#before you @ me‚ consider: unreliable narrator | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dyaz-stories · 27 days

Text

you know my tongue is a weapon || gojo satoru x reader

synopsis: Shoko suggests a study night, but Gojo's bored and he doesn't want to study. So, instead, he offers to play a game, when all the others have left to get some food: every time he gets an answer right, he gets a kiss.

As you soon find out, Gojo can be very good at studying, as long as he gets something out of it.

word count: 3.8k

genre: college!AU, mostly fluff i think

cw: kissing, making out, semi-public kissing, unresolved sexual tension, reader is insecure and is therefore an unreliable narrator, dry humping ig, fem reader (the word girl is used once)

a/n: first time writing for jujutsu and for gojo! any feedback is appreciated, and i hope you enjoy yourselves :)

soundtrack

prequel

Exam season is never a fun time to be on campus. Stress fills the air, the hallways, the always full libraries, even the coffee shops where people usually meet to relax between two classes. It’s the only conversation subject between sleep-deprived students, looming over their head threateningly at any time of the day and night. It’s stifling, a weight on their chest that never quite wears off.

As for you, well, you’re doing alright.

Oh, for sure, it’s a lot of work, and you’re not thrilled about it by any stretch of the imagination, but academia is your thing, so you don’t find it nearly as crushing as others do. You’re more terrified of the time period that comes afterwards, while you’re waiting for the results like Judgement day.

In the meantime, you’ve given up on trying to find a spot to study in the library, and you’ve been doing most of it in your small student room. You haven’t stepped outside in days when Shoko texts you to suggest a study night. You suspect that she hasn’t started working and intends to cram, but you take her up on the offer nonetheless.

You show up at her place right on time — you always are — with your notes and some snacks. You wait quietly after knocking, trying to make sense of the chatter you hear on the other side of the door. She had mentioned she would ask a few other people if they wanted to join, which you had assumed would be fine, but faced with the reality of it now you can feel a lump growing in your throat. Academia might be easy for you, but people… aren’t.

When the door opens to reveal Gojo Satoru, piercing blue eyes meeting yours through white locks of hair that he pushes out of his face a second later, you fully consider turning around and leaving.

“You made it,” he says, shooting you a wide grin.

“Hi,” you squeak in reply.

Gojo is a… friend. Ish. Kinda. You think. Well, he’s a friend of Shoko’s, anyway, so the two of you have hung out, socially, before. Up until last summer, you assumed he didn’t even know your name.

“Thank God you’re here,” Shoko says, appearing from behind him to grab your hand. “No one here wants to work. We need to whip these imbeciles into shape or something.”

“I’m working,” Nanami sighs from the table in the living room, where he’s sitting alone.

“I was just waiting for everyone to be here, Shoko,” Geto says, his voice soft and even, as he approaches the table.

You set your bag down, giving Nanami an sympathetic smile, and he pushes his glasses higher on his nose. When he nods at you, you’re pretty sure it’s a silent way of saying ‘thank you for not leaving me alone with them’.

“What are you guys starting with?” you ask, pulling some books out of your bag.

Everyone here has different majors, but with some classes in common. You’re not sure how efficient this enterprise is going to be, if you’re completely honest, but as Gojo lets himself fall on a chair with a dramatic sigh, you suppose it can’t be worse than if he was left to his own devices.

“I’m doing literature, algebra and physics tonight!” Haibara announces, perhaps a tad too enthusiastic. You don’t want to crush his hopes and dreams, but—

“You’re never going to get through all that in one night,” Nanami says with a frown.

“Don’t listen to him”, Gojo intervenes, “you can do anything you set your mind to.”

There are stars in Haibara’s eyes when he looks at him, but you notice the glances Gojo is stealing at Nanami, and the way his smile widens when Nanami grits his teeth in annoyance. You bite your lip so you don’t let out a chuckle.

“Do you want to start with literature with me?” you offer. “Nanami, you’ll have to handle algebra because I’m not taking any algebra classes this semester.”

The corner of Nanami’s lips curves to form a smile.

“It’s good that someone here is taking this seriously.”

“Ugh,” Gojo mutters. “Fine. Hey, Suguru, do you know what tests I have next week?”

Nanami buries his head in his hands with a pained groan, and you laugh again, lump gone from your throat now, as you move your chair to come sit next to Haibara. Gojo’s eyes follow your movement silently. When you lean over the same textbook as Haibara, shoulders brushing against his as you push a lock of hair behind your ear, his expression turns thoughtful. It’s only when Geto drops a book in front of him that he snaps out of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do shots instead?” he asks, tone sour.

“Man, don’t tempt me,” Shoko whines as she sits down as well. “The shots will have to wait.”

Truly, Gojo thinks, sadder words have never been spoken.

Nanami calls it quits right before 10 pm. He’s tried to leave a few times by then, usually because of one of Gojo’s quips, but Shoko’s managed to keep him around until then. It doesn’t help how delighted Gojo gets by his reactions, and you can’t blame him for abandoning you. You don’t doubt for a second that he would have been much more productive without everyone else around.

“If they pass their exams, we should give ourselves all the credit for that,” he comments at your intention, right before walking out the door. “Good luck with them.”

Then he’s gone, before Gojo can start to protest about why he is not getting any encouragements, even though he’s suffering so much, and everyone is mean, and nothing about this is fun, and—

Haibara, despite his best intentions, falls asleep on the couch less than thirty minutes later. It was just supposed to be quick nap, but by midnight he’s still down, and you can’t bring yourself to wake him up. Plus it’s not like you were making a lot of progress with him anyway, so he just might be better off sleeping.

It’s not long after that that Shoko starts to get real antsy. So far, she has kept on track despite Gojo’s attempts at distracting her, but you can tell she is starting to get incredibly bored. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to be Gojo’s case, even if the way his leg bounces underneath his chair tells you he’s itching to do anything other than sit here doing nothing.

“Fuck it,” Shoko says, finally giving up. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

Geto frowns.

“Now? Alone?”

“As if anything would happen to her,” Gojo says, spinning a pen between his fingers. “She’ll be the scariest person out there.”

Geto rolls his eyes.

“I’ll come with you,” he tells Shoko, and she shrugs. “Do you want to come too, Satoru?”

Gojo lets himself fall down on his chair, looking at Geto with his head hanging behind the back of the chair.

“Nah,” he says after a few seconds of intense deliberation. “Can’t abandon the teacher here.”

You feel your face heating up.

“Oh, I mean, I’m sure I’ll be fine. If you want to go, you should—”

“It’s fine,” he handwaves your protests away. “I’ll finally get some work done without Shoko here to constantly distract me with—”

He bursts out laughