matthew explains, groaning in pain. Claire moves to assist him, but he raises his hand, signaling her to stop. "Do you have a place you can go?" he asks. Claire sighs, contemplating, "Well, there is one... but I'm not sure if she has enough room. I'm currently cat-sitting for a woman I work with within the hospital. Her brother is sick. She's in Oklahoma."

"What's the address?" Matt asks, his breath strained. Claire looks at him with confusion and asks, "Why?" Matthew replies, his voice wavering, "I'm thinking if I'm thinking if I make it through the night, I may need some help getting patched up," Matthew says with a pained expression. Claire sighs, understanding the gravity of the situation, and replies, "Tenth and 54th. Apartment 412, um, in the building above the liquor store."

Matthew senses her worry and reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Thank you, Claire," he says sincerely, his gratitude evident in his tired form. He takes a few steps away before Claire speaks up once more, her voice filled with doubt, "I don't believe you. What you said. I don't believe you enjoy this."

As you materialize on the floor, panting and visibly exhausted, Claire's concern immediately takes over. She swiftly turns around and rushes to your side, her voice filled with worry as she calls out your name, "I thought you were... How? Were you here all along? What is going on?"

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you manage to respond, your voice slightly strained, "I have powers. Abilities that allow me to... do things others can't." Claire looks at you skeptically, clearly grappling with the strangeness of the situation. You decide to bring up the recent alien invasion attempt as a reference point, hoping to put things into perspective. "You know the giant hole in the sky? The alien invaders that attacked New York? Well, I was sort of involved in that. It's been a wild ride."

Claire's expression shifts from skepticism to a mix of disbelief and awe. "Okay," she says slowly, processing the information. "So, let me get this straight. You have powers, there is a blind vigilante, and now we're here on a rooftop dealing with dangerous criminals. This is officially the weirdest night I've ever had."

You nod in agreement, acknowledging the surreal nature of the situation. "Believe me, Claire, it's just as strange for me. But right now, I need to leave. I need to go and help him rescue the boy."

Claire's curiosity takes hold, and she looks at you intently. "You were the one who made Foster lose it, weren't you? Why he suddenly started screaming at nothing?"

You nod again, confirming her observation. "Yes, it was me. I had to do whatever it took to get the information we needed. Foster was involved in something dangerous, and the boy's life is at stake."

There's a moment of silence between the two of you, as the weight of the situation sinks in. Then, Claire's voice softens, and she asks, "Do you know who Mike is? I mean, really know him?"

You hesitate for a moment, thinking about your complicated connection to ‘Mike’ who was actually Matthew. "Kind of. Not really. We have a history, but he doesn't know me, and for now, I think it's best to keep it that way."

Claire absorbs your response, her expression filled with understanding. After a brief pause, she looks at you with a mix of concern and determination. "You're going to go help him, aren't you? Mike. You're risking everything for him."

You meet her gaze and offer a determined nod. "Yes, I am. I have a feeling he's caught up in something bigger than all of us, and I can't ignore that. I have to try to help him."

Claire's worry is evident as she says, "You better come back in one piece. I don’t know how I would explain all of this to Maria."

You give her a faint smile, appreciating her concern and support. "I'll do my best, Claire."

TROIKA RESTAURANT, UNDERGROUND – NIGHT

Your heart pounds in your chest as you step into the dimly lit hallway, ready to aid Matthew Murdock with your unique abilities. The air crackles with anticipation as you tap into the depths of your power, the energy coursing through your veins.

As you move forward, the sounds of scuffling feet and strained grunts fill the air, echoing off the walls. Shadows dance and flicker, creating an eerie ambiance that heightens the tension. Your presence is a secret, known only to yourself.

With a single thought, your surroundings come alive. Illusions spring forth, perfectly replicating the masked vigilante in every detail. The mobsters' attention is captured by these illusory duplicates, drawing their attacks away from Matthew. They strike at empty air, their frustration growing with each missed blow.

Your illusions become more intricate, weaving a web of confusion and fear. Illusory weapons materialize in your hands, gleaming with a phantom menace. The mobsters' eyes widen in terror as they face the illusion of imminent danger, hesitating for a crucial moment.

The hallway transforms into a maze of illusory constructs. Shadows twist and contort, creating false barriers that impede the mobsters' progress. Their footsteps falter, their balance disrupted by the ethereal obstacles you've conjured. The line between reality and illusion blurs in their minds, feeding their growing sense of unease.

Their swings and strikes meet nothing but empty space, frustration mounting with each failed attempt to land a blow. Illusory wounds appear on their bodies, and illusory blood stains their clothes. Cries of pain mingled with shouts of anger, chaos reigning in the narrow corridor.

Amidst the whirlwind of illusions, Matthew moves with grace and purpose, his senses honed to perfection. He leaps and dodges, striking with pinpoint accuracy, his relentless determination evident in every calculated move. The mobsters find themselves increasingly overwhelmed, their confidence eroded by the uncertainty that surrounds them.

And then, in a fleeting moment, Matthew turns, carrying the boy in his arms. His heightened senses catch a hint of your presence—the faintest scent, the echo of a heartbeat—before it dissipates into the night. There's a flicker of realization in his posture, an unspoken acknowledgment of your contribution to the fight.

With a final surge of strength, Matthew pushes forward while carrying the young boy. Your illusions continue to distract and disorient the remaining mobsters, allowing him to navigate through the chaos with unwavering focus. As the hallway fight reaches its climax, the mobsters are left reeling, their resolve shattered. You watch from the shadows, your breath steady but your heart still racing. The moment of triumph is shared, even if only for a brief instant, before you fade back into the anonymity that cloaks your true nature.

Matthew's focus shifts back to the task at hand, carrying the boy to safety. Yet, a sense of intrigue lingers within him. He feels your ghost, supporting him, but your identity remains a mystery. As he carries the boy, he silently vows to uncover the truth behind his mysterious ally once this mission is complete.

With the boy safe in his arms, Matthew continues his swift retreat, leaving behind the hallway and the echoes of your combined efforts. The enigmatic presence of your illusion powers remains a secret, for now, your aid in the fight is a silent testament to your unwavering support.

END NOTES:

I’m… IDK WHAT THIS ISSSSSS :D

YES. This is my take on the whole “guardian angel” role bcs it’s fun!

If you are confused with the reader’s back story dw I already have that sorted out.

HNGGG YES IM WRITING TWO SERIES. IN THE MIDDLE OF FINALS WEEK SHUSH. IM FINE =D

Okayyyy I hope you enjoyed T^T <3

- Grace

TAGLIST:

#matt murdock x reader #matthew murdock #matthew murdock x reader #charlie cox x reader #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x fem!reader #ethereal writes #etherealupdates

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dykedvonte · 16 days

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I am making grabby hands and begging for more of your lovely Benny HC’s pleeeeease

Okie Dokie!!! Kinda long so under the cut it is

Benny is baby-faced and mid-20s. I like the idea he was so roped into House's offer because he was and still is kinda young and impressionable. His lobes aren't fully cooked yet and it shows.

Short and just now getting stout. Being a wastelander means you stay kinda lean and now he takes a lot of opportunities to fill out and look bigger.

Weirdly naive. He can spot a lie/lair from a mile away but if you somehow can charm your way past that intuition he's all too trusting with you on personal matters. All boot riders are like this actually as they rarely are wary of someone considered their own.

Moves like a lizard, very still one moment and then fast/jittery the next. He's not very predictable outside of being a backstabber.

A hand talker who can't keep still or quiet for long. Gets bored easily which is why he never was the casino desk man.

Was just called Gecko before but mainly for his eyes and not the aforementioned behavior. Very cold and sharp like a Mojave golden Gecko but also pretty.

All his smiles are practiced. There's a certain menace his natural smile has, too many teeth, too big, too wild, too mocking. Kinda like a dog barring his teeth and combined with his eyes it's rather intimidating. All the fake smiles are coy and rather closed lip.

Doesn't like using guns but it gives him an edge. Likes to get in close and feel like he's earned the kill during a fight but he's got an image now...

Not religious and doesn't get organized religion. Part of House's doing as House of course would explain it as something superfluous but Benny's own opinions are more "If a god was real why would he make life suck this much ass"

Maria means nothing to him but is part of his image. Following the point below, what he got from House is like a uniform for him, even if he doesn't want to go back to it, it is physically comforting.

Got to choose his name from a list House gave him. Chairmen had the most things altered about them. Treats his name like a title more than anything, interestingly enough.

If he ever defected he would join the followers. They share a lot of viewpoints and he'd act as a spokesman vs anything else. He is a likable guy, just not a guy you can get close to while keeping a "likable" opinion of him.

