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cordeliawhohung · 1 month

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Leftovers [2/3]

Simon Riley x fem!Reader | a non-canon addition to my mafia!141 series

part 1 | part 3

warnings: unhealthy relationships, anxiety and depression, minor smut, possessive Simon, abusive behavior

you're his, now

wc: 4.6k

It had been months since the night your life ended and started again.

For the longest time, you were livid. Inconsolably upset at everything. A special type of betrayal festered in your chest where it rattled and raged against the hollow cavern between your ribs. That betrayal quickly revealed itself to be grief as the days went on. That utter melancholia threatened to suffocate you every time you thought about your old partners, The Prices. How they kept you like a pet, to be played and toyed with. How they decided to have a child without your input. How they only told you when they announced it to all their friends, like you were nothing more than a guest in their lives.

Then, there was Simon. Your savior. Or, at least that’s what he liked to call himself. It didn’t feel like salvation when he ripped you from the grasp of your old partner's bitter and unloving hands, not when you realized the cost of it. Lying wasn’t supposed to be synonymous with loving, and yet it was the very thing that had put you in the palm of Simon’s hands, made you so pliable for him as he fucked and marked you that night, making it impossible for you to ever return to your old life.

There was nothing but poison waiting for you with your old lovers, if you could even call them that. But being force fed the antidote hurt just as bad when that corruption had become the only comfort you had ever known.

Simon had a way of making things feel better, which usually consisted of him being anchored between your legs. If there was an issue he couldn’t fix by talking or kissing it away, then he would fuck it out of you, and you hated that it worked as well as it did. When you wanted to be mad at him for lying to you, for tricking you into giving yourself to him, his cock always ended up burrowing into your cunt. Your breath would be lost, stolen from your very lungs, and your words along with it. He had grown to know you so well that he was able to pull orgasms out of you with his eyes closed, rendering your brain numb and incapable of argument or resentment.

This cycle continued for what felt like forever. Your days would pass by with you rotting in bed in frustration and anguish as you choked on that antidote and feeling of betrayal, and when Simon had enough of your unresponsiveness, he would fuck you into submission. Coo and embrace you like a true lover would. It created some sort of dissonance within your very being. You were supposed to be mad at him for tricking you, and yet it felt divine being held against him. You couldn’t get enough of the searing sensation of his lips along your skin, or his breath caressing your ear as he slept.

It was agony being torn apart; forever caught between the gravity of your old lovers and the man that stole you from them.

Eventually, you woke up one day and it didn’t hurt anymore. Whatever frustration or anger that burrowed underneath your skin dissipated; vanished into thin air as if it had never existed in the first place. Things seemed brighter, you cried less, and Simon looked at you with adoration rather than pity for your shattered mental state.

Perhaps it was the ignorance that made things better. Without any access to the Prices, you had no knowledge at all of how they handled your absence, if they even cared at all. All you knew was that you had managed to find solace within Simon, despite the terrible start to your relationship. He really did take care of you, just like he said he would. He insisted on paying for everything, refusing to let you work, and provided you with everything you would ever need.

After all, you were his now.

Which was why you found yourself in front of a boiling pot of water in the kitchen of his apartment. Without the use of your phone, Simon had given you an old CD player to keep you occupied as you cooked or went about your day. Radiohead’s album In Rainbows droned on in the background as you mixed the pasta around the pot to keep them from sticking together. Spicy marinara bubbled on the next burner over, and its heavy aroma hung thick in the air around you, leaving you in a mouthwatering stupor.

Just as the alarm on the stove went off signaling the pasta was cooked, the deadbolt began to jingle behind you. After you turned the burners off, you quickly slipped out of the kitchen to greet Simon, who flashed you an entertained smirk. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes, yet they always seemed to light up when they landed on you, and you couldn’t help but grin up at him. It wasn’t often that he got home before ten, as his new job often kept him late, so you were ecstatic that he arrived just as you finished cooking up dinner.

“Smells like you’ve been busy,” he chuckled as he locked the door behind him.

“I thought I would have to leave some out for you again,” you admitted. His hands found your hips and he drew you closer, catching you in his gravity. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Before he allowed himself to respond, Simon squeezed your hips as his lips descended onto yours. It was the way he always greeted you when he arrived home from work, like he couldn’t get enough of you, or more accurately, like he knew you couldn’t get enough of him. You could taste the stale cigarettes on his breath, and the slight hint of mint that he used to attempt to cover it, and it took everything in you not to moan at the flavor. He was the one to pull away first, and your lips curved into a smile as his thumbs rubbed soothing circles along your hips.

“Let’s eat, yeah?” he prompted.

It didn’t take long for dishes to be served and for both you and Simon to settle on the couch in the living room while some programme droned on in the background. Even during meals you always huddled close to him as if you would die without his heat. Your leg laid pressed against his as you leaned into his side, and had Simon not been as large of a man as he was, you certainly would have smothered him with your presence.

“How was work?” you questioned once half your plate had been emptied.

“Was alright,” Simon replied with his mouth full of pasta. “Bit slow.”

“That why you’re home early?”

“Mhm.”

Simon never seemed like much of a talker, and neither were you until recently. A majority of your life had been spent in silent pining for your basic needs and desires, but once Simon had stolen you away, it was like all you ever wanted to do was talk. Perhaps it was because he genuinely seemed to care about what you had to say. Or maybe it was because some sort of loneliness still managed to creep into your life, like a ghost that haunted you.

“I’m glad you’re home early,” you admitted. “I’ve been missing you all day.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart. I always try to come home as soon as I can,” Simon assured you.

A twinge of exhaustion lurked underneath his tone, screaming at you that despite the fact he got off early, he certainly had a long day. He always seemed drained after arriving home, proving to you just how hard he worked in order to support you, to give you the life he told you that you deserved. You always had someone who would crawl into bed with you, someone who wasn’t ashamed to show you affection and love, someone to truly take care of you. Despite the circumstance, Simon was everything you could have ever asked for. Everything you would ever need.

So why did it feel like something was missing?

That night after the dishes were washed and the lights were turned down low, you and Simon hid underneath the covers where your limbs intertwined with one another. For some reason he always insisted that you sleep naked, and though you weren’t sure why, you didn’t really mind. In fact, feeling the warmth of his body seep into you was so intoxicating you probably would have come to that conclusion even without his prompting. You couldn’t get enough of his scent, or how his skin felt against yours, and even though the two of you had laid in bed for nearly twenty minutes you buzzed.

Nothing could satiate your need for him. You wouldn’t be satisfied until you were able to crawl into him and hide yourself away underneath his very flesh. You wanted to shrink yourself down, become some small thing, and tuck yourself into his pocket to be forever stuck with him. A vile yearning for him tainted your very essence, and yet you wished it would destroy you all the same.

“What’cha so wiggly for?” Simon questioned, half awake yet still teasing.

“I missed you,” you whined as you buried your face further into his bare chest.

His chuckle sounded low and grumbly in his throat as his arms wrapped firmly around your center. Wandering hands caressed along your hips and down your thighs, traversing and memorizing every single dimple of your flesh like it was the only story he ever wanted to know.

“I’m here now, love,” he hummed.

“I know, I just get so lonely when you’re gone,” you admitted with a pout. “You’re gone forever at work, and I just wanna talk to you. I was thinking that maybe if I had my phone back I could message you-”

“What did I say about your phone?”

The tone Simon used to cut you off was sharper than anything you had ever heard from him before, and it stopped you in your tracks. There was a fatigued sort of frustration that drenched his words which left a part of you wishing that you had never opened your mouth in the first place. He was too tired, too irritated to have a conversation, especially one like that, and you were afraid you had pushed his buttons a bit too much.

You swallowed hard as Simon’s hands moved to your chin, forcing you to look up at him through the dim light rather than keep your face hidden in his chest. Darkness obscured his face, making it near impossible to truly read his expression, and yet you found your bottom lip quivering all the same.

“Sweetheart,” he urged, softer that time, “what did I say about your phone?”

“That it’s… better if I don’t have it,” you answered as your teeth bit into the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your chin to your cheek where his thumb gently rubbed at your skin. The notion was comforting, soothing even, yet you knew he was truly checking for tears. “And why’s that?”

“Because then the Prices won’t be able to contact me.”

Just like that, your mood was ruined. Any reminder of your past lovers was a painful one. Even after all those months they still seemed to have some sort of control over you, and the fact that they could sour your mood with just a simple memory was dehumanizing. Your somberness was so potent it exuded from your body like fine mist, and Simon’s caressing of your face increased tenfold in an attempt to calm you before things became catastrophic. You were his sweet, fragile girl, after all.

“Right. And it’s better that way, isn’t it sweetheart?” he concluded softly. “It’s better here with me, because I take care of you, don’t I? I don’t neglect you, or treat you like some pet.”

Although he was right, it didn’t make the bitter ache in your chest go away. Simon did his best to sooth the pain with his hands and words, and you shivered as his fingertips traversed from your face, to your shoulders, and down your waist. He had to find some way to distract you, some way to remind you that he was the only one you needed, and that you had to stay far away from Price and his trophy wife. You were too good for them; he needed you to know that.

“You’re mine, and I’m yours, that’s what we agreed on, yeah?” he continued. His hand began to dip lower, moving from your waist, over your stomach, and between your legs. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers burrowed between your thighs, searching for access to your not quite slick cunt. Your emotions were too high for you to be wet, Simon was well aware, but you both knew he could change that within an instant. “They’ll never see you again, never get to abuse you again because I’m here to protect you. I love you in a way they never did.”

Right as he spoke those last few words, his fingers greedily swiped against your clit, and your legs had no choice but to fall apart and grant him greater access. A gentle tremor shook the bed as Simon repositioned himself, pushing you on your back so that he could hover over your exposed body like it was a fresh meal just for him. Famished lips descended onto your neck as his fingers prodded against your entrance, forcing your mind to go blank with longing.

“Needy thing, aren’t you? Need my full attention? I’m sorry, sweetheart, shoulda fucked you the moment I got home, huh? I’m all yours, and you’re all mine. Say it,” Simon urged as he still withheld himself from you.

Squirming, you reached out for him with wanting hands as you snaked your arms around his neck. This was how he healed you, with his fingers teasing your cunt and his saccharine words plugging your ears. There was nothing else in the world you needed besides Simon. Every chord of your body yearned for him as if he was the only sustenance your body craved. This was how he healed you. With honeyed words and a worshiping mantra reminding you of who you belonged to.

“I’m yours.”

That night only added on to the other countless evenings spent with Simon tucked between your legs to voraciously consume you whole. There was no thinking to be done when he could mercifully do it for you, and you were content with that. At least, you thought you were. Things always became difficult when Simon vanished off to work, and he would do his best to make it up to you when he arrived home, to distract you from the empty feeling that seemed to fester inside of your chest. But no matter what he gave you, what he did for you when he was home, your mind always wandered when he was away.

You couldn’t help but think back to when you lived with the Prices, how cold and lonely that house was, and how colder still your lovers were. Mr. Price — no, John — had sent you over to Simon like a bitch; some obedient pup meant for entertaining but not for loving, and it didn’t make sense. He had sent you over to comfort Simon so flippantly, yet acted as if the world had ended when you never returned back to them that terrible night. Was there some sort of miscommunication? Was that never his intention at all? And still, they left you out of the imperative conversation about their pregnancy like it never concerned you at all.

You were spiraling again, and Simon was able to pick up on it just as easily as he could sniff out a bad wound. He could only keep you caged up so long, and he knew he needed to remedy it before he was back at the beginning with you. So you shouldn’t have been surprised when he arrived home one day with a gift. Beautiful, blush pink cloth sewn into a perfect sundress sat underneath delicate tissue paper, and you had a hard time hiding your awe and surprise when you revealed the astonishing dress. Simon’s eyes seemed more dilated than normal when he saw you hold it up to your body, and you caught onto his small smirk.

Without hesitation, you slipped into the dress at his prompting, and you were ecstatic to find that it fit perfectly. Simon had gotten used to your sizing after having to buy you a whole new wardrobe after you escaped the Prices, but even then you were impressed at how well it formed to your measurements. It was as if Simon had every inch of your body memorized after the months you had spent together to the point that there was no way he could mess up your sizing. You couldn’t help but smile knowing that no one else had ever done that for you before.

It didn’t end there. With Simon having to work longer hours that night than normal, he insisted on taking you out to lunch, which was something you couldn’t ever recall doing. Ages had passed since you had even stepped foot out of Simon’s apartment, and you couldn’t remember the last time you felt the sun on your skin. You didn’t know why he hadn’t taken you out sooner, but if you had to guess, you were certain it was for the same reason he did everything else; to keep you safe from the Prices.

The restaurant Simon took you to was the fanciest you had ever seen before. Several art pieces adorned the walls with such vibrant shades you were convinced that the art itself cost more than whatever it took for them to construct the building itself. Crystal chandeliers hung high above your heads, and before either of you could order the waiter had filled your glasses with the finest of wines. The menu itself didn’t even have any prices, but Simon didn’t seem at all concerned with it, and insisted that you ordered whatever you wanted.

There was something deliciously domestic about being there with him. You belonged to him, and he belonged to you, that much was evident, but there was something exciting about being able to show that fact in public. To prove that someone loved you enough to show it off, rather than hide you away. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t wipe that grin off your face as the two of you talked about nothing while eating the mouthwatering meals on your plates. For a moment, you two were the only beings in the world.

For a moment.

A flash of something caught your attention. Maybe it was a giggle, or the cooing and awing, but all you knew was that your eyes suddenly glued themselves on the patrons a few tables away from you. For a split second, you thought you saw them. John and his wife. It wasn’t them at all, but you realized you only feared that because this woman, this beautiful woman with her glowing skin and healthy laugh, was pregnant. Obviously so, too, as her stomach swelled and stretched with the growing life inside of her. Her husband could hardly take his eyes off of her, constantly reaching across the table to hold her hand despite her attempt at trying to enjoy her lunch. It was… stomach lurching.

By that point, Mrs. Price would be four months along. Or, no, more than that for sure. It had been four months since you had been taken from them, since you had even heard from them. Four months without closure, or the opportunity to talk and get answers. A part of you needed to know why things happened the way they did, but you were completely in the dark. All you had received was whatever Simon spoon fed you, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t sure if it would ever be enough. Maybe you had been empty for too long to ever be full again.

“Everythin’ alright, sweetheart?”

Your eyes tore away from the unsuspecting couple and landed back on Simon. He studied you carefully with a neutral expression, but you saw the slight press of his lips. Dark red wine faintly stained his pale skin, yet you couldn’t find yourself able to appreciate the beauty of it. All you had was a rotten feeling in your stomach and the sudden urge to vomit.

“Yeah, of course,” you lied.

Things got bad again when Simon left for work that night. Maybe it was the knowledge that he wouldn’t be home until late that made your brain ceaselessly buzz. Or maybe it was the image of that pregnant woman at the restaurant, the one that reminded you of the suffering you had to endure all those months ago. You attempted to silence that incessant sound in your mind as best as you could, because you knew you couldn’t afford to blow up, so you did anything to distract yourself. Music blasted through the CD player louder than it ever had, certainly to the annoyance of your neighbors, but for once you found yourself incapable of caring about anyone but yourself.

When that didn’t work, you put on a movie instead. It wasn’t one you recognized, just something you had flipped to when you were browsing through streaming services. You had gotten dressed in one of Simon’s plain tees in an attempt to drown yourself in his scent, and yet that didn’t dull the ache either. All you could think of while the images flashed in front of you on the screen were the movie nights at the Prices. How John would make you cuddle up next to Simon, how the only comfort you could find was in his beating heart as he held you close to him…

There had to be a reason for it all.

When the movie ended and there was nothing to accompany you but silence and the sound of your own breathing, that’s when you knew you couldn’t handle it anymore. You needed something. You needed answers.

Like a feral rat, you began to search every nook and cranny of the apartment for your phone. If you could find it, maybe you could get some answers from John. Even if Simon said it was bad for you, you knew you needed closure, no matter how much it hurt. Wherever Simon had put it, it was well hidden. You nearly tore apart his dresser, every drawer in the kitchen, the corners of the bedroom closet; everywhere you could think of, and it wasn’t there.

Just when you were about ready to tear the floor up, you finally found it. Really, you had half expected him to have thrown it away, yet there it sat underneath the bathroom vanity, hidden behind a myriad of cleaning supplies so far back the overhead light couldn’t illuminate it. When you finally had it in your grasp, you nearly cried, and you weren’t sure why. A fit of emotions bubbled in your stomach, each of them violently conflicting, yet frustration took over when you attempted to turn the phone on and the screen wouldn’t light up. Of course it wouldn’t, it hadn’t been used for months.

Rushing off to the bedroom, you quickly borrowed Simon’s charger and let your phone sit on the nightstand as it ever so slowly charged. Answers almost within your reach, and yet your anxiety bubbled up more than ever as you waited for that black screen to flicker to life.

It took ages for the thing to fully load up once it was charged enough to turn on, and you held the device in your shaking hands. All your old apps appeared on the screen, countless pictures that you had taken over the years, but the most eyecatching of them all was the amount of notifications you had for your text messages. 172, all within the last four months.

When you clicked on the app, you quickly realized that all of those messages had been sent by John, and you hated the way your stomach dropped. But this was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Answers? To have him explain why he did what he did? To make it stop hurting? With a heavy breath, you clicked on his name, and the app instantly scrolled up to the very first message he had sent in his cluster over the last few months, and it was then that you noticed something was wrong. Just before his onslaught of messages, there was a reply sent by you, one you didn’t remember sending.

Don’t contact me again.

This wasn’t you. That had to have been Simon, because he had taken your phone from you before you ever got the chance to respond to them yourself. Their worried messages, their pleading for you to come home, to know that you were okay. It didn’t work, obviously. The next few messages after that one was full of John pleading to speak with you, of several missed calls, of him apologizing for anything they did to upset you. The texts dated back only hours, sometimes minutes apart, and it was strange. You had never seen him so desperate before. Not for you.

Eventually they seemed to stop for a while, only to start back up again weeks later. There were plenty of comments saying how much they missed you, how they wished you would change your mind and come home, and it felt… wrong. Hadn’t Simon told them that you were with him? He told you he did. He had even quit his job with Price because he didn’t want any bad blood, so why did they act as if you were lost? Like they didn’t know where you were at?

Confused, you continued scrolling, eyes glossing over at the repetitive messages, until eventually you stumbled across pictures. Baby clothes. Cute little shoes. Ultrasounds. Pregnancy announcements. A gender reveal. They were having a girl, and they painted the nursery a cute shade of pink, just like the dress Simon had gotten for you that day. And then there was a video. It was short, and though it wasn’t visually stimulating, it had a rhythmic pulse accompanying the audio. The baby’s heartbeat.

Wish you were here to share these moments with us.

You weren’t able to stop the tears streaming down your face, or the food that came back up to say hello. Indignifying as it was, you sobbed on the cold bathroom floor as you vomited and continued to dry heave the emptied contents of your stomach. Everything crashed down on you all at once, and yet you felt numb at the same time. Nothing made sense. Why were they still trying to talk to you after all that time, like there was still a chance you would return?

Then, you suddenly thought back to the morning Simon admitted his lie to you. How he had done it so easily and without remorse. How he grabbed at your cunt like he… owned you. You would have thrown up again at that thought if you had more food in your stomach, but you instead rose from the cold tile to rinse your mouth. You didn’t feel like a lover. You didn’t feel cared for. For the first time in months, you felt like a pet.

So you did the only thing you had ever been good at doing: you ran. You ran just like you did back at John’s club, and every other time your emotions conflicted so bad you swore you would die. After you gathered a small bag full of personal items, your phone and wallet included, you rushed out the door and didn’t bother to look back as it closed behind you.

an: this was only ever supposed to be a one shot, but i decided to expand on the story a little more, as i felt the first part wasn't able to fully convey the story i was trying to tell. once the 3rd part is posted though, that'll be it, so please don't harass me about more parts again (: gives me anxiety

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #f!reader

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turbulentscrawl · 6 months

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Identity(V) Headcanons: Norton Campbell

I'm starting off the writing blog with some of these character analysis-esque headcanons! (Starting with Norton bc he's honestly the reason I made this blog.) They'll serve both as practice for me, and examples for any readers on how I write different characters.

Again, I am new to the IDV fandom, and I have never played the game. These headcanons are informed by ongoing lore dives sourcing the wiki, japanese twitter responses, comics, stageplay, and more! Some of these may relate to or even contradict character backstory, and some of them are just pure vibes for me. If you like it, consider shooting a request ;)

-Norton had always been a moodier guy, but the mining accident (and the lack of mental and emotional support he received after it) resulted in a much more obvious split of his temperaments. Without trying to put a name to something I’m no expert in, Norton has two distinct personality states which are both aware of and inform one another. The First is the more common state, wherein he is more level-headed, but prone to melancholy and isolation. His melancholy tends to be more intense after an episode with his Second state, wherein he is very likely to exhibit anger, mania, and cynicism. Likewise, his Second state tends to be more critical when he’s been uneventfully mellow for a good while. He tries his best to balance and regulate the two, but this particular emotional roller coaster is one he never had any say in getting on and has never had any assistance getting off.

-The First state typically lasts longer than the Second, sometimes stretching several days at a time. During the First, he’s at his most amicable and chatty. This is the best time to get to know him as a person.

-When in his Second state, which is usually triggered by something that reminds him of the accident, it’s better to give him a wide berth. Even in the case of a friend or partner who has thick skin and handles harshness well, Norton can become hypercritical of himself for being cruel to them.

-His mother died in childbirth, leaving Norton with only his father, who also worked himself to an early grave. Norton had to start working immediately to keep himself fed (and sometimes didn’t even manage that) so he has next to no education. He does not read or write especially well. He is also not particularly tech savvy and struggles with new concepts. That said, he's never been one to back down from a chance to improve himself, difficult or otherwise.

-Norton was mostly genuine in his visits to the elderly and sick. Many of them were other miners and laborers who helped him find his footing after his dad died. Their help may not have amounted to much in the long run, but they didn’t just look the other way and he understood the loneliness they felt on their deathbeds.

-The one exception to this was Benny, who Norton had also once looked upon in an appreciative light…until he learned how to read. It was then that he scoured his father’s old letters and discovered an infuriating truth: after the birth of Norton and the death of his mother, his father had been about to leave the mining industry. Benny was the one who convinced him to stick around and join the obsessive hunt for gold. It was through a mix of spite and desperation that Norton decided to swindle Benny out of his maps and take the chance at riches for himself.

-Norton does not talk about the mining accident. At all. Not even if he’s paid. Part of it is self-preservation—since he IS the one who stole and illegally ignited the explosives. The other part is that he is well and truly wrecked with guilt. Norton did not get along with most of his coworkers in those final days, was bullied and harassed by them, but he wanted to get ahead of them, not kill them.

-Because he’s been self-reliant from such a young age, he’s naturally distrustful of other people. He has trouble accepting people at face value and often rejects compliments, and other words of affection. He’s the embodiment of “actions speak louder than words.” In general, if someone wants to get closer to Norton they have to put their money (and their labor) where their mouth is and show a lot of patience. Any genuine relationship with Norton is hard-won.

-In line with the above, the best love language to give Norton is Acts of Service. Physical Affection would also work well once you reach a certain threshold in his trust. Gift-Giving is a decent third, but you would need to tread lightly here, lest he start to see the budding relationship as purely transactional. Holidays and birthdays are the best time to really go in on gifts for Norton, since he has a harder time arguing bribery with culturally dictated gifts.

-He genuinely does not find himself to be attractive. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s insecure, as he really doesn’t think about it much, but he’s least likely to accept compliments about his appearance. The burn scars certainly don’t help. If you do compliment his appearance, it’s better not to mention the scars at all than to try and make him feel better about them.

-He wholly, genuinely, hates the rich. Which is obvious enough, I suppose, but I think it’s more extreme than people give him credit for. And really it just comes down to unadulterated jealousy and bitterness, which are not easy feelings to overcome.

-Norton is of the opinion that all life is equal—and when he’s at his most cynical, this means he’s willing to take the balance of “an eye for an eye” into his own hands.

-His sweet tooth is limited to donuts and a few other carb-y baked goods. He prefers savory flavors, or sometimes bitter, such as in the case of his black coffee. He doesn’t eat as much as you might expect for his size, but he always eats quickly, and hunched over his food like it’ll be taken away. Old habits die hard.

-He has a terrible sleep schedule, due in part to frequent nightmares about the accident. He’s also somewhat claustrophobic and dislikes pitch-black spaces, so a window is a must in his bedroom. He prefers to have it open whenever reasonable.

-He doesn’t do well with thunderstorms, as the rumbles of thunder sound too much like the beginnings of a cave-in.

-If he has one singular strength, it’s perseverance. Hardships don’t deter him because he’s seen and overcome plenty. He’s a loyal friend as well, once completely won over. If he cares for you, you’ll never have to tackle a hurdle alone.

#identity v #idv #idv prospector #norton campbell #norton campbell x reader #idv x reader #turbulentscrawl

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kastlequill · 4 months

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iii/v. unearth without a name: the parent forced to eat its young before it grows

pairing: keegan p russ x f!reader word count: 3.2k synopsis: the third time you hallucinate keegan tags: whumptober, psychological warfare, injury, electrocution, brainwashing, hallucinations, hurt no comfort, established relationship, ghost!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: canon-typical violence, torture ao3: read here ← prev | next →

III.

Things didn’t get much better from there. In fact, the torture only worsened.

The passage of time remained a disorienting illusion at best, but you were certain that you’d been in this hellhole longer than the less-than-professional portion of your relationship with. . .

With Keegan.

It hurt to think about him. Well, it hurt to think about any of the Ghosts, men who you had seen as your crew, your family, but matters surrounding the sergeant in particular were infinitely more painful. They had each promised you one thing and one thing only: short of death, they would sooner lose a limb or two than abandon you. He, however, had gone a step further, all but vowing to follow you to the ends of the earth.

Of course, Keegan hadn’t exactly said as much, for such a confessional manner of speaking was beyond his realm of expertise. Still, it was difficult to dispute the torch he carried for you when one took into account the way he slipped his treasured rations of dried jerky into your back pocket, or how he gave you his undivided attention both in the field and in the privacy of his own quarters.

Anybody with a pair of workin’ eyes can puzzle you idiots out in five seconds flat , Merrick had said once. Makes the rest of us sick. Sick, I tell you.

Unfortunately, reality was often disappointing. And you were starting to believe that the only person who’d ever been wholly honest about their intentions with you was Rorke.

The day you first had this passing thought was the day you officially relinquished your already-slippery grip on sanity, mind finally at a loss. Because nobody of a sound mental state would consider their captor, interrogator, and torturer to be a pillar of truth or a beacon of honesty. Nevertheless, he wasn’t the one who had given you false hope, nor had he been the one to abandon you here, leaving you to waste away and rot. From the get-go, this monster of a man had detailed the exact terrors he would inflict upon you and then subsequently followed through on his words.

A part of you—the worn-down, bone-weary, hollowed-out part of you—respected that.

“Why don't we start the day off with a bang, hm?” Rorke strapped your wrists down to the arms of the wooden chair in which you currently sat. Giving a sharp tug, he tightened the restraints until a tingling numbness radiated throughout the meat of your fingers. “Get the blood flowin’, so to speak.”

In your peripheral, two Feds were hooking you up to some sort of death machine, which looked like an entanglement of wires and an array of dials. Malnourishment slowed your ability to assess and process new information, so you couldn’t muster the energy to investigate whatever damage they had planned for you.

Resistance was futile; at this point, the pain was inevitable, and the suffering was unavoidable. You possessed no power, you had no leverage, and you were losing faith in your comrades fast. Combined, it was a sure recipe for disaster. Yet, you had no choice but to see all this chaos through until it’s likely-bloody conclusion.

Rorke took a seat in a chair of his own, positioning himself just a few feet across from you. Close enough to intimidate, but not within kicking distance. To calm your racing heart, you focused your attention onto the deep scar that sliced his left brow and trailed the contours of his face before abruptly stopping at the edge of his jaw.

Your sense of curiosity briefly flickered to life, and you wondered if it was the handiwork of another Ghost. Maybe Merrick, your methodical, war-horse of a captain? Or the Elias Walker, known to you only in the form of tales told by his remaining men?

Regardless, the image of the healed wound birthed in you a furious desire to bestow a matching mark on the unblemished side.

“First order of business,” the ex-Ghost began. “The Walker boy. Logan. Is he back in it again, runnin’ amok with that sorry brother of his? Haven’t seen either of their ugly mugs in a while.”

During the previous winter, you’d learned some of the details surrounding Logan’s capture and escape, both of which had occurred prior to your recruitment. Keegan had always been pretty tight-lipped about the subject, usually dismissing it altogether by redirecting you to ask Logan personally. And so you had.

What he divulged had sickened you to the core.

Although he wasn’t a big talker, Logan Walker had unveiled the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in a series of short fragments over the course of several weeks. His recounts weren’t always delivered in chronological order, for he occasionally jumped around as trauma poured out of him like an unleashed dam. He had spoken of the isolation and the disorientation, of the physical beatings and the mental lashings. Of reliving his father’s death again and again, of the apparition of his brother shouldering him with the blame.

The most harrowing part, however, had been the brainwashing. The manipulation of the mind and its contents, the rearrangement of orderly thoughts, beliefs, memories into a locked state of disorder. Forcing the self to become a foreign object in its own native vessel. You had thus far managed to avoid undergoing such disfiguration. Still, considering Logan’s experience mirrored yours almost exactly, it was safe to assume that you wouldn’t remain unscathed. But where his strength and sheer tenacity had foiled Rorke’s plans, you weren’t optimistic that you’d be able to replicate his success.

Even so, no matter the evils lurking in your future, you scorned the prospect of willingly revealing any information that could be used to harm your teammates. Especially Logan. Dying would be less of a burden on your soul than condemning him to this hellscape for a second time. He’d already endured it once; to curse him twice would be beyond cruel.

Perhaps you were a tad bit self-sacrificing. You ignored the bitter, unwelcome voice from within that questioned whether the Ghosts would do the same for you if the roles were reversed.

Finally ready to reply, your head jerked to the left, then to the right. No.

A harsh exhale escaped his nostrils, like Rorke had expected the small defiance but was nonetheless disappointed. He snapped his fingers.

“Wrong answer.”

To punctuate the detached statement, a sudden current of what could only be described as concentrated lightning flowed into you. Your nerves caught fire, and every single muscle housed inside of you responded by contracting painfully. The sensation caused your joints to lock, stunning you into submission.

You felt your eyes roll back, but you willed them to refocus, threats all around. It was the sole method of motion still under your conscious control, for the rest of your body was seemingly trapped in an electric prison. However, when you glanced up at Rorke, a blurry figure to his left stole your attention instead.

Brows furrowing, you blinked rapidly to wash away the hazy features you had grown to love, but the mirage of Keegan remained. You would’ve noticed the sharp sting of an injection, so, unlike the previous two instances, this particular hallucination hadn’t been induced by drugs. It was a break in the pattern.

I’m going insane. Great.

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you. We’ve got ways of verifying, y’see, so cut the shit.” A nasty, blood-curling grin spread across Rorke’s lips. His soulless vessel swelled with delight as he unleashed another cruel stream of words. “Those sons of bitches can’t be worth all this. You’re nothing to them. Nothing. They didn’t think twice ‘bout sendin’ you off to die an undignified death, alone, and yet you wanna protect them?”

He shook his head and clicked his tongue, the expression on his face morphing into a strange mix of disgust and pity. “What a damn waste.”

Another snap, another electric shock. Those two Federation technicians must have increased the number of amperes or the voltage, for this wave trumped the previous in its overwhelming intensity.

God, you weren’t built for this. Sure, all the Ghosts had to undergo conditioning and interrogation training. But Merrick, Keegan, Hesh, and Logan had been navigating war and its unforgiving brutality for almost their entire lives. In contrast, you’d been a plain and ordinary civilian up until the moment Keegan dragged you out from beneath a pile of rubble not even three years ago.

For your dauntless comrades, who had confronted and conquered Death many times over, a little electrocution was indeed light work. For you, however, it wasn’t so.

Perhaps an additional year of experience would’ve solidified this weakness into something ironclad. Keegan had been giving you private lessons after sunset in an attempt to speed the learning process along, but your capture had indefinitely suspended such sessions. Thus, here you would remain, unrefined and incomplete.

At present, clouding your vision with the view of your torturer was more preferable than seeing the resigned disappointment on your lover’s war-painted face.

“Y’know,” Rorke mused, “the Federation could use a soldier like you. Someone with your kind of loyalty.”

You temporarily forgot your vow of silence and gave a derisive snort. The loyalty you had for the Ghosts hadn’t been acquired through material means; no amount of promised money or power in the world had a chance of swaying you. Bonds born of bruises and blood were damn near impenetrable and immortal.

That level of devotion couldn’t be fabricated or repurposed.

“Now, now, there’s no need to look so sour.” He bared his teeth, donning a devilish smile. “We’ll have you singin’ a different tune soon enough.”

This is it, you thought. This is where things get ugly.

As if the steaming pile of shit that Rorke had already dumped on you wasn’t bad enough. Still, objectively speaking, the brainwashing Logan had described would be leagues worse than even the most brutal torture you’d withstood yet. Because it wouldn’t just entail physical duress; your mental faculties would be taken hostage and subjected to radical change.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” he challenged, cocking a single brow. “Choice is yours. I’m partial to the hard way, myself.”

No answer left your lips, which was in and of itself an answer. One that elicited a sigh from Rorke and an eyebrow raise from Keegan.

“Hard way it is, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You steeled yourself for a third wave of electrocution, but nothing could mitigate the calamity brought on by the hot coils that cascaded down your spine and traveled outward to your limbs and digits. It lasted for several seconds, minutes, hours. An eternity.

To what limits did Rorke intend to push your mind and body? A muddled sanity and crippled form would be of no use to him, surely. So what did he hope to gain?

Probably nothing special. Some people just want to watch the world burn, Keegan had told you at the beginning of your acquaintance, not long after explosives had free-fallen from the sky.

And Rorke fell squarely into that category.

“How d’you think this ends? In walks a Ghost or two, and then off into the sunset you go, happily ever after?” He sneered. “Like hell.”

The wave of his hand brought on another current of heat lightning, setting your skin aflame. You clenched every possible muscle in your jaw as he ducked down to meet your unfocused stare. Upon making contact, your fatigued eyes fluttered shut to replace the image of him with total darkness.

A fruitless endeavor, really. The hatred carried by his gaze and the imposing outline of his figure were both irreparably ingrained into the very grooves and folds of your brain.

But despite how he haunted your sleep and consumed much of your waking thoughts, Rorke had miraculously failed to eradicate your willpower in its entirety. Still, he had failed to isolate and exploit your Achilles’ heel; still, he was ignorant to the fact that the root of your motivations surpassed standard camaraderie. It would thus take more effort on his part than electric torture to excavate said root.

You were not yet at your breaking point. And you refused to allow today to be the day you finally cracked underneath his reign of terror.

For a moment, the pit was silent. Then came the dreadful murmur of his long-awaited epiphany.

“Ah, I see what this is,” Rorke said, tone giddy and ominous. “Tell me, who’s the lucky guy? Which one’s got you actin’ all stupid?”

Your heart stopped.

Fuck.

“Can’t be the quiet Walker, he doesn’t seem the romantic type. And it can’t be his mouthy brother either, too busy tryin’ to avenge the death of his old man. Merrick, well, the fella don’t really swing that way, if y’catch my drift. So, by my count, that just leaves. . .”

Heedless of your wishes, your lidded stare flicked to Keegan’s impassive face. Rorke hadn’t the faintest clue about the subject of your hallucinations or even about the fact that you were currently hallucinating. Nevertheless, the break in eye contact was sufficient evidence to betray you.

His gaze narrowed. “Bingo.”

You forced yourself to refocus on the non-imaginary man across from you, but the damage had been done.

“Keegan P. Russ, you sly sonuva bitch,” he muttered. Rorke pursed his lips and whistled in approval. “How’d he win you over? Did he call you pretty, say you’re special? Was he your knight in shining armor?”

In truth, Keegan hadn’t even needed to lift a finger to successfully woo you. Caring for him was as easy as breathing, and it had come so naturally to you that, without him, you felt a bit like a fish out of water. You couldn’t attribute this evolution of your relationship to a singular, specific instance; rather, an aggregation of stolen moments and intimate gestures had resulted in a mutual desire for more. But, to prevent whatever was mounting between yourselves from jeopardizing the team dynamic, the two of you had agreed to take things slow.

Maybe too slow, in retrospect. This hush-hush, test-run of a relationship had lasted a mere couple months, terminated prematurely by the man who was currently trying to fry your brain. Now your time was up, and much of Keegan would remain a mystery to you, forever undiscovered and unsolved. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret any of it.

You couldn’t bring yourself to regret him.

“Oh, this just keeps gettin’ better and better. I’m gonna have a whole lot of fun with you,” Rorke drawled, cracking his knuckles. A wave of apprehension washed over you, and he grinned at the horror that was surely etched into your face. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill our dear ol’ Russ.”

Relief surged within you, rejuvenating some of our deadened spirit, but the feeling didn’t last long. Nothing remotely good ever did down here.

“You will.”

Two little words, two little syllables shattered the illusion of Keegan, and with him went any remaining actionable hope. Try as you might, you were unable to reconjure his presence, incapable of reconstructing the facial features you had once loved to trace as he slept. Already, the pain had begun to distort his image in your mind’s eye, like how a digital photo album might be corrupted by malware.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps you should compartmentalize your memories of him, of the Ghosts, and of the resistance into tiny boxes, sealing them shut then storing them far, far away. Not just out of Rorke’s reach, but out of yours too.

Because, ultimately, time was on the side of your enemies. Your body would erode first, followed by your sanity and ending with your soul; such was inevitable. Recognizing you were powerless to circumvent this fate, you instead sought to curate the information that would be revealed to Rorke once he finally penetrated your mental bastion. If you purged anything to do with the Ghosts from your memory bank, then the knowledge you possessed couldn’t be weaponized against them.

The only way you could counteract Rorke’s plans was by forgetting the life you’d built alongside Keegan and the others. Even as you now sat tied up and riddled with convulsions, you were thinking about the four soldiers who had become your home, about how to protect them. Any strategizing you did was to discern a method of silent survival for their sake, not yours. Never yours.

You tried to stave off the bitterness that crept deeper into your heart.

“Conserve your energy. You’ll be needin’ it for what I’ve got planned,” the older man advised, though his sinister chuckle contradicted any notion of good faith. The metal legs of his chair scraped against the ground as he pushed himself backwards and stood to his full height. “And it should go without saying—”

Rorke let the sentence break off and linger in the tense atmosphere. During these sessions, you’d learned that the older man had somewhat of a proclivity for theatrics. The ex-Ghost derived sick pleasure from randomly dropping bombs of intel on you to instigate a reaction, or from watching you struggle to persist in spite of the various mental and physical agonies he had inflicted.

A true sadist.

“None of those sorry bastards are gonna barge in and save the day, so give that dream up already. You won’t be found. I mean, how’re they s'posed to find what they ain’t even lookin’ for?”

The sound of retreating footsteps meant Rorke had finally taken his leave, marking the conclusion of this interrogation. But, as the two remaining Feds prepared to conduct another bolt of electricity through your depreciating body, you knew that the prescribed torture had only just begun.

You hung your head and stared unblinkingly at your bound wrists, at your traumatized fingers, still twitching from the aftershocks. Tremors born of fear, pain, rage. Rage at Rorke, at yourself.

At Keegan.

In a kinder world, perhaps Keegan would’ve been around to hold your hands in his, to soothe your scorched flesh with a gentle, mindless rub of his thumb. A fierce longing for him gripped your heart, yearning for that Keegan who could glean your emotional state at any given moment as informed by the mere hitch in your breath or the rhythm of your pulse.

That Keegan, who let you crawl into his arms and steal his warmth on harsh winter nights, no questions asked. That Keegan, who caught the glazed-over look in your eyes whenever certain topics arose in conversation and thus tried to distract you by playing a game of I Spy, your favorite childhood pastime. That Keegan, who had once nearly broken a man’s wrist for daring to grab the collar of your shirt; he’d been the perfect picture of Death-incarnate, a fierce protector with his stone-cold warning and intimidating stare.

This Keegan, however, was all too different.

Because this Keegan did not come to your rescue. No, instead, he had left you here to die.

tbc.

#keegan p russ #keegan p russ x reader #keegan russ #keegan russ x reader #cod ghosts #cod x reader #cod keegan #call of duty #whumptober #fic: unearth without a name #my fic

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pluviophiliced · 6 months

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“Not moving on is worse.”

In the context of season two, I struggle to reconcile the intersection of sincerity and comedy, and the idea of what pains and traumas we are meant to understand at the deeper level of what trauma is with those that serve only the purpose of comedic timing. This isn’t limited to one character, but rather to the season as a whole.

Season one highlighted childhood trauma and the ability to move on from that, becoming the best adult version of oneself possible. We see this evident in Ed, Stede, and Jim specifically as we are allowed to explore their pasts and their traumas — and we can presume that no one on the crew of the Revenge is without trauma (Fang’s dog, anyone?) of some kind that they carry with them. Stede handles his traumas and how to process them through running away and avoiding the issue until he no longer can. Ed does something similar, though he is able to craft a facade to use as a shield and a weapon, even if he never delivers a killing blow himself. Jim dedicates their life to revenge.

We witness all of these characters allow the defining characteristic of love to be allowing themselves to be saved and valued for who they are — not for what they can offer.

When season two opens, we as an audience see Ed at, arguably, his worst (I say arguably because we didn’t see Blackbeard in his prime, so… do with that what you will, I suppose). We see how this affects beloved and treasured characters, as well as new characters that we have yet to fall in love with. We see Fang fall apart not once but twice within the first two episodes alone. In episode two, we see Ed — a much beloved and adored character who we know intimately — lash out when confronted for his behavior. He lashes out at his crew and physically mutilates his closest confidant for daring to question him. “But that’s piracy!” And you’re right! But don’t we watch the first episode of season one highlight how much Stede Bonnet wants to change piracy? Isn’t this show supposed to be about found family, and getting better, and finding healing? In which case, we’re watching Ed behave abusively in the wake of his mental struggles as he once again attempts to hide behind the same facade that has protected him in the past. Ed suffers this breakdown in response to not one but two perceived rejections from the two people he would claim to be the most important in his life, and in a classic mental illness fashion, he barricades himself off and settles into the persona that is everything he doesn’t want to be.

His crew fears him. They’ve been kidnapped and essentially held hostage under the man they believe to have murdered their crew — their friends — and are watching him continue to devolve. Enter Izzy Hands and Jim Jimenez. Izzy is well aware of his hand in Ed’s state. “Well, he instigated it!” He did. He wanted back a version of Blackbeard who he saw as safe territory: a necessary evil for the continued survival and safety of the crew, ship, and Ed and Izzy themselves. And then he watched Edward “Only Ever Killed One Person Personally” Teach fulfill the legend he’s always been known as, and watched him become someone who couldn’t care less about life or death or anything in between. Ed surpassed and buried the version of Blackbeard that Izzy wanted to return, and he was force-fed the consequences of this with an unavoidable cruelty. “Well, he deserved what he got! Violence was always on the table, because it’s piracy!” But once again, we’re operating under the assumption that the big themes of this show are healing from trauma and being worthy of being loved even if we’ve done bad things.

While we’re on that topic, though, let’s explore that. Ed’s childhood trauma comes from his abusive father. He carries the weight of that abuse with him well into adulthood, as well as the weight of what he had to do to survive it. What he had to do to save his mother. This season sees him abusing those around him. Despite this, despite his erratic behavior and the mistreatment of his crew, he is still loved (by crew and fandom both, if I may add). He is still loved by Stede, despite the trail of blood he leaves in his wake. Stede is still longing to find him, despite knowing what he’s done and what he’s now capable of, and this continues to reiterate that idea of you deserve to be loved even when you’ve done wrong.

And then, Stede finds him.

We as an audience witness Ed make the choice to stay alive. We watch the thought process, we see that he chooses to fight for that love that comes alongside being saved. Being wanted. Being seen for who you are and loved because of it. And up to here, I’m on board. I’m excited to see what’s next and how Ed will reconcile for what he’s done and the harm he’s caused at the hands of his mental illness — because the truth is, we harm people when we aren’t adequately being responsible for our mental illness. This is a real-world thing. We lash out when we’re hurt, or when we’re rejected, or when we’re struggling. When we’re suffering, we often can’t see past ourselves to see whether or not we’re also causing others to suffer. This does not make us bad people — and it didn’t make Ed one. And then the “apology” came and went. The only member of the crew Ed really sits and ever has a drawn out conversation with about anything is Fang, and even this is somewhat shallow. Fang absolves him and moves on. We don’t get to see whether or not Ed ponders this conversation long-term or whether or not he battles with himself over how to move on.

We’re left with a traumatized crew who semi-accepted a half-hearted apology and a beloved character who hasn’t actually been held accountable at all. “But he apologized and wore the bell and fixed that door latch!” Yes, and? He physically mutilated his first mate, instructed him to be killed, traumatized an entire crew — and this all takes a backseat to his relationship with Stede. And what a stunning scene between the two of them in the moonlight, where Ed finds it in him to ask to take things slow. Where he recognizes his needs and vocalizes them. I left this episode feeling so hopeful, because half-baked apology aside, Ed is actively learning to vocalize his thoughts and ask for what he needs when he recognizes in himself that something is going to be harmful to him. We had a kiss, we had Ed asking for help when he needed it, we had a proposal, we had “not moving on is worse,” and even knowing only three episodes remained, I left feeling like we had been so perfectly set up to see how things were only going to keep improving.

In the first episodes of the season, we see murderous raids and mutilated first mates and two suicide attempts (though I suppose one was more of a mass murder-suicide attempt?) and these are all thrown together. In episode six, Stede deescalates a raid from a bloodbath of his own crew and sends another crew on their way with the lessons and values that he has been pursuing since the first episode of the first season. He then, in a parallel to the French ship of season one, causes a man’s death. This is highlighted as a turning point, something that can’t be ever moved on from. (“There’s no coming back from that.”) But what about the other traumatic events of the season that are treated as jokes? Izzy’s drinking, day in and day out, bottle after bottle after bottle — coping with the reality of his life and the way it’s been altered beyond recognition. The mop he used as a makeshift leg snapping, forcing him to pull himself away from the crew with his own hands. Lucius’s mention of being sexually assaulted and Stede’s look of disgust, the way he literally runs away from the conversation. Lucius never gets to air out his traumas, not really, not with someone who listens and tells him he’s safe and allows him to talk things through. Even Pete gets ill instead of being able to offer support.

I struggle to reconcile what is and isn’t comedy in this season, or what violence is meant to be taken for what it is. The Ed and Izzy breakdowns in episodes one and two sat far too close to my chest for me to look past them into comedy — and the suicidality of both men was glossed over and moved on from so quickly, never explored. Did Izzy’s “I wanna go” in the final episode mean he never moved on? That some part of him was still lying in that room with a gun to his head? You don’t become non-suicidal in a matter of days — is there still something lingering in the back of Ed’s mind? There was never a conversation about it, and there was never anything between the two of them that could allow me comfort in knowing that they had reached some sort of understanding. This season pulled domestic abuse, alcohol abuse, and suicidal tendencies straight from my own traumas and never held anyone accountable for any of them. There was no healing. There was no real talking it through. “Well, it’s not a rom-com, so—” Except it continues to be presented as one. Shortcomings of storylines of characters that seem to have been cast aside or mischaracterized this season aside, I cannot for the life of me reconcile how a show about kindness and moving on and being loved amidst all of your flaws could have a season so wrought with traumas and yet never discuss them. Never explore them in a way that allows me to move on. I love this show and there were so many good things about this season; I love these characters, and yet I feel so disconnected from it for the first time in over a year. Not moving on is worse, sure, but moving on without accountability leaves wounds unable to heal. How do you move on from that?

#ofmd #our flag means death #pluviophiliqueue #ofmd s2 #my thoughts and feelings on s2 #ofmd s2 critique

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 7 months

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heyyy i have a silly little idea!

What if male!reader was the oldest Winchester brother and was dating Aaron Hotchner? idk just a silly little idea i had, Love your writing and make sure to drink lots of water!

Okay so I kind of took this and ran with it, I hope you don't mind aha

Also, reader's like 14 years older than Dean, so in my head he's John's kid from another relationship and is 7 years old when John and Mary get married (based on this timeline I found).

(I might come back to this and do another part at some point aha)

Warnings: John bashing, homophobia mentions

"Hey, you guys want to meet a friend of mine?" You asked, looking at your brothers. Sam nodded, Dean merely shrugged.

"Sure, whatever," He mumbled as he stood up. You held back a sigh, trying to remind yourself that he was just going through a rough patch at the minute. Normally, he took moving from place to place in his stride, but he was struggling this time. You couldn't help but think that perhaps he had connected with someone in Mississippi during the month and a half you were all there. Besides, he was only ten, so it was bound to affect him a lot - despite how much he pretends it doesn't.

Now, you had been in Virginia for the last three months (apparently it was riddled with monsters). You met him your first day here, he had asked for your number with a charm that made your knees weak - so you gave it to him. Despite the charges for texting, you did so every day.

Sam turned to you, "Are they a special friend, (Y/N)?" He asks quietly, unsure if you're going to be offended by the question.

"Yeah, he is Sammy,"

Sam grinned, "Like a special, special friend?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, "Yeah, kid, a special special friend,"

Sam nodded, satisfied with your answer.

"How old is he exactly?" Dean asked as he folded his arms.

"He's 28,"

"28?!" Dean's eyes widen, "Dude, he's so much older than you!"

"It's four years Dean, chill." You rolled your eyes slightly.

"I think it's cool," Sam chimed as he walked up to the pair of you.

"Thank you, Sam." You said, "But we need to keep this between us, okay? Dad can't find out, alright?"

"Why?" Sam asked, looking up at you. You sighed, crouching down to his height. He was only six, he didn't quite know everything that you guys did just yet. Or at least understand it to a full extent. He also didn't understand your dad's... beliefs, let's say, to a full extent either.

"Dad, he... he won't agree with it," You explained gently.

"Why?" Sam asked again.

"He's homofonic." Dean said confidently.

"Homophobic," You correctly gently.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it's when someone doesn't like that a man and a man or a woman and a woman get together,"

"Like boyfriend and boyfriend?" Sam asked and you nodded, "That's allowed? I thought it was only boyfriends and girlfriends allowed,"

"Well, it was illegal for a long time," You explained, "But it's getting better,"

"Are you allowed to get married to another boy now?"

"Only in a few states," You said.

"Is that why you don't really tell people?"

"Yeah, that's why I don't tell people," You said, "That's why I haven't told dad,"

"Okay," Sam nodded, excepting this once more, "Is your special special friend your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, yeah he is," You said, smiling softly, Sam beamed up at you.

"Really?!"

You nodded, "Yep,"

"That's so cool am I gonna have another big brother?!"

You chuckled softly, ruffling his hair, "Maybe, Sammy, you'll have to ask him,"

"What's his name?"

"Aaron,"

"What's his job?"

"He works for the FBI," You said after a moment's hesitation.

"Are you serious?"

"Dean, I don't wanna hear it,"

"But he's a fed, (Y/N)!" Dean exclaims, following you through the motel hall.

"And?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" Dean shakes his head, "Dad'll go mental if he finds out."

"Exactly. If." There's a beat, "Besides, I'm a grown ass man, Dean."

"He's not gonna be happy when he finds out about this." He huffs, folding his arms.

"He's not going to find out about this, you hear me?" You said, "I already told you, no one tells dad, do I make myself clear?"

"Who died and made you king?" Dean snaps.

"Dean, I don't wanna fucking hear it, okay?" You reply, "I'm an adult. You're a kid. Now, get in the car,"

"I don't understand why dad gave you the impala." Dean huffed as he sat in the front seat.

"How about this, when you're old enough to drive, you can drive it and I'll let you have it, yeah?"

"Really?!" You watch as Dean's face light up and you nod.

"Yeah," You smiled slightly, "Now, come on, let's go."

Sam looked at you and gave a small shrug before getting in the car.

It was a short drive to Aaron's apartment, Sam had asked questions the entire way about Aaron and your relationship (ever the curious mind), Dean had pretended not to care (but secretly did). And, soon enough, you parked the Impala and all piled out.

Aaron, as promised, met you outside, smiling. "Hey," He stepped closer to you but made no move to kiss you.

You smiled back, "Hey." Dean coughed loudly, "Oh, right, this is Sam and this is Dean."

Aaron turns to them, "I've heard a lot about you two, you're brother's very proud of you."

"Really?" Sam grinned.

"Of course kid," You ruffled his hair. "Come on, let's go inside."

When you were all inside, Aaron shut the door gently before kissing your cheek. "I missed you,"

"It's been a whole two days,"

"Two days too many," He said softly, Dean cleared his throat.

"Can you not in front of us?" Dean asked, "It's a bit gross,"

You blushed slightly, closing your eyes for a moment before turning to your brothers, "Sorry, go sit on the couch and watch tv or something," You said. Dean nodded, making his way to the couch, but Sam stayed. "What's up?"

"I have some questions," He said gently, looking up at you.

You share a smile with Aaron before you both nod, "Sure," You said - all sitting down at the small table, "What's on your mind, kid?"

"Um, so you're boyfriends?"

"Yep,"

"Is that dangerous?" Sam asked, gnawing at the skin of his bottom lip.

"What do you mean?" You asked gently.

"Well it used to be not allowed so people must have been against it. You won't get hurt for it, will you?"

Your heart melted, seeing the concern on your younger brother's face and you shook your head, "I'll be okay," You reassured, "I'm your big brother, I'll always be okay,"

"But Dean said on the way here that there's some people who are really really against it,"

You closed your eyes, making a note to yourself to talk to Dean about that later. "Yes that can happen sometimes, but I'm not going to let that happen to me, okay?"

"Promise?"

"I promise,"

"Okay, good." With this, he turned to Aaron, "Are you going to be my older brother too?"

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #sam winchester #(y/n) winchester #john winchester #aaron hotchner x y/n winchester #aaron hotchner x male reader #aaron hotchner x reader #male reader #reader #big brother reader #young sam and dean winchester #john winchester bashing #homophobia mentions

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shxtodxroki · 7 months

Text

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑

Summary: It’s been just about a day since Izuku’s return to U.A. after exiling himself for the sake of you and the rest of your classmates, and you’re determined to help him warm up and feel safe once more with a cup of hot cocoa and some cozy cuddles.

Flufftober Day 7 Alternate Prompt: Hot Chocolate

Warnings: Mental health struggles in line with Izuku’s mental state during the vigilante arc

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x Gender Neutral! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Check out my full Flufftober masterlist here!

He’s doing better now. Or at least, he looks to be doing better, in comparison to the frail, exhausted, beaten down boy you had dragged through the doors of the U.A. dorm just 24 hours ago, seeming so lonely as he clung on to your warm frame oozing with worry despite his insistence that he shouldn’t drag you down with his presence. You had barely left his side since the moment he returned to the dorms, struggling to let go of him even long enough to bathe himself though he desperately needed it now that you finally had him back.

He had spent most of the day resting, catching up on the sleep he had clearly been deprived of while out on his own. You were working with your classmates to keep him well-fed throughout the day, seeing how frail and worn out he looked after his brief life of solitude. All Might even made a point to bring food for the boy, his guilt shining through as he blamed himself for your boyfriend’s initial departure and the burden weighing him down. It had been a combined effort to get Izuku to where he was now, snuggling into your side with a blanket over his frame while you hold him close and run your fingers through his fluffy hair as he finally seemed somewhat content to be back in the dorms.

“How are you feeling, ‘Zuku? Do you need anything?” You ask for what feels like the millionth time since the previous night, your hands gliding smoothly through his forest locks since you had long ago worked out any tangles. His wide, beautiful eyes look up at you as he hears your voice, his voice soft and gentle as he responds.

“Mmm…. I’m still a little cold…” He mumbles quietly, not meeting your eyes out of guilt. He feels bad putting so much on you, feels bad that he left you to worry about him while he was out on his own, and most of all, feels bad that just being with him puts you in even more danger than you would have been in otherwise as a U.A. student and future hero. Your brow furrows, not out of annoyance but rather concern, at his response. You had hoped your body heat and the thick blanket would be enough to warm him with time, but it seems that the cold from the outside him had managed to chill him to the very bone during his time away in a way that wasn't easily remedied, marking him with these lonely and bitter chills.

Luckily for both of you, you believe you just may have the perfect cure for his shivers and iciness.

“...I think I have something that can help you, baby. Can you stay here for a second? I want you to keep yourself bundled up as much as possible, and I’ll be right back.” You look at him with a soft, loving gaze as you speak, your hand moving to cup his cheek as your thumb gently brushes against his rough skin. Safety and security are what he needs right now, and you’ll be damned if you can’t give him that, at the very least. You’re gentle with him, maybe gentler than he needs, but you can’t stand anything else but the softest touches to his broken down frame right now as you carefully make your way out from his hold while still leaving him cozily wrapped up in a pile of blankets.

“Alright…” He practically whispers, seeming so unsure and dull, so unlike the bright, eager Izuku you used to know. This fight, the impending war against the villains who have been looming over the school and the world for so long, seems to have sucked out his joy like a leech. You need to find a way to bring it back, to return to him even an ounce of his happiness from before. You just have to. You can’t stand seeing him like this.

You don’t clue him in to what you’re thinking, however. You don’t want him to worry about you right now, not even a bit. So you simply offer him a soft smile as you make your way to the kitchen in the dorms, pulling out two mugs as well as two small plates as you temporarily exile those concerns from your mind. Even if you can’t do much, you can at least do something small for your boyfriend. He deserves it, he deserves the world right now and you would give anything to bring it to him.

You know the kettle takes around 10 minutes to boil, so you quickly turn that on as you set two packets of hot cocoa mix aside for the moment. The bag of marshmallows in the communal pantry is thankfully fresh, not yet fallen victim to Denki’s persistent habit of leaving them half-open until they go stale, and you set two large marshmallows onto the small plates on the counter before closing up the bag and returning it into the pantry.

The marshmallows spin and inflate in the microwave for a few seconds, growing puffy and gooey and perfect for s’mores before you swiftly pull them out once they've cooked enough to finish assembly. Sandwiched between a graham cracker on either side with a layer of chocolate in between, within five minutes you’re staring at two delectable sweet treats for you to share with your boyfriend, setting them aside as you turn to the kettle to see if it’s heated up yet.

It is, you realize as you see steam brewing and flowing from the lid, though you nearly jump out of your skin before you even get a chance to pour the water into the mugs. Two rough, calloused arms encircle your waist from behind as hands work their way beneath your shirt to gently brush your stomach, and after a moment the realization dawns on you that Izuku’s come to see you in the kitchen despite you asking him to stay on the couch.

“I missed you.” He mumbles pitifully, burying himself into the thin fabric of your shirt as he pulls you into his hold. Your heart melts at the touch, knowing he means more than just today with those words, and tears spring to your eyes at the thought that he felt so lonely and needy after so many days out on his own. You refuse to let them fall, though, as you turn to face him and hug him in return, still so relieved to have him back in your arms again after so much time apart. "I always miss you."

“I always miss you, too. You can stay here with me if you want, baby. I’m almost done anyways.” You whisper with a voice brimming with love, your heart cracking and mending itself back together all at once as you press a tender kiss to his forehead and cradle him in your arms. “I made s’mores, I know you love them.”

His eyes seem to brighten a bit at the sight of the treat on the counter, subconsciously leaning more of his weight into you as you carefully pour a sufficient amount of hot cocoa mix into each of the mugs in front of you with the chocolatey scent wafting into the air. You quickly follow up with the kettle of hot water, filling the mugs nearly to the top before adding a splash of milk into each just the way you know he likes. No words are exchanged between the two of you for a moment, just a simple hum of contentment from your boyfriend’s lips as he watches you pull out a packet of mini-marshmallows and let him relax and melt into you. You load both cups up to the very brim, adding extra marshmallows into his cup for good measure as your free hand brushes against his where it rests on your stomach.

“....Sorry I didn’t stay on the couch like you told me to.” He whispers into your ear, the feeling sending shivers cascading down your spine as you wipe down the counter and move to put everything away with Izuku trailing behind you.

“Don’t apologize, you know I’m always happy to be around you.” You chide gently, now lacing your fingers through his and squeezing his hand lightly. You’re delicate as you pry his hands from the hold he has around your torso, placing his mug in one and his s’more in the other as you grab yours as well. And finally, finally after days of worry and stress and pain, a small smile blooms on his face as he makes his way back over to the couch with you right by his side, at peace for a brief moment following so many months of unease. You’re careful to bundle the two of you up tight in your mountain of blankets as you cuddle up closely to one another, your mugs in your hands as you swipe a puff of marshmallow off of Izuku’s face with a giggle. He nuzzles gratefully into your hand in response, and that night Izuku falls asleep warm, cozy, and most of all, loved, tucked into your side with a belly full of hot cocoa and s’mores and a heart full or warmth.

Request - Anonymous said: Izuku for flufftober, he’s the fluffiest of the fandom

A/N: Sorry this is so late, the past few days have been super busy and I didn’t have time to write when I thought I would! I literally pulled an all-nighter and didn’t sleep until like 8AM yesterday trying to get some classwork done, but once I finally slept I had some time to write! I’m gonna try and catch up on the Flufftober days I missed super quickly, but I still had fun writing this and think it turned out super cute so I hope you guys enjoy it as well! :D Also my requests are open right now, so if you have any requests please feel free to send them my way! :]

Taglist: @flufftober @pasteldaze @papijean @deadmans-toe @trashy-bowtie @palenightmarepersona @eunoiasa @lady-juliette @swiftbyul @tsukkisukkii @shotos-angelic-whore

If you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, you can fill out this form here! Thank you for your support <3

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angelzai · 4 months

Text

love/paranoia

i've heard those words before

wc: 1.6k

cw: drug use (xanax, ecstacy), bonten!sanzu, gn!reader, angst and fluff, mentions of sex, side effects of drug use including but not limited to vomiting/nightmares/irritability/memory loss, soft sanzu

reid: another one with a lot of projection regarding drugs. not intended to romanticize substance abuse. dont do drugs please. no explicit sexual content in this one i guess but i'd still prefer mdni thank u enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

He insisted that rolling would help it, and before you could oppose the intake of another substance, he revealed he’d already cut up a whole capsule and parachuted it before he drove back. You wanted so badly to cry and scream and hold onto him to make him feel how intensely you were trembling, but it wasn’t like he’d be receptive enough to an outburst to learn from it anyway, so you didn’t bother. Also too was the soft, sudden stillness of his restless eyes as soon as yours started to glaze over with tears (you hated when he drove fucked up). Gentleness never escaped his hands when he held you, no matter how high he was – maybe this was an indication that you were too docile, too understanding, maybe even enabling of his habits – but you never let his capability slip your mind. How exhausting it sometimes was to love someone who, no matter how receptive to your emotions, might become unpredictably far away from you, just for a bar or two. Instead of pushing him away or looking at him with misplaced disappointment, though, you brushed his pink bangs out of his eyes and led him to the couch, working him out of his dress shirt and belt along the way. After all, you knew better than anyone around him (not saying much) that recovery was not linear.

Cherry blossom locks now tucked into your neck, you stroked his face and willed him to relax the muscles in his jaw that clenched and unclenched against your shoulder. He whimpered every so often and seldom kept his legs still, probably not consciously. The conversation that was to follow in the morning probably would not be any easier than if it took place now because the it he was trying to help was the month-long Xanax bender he’d been on; even when he was sober, he was making an effort to focus on anything other than whatever physical side effect was fighting relentlessly for his attention, whether it be a splitting headache, curdling nausea, or auditory hallucinations that he could no longer distinguish as results of whatever he’d fed himself or the erratic loss of sleep. Benzos sent him up so high that he couldn’t really even recall how they made him feel. He knew two things: that the crippling emptiness was gone when he was up there, and that his being up there rapid-fired bullets through your heart. A third thing, perhaps: if you loved him any less, you’d be gone.

There were still glimpses of Haruchiyo, no matter how high or low. Haruchiyo, ever the chaser of extremes. Haruchiyo and his unwavering loyalty. Haruchiyo and his promise to himself that he would never, ever harm you. Not intentionally, of course. And yet, it would still be hard. He would still cry and bicker and argue, even in the closest thing to a right state of mind he could achieve. He would still lock himself in the bathroom (which you had emptied of everything down to the gummy vitamins) because he couldn’t deal with it. He would still complain when you’d pat his clothes down before he’d go out, both of you knowing damn well he’d score something, anything while he was gone. But he’d never tell you to stop. He’d never get physical with you like he did the rats and snakes and opposers of the syndicate or anyone who wasn’t you or the king who dared to get within a foot of him, really. He could be violently passionate without drugs; it was just a matter of which way he wanted to lose his grip on sanity, fry his brain. Sink into the mental of a cold-hearted murderer, or become a bioweapon against his own body and mind? Perhaps, he thought during fleeting moments of clarity before he’d wonder who he could hit up next, he was worse than both and always would be, even if he got clean, because he let himself slip to the point where both were very viable, uncomfortably pressing futures. Maybe they were realities already, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up to him in his muddled awareness and swallowed him whole. In an ideal world, he’d be able to leave Mikey and the rest of them to burn and go kill himself with you using nothing but red wine and the adoration that burned between the two of you. His penchant for destruction terrified him; you were the only thing he’d ever touched without yet ruining completely. The thought that you might be scared of him too was what made him want out; if only it were that easy to just do. You weren’t blind to this, having stood witness to the cracks in his mask, and each time they split a little further, and that was why you did your best to understand his rationale for popping molly to counteract the benzo hangover.

There was a glimpse of Haruchiyo in the way he clawed for your hand that rested on his cheek. In the way he shoved his lips to your palm. In the way he mumbled something largely incoherent into it (something he did long before he started using). (You caught “want you to know” and “after today” and “love you very, very much”.) Regardless of the gravity of the situation or what he had coursing through his system, you’d always giggle into his hair and tell him you love him back.

He didn’t not want your love. He was pretty sure he needed it. He was not convinced he deserved it.

Not when you were holding his hair back as he vomited into the kitchen sink. Not when you were massaging the ache of pins and needles out of his limbs. Not when you were kissing the tear tracks off his face in the middle of the night to wake him up slowly but surely from the delirious night terrors he was having. He thanked whatever was conducting the universe that he was still rational enough to recognize how wonderful you were. He looked at you like you could soothe even the worst of all evils borne of human selfishness. Oh, you were so selfless for him. He hated it, he needed it, and it was undoubtedly the reason he was still alive.

“Haru,” wisped your voice into his ear, and if it was possible for him to sink further into you, he would’ve.

He hummed in response.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

But the drone and flicker of the television in the dark living room was at just the right amount of subdued to feel serene and he was so warm in your arms already, so why move? It's not like he'd even gotten home that long ago. The only other thing he hoped for was maybe that you’d fuck him; sex always felt otherworldly when he was rolling, and he knew the sounds you loved left his throat that much more languidly when he was on E. And then he could sleep off the comedown - it'd be perfect. It was these thoughts that let you shift him to his feet. Never at any point did he unravel himself from you, knees knocking into yours, arms clutched sweetly around whatever part of you he could get a hold on, cheek pressed to your head or face or shoulder or wherever you'd let him end up.

"'M'want you," Haruchiyo all but whined as you pulled a t-shirt over him and wiggled him out of his pants. The clock by the bed blinked half-past three am, so it was true he had indeed arrived back home over two hours ago. It was also true that ecstasy claimed his time in a different way than anything else. You didn't help. Every second he spent with you was too short. All too soon he'd have to leave again.

"You should sleep," you shushed him, gently dodging the wet kisses he attempted at the expanse of your neck as you leaned back down to hold him close. At least he was still upright. "You have work tomorrow."

"Don't care. 'Always get it done, don' I?" His voice was a little hoarse, his breath smelled vaguely of one of the Dunhill International Reds Ran always kept inside his jacket, and you could sense his pout from beneath your chin as his arms dangled loosely around you. "Wanna feel you."

"Tomorrow," you said with finality.

He groaned. His lips were still wandering, his tongue was still prodding at your jugular, but with notable laziness. The cooling distress in your system had exhausted you anyway, and he was not unfamiliar with the sensation of you seeping into him. So, he let you melt into him and push him back gently, not even toward the head of the bed. (He didn’t realize, of course; he was just happy to be laying under you as he rolled to a stop.)

Love you, love you, love you was pressed repeatedly into your skin with his slowing fingers. Love you would be all he could think to say when he'd find his way to the kitchen the next morning to see you sitting at the counter, carefully cutting up a bar into tiny pieces for him to gradually chase off the withdrawal. You were better rehab for him than any institution Kakucho could threaten to throw him in. As much as he knew you hated to watch him destroy himself, you understood. There was a glimpse of Haruchiyo when he scooted his chair impossibly close to yours just to lay his head on your shoulder.

"Don't even want any right now."

You smiled to yourself. You will soon. "I'm proud of you, my love." Yeah, he was going to get better for you. For you, for you, for you. You loved him so much it made him want to love himself.

#tokyo revengers x reader #sanzu x reader #sanzu haruchiyo x reader #tr x reader #tokyo rev x reader #angelzai original.ᐟ

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hxltic · 1 year

Text

REALLY? OSAMU MIYA

• fuckbuddy!Osamu

• Genre: smut to angst to fluff

• Warnings: mention of alcohol, mention of sex under the influence (nothing gruesome), female reader, wall sex, degradation, kinda rushed, mention of panic attack

🎶 I WANNA BE YOURS—ARCTIC MONKEYS (it can be the summertime sadness remix)

It started in highschool right after a party his twin hosted: the first time anything ever happened. It was a moment of vulnerability between the both of you, unwarranted and threatening to the mentality of the person you’d become once you sobered up, but it almost felt like you needed it.

You never went to anyone else after, a boyfriend nowhere in the picture. You never saw multiple people at once either. So, you weren’t necessarily just his—but you’d be damned if anyone else could fuck you the way he could that night. If he knew any better he would’ve declined you in the moment, but the way your expression held nothing but pure exhaustion and longing—like you were drowning in your own problems—diminished the small ounce of self control he had left from too much alcohol. Like he felt it was mandatory to give you what you deserved.

He couldn’t do it now though, and he knew that.

You laid in his bed, tossing and turning in the size-too-big shirt he had you in. Having just bathed you, he tried his best to ignore your porcelain figure as he stood to the side, the liquor he previously downed only amplifying his attentiveness and not making it much easier. Before you knew what you were doing you pleaded for him, just to release some pent up stress.

Tears slowly started sliding down your face. Real tears. He had never seen you like this—the always joyful and confident girl you were. He knew you got easily frustrated, but never to the extent of drinking like how you did tonight. You called his name several times. Even in your state you could tell he needed it as well.

“‘Samu please.”

As this was his last year, he was bombarded with questions relating to whether he wanted to play professionally or through college. He always thought he would. If you would’ve asked little Osamu, back in the times where he shared a hair color with Atsumu, the immediate answer would’ve been yes. Together they’d stay, within the sport they equally shared love for. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Interviews, family, his own school—it was all too much. He had recently gotten into the culinary field once he found free time too. You always joked about how you’d be his little taste tester.

It wasn’t supposed to be taken literally.

He reached above his arms to take the simple black shirt off and to put his watch back in the drawer, having taken it off to not get it wet in the tub. He has a small couch in the corner of his room so he figured he’d just sleep there for the night.

Finished, he took whatever band was on your wrist and tied your hair up in a ponytail so it wouldn’t be in your way. His body was leaned right in front of your face as he did it, the smell of his leftover cologne seeping into your nose like pure dopamine. Soft lips pressed onto your forehead lovingly.

“Goodnight, I’ll see you in the ‘mornin.”

He said carefully. He really, really tried his best to push you away, relieved to finally sit down and dismiss whatever temptations you had him locked in; Yet before he could turn around, you softly got ahold of his hand and held it, unmoving.

“At least stay with me?” You’d whisper.

Osamu watched your eyes blink open sleepily and a single tear falls.

Jesus fucking Christ.

———

After that, it was undeniably all him.

You immediately knew once you cut the relations off for a while because of another boy. Osamu let you on your way, but he was absolutely pissed the second you left. You just thought the boy was so cute, and he fed you everything you’ve wanted to hear. Past relationships absolutely crushed you—past relationships you have yet to tell anyone but Osamu about—and he just seemed like the perfect quiet-type boy. He wasn’t very friendly to other girls and was built well.

And you were so very wrong. The quiet ones are the most terrifying. Long story short, he fucked you over, but of course you came running back to Osamu who met you with open arms. It was an argument bound to start but he pushed it aside and just let you get out whatever you needed to.

You were so glad he was mad at you actually, the tears previously streaming down your face replacing with ones of ecstasy when he propelled your body forward. Except that you couldn’t make it to the bed, so this was on the wall of his own bedroom that your arm was a barrier for your forehead while the other arm was held behind your back. Osamu grunts into your ear with his hand dug in your hair, your whines fueling his body even more. Just as they always have.

“You’ll always come back won’t ya? Yeah you will. ‘Fuckin slut. That’s because this dick will always be in that—mmgh—brain of yours.”

You loved when he was mean to you, and what could you say, you deserved it. How dare you even try somebody else?

“‘I’m sorry ‘Samu,” was all you could say. This would only anger him further, you feel his head find the crook of your neck.

“Ya had me here all alone, yer not sorry.”

You nodded your head eagerly, “missed you,” you exclaim. You wish you could prove to him the regret you felt. Even though you weren’t his girlfriend, whatever this was still felt bad. It needed to stay that way. And yet, how could you sense the slightest bit of seriousness in what he said?

“You know ya favorite pairs ‘a panties are sittin in my drawer and he’s the one ya think about? Bet ya he’s never made ya cry like I have.”

Osamu peels you off the wall. He was right. The boy made you cry out of anger and sadness at him; Osamu made you cry out of confusion and questioning yourself.

You felt like you were unloveable. Even if this wasn’t exactly true, it deterred you from a lot of people you still feel bad for to this day. Everyone you’ve rejected because of the bullshit they’d send into your messages, everyone you’ve actually liked but just couldn’t believe felt the same, everyone you’ve run away from when all they tried to do was take care of you—and yet you cried. Proof you did like them back, at least a little bit, but the proof comes too late, and even then it’s not enough to convince you to push for a relationship.

You couldn’t differentiate your own platonic feelings for romantic ones, and you hated yourself for it. You hated breaking hearts that didn’t deserve to be broken, just because in the moment you made them think you two could work, or you were bonding. You were leading them on unintentionally.

Over time you’ve come to realize you only have romantic feelings if you process you love them first, but that’s when you’re in too deep. Processing is the hard part because you want to tell yourself to let it go. Only then, if they asked you out, you’d gladly say yes.

To all the other people, it’s like you were picking favorites because usually the main rejection comeback for you is “I’m just not ready.” Which was technically true, but unintentionally a lie at the same time. To them you’re sure the sexual jokes and deep conversations you’ve had are the equivalent of dating. So when they ask, why do you back out?

You were brought to the bed, then laid out. Osamu’s body hung over you gorgeously. The man gently took it upon him to spread your legs, his whole tone and demeanor changing like you were back to day one.

“Fuck, there ya go. Open up fer me.”

You stayed quiet, your breathing almost speaking for you. His calloused, over-worked hands pressured the skin right under your knees, a dent forming around his fingertips from the plush. You both watch intently as he slips back into your body and you share a gasp. Just as the last time he went in, your head falls back and his mouth finds your ear.

One hand remains along your leg while the other came to pinch at your face. Your cheeks were being squished. He held your face firm so you couldn’t look away from him, those inescapable, glazed, hooded eyes he loved so much. Your own hands came to grab around his one, even though you didn’t try to pull it off. It was stability almost—your mouth hanging agape and tears reflecting in the darkness of his room. Being only inches apart, you have to pick an eye of his to look into with the remaining daze you call a brain. You two whisper back and forth with every slow thrust that runs through your walls like butter.

“Mmm, right there?”

“Yes—, right t-there. Pussy‘s yours ‘Samu.”

“Holy shit, yer so wet. You hear it?” You nod.

“Don’t close yer eyes, want you to see what ya do to me.”

He placed a chaste kiss on your jaw and moved to your plump lips. You almost saw it coming, and when you felt the fanned breath, you instinctively defied his past orders, closed your eyes, then turned to the side swiftly. You’d ingeniously dodged him like it didn’t happen at all.

It shattered his heart.

You had no idea how bad he wanted to kiss you. It had been established early on he couldn’t, along with limited pet names, based on the agreement. The two combined were recipes for relationship and you knew there’s absolutely no way that would’ve worked out. Regardless, it didn’t anyway.

His brows furrowed and upturned, then he sought refuge in your collarbone when his hand lowered to your neck. He continued to thrust, trying to push it off, despite the impacting silence. The tears cascading down to your breasts were warm.

Finally, with a single sound, you realized they weren’t yours. His grip gradually loosened and as his hand disconnected from you, he slowly dragged his body down your own and eventually, pulled out. Your eyes open and strain in the night, trying to make his face out, but once you do they widen and stay that way.

Pained. He looked pained and angry and your heart twisted at the sight knowing it was because of you. His head hung low and expressionless as the droplets singularly fell onto your thighs, you wanted to curl up and look away; but that’s what got you there in the first place.

Osamu was the mean one. He never cries. Ever. Whenever Atsumu (constantly) did, he was there to comfort him even with being younger by a few seconds, but he likes to consider himself the more mature sibling. He throws his head back with a heavy sigh, his hands coming up to run over his face and through his hair. You gulp, unaware of what to say.

“You didn’t miss me nearly as much as I thought ya did, did you?” He humorlessly laughs. A string struck in your body like a puppet and you push your hands behind you to lift yourself to him. You frantically come around his face to take it in your hands.

“No, no I did!- I just-“ he continues to look down. As you go on and on, he finally casts you a glance that almost verbally says “it’s okay.” He’s concluded what you could never put into words.

You never missed him, just his company.

You cracked. Immediately. In a split second the best moments with him reflected in his glossy, dead eyes and reeled through your brain: he took you to his place on your birthday and handmade you dinner when nobody else remembered; he screen-shared a movie to cheer you up over facetime that time someone close to you died; compliments were never scarce with him since he always shamelessly screenshotted your pictures; and out of everyone you’ve ever hurt, he had to be the worst. You tempted him that one night, dragged him into something he didn’t ask for, and played him and his effort like a fucking toy. You cried with him. Was it selfish for you to cry as well?

He was tired of it all. He was tired of pretending like texting you to come over was only for sex, he was tired of people taking you away from him. The mere thought of someone treating you how he does makes him physically sick, sick enough to lose sleep and have his brother come check up on him.

“I-I’m sorry Osamu, you’re not just a friend,” you cry. They were the best words for the moment you could think of. The anger he just brushed off returned and the tears that just slightly paused, resumed.

“A friend. A fucking friend,” Osamu’s eyes scanned yours. “Every single day my hatred for that fucking word grows. If I’m not a friend, what am I?” His breathing goes deep.

“You’re—“ You sniffle and let go of his face.

“—If being buried between yer thighs doesn’t make me just a friend, what does it make me?”

You retreat to your back, feeling pressured by his raising voice. He follows you the whole way down again. It’s like it’s on the tip of your tongue, an obvious answer; he knows it’s right there but refusing to come out and that’s not enough for him.

“Ya tell me what I wanna hear, then the opposite right after. What am I y/n? What are we? Please, please just keep me from running in circles, baby.” His voice cracks. It’s gotten to the point of him panicking over your face and his hand lifting yours, his eyes darting back and forth. You realize the depth of the situation. You broke him, the solid wall he built around himself crashing down into yours like dominos.

You’ve said I love you to each other many times, but before, you called it him being your best friend. Now you weren’t sure. You never realized the word “friend” was your umbrella to life, the comfortable coziness of the word hiding you from commitment. You just didn’t know how to get it across.

“I’m…I’m scared Osamu,” you sob.

“And I’ll take care of you with everything I have left. Just tell me you’ll take it ‘n it’s yours. Tell me the words I’ve been waitin to hear.”

He was so close, so very close. The man didn’t deserve you in the slightest, he was more fitted for someone who wasn’t afraid. A coward. He just fully expressed his love to you after you basically denied it. He was brave. Something you longed to be, and with him, you may have a chance. You cry softly into his shoulder as his bicep encases you and he brushes hair off your wet lashes.

“I’m sorry,” you weep. His eyelids drop in defeat, and you feel his muscled chest cave. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it before—“

You kissed whatever was closest to you softly. “—I love you.” His Adam’s apple received the gesture, and ended in him suddenly finding your lips. This time, you let him because the way his face lit up needed to be framed.

Breathless and wet, your tears merge with his unintentionally. Now, his tears were of joy, finally ridding of the confusion that has held him hostage for months. Yours were joy as well since you noticed you didn’t regret a thing about your decision. You loved him. You’d say it a million times again.

“Thank god, you finally let me love ya. I woulda done it without your permission either way.” He laughs. It was that smile you missed. The real one. You’d talk again later, but bathing comes first. Bathing after the long-forgotten sesh with your boyfriend.

©hxltic

#haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyu x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu hcs #hq osamu #osamu fluff #osamu miya #miya osamu #osamu smut #osamu imagine #osamu x you #osamu x reader #osamu x y/n #osamu angst

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wickedlittlethings22 · 5 months

Text

Bride to be

Illumis wife training mentally and emotionally for her new role

The corset couldn't be tighter or more searing to your ribcage then a handful of thorns to a rose-struck child.

Your thoughts dripping to your feet desperate to run away, as blood rushes everywhere in your body barely focusing on the way your hands merged so hard your fingernails chips into the generational wood of the mirror that's seen you since the start of this torment.

the world opens beneath you for a moment and you feel transported as you let the maid have her way with you in the silence, knowing better than to act anything other than poise whilst illumi watched

"tighter."

his voice ringing instructions cruelly,

I felt bombarded with him the puppeteer much to rough and unwavering with his strings always trying to to cut into me.

spilling pomegranate seeds for me to eat from my own wounds while promising me no light in the dark, his bottomless eyes met mine mercilessly as I gasped at the branding, the first time I wept and put the crimson seed to my lips promising me no safe return as raven eyes find mine shining with pleading.

the first night I fed from the palm of rough love, acceptance bubbled it's way to my gut as the maid tightened the feeling to finality.

I felt air move as the maid started to swish away and start to move on to the next of me when she finished with his motives moving onto my hair

Illumi's obsidian gaze penetrating me, I barely manage to lift my eyes before ours lock darkness seeping into my stars even thru the mirror as if he could he open me more because of the reflection. "you'll learn to love this every aspect of being a Zoldyk wife is precious"

The words were sickening but said with no vulgarity the meaning bottomless how could he not understand I needed freedom in a way he couldn't understand "you've come to love me so I have Faith you will be eager to carry my heirs"

My anger rained into liquidized sadness

I was terrified he could, would know I was resisting the scarlet forest surrounding me and holding on to me.

I held on and wasn't letting go of what I loved, I could still dream when my eyes were closed I found ways to escape him in castles rose gardens endless becoming, outside his control of pitch night that wished to consume what little of Neverland I have to last hiding from the moon because it's what he can dance with in phases of deadly stealth while the decor of his soul was everything night down to hair that flowed with raven feathers.

I lullabied for the sun,

The sun's warmth has been a wonder since childhood for me while he did everything to hold me hostage in an environment stifling for any in an obsession cage absolute in his resolve for me to be owned.

"I don't like how tight the corset is..." I let fumble out of a desperate place for control illumi stated with his eyes before I heard it vocalized "you were made for this."

I felt my teeth chatter slightly with my souls wounds at the words "you are my bride to be." I felt scarlet forest coloring in any gap to my Neverland as his hand came to my own with intent to admire the glittering spectacle on my ring finger "You should know I make the best choices for you."

Something cute I miss illumi 🤎🌜 stay safe remember to let me know if this can improve any I take feedback feel free to request as well

#yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #yandere illumi #yandere illumi zoldyck #tw yandere

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twisted-wonderland-but-gayer · 2 years

Text

Unit Y-0U

Prologue: Fragmented Memories

Notes: Yuu is Gender-Neutral. No set description of Yuu at all, aside from some mentions of scars and them being on the taller side. (explained in the prologue). The characters in this are a bit older as I made night raven an actual college. This is based off of the Great 7 Parent Au on this blog ans stuff.

This Prologue is entirely optional and just provides some basic worldbuilding for the world Yuu is from. Important stuff will be repeated in later chapters. I based this world on the Mirrorverse game. Also, I fixed Pocahontas because I am native and still enraged. She is a kid too, and not colonized. The Horned King is a forgotten Disney villain which surprises me since he's worse than Chernabog.

This kinda sucks ngl…. It's a series of, well… fractured and corrupt memories that aren't entirely accurate or in their entirety. I hope it gets better from here, but I doubt it. Yuu will actually start to remember things correctly/remember their actual feelings as time goes on. Yuu is generally a pretty kind but traumatized trope that will also tend to push the OBs around more to help them develop. Idk lmao.

Locating Unit Coordinates...

[An error has occurred. Review crash log?]

Rebooting…

Unit coordinates can no longer be tracked. Unit has disappeared.

****

Unit has sustained large amounts of damage. Reviewing backup cache… Fragments of information have been restored. Note: What is seen here may have been altered by unit mental state or devices that can change or alter memory. The following memories are out of order. Proceed with caution.

****

Magic was once the lifeblood of your world. It pumped life into every corner of the universe, bringing balance to all inside. At least, that is what the elders said. Ever since the disappearance of magic, nothing has been the same. As magic began to die, so did the world, causing cataclysmic events.

The fae was the most affected, and their home became a barren wasteland, and with each new generation of fae having weaker magic and mages becoming rarer, there was no guarantee their species would survive. Without magic to balance the world, it came down to the people. Many argued about who should be in charge and how the world should be poised; some sought to control the world through structure and rules. Others turned to violence and discord.

You were born during this apocalypse, or rapture, as many called it. Though, you never really understood most of it as a kid. Your village and your parents taught you more about how to survive. How to hide. How to hunt. How to barter. How to be crafty and frugal. How to run. How to have no waste. How to sneak around. How to read safety diamonds and warning labels. That was your life. Then an invasion came.

****

Mercenaries of the higher powers came in their high-tech armor, and fancier phones, and scary beasts they rode upon because they could afford to feed them.

“The detectors say there is either a mage or catalyst among you filth.” Catalyst? You and the other village kids hid behind the adults, confused by the big words they spoke. “We do need some magic batteries for the city, so give up whoever it is! Cough them out, and I may just let you live.” The man spat, cruel eyes glaring down at everyone atop his high-griffin that swiveled its head around vigilantly.

Behind your parents' back, you recognized a signal. One said, ‘take the other children and hide. You’re the oldest. We believe in you.’ You used the adults as a shield as you grabbed other children by the hand and led them to the safe zone—a hollowed-out tree with rocks and mud covering the opening.

Digging through the rocks and mud, you removed the barrier to safety and slid inside to prepare the inside for the others, making sure it was safe. All those years of skipping meals to keep the younger ones fed made you thin enough to slide in. Through one of the cracks in the trunk, you saw the griffin push over an adult and screech at the group of children.

The last thing you remember is watching the man grab the sword around his waist and his men grabbing blasters. You remember desperately digging your fingers into the mud and rocks and digging till they bled to make the opening wider. While digging, you heard screaming, running, gunfire, violence, and crying.

You were in that trunk for what felt like hours, and not a single other kid made it in. “Men! Find that mage and spare no mercy!” echoed through your head over and over. Your body shivered from both fear and the cold.

****

Happy memories surge forth to try and protect your fragile mind.

“We never cut our hair in our culture. It contains your knowledge and wisdom. That's what my mama told me, at least.” The girl in front of you leans her head back and smiles as you braid her hair. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. You could only cut on a new moon when you need to make a change or when you lose a loved one,” Pocohontas leaned back up and stretched her spine. “Sometimes, when the women in my tribe get really stressed, they would braid their hair super tightly and go outside on a windy day. They then undo their hair and let the wind carry away all of their worries!”

You adored listening to your friend and learning about her culture. She was like a little sister to you. Both of you had to grow up too fast. Her face fell as the conversation dwindled. “I miss my tribe….”

****

The sounds of bloodshed continued and continued for what felt like days. Still, no one else came into the shelter. Did you fail…? The only thing keeping you awake was adrenaline and the cold as you shivered in fear. Left in pitch black darkness, hoping to survive—

****

“Some pancakes for you, Mulan.” “Thank you, Kronk.” “And for you too, Merida.” The redhead didn't wait to dig in, thanking the cook through a mouthful of food. “You too, Rapunzel.” “Ooo! Thank you.” “And finally, here's some for you, kiddo; Go on, take a bite. We did make them together, after all.”

You beamed as you bit into a pancake you and Kronk made together. The man has been your teacher in the kitchen and even taught you how to be a proper scout. He even taught you how to understand the woodland creatures within the forest. You adored the tan man and hoped to get as big and strong as him someday. You hope he's safe…

The other girls were also important to you. Mulan was a master at the sword. She carried six on her person, along with a shield that hung off her armored body. She was so kind and taught you some basic blade and footwork. She often went out on missions to help gather materials for the village. If only she was here right now…

The blonde with the long hair was also the village healer. Her hair and singing healed any wound there was. You often ended up in her care, but it wasn’t bad at all. Together, with her chameleon, Pascal, you both painted together. You would make up silly stories with her and sing silly songs. Maybe she can heal the others.

Merida, the redhead with an accent. She taught you everything stealth. Everything hunting. Under her training, you learned to hit bullseyes easily. You often went out with her to practice your hunting skills, and she’d always congratulate you no matter how small your catch was. She should be back from her hunting trip soon you hope…

****

Peaking out of the tree, you saw tents and buildings in ruins. The few vehicles and other technology your village had were either scalped or broken beyond repair. You squeeze out of your hole, head on a swivel to check for any danger as you try to find an adult.

Sneaking slowly you trudge forth into the broken village. Beneath your feet, you step into something warm and sticky. Looking down you recognize the bodies that hugged each other in death as your parents— you can barely remember their faces any more or the name they gave you— and you fell to your knees, letting out a wail. You didn't care who heard, unaware you were being watched.

****

“A catalyst with such potential… how rare…”

A skeletal figure watched from afar, whispering to himself. Running into a potent catalyst was lucky enough, but now he doesn’t even have to put effort into kidnapping or indoctrinating them. He can step in and ‘save’ that child.

The hooded figure approached the kid, standing behind them as they mourned. “You poor thing, all alone with no one left…” His bony hand rested on their back as his honeyed words soothed them. “There, there. I will take you in, I promise.”

****

You held the rotting, bony hand of the man who saved you. The Horned King. You allowed him to guide you through the castle he constructed with his own magic. He spoke of many deranged things in a manic tone. Politics. Power. Desires. Ideals.

Then he stopped in front of the balcony, admiring the red sunset in a grey, smog-filled sky. “The world we are in is dying. But… It can be saved.” Your eyes went wide. “It can?”

The king nodded. “I have been using what magic I have to give my men power to rebuild The Black Cauldron, a magical item that will save us. I have sent my men across dimensions and planets in mechanical space boats to seek a catalyst powerful enough to bring the cauldron. With it, I can rule over the land and bring back the magic this world has forgotten.”

“Catalyst?” You remembered the men at your village, what did that word mean? The horned king’s sunken eyes looked down at you. “A catalyst, unlike a mage, is something that can absorb magic, and redirect it. Like a magestone.” The king paced in front of you. “Catalysts, not to mention powerful ones, are rare. They can handle storing high amounts of magic to be used at a later time.”

The king turned to you. “This is where you come in, little one. I have found seven magic fragments that I cannot use. You, however, just might…” The hooded figure of rotting flesh knelt in front of you. “With your power, we can bring back magic and save the world. What do you say, little one?”

****

Spread on a vivisection table you lay, barely covered up by a hospital gown of sorts. Your chest and stomach hurt, your body was weak, and you can feel the thin, paper gown brush against the sensitive scar tissue on your body hurts. It hurts so bad. You feel your heartbeat in your ears being accompanied by a faint ringing and pulsing. What did they do to you?

A muffled groan echoes in your head, followed by the sounds of cracking and popping. ‘Oh it feels good to be back…’ a gravely voice echoes in the back of your head, reverberating in your thoughts. You can hear additional whispers and laughter in the back of your mind. Please shut up. Please. You can’t take any more noises or voices in your head. You just want some time to yourself. ‘Woah easy there kid, no need to worry…’ The voice purrs, ‘Just give me control, and you’ll be fine…’

You didn’t even know what that meant until you felt your body go slack, twitching by itself as if there was a puppeteer over you. You panicked, trying your best to fight back against the feeling of your eyes drying out from glowing or the weird blue flicker of your hair. You couldn't do much, strapped down to the vivisection table, but damn it if you didn’t try.

Odd power surged through you as you felt your body flicker before going back to normal. ‘What the hell?! Why can’t I take control?! What's goin on? Actually better yet, why am I in you, kid?’ You were too tired to answer, and the energy that flowed through your body early drained you of what little energy you had left, making you pass out. The entire time you swear you can hear a conversation within you. Your body hurts, but you remember what your savior said. “I am sorry for the pain you must endure, but know that it is necessary, and that you are strong enough,”

****

Log 3: Side-Effects

Unit Y-0U has been successfully fused with the 7 mage fragments uncovered from [REDACTED]. The child is now in recovery mode from what appeared to be an extremely painful surgery, I sadly wasn’t present at the time, however, I heard it was done without painkillers. Master said that it was to make sure the weapon becomes resilient by increasing tolerance to pain. Surgery to eliminate pain receptors: Pending.

The Cauldron Mage Unit has remarked about hearing more voices in their head than usual. These voices are apparently very rude and confused. The (Child) Unit seems disturbed. When put on anti-psychotics the new voices did not go away. This must be a simple side-effect of the casting process. I will continue to keep an eye on them

-Yzma Researcher #121000

Log: End

Personal Diary: New Entry

This child has lost all light in their eyes. As time goes on they have become more ill-mannered and rude. I do not blame them. No child deserves any of this torture. I just wonder what The Horned King is thinking, making this kid into some strange ‘cauldron born’ soldier to bring back all of magic. Fucking hell. I regret what I did. I regret working with them. Am I truly doing the right thing? Torturing a child? Ripping the wings off fae and draining them of what little magic they have left? Will this really bring back magic to our world after it disappeared? I have a lot to think about. I’m going to be sick.

If this continues I doubt this weapon would even work with us. I am going to try and sneak it some bread tomorrow, Cedric’s approval be damned. I can disguise it as maintaining the weapon and its cast. I can’t imagine what it is like to wake up in a new body. Poor kid, it doesn’t even have a proper name.

#121000

****

The next few days were odd. You started to hear more voices… But this… This will go away. It will be worth it if you can help your savior save the world! Right…?

****

‘I see… So… I am now stuck inside you, a kid no less…’ You can see a ghost of a hand drag across the specter's face in your mind. ‘Great… Wonderful. How am I supposed to take over Olympus like this?! Did I die? Is this the afterlife for gods?’ The voice snarled in your head, making you flinch, you can feel his rage wash over you, heating the inside of your body.

‘Silence. You are giving me a migraine. I cannot believe that someone like me is trapped inside this… unsightly vessel. I swear no vessel of mine will be looking like a slob.‘ A cruel voice cuts in. Her words harsh, but true.

‘And now I have roommates. Also, what do you mean by your vessel? I woke up first! This thing is mine, get your own!’ ‘Yeah, you tell them boss!’ you hear a few voices mutter. Your chest felt cold as the cruel voice from before became silent. Her rage, icy and cold. ‘Enough, I am not talking to an ill-mannered slob such as yourself. Unlike you, I am actually trying to find a solution.‘

An argument was brewing in your mind, and you can tell a headache was coming on.

****

‘Revived? Inside a child? Tch, it's better than that lamp I suppose.’ the voice sneered.

‘Ah Jafar, what an unpleasant surprise, you’re here as well. Hmph. So you were revived as well. What a shame…’ another voice who called herself Maleficent hissed.

‘Please don’t fight you two. I don't know what happened. I was just told I was going to be fused and woke up like this.’ It was quiet for a minute before a sigh echoed through your head. A new voice came. This one is older, but smooth and soothing despite the words she spits, but before you can hear anything you let drowsiness overtake you as the conversation gets quieter.

****

Your training got harder by the day. Magic theory. Potion craft. Alchemy. Tactics. Sword Fighting. Hand-to-Hand. Dodging. Weight Training. carrying weights for days on end without sleep. Pushing, pushing, pushing.

You were a weapon, a beacon of hope, and you must be strong. You were subjected to experiment after experiment. Regimen after regimen. “Allow them no breaks! We have no time to waste!” The Horned King speaks.

It was the last thing you remember before being attached to a machine. A machine that plugged into the flesh of your neck and kept you active. It would both rest and still train you. Not even in dreams do you escape your work. Your stomach hurts. They forgot to feed you again. Your head hurts from the strange voices in your head that have yet to clear up. Every word they speak is strangled and garbled on some days, yet completely clear the next. As you drift off, you hear a conversation

‘The gall of those mages to hit my vessel. Next time, you are to strike back- no wait. We are going to concoct a poison so potent, that two sorry excuses of mages won't see it coming. they do not know the first thing when it comes to magic anyways!’

‘They speak as if magic is foreign to them and teach poor, pathetic, elementary spells.‘ The new woman's voice muttered. ‘I think if we all long for freedom, we should teach this child how to use our magic, for a price of course…’

****

Personal Log:

I saw the child destroy the only object it had in its room the other day— a mirror. It couldn’t stand looking at itself in its new body. I don't blame it, this new one isn’t designed with any warmth in mind. Just a simple cast to help one achieve being the perfect weapon. I have heard the child scream to shut up multiple times while grasping its head in pain. The voices haven't stopped.

At least it is showing promise of power, recently it has been wielding high-power magic and is now taking on even higher-level training exercises. The weight it can now lift is incredible! Truly a worthy vessel under our king who will turn things back to the way they were before!

I heard they are sending the child out to the wastelands to retrieve more relics. That's good and all but how are we sure they won’t run away? Their handlers refuse to treat them with an ounce of respect, and we barely feed it for the sake of ‘strengthening it just in case the weapon goes too long without food. This feels strange. How long before it gets wiser?

I guess it doesn't matter since I can simply implant better memories in them or remove those fragments temporarily and render them unable to use magic. I'm sure the King wouldn't mind me doing a biiiit of brainwashing.

Anyways, new ships capable of gliding across water and into space have been constructed. Our empire will now grow even stronger. The child will now be sent on missions across dimensions and into space. Now they can truly train for phase 2 of the king's plan. To rule the world with our Cauldron Born army. And with such a happy and kind child showing off their magic and helping villages, no one would dare to oppose us, but rather, welcome us with open arms.

- Cedrick

****

‘You must rest now, otherwise evil and vengeance will never prosper’ The dragon fae soothes you with her words as you rest in a medical tent, the last mission exposed you to some poisonous spores, giving you a fever. A warm washcloth rests on your forehead and you can feel the ghost of her fingers brush against your cheek. ‘I'm not used to just sitting around so idly…’ ‘You should really learn how, it would benefit you’ Scar interjects. You can see the specter of him stretching before lounging on top of you. Oddly enough, you could feel the weight of him on you, along with the strange heat that comes off of him. You can even hear the three hyenas rummaging around beside you.

It's so strange feeling so loved… You remember just a year ago how hostile they were to you. This insolent subject! How dare you refuse a command from me?! You remember the Red Queen yelled at you. You are to obey or it is off with your head! Now you are her ‘Little Crown’ or heir as she sometimes calls you. It’s crazy just how fast things change

****

You came to realize that with the seven in your head, you were being used. No hero would abuse their subjects like the Horned king did. He lacked transparency. He let those scientists hurt you. ‘We should burn him’ Hades replies in your head.

‘Absolutely not. That King’s followers are quite devoted. Furthermore, we are not in a position to fight back.’ Jafar notes. Scar grumbles in agreement, ‘No place to escape to, surrounded by insanely devoted minions… The effort it would take to win…’ ‘Would not be ideal…’ Ursula purrs. ‘Even with our magic combined, the poor guppy here isn’t in the ideal condition to fight.’

You roll in your bedroll within your ‘room’. An observation room in the lab with a one-way mirror taking over an entire wall. Windowless, no decoration or light. The silence and plainness of it all is maddening,

‘Isn’t strange to not take care of your weapons?’ Grimhilde notes. ‘Surely, if your plan relies on one person, you would take care of them…” Her voice became sour at the end, disgusted at the treatment you have endured.

‘Which means, he may know about our loyalty wavering, or he knows that we may rebel…’ Maleficent notes. ‘Well, maybe he wouldn't have to worry about that if he were to have actually treated our precious crown right’! The Queen of Hearts sasses, you can hear the low clicking of the eel twins and the Jabberwock agreeing with the queen.

‘Stay on your toes, young one. Be careful. And look for an opening to escape.’ Jafar whispers to you, and you feel the ghost of his hand cup your cheek.

****

“The village people have constructed a statue of us in the town square.” The king hums. “Really?! I mean— I’ve hardly done anything…” The king looks down at you, rotting, sunken eyes analyzing you. “You have grown so much stronger than when we first met, I knew it was a good idea to take you in on that day.”

‘Tch. What a pathetic attempt at lying. Also do not doubt yourself so much, little dragon.’ Maleficent responds. ‘All those years of dealing with this asshole probably did something to their self-worth, if only someone suggested we kill him sooner!’ You close your eyes in agreement with them. Lies. He never cared. You were just another test run that ended up making it the farthest.

‘Language, Hades. That foolish plan wouldn’t have done well, as for you Vessel. Do not talk down to yourself. I am not letting someone that represents me do such a thing!’ You smile a bit at her words, able to read between the lines to understand that what she really means to say is ‘I care about you so much’. Hades huffs. ‘Whatever Hidey… Now let's focus on what this Underworld escapee has to say.’

Oh right, there's a statue of you in your honor and a few propagandic stories of your tales to make you feel like you’re doing the right thing. All this work just to make sure you don’t fight back. As much as The Horned King hated to admit it, you were stronger than him, and that's terrifying. No one has ever survived this long as a Cauldron Born Unit. At least, when he is done using you, you will be sacrificed to the cauldron, making him the most powerful one of all, and he would no longer have to worry about pleasing you.

Or so he hopes. You see through him. But you will continue to play dumb and take the abuse. But… a very small part of you believes it all. You deserve to be hit. You are doing the right thing. Maybe He was right. Maybe, you truly are worthless...

****

In your room that night, you curled up in your bedroll, hiding the data crystal you swiped from the lab earlier. You were gonna get down to the bottom of whatever the hell these people were doing.

Tapping it, a small screen popped up from it. The beginning of the report was titled “Magic Extractor”. By the description, this was related to fueling both the cauldron and The Horned King himself…

Opening it you began to read, and with each line, you began to feel sick. Your stomach sunk and your heartstrings felt like they were played by a knife as you continued. You knew that the people you served were bad… You never knew it was like this.

All those fae, all those mages, those children…

Something snapped in you that day, and the seven found themselves supporting you. You are done. You are escaping. You will bring hell to all of those to hurt you.

****

“My King! Unit Y-0U has run off and escaped.”

“What?!” The Horned King yelled. “Where are they?!"

“They ran out of the lab without permission and were last seen going to the Magic Extractor.”

The Horned King fumed and immediately teleported off to you. Maybe this was a rebellious phase he needed to hammer out. You were still a kid after all. Maybe he can convince you that what you would see is what had to be done. Maybe he could just simply erase every memory you have.

As he teleported and appeared at the sight, he looked upon the ruins of what remained of the extractor. It was destroyed. Mages, mers, beasts, and fae all escaping out of the prison he built. Many were fighting the workers. The king felt rage bubble in his bones as he searched around for— you. A child amidst it all.

In the middle of it all, fighting with those who want to fight, instructing the others on where to go. Summoning waves to carry the mer away. “YOU! CHILD. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” The king roared, catching your attention.

You gripped your polearm in your hand and turned towards him. “The future you want is one I despise. I never wanted any of this!”

“Do you really think you can defeat me?! I created you!”

“And I am stronger than you.” Fae and beast stood aside as you raised your polearm. From this day on, you bow to no king. From this day on, you declare war on your creator….

….

...

You swear you hear Hades, Pain, and Panic all yell “Viva la revolution” while cheering you on…

#fic idea #idk what to tag this #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #unit yuu #the great 7 parents #twst #twst wonderland #disney twst #disney #i also pisted this on ao3 #yuu #twisted wonderland yuu

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historia-vitae-magistras · 4 months

Note

Ok, but would Jan take a break, rest and let himself be taken care of by Matt? Would his Calvinist work ethic allow it? 😩

Oh, absolutely. He's a hard worker and extremely professional but a good sailor finds a port in a storm or when the ships are in poor shape. He's very stoic, very 'well I'm not made of sugar' and a bit suck it up but he certainly has days where he calls in and just gets a bit clingy and cold and wants attention. It's certainly embarrassing for him, but their entire relationship is built on that tenderness. Matt rolled off a tank, put down his rifle and asked if he needed anything and that's just how they are now.

I've written it before that Jan's brain processes anxiety and trauma as needing to check and recheck things. Counting calories expended, crunching numbers about compound interest and per capita income. Measuring, weighing, counting, rationing, calculating. And he kind of silently presses himself against Matt in the middle of the night while he's doing tha. Matt doesn't even really have to be awake to roll over and squeeze him reassuringly. 'I love you. You're here, warm and well fed.' vibes.

And Jan absolutely will just bluntly state things but he doesn't really have too. Uitzieken is a term they've got that basically just means surrender to the illness and wait until you feel a bit better. So he's not awful at that and he enjoys being coddled a lot more than he'll let on.

Jan can be a bit prickly when he doesn't feel mentally or physically well but Matt kind of flows right past old world defenses like that. He gets overheated from snuggling and pokes Matt gently off him like "Get off. I'm boiling. Don't touch me." but as soon as Matt's back with some water and pills or a snack he's having an internal like "🥺 where did you go I want human contact this is abandonment." While his face never leaves the default :| expression. "What do you mean you want to get up to make soup? No! You're busy! No I know the soups for me just don't stop messing up my hair."

#the ask box || probis pateo #jan and matt || the bells of liberation echo into eternity

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pickel182 · 5 months

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The Astarion’s blanket chapter because this has lived I my head rent free for MONTHS

Gods, he’s going to the the death of me, Tav thought to herself.

Well, technically already had been, but since he’d revived her after, maybe that time didn’t count. He fed as she laid beneath him near the fire, he cradled her head in one hand as the other arm bore most of his weight. He hummed contentedly against her neck and she very unsuccessfully stifled a moan.

“Listen to you,” he cooed into her ear. “Seems I’m not the only one enjoying this.” He collected the blood that had pooled around the twin marks in her flesh with a long lick, brushing his lips lightly at the skin above and below the bite before latching back on. She whimpered, the hand already in his hair tangling further, tugging lightly as if she couldn’t help herself.

Astarion quite liked the effect he had on her. He reveled in the noises she tried to contain, her little shakes of excitement as he drank languidly, in no hurry to end their little tryst. He enjoyed how tightly her breasts were pressed against him, and he sighed at the warmth spreading from her soft thighs squeezing against his strategically placed knee. He had paced himself much better this time to avoid getting carried away, and was delighted to find his companion so thoroughly pleased by the sensation of feeding him.

Her hand at his lower back was pulling him down toward her, and he was all too happy to comply by lowering his body to hers. He had held himself well in check until that point, considering he had been hard since the moment her blood hit his tongue.

She pressed into him wantonly and he groaned into her neck, rolling his hips to meet hers.

“Is this what you wanted, pet?” He asked, voice rougher than he intended.

She replied by bringing her tongue around the delicate point of his ear, nibbling softly as he shuddered against her.

He pushed up on one arm, eyes lidded with lust, his voice laced with warning. “Careful, darling, or you’ll get exactly what you want, right here in the middle of camp.”

She knew all her sense had left her then, as she met his eyes and asked,

“Do you promise?”

The bloodstained grin he gave her in answer did something to her lower body that made her arch up into him.

He inhaled the suddenly much more intense scent of her arousal and it made his eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Tell me what you want, dearest, I want to hear you,” he purred as he rubbed his nose along her jawline. She brought her legs around his hips to close whatever space remained between them, rocking upwards to grind against the bulge in his trousers.

“Bite me again.”

He lost the mental capacity for words. He managed to whimper “fuck,” before pinning her wrists on either side of her and roughly biting down on the unmarked side of her neck. He began to grind himself into her in time with each pull of her blood. She moaned and writhed beneath him, matching his movements desperately in search of friction.

He was going to come if this went on much longer, but he was too lost in her to care, until he felt her go stiff beneath him.

“Astarion, wait.”

With tremendous effort, he drew back from her. He searched her eyes in answer and found her blushing even more than she had been.

He had been so caught up that he hadn’t heard Shadowheart approach before hearing the voice above them.

“Ugh, I hate to spoil the mood, but I’m not sure that using supernatural strength to pin the woman you killed not three days ago is best practice for keeping her alive.”

The nosey bitch! He thought, despite the fact that he actually liked the cleric. The potential competition for Tav’s attention wasn’t an immediate concern, considering the state of her beneath him. He liked that Shadowheart didn’t seem as eager as the rest of the group to spill her guts and take pity on every poor soul they encountered. But that was before she had ruined his fun.

“I am perfectly able to control myself now, thank you very much.” He responded, glaring before laving his tongue over the new bite at Tav’s neck to close up the wound.

Shadowheart was not going to miss an opportunity to tease Astarion. Both to take him down a peg and poke a bit of fun at Tav for her questionable taste in company. “Terribly sweet, that she was your first. Not sure I’d keep feeding someone who killed me just because they’d been on a diet for a century or two, though.”

Astarion glowered. He changed his mind. He hated Shadowheart.

Tav moved to stand and peeled him off of her, despite his best pout. Her sense and capacity for shame returned to her. Hells, what is wrong with me? In the middle of camp? She was going to have to put her self control back in place right away to have any hope of functioning tomorrow. She was blushing and still a little out of breath from being flustered, so she was more breathless than she’d like when she spoke to Astarion. “Maybe we should get some rest, there’s a long day ahead of us tomorrow, traveling to the grove.”

Astarion considered her shift in mood and decided to change his approach. He made a show of looking as poorly as possible to complain, “But darling, I’d only just started supper… before getting distracted.” He made his eyes as large and sad as possible as he wrung his hands, the very image of contrition.

Tav turned her eyes heavenward, either for an intervention, or forgiveness for being so fucking weak, she wasn’t sure which.

She sighed. “Only what you need, and then sleep. Agreed?”

He nodded solemnly, one hand on his chest.“ Cross my heart, and hope to…” he trailed off, before adding with a smirk, “well, I’ll be good.”

She shook her head at his terrible joke and smiled despite herself. “Come on then. Shadow has first watch, so you can finish up in my tent and then I’m going to bed.”

Yes! He thought to himself. He couldn’t contain his fangy grin, and gestured with a flourish for Tav to lead the way. He valiantly fought and lost to the urge to stick out his tongue at the cleric.

Shadowheart scoffed. “In your tent?” So eager to offer yourself to our lady of loss? Suit yourself then. See you tomorrow…I hope.” She narrowed her eyes at Astarion and added under her breath, “fucking leech.”

“Cultist bitch.” He replied with a wink. Maybe Astarion liked her after all.

**********************

Astarion ducked into Tav’s tent behind her, aware of how being interrupted earlier might have just worked in his favor. He found that he was almost as eager to see the inside of her tent as he was to be alone with her in it.

Tav spent much more time letting their other companions talk than she did about herself, and he wanted to know more about her than she had been willing to share so far. This was all a part of the design of course, his excitement was surely just that of a plan coming to fruition.

The tent was just tall enough in the middle for them both to stand. Off to one side she had arranged her bedroll with various cushions, covered in a small patchwork quilt. She lit a candle, setting it’s holder back down on the crate that served as her nightstand. On her other side were two stacks of books with a plank of wood balanced across the top, holding a small velvet pouch, and a shirt that looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place why.

Astarion watched her intently as she sat down on her bed and leaned against a cushion, crossing her ankles. “Well,” she shrugged and gestured around her with a smile, “Welcome home, what little I’ve tried to make of it anyway.”

He looked around and saw a few more small crates on their sides, littered with baubles of different kinds, glass bottles, stones, and dried flowers. She had a tree branch dug into the ground near the sewing table, its small broken limbs serving as storage for a few rings, necklaces and fabric scraps. Somehow, it did seem less like a tent and more like a home. He rather liked it.

He knelt down at the foot of the bed to join her, and she pulled her knees in to give him more space to settle down.

Tav was sure that by now he’d have started pushing his luck to pick up where they’d left off. She considered that the intense desire she felt earlier might have been a chemical consequence of the bite, at least in part. Before their endeavor, she hadn’t been in the habit of being dinner for vampires, so she had no way to be sure. Even if she were to ask, he might not know, since she had been his first. She had started to tug at her rings and the ends of her shirt sleeves as she thought.

Astarion wondered where her mind had gone as she began to fidget. She had never struck him as shy before. Although he wasn’t sure what caused her hesitation, he knew there wouldn’t be anything more physical that evening. Had this been any other night before their adventure, he would have employed every temptation in his arsenal to secure his master’s prey.

But here in the candlelight with her, the far off-look in her eyes felt too familiar. How many times had his eyes wandered to another place before the inevitable? Before whoever he was with, mark or master, took what they wanted? After the first few hundred times, he stopped counting. He reached toward her and held out his hand.

His movement pulled her out of her thoughts. Oh, right. He still needed to feed. She offered her wrist, but looked up in confusion when he turned her hand and laced his fingers through hers. He shook his head as he gave her fingers a light squeeze. The unexpected gesture and intensity of his gaze set a new wave of heat across her face.

He smirked at her reaction. “Welcome back, darling. As curious as I am about what’s on your mind, there’s something else I’m dying to know.”

She laughed, surprised at how much more relaxed she felt all of the sudden. “How can I still blush about holding hands after what happened earlier? I’m not sure either. Color me shocked.”

There she is, he thought, as a genuine smile spread across his face at her response. Her hand was so warm. He wanted to unlace his fingers and hold her hand in both of his to savor the feel of it. He resisted the urge in case it seemed desperate- or worse - she took her hand away.

“Diverting as it is, I’m even more intrigued about your having Gale’s shirt on your table.”

She really laughed then, eyes crinkling as she regarded his quizzical expression.

“He got a few rips in it the other day. Apparently Mystra’s chosen doesn’t know any cantrips to keep them from pulling back open. I agreed to fix it so long as I didn’t hear anything else about ‘the weave’ for the rest of the night.”

He tilted his head in interest. “I didn’t know you could sew.”

“You’d be amazed at the things you’d learn if you’d ask. But I guess that wouldn’t be very broody of you.” She teased, letting go of his hand to give his knee a playful shove.

He frowned and held his hand back out, and she laughed before offering hers again. He took her hand in both of his, rubbing her knuckles lightly with his thumb. He rolled his eyes “Better late than never, I suppose.” He had noticed some of her fabric scraps matched the blanket spread beneath them. “Did you make this?” He patted the quilt.

“I did!” She knew it wasn’t fancy by any means, but she had taken care to make it by hand, and was proud of how it turned out.

His eyes focused on their hands. He pursed his lips in thought as he ran his thumb over her knuckles again. Tav thought he looked conflicted about something. When he met her eyes again, Tav was surprised to see him look so vulnerable as he spoke.

“Can I show you something?”

“Of course.” She replied immediately. She was eager to see what had caused him to expose what looked suspiciously like genuine emotion.

He kept a hold of her hand as he stood. “It will only take a moment.”

She followed him out of her tent and into his. While he opened a chest at the foot of his bed roll, she took in her surroundings. Several piles of books littered the area, along with a crate that was suspiciously full of valuable looking loot, and a few bottles of wine varying in fullness.

Astarion turned back toward her holding a pile of fabric that upon closer inspection, appeared to be a very worn blanket.

“I’ve had this for a very long time. I’ve only been able to repair what I can by having read a few books, but I think what it needs is beyond my level of expertise.”

Tav normally would take the opportunity to tease him about being so sentimental. But her better judgment told her it was taking great effort for him to let her see so much of him in that moment.

She reached out to rub the material between her fingers as gently as possible. She was confident it could be saved, but she’d have to make sure he was comfortable with the ideas she had in mind. She can’t imagine the trouble he’s gone through to keep it all this time, considering what she knew of the general nature of his life before the tadpole. After Shadowheart had decked the shit out of him, Tav had only agreed to let him continue to feed on her if he was honest about his condition and what had left him in his current state. Full disclosure was an important part of consent, and he had agreed that was fair.

She was confident in her abilities, and it felt nice that he’d trust her with the request.

“I know it’s seen better days, but you’ve done the best you could in taking care of it, considering.” She regarded the cloth again carefully before continuing. “I’m glad it found its way out here to me.” When Tav looked up to meet his eyes, she wished she could tell him she didn’t just mean the blanket.

Astarion felt the tadpole wriggle behind his eye, just before he heard her thought as clear as if she’d said it out loud. The unpredictable telepathic link was a side effect of their illithid parasites. His eyes widened immediately, and he felt his stomach do a little flip.

Shit. She thought, as soon as she realized what had happened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push through.” She hoped he didn’t think that she’d been snooping in his mind.

“No, I know, darling, no need to apologize.” He cleared his throat to get a hold of his sudden well of emotion. “Gods know I like you bleeding, be it the heart or elsewhere,” he purred, as he returned the blanket to the chest.

She rolled her eyes and smiled, shaking her head. “You’re terrible.”

“We both know you like it.” He teased with a raised brow as he turned back to face her. He sighed as he faced her again. Astarion wasn’t ready to let her go, but they really did have a long day planned for tomorrow. “We should both try and get some rest, pet.” He took her hand to place a light kiss on her knuckles.

“You’re right,” she replied as she held onto his hand a little longer than she intended as she turned to leave. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

“Goodnight, Tav. Sweet dreams.”

He used her name. She wasn’t sure she’d heard him say it out loud before, certainly not when speaking to her. It was nice.

She felt her exhaustion take over as she entered her own tent and settled into her bed. Just as she drifted out of consciousness, she heard his voice in her mind.

“I’m glad, too.”

*************

TikTok Link to a video a wonderful creator made about his blanket 😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7KWVea/

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #smut #bg3 tav #plus sized tav #fanfic #ao3 #Astarion’s Blanket #sentimental

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