Doesn't sleep that much. Not much to do with the plans he has but he is a wastelander at heart. The city while secure isn't what he's fully used to still and the lights/sounds keep him up

Emotionally repressed and doesn't know it. Has a hard time actually connecting with most people cause he struggles with determining if a relationship is serious. People are friends or FWB and little else cause it's never been important to his or the Chairmens' prosperity.

Follows Boot-Rider customs discreetly and says Chairmen shit for show. A lot of the family would tell you a big reason Boot-Rider traditions aren't gone is that he won't let them die even if they gotta be silent about them.

He's eerily people smart. Intelligence is subjective here as he's not book smart but he gets people he knows what they want to hear even if he doesn't genuinely believe it. The comic knows he pays attention to what makes people vulnerable and he's like idk FNV Heather Chandler. Not introspective at all though.

My last point for now is: Violent. Maybe a better word is intense but he lacks inhibition and temperament control in a lot of aspects. If he's forced a direction he kinda just runs wild even if he was taking it slow before. He has hard opinions and makes plans with a sense of finality to them and doesn't act until that's achievable. Like I'm sorry but he gets mean at you and whatever he say to Yes-Man about the khans must be crazy with how YM talks about them. He is so willing to get his hands dirty, I can imagine he misses being able to get messy.

This is not organized at all but these are major ways I see Benny. He's like borderline an oxymoron who avoids it by small margins. Everything about him can be explained even though we don't get a lot of personal info about him, we know his habits. He's a guy who has such a detailed facade you can't tell what his actual face is most of the time and when he does show it, it's only in very specific and wild scenarios it can be hard to say it's how he'd really be. I'll just say the opening of the comic with him fluctuating from motionlessly looking at Vegas, to calmly talking to Swank, to rage and settling on something almost like commercial charm when talking about murdering what is basically a family member is just so indicative of what Benny is and how I tend to characterize him in my head.

#like realistically hed be so offputting in real life #like a person you know is being condescending or holding their tongue on the most trivial of things #i wouldn't mess with him cause hes the type to not hold a grudge cause hed just kill you for it #fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #benny fallout #benny fnv #benny gecko #ask #anon

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fengxun · 8 months

Text

OF REBIRTH AND SOLACE – UKITAKE JUSHIRO X READER

He shares your pain and you share his, intertwining your souls in a way even the gods could not break. You are his just as much as he is yours.

TAGS.⠀gender-neutral reader; married life, fluff and hurt/comfort, light angst, vv self-indulgent. SFW. ~900 words

A/N.⠀he could fix me but he would want us to do it together. this is just a huge excuse for me to be sappy

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3

When you love, you love ardently. A part of your soul becomes intertwined with theirs just as they crawl into your veins and seek a home in your heart. Body, mind and soul, Ukitake Jushiro is yours, and you’ll do anything you can to keep it that way.

How could you not, when he looks at you as though you’re the one who hung all the stars in the night sky with your own hands? He looks at you like you’re the one who brings sunshine after the rain. He worships you like the only religion he’s known in his entire life is you, the one he’d so willingly given his whole being to. He holds your hands and kisses them knowing what they are capable of, what they have done. He’d give you the world if you asked, even if you don’t believe you are deserving of it.

Your name carries weight in Soul Society as a disgraced noble with blood on your hands. They don’t know you as a victim; to them, you are the offspring of a sinner on the prowl, a monster borne of evil and recklessness. The people’s sentiments are not unknown to you. Words like daggers pierce through your skin and threaten your very core time and time again, but you do not fight back. You bear the burden of your father’s blood, the result of his anger and hatred for the world.

You don’t believe there to be honour in your existence, but you continue to live. Hundreds of years have given you all the time you needed to build yourself back up again, salvaging the parts of you that were broken by those you once trusted. Even now, you’re still learning to love, to accept the love you’re given, to trust once more, and to have pride in your life again. You may be your father’s child, but you are not him.

“My love,” Jushiro calls to you, his voice snapping you out of your daze. The scent of jasmine and green tea envelops you with comfort as he wraps his arms around your waist and presses a chaste kiss to your temple. In response, your lips curl into a small smile and you feel heat rush to your cheeks, your heart beating hard against your chest. “What’s on your mind?”

You sigh quietly. You haven’t quite learned how to bring yourself to tell someone what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling yet. Vulnerability has never been your strong suit. A strict, disciplinary upbringing and the need to be respected—feared—set you a few steps back. In your entire life, you’ve grown most accustomed to either letting your actions speak for themselves or simply holding them back. But then comes your husband, the very personification of warmth himself, making you feel so safe and cared for that you’ll gladly give him a piece of your heart.

“The same things,” you murmur. To some, it’s vague and cryptic, but between the two of you, it’s progress. “I promise it’s nothing to worry about, Jushiro. It’s all good thoughts.”

He smiles softly. “About us?”

“About us and what my life has been since I met you.” Your words are slow, cautious, like you’re still processing them yourself. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this content in my life. It’s like I’m living the way I should be. With you.”

Jushiro gently turns you around to face him, cupping the side of your face with his hand and caressing your skin with his thumb like he always does. He’s fond of being close to you, having you in his arms or even being in yours. With you, he feels as though he’s in spring or summer, where the days are bright and lovely and always something to look forward to. He’s lived a very long time, loved and lost, felt the years pass by and weaken him little by little, but being with you makes him feel young again. It’s never too late, he thinks, and it certainly never is too late to start anew.

“You make me the happiest man alive as well,” he says. The way he looks at you practically has you swooning, overflowing with nothing but love for him, and the reminder that this man loves all of you unconditionally is enough to bring tears to your eyes. He hushes you gently, leaving soft kisses on the crown of your head as he rubs soothing circles on your back. You hold on to him like a lifeline, listening to his heartbeat with your cheek pressed against his chest that lulls you into tranquillity.

You love it here. You love being with him, and you love that he’s patient with you. You love that he’s so understanding and compassionate, that he never pressures you to open up to him. He shares your pain and you share his, intertwining your souls in a way even the gods could not break. You are his just as much as he is yours.

“I love you.”

The vow slips past your lips with much more ease compared to the first time you said it years ago. Your hand comes up to tuck his hair behind his ear, running your fingers through his silky smooth strands before he laces your fingers together, the warmth of his skin passing on to yours. The smile he gives you in return is more than you could ever ask for. As bright as the sun, as lovely as the spring. He leans down to kiss you, a promise of his own.

“I love you too.”

#bitchcraftinc #my writing #bleach x reader #ukitake jushiro x reader #ukitake x reader #ukitake jushiro #bleach fluff #ukitake jushiro fluff #all

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ink-the-squid-gremlin · 4 months

Text

Endouma is a terrible ship, and here is why.

‼️WARNING‼️: Post not only contains semi spoilers for KNY, but it also contains mentions of things like suicide, depression and noncon/sexual assault. If you are uncomfortable with those topics, please refrain from reading.

TLDR: Enmu and Douma are not compatible with each other because that ship is mostly built up on fetished MLM tropes, overly sexualized versions of the characters and the romanticization of SA.

(God, I feel like I have been posting nothing but hot takes on this account as of late. I promise I will go back to posting art, cosplays, and more just chill stuff after this.)

Enmu and Douma are not characters that should not be shipped together, for multiple reasons. Starting off, THEY ARE NOTHING ALIKE!!!! I don’t know where or how it was decided that they were alike, or that Enmu is “Douma 2.0”, but it makes no sense. While both are meant to be irredeemable monsters, Enmu was an irredeemable monster from the get go. From what we know about his backstory, he knew he was scamming people and targeting the weak and vulnerable for it. Douma’s backstory goes a bit more in depth and explains that he was put into the role of “all mighty god” as a child, which lead to the power of it going to his head as he grew up. Douma was still an impressionable child who was failed by the adults around him, and as he grew up he took on some of those same traits as the adults he was surrounded by. The bottom line is this: Douma, while a shitty person, still has some way to sympathize with him, Enmu does not, and thats just on the story side of things.

Enmu and Douma also share nothing in common personality wise. On face value, they may kinda act similar (i.e how they talk (sorta)) but it really just stops there. Enmu ultimately had a goal to kill Tanjiro and gain more blood from Muzan so he could climb the ranks of the demon hierarchy. He wanted to gain more power and to overthrow one of the upper moons for the sake of power. He doesn’t care how many people he has to torment, hurt or kill, as long as he has spot in power, he is happy, hell, he literally has vulnerable and even sick children do his dirty work! Enmu is a sick and twisted individual and he prides himself on that. Douma on the other hand put on the happy and up beat facade to hide that he knows he was failed. Douma is aware he was failed as a human, and so he decided to fail his followers by being the embodiment of false hope. He plays into the false icon lifestyle by pretending to be hopeful and happy around his followers and even the other demons to an extent. He doesn’t care so much about power, rather he cares more about control. Douma keeps up his false religion persona to keep control over his followers. He knows he’s failing them, but he doesn’t want to lose the control he has over them.

Now onto the elephant in the room: the mischaracterization I’ve seen of both of them in the Endouma ship. In both fanart and fanfics I’ve seen and read (well more so forced down my throat since thats all I’ve seen with Enmu in recent times) both Enmu and Douma are mischaracterized to high hell just so we as the reader/viewer will feel pity for them. I’ve seen more of this with Enmu, in that all the stuff that made him unique from the other KNY demons is stripped away so his “savior boyfriend” Douma can comfort him and coddle him. Now, writing an AU is one thing, but if you’re just going to make content of the ship with the characters as they are in the series, then their actual personalities should be honored or at the very least acknowledged.

Going more in depth about the mischaracterizing I’ve been seeing with Enmu, almost all (ALMOST all, not all in general) Endouma content I’ve seen have made him either a depressed and anxious baby that Douma is meant to coddle, or an overly fetishized hyper feminine man thats there simply for sexual reasons. It just goes against their roles in the story of KNY.

Going off of the hyper feminine man mischaracterization of Enmu I’ve seen in regards to the Endouma ship, having him be pretty much a “femboy” not only contradicts him as a character, but it also is pushing toxic heteronormativity on a queer relationship. Making Enmu essentially the “woman”, while putting toxic heteronormativity in a very much MLM ship, it also just boils him down to a sex object and nothing else. Now, I will not say that portraying Enmu as a very sexual and even gross character is wrong, because there were plenty of scenes in KNY of him that had very sexual and perverted undertones, but that is what they were, undertones. There is more to his character than just the sexual undertones he has (as I stated earlier when describing him), and by boiling him down to a “sex doll” for Douma just kind of shows that there wasn’t much of an understanding of his character while making the ship art or a fic. He is much more than a sex object.

Moving onto the mischaracterization I’ve seen of Douma, while not nearly as bad as Enmu, it still feels very off from his character. Making Douma someone who GENUINELY cares for another person is also very contradictory to how he acts in the series. He is someone who cares very little for anyone he comes to meet, whether it be his followers or other demons. Now you may be asking “but, Ink! Douma saw Daki and Gyutaro when they were on the verge of death and decided to save them!” Which is exactly what I am talking about. The only reason he “saved” them was to keep up his facade of a savior and to get himself “brownie points” (for lac of a better term) so his public appearance would look good. Because he cared very little for Daki and Gyutaro, it shows that he only cares about looking like a good person and nothing else. Portraying him as essentially “Enmu’s therapist” that coddles him and such just feels weird. Douma has no emotional connections to anyone, so why would he have an enmotional connection to a demon that is considered lower than him?

Now similar to what I said about Enmu earlier, Douma is also much more than a sex obsessed pervert. Douma being portrayed as basically a male nymphomaniac in the Endouma ship is a very strange way to portray his character. Yes, he may have been fine with letting women seek refuge in his temple, but again, it was to make him seem and look like a good person. We should all know, or at least have the understanding that Douma is literally a woman eater. The women he houses in his temple ultimately have the fate of being nothing more than food. Viewing his reason for taking in women as something sexually driven is a complete misunderstanding of his actions. This misunderstanding of Douma paired with the sexual misunderstanding of Enmu not only creates a toxic relationship, but it also fetishizes and sexualizes MLM pairings. This is something I’ve noticed more in Endouma art, but a lot of it that I have seen feels very fetish-y. I can’t go too in-depth about this aspect, as I am a queer woman, but the way the ship is portrayed in a lot of the art I have seen of it feels as though it is pandering to the appeal of yaoi obsessed straight girls. While yaoi has been a term used for decades to refer to MLM based pairings in media like anime and manga, over the past couple of years, its meaning has become more based around fetishizing MLM pairings rather than just being about MLM pairings.

I now want to bring up something that I’ve seen associated with Endouma (and also the Enmuzan ship, but that is a topic for another time) that really makes me uncomfortable, and that is noncon and the romanization sexual assault. I don’t want to talk too much about this topic, as it is not only triggering for me, but it should also be common sense that fetishizing sexual assault is wrong. Again, this is more so something I have seen in artwork, but it seems almost normalized for Douma to be portrayed forcing himself onto Enmu. Now, I know you are all probably saying “Ink, if you don’t like it/are triggered by it, then don’t interact with it”, but when its all that has been made in regards to newer Enmu content as of late, and how people are hyping it up, its kind of hard to avoid. It makes me truly question just how many people really missed the point of their characters, and only focused on things like Enmu being more androgynous, and Douma being tall and muscular. In a general sense, if a ship is built on, or is popular from fetishized and romanticized sexual assault, it shouldn’t be a ship.

Finally, I just want to mention that these characters have NEVER once interacted in canon. I know that hasn’t stopped people from shipping characters before, but it’s just something I want bring up. (As well as the fact that the Upper Moon’s hate the Lower Moons)

I want to end off this post by saying that all of this is by no means targeted at a specific person, nor am I trying to say that my opinion is correct. I am just stating my own opinions and just stating observations I have made after being in the KNY/Enmu fanbase for nearly 4 years now. People are allowed to ship characters together (within reason) however they like, but just be aware of how it will look on your own part, and what views it may look like you have.

#squidposting #inkposts #ink talks #enmu #demon slayer #Endouma #lotus dreams #Enmu X Douma #kny hot take #I will reiterate from my last paragraph that I am by no means trying to target any specific person #I am just sharing something I have noticed about the Endouma ship #and how it makes me a bit uncomfortable #if you like that ship it is completely fine #like I said I’m just sharing my own opinions and thoughts #as well as my own experience with content of that ship #I also wanted to provide my interpretations of both characters to also just kind of back up my opinions #so it wouldn’t look like I’m making baseless claims and such #again I am not targeting a specific person I am just stating opinions and observations I’ve made

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im-not-a-l0ser · 5 months

Text

So a while ago I did a poll on who Mark Chasity should date

For some reason, Ted Spankoffski won???? With Gary Goldstein (Attourney at Law) in second place.

Anyway, Officer Bailey made third, and I'd like to make my case for him and my opinion on the rest of the relationships.

I think that Officer Bailey and Mark Chasity would be so cute because they'd balance. Bailey is intense in an overcompensating way, and Mark Chasity is a sweetboi. Like it's such 😠👬😸 and I'm here for it.

I think that they could have a nice, domestic relationship, that Mark could make Bailey open up and be vulnerable.

Now, if you're uncomfortable with shipping characters played by the same guy, worry not! Many of us have decided that the cop in TGWDM (the guy who's not Sam lol) could easily be Bailey. And if that helps, do that. Because I love the idea of them.

Opinions of everyone else under the cut.

Okay, we're gonna talk about how these relationships would go, and I'm gonna go in decending order of who won. Which means:

Ted Spankoffski- I think that maybe it'd be a gay awakening hook-up? Nothing long term for them. Mark doesn't deserve that, honestly.

Gary Goldstein- This I think could be a longer term relationship, where they meet bc of some legal trouble or something like that, and they date for a few months, but Mark is overall neglected by Gary's busy worklife. They have a civil breakup, and maybe even a comforting relationship if they need a shoulder to cry on.

Offer Bailey- I already said, but I will continue to say: Bailey is someone Mark would consider separating Karen for. Someone he can just be with, and who keeps his life interesting without being abusive or rude to him, and who will be emotionally vulnerable with him, even if it's probably only with him. I think of of ever broke up, it would be so bittersweet. I think it would be Mark picking his religion and family over Bailey, and Bailey holding back tears while supporting him because he knows that his family means so much to him and since Bailey may have wanted something like that for so long (imagine him with a little girl omg) he'd understand even more

No one, he will never be happy- Sad, but realistic.

Dan Reynolds (with Action News, weekdays at 10 pm)- He's someone I highkey put to fill slots, so I'm surprised he made 5th. But like... I can sort of see it? Like, I feel like one would flirt with the other, and the other would either not notice or ignore them.

Bill Woodward (tied with Gerald Monroe)- I have mentioned how I think Bill is straight, and how it makes me sad bc I like him and Paul, but it's prolly one-sided. But it would be cute if he were queer. Someone said they met at church, which I love, but I just think Bill is (sadly) straight.

Gerald Monroe (tied with Bill Woodward)- I feel like this would be more of a similar relationship that he'd have with Max’s dad; a not-even-friends with benefits that's out if the public eye because they are bigots who happen to be attracted to men. They would both not treat Mark like a person, and while he might even enjoy that for a short period of time, he would realise that it's unbalanced and would eventually leave like he deserves.

Kyle's Dad- So, we don't know Kyle's Dad, I just thought it was a silly, cute idea. Besides Bailey, it's either Kyle or Jason's dad that I could see, just based on how nice their kids are when given the freedom.

General John MacNamara- Okay, I get it, it's a cute idea. Uh, Jon McNamara is married though and I don't wanna fuck that up.

Other (Put in Tags), AKA President Howard Goodman apparently- I think this is silly, but I actually like it. Especially if he is with Mark during/after his meeting with Wiggly. Because hooo boy, imagine that conversation. A stuck, frozen, breaking down Howie calling his long distance hubby and telling him 'I just met a dark god and almost died,' and Mark doesn't want to belittle his experience or preach in a moment of absolute madness, so he just doesn't know what to do? I see the appeal 100%

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writingforatwistedworld · 1 year

Note

For the event, sebek with E, J and K?

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, murder, death, blood, violence, religion

E/J/K

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

Down to his bare soul

Let’s be honest, we all know that Sebek's loyalty pulverizes the limits that others usually don’t cross

So is it that much of a surprise when he will show you every single bit of his being, hoping that he can earn your favor?

There are parts though he wouldn’t feel too comfortable showing you which leads to him becoming silent when it’s about them

Well, I would also be ashamed if I had impaled another individual on a sharp piece of metal

He just wants you to see him in a positive light all whilst bearing everything to you

Into his darkest depths

It’s already established that he also shows you his not so pretty sides but there are a few things that he wouldn’t show you

But if you have known him for a really long time and somehow convinced him that you don’t mind if he is not perfect then he might crack

Ok, he definitely will because there is just so much guilt

There are times when he is acting like a completely different person, not being able to control what he does

He had been trained with the sword so you might imagine how bad that can get

Please just accept him! There is nothing else he wants more

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

Becoming controlling

Sebek is an individual that can become very jealous very fast

Just take a look at Malleus, he is already bad enough with *ahem* “WAKA-SAMAAAA!”

So how could you have ever expected that he would be calm if someone even just stands next to you?

What does he do to stop those feelings? By being controlling

Where others would be relaxed and let you do your own thing he is watching you always

And if there is something he disapproves of? Well then he says that he will do it instead of you and that this kind of task is below you

Making sure that the “vermin” stays away once and for all

Remember that “him becoming angry” thing? Yeah

He putting his skills to use is all I’m saying

What is so interesting in all of this is that he believes that he does this for your good

No convincing himself, no hard feelings, just genuine belief that what he is doing is right

Just don’t ask him where that stain is from

Otherwise he might spill all the dirty details

You really don’t want to know

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

Nothing but pure devotion

Like already said, Sebek can be “a bit much” when it comes to those he idolizes

So imagine how bad it is when he stands in front of the one he deems as his God

Mhm. Yes. Full on center of his world. No escape for you

Sometimes you can't help but to feel like he would paint the world red, ripping it apart atom by atom just for you

But nah. He wouldn't do that, right? Right??!

Every single one of your wishes is his command to act so better keep your voice down unless you want him to get into a lot of trouble

In public

Sebek seems more like a guard than someone who is ready to chew someone's head off for you

But don't be fooled by his cold exterior

He is boiling with bloodlust whenever someone dares to glance into your direction

After all, everything could be a threat and who is he to allow someone or something to harm you?

But when someone still dares to approach you?

Well, he would have told them to go away if you were Malleus but you aren't and now he is remembering their face so that he can “visit” them. Just for tea and some cake. You know, supposedly harmless stuff

Yeah no. They are already dead

In private

If you let him he is laying his head in your lap, basking in your presence

If not, then he is doing all kinds of things to impress you

The thing is, Sebek genuinely wants this to work out

He wants you to like him as much as he adores you (impossible but my man has at least a dream)

You could tell him to skin a squirrel, eat its insides and he would happily do so if he could finally get at least somewhat close to you

Long story short, he is desperate for your affection and would do anything to get even just a glimpse of it

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star-drip · 1 month

Text

random lore update that makes no sense again and probably overlaps and contradicts everything!! yay!!!

anyway, my favorite thing about the cult in my paracosm is how closely it follows the "boiling frog" metaphor.

(ig i should put a tw for the mention of animal harm, also transphobia/death/harm mentions)

"The boiling frog is an apologue describing a frog being slowly boiled alive. The premise is that if a frog is put suddenly into boiling water, it will jump out, but if the frog is put in tepid water which is then brought to a boil slowly, it will not perceive the danger and will be cooked to death. The story is often used as a metaphor for the inability or unwillingness of people to react to or be aware of sinister threats that arise gradually rather than suddenly."

i've always loved learning about cults and groups of people who share some kind of unique practice/belief. real stories and fictional stories are both equally as interesting imo. my favorites have always been the ones that are morally wrong to us but so normal to the group. i also just like the "evil" ones lmao.

OH MY GOD I WANT TO REWATCH HEREDITARY!!! i feel like it is perfect inspo for how i kind of want to go with my paracosm's cult. (hard movie to watch though. mentally draining asf. the lore is amazing though)

if it wasn't horrendously obvious, the way my paracosm operates changes all the time, but the main theme of manipulation and cold comfort always stays the same. >:)

they worship demons, yes, but they also just believe a bunch of random shit for no real reason. like, how butterflies mean somebody is blessed and how moths can "tell them" to harm/possess/people. they often use this to make excuses to sacrifice people. they also drop their blood on random flowers as a gift to nature. like, okay, you do you. i guess. 🥰

so for some shit i already mentioned a long time ago (i think), emerson was given to her aunt, because she was born after luca. her mom only wanted one kid and not two. emerson is still fully aware of this shit with the cult and branded, but she's still not fully immersed into it like luca is (they are also severely transphobic to him so that's fun!)

fun fact! anyone seen as "possessed/part demon" is seen as "godly" until they step into the real world that has regular beliefs! then it is basically the purest form of evil! fun!

most people in the cult are "cursed" at a young age to be like this. it causes the curse to be branded on their skin. :3

this cult is basically the rival to like anyone's morals ever. you will be seen as the worst person ever by everybody if you are in this cult. everyone who is a part of this has to hide the branding at all times and show no signs of the "demon magic," whatever the hell that is.

BACK TO THE MANIPULATIVE SHIT

basically, they do what any cult does. they find vulnerable people and preach their beliefs to them, telling them how much it changed their lives for the better. they will even tell fake stories. they just want their group to grow more powerful.

what are their main beliefs? these demons are good guys and not horrible pieces of shit like everyone says! they make you soo connected to the spirits (yes there is a spirit world that people can go to. not everyone can access it) and totally not draining you of your soul! you just have the most powerful religion!! it's powers!!

honestly, half of the people that grew up around this stuff just assume it's normal until, one day, they realize it's not?? scary shit. i love that shit. i love the crisis moments.

the people that end up being sacrificed are often the ones that find out how bad it actually is too, and they tried to get help (wonderful. spectacular. nobody saw that coming).

what exactly is bad about it though besides killing people? 😟

(tw again) promotes harm of any kind. self harm, abuse, sacrifice, promoting false hope, feeds on weakness- tells them that this is all for a good cause, it is not. lmao.

i don't have it all figured out. i still don't have any real rules for the magic. it's just kinda there right now. 🥰

OH. do luca and emerson's friends know? NOT YET. (except for aiden because he was low key involved for a minute).

okay bye.

(oh, also, the spirit world rivals with the demonic part all the time. it's almost like kingdoms or parts of land or some shit.) byeee

#paracosm rambles #lucaaa #emersonnn

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sparrowmoth · 1 year

Text

Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥

#descendants #marlos #rotten OT4 #descendants fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #descendants fandom #man it took me like a week to get this chapter out of my brain #it kept making me sad so I had to stop writing ajkgjsdkg #but it's finally here #and chapter two is vivid in my mind #so I will start writing that soon #though I might finish evil puppy carlos's adventures first #we shall see we shall see #I am really on a marlos kick #but I promise Jay and Evie are coming next chapter #and they have a huge role to play #plus they are going to commit crimes!#nothing like a murderous jayvie <3

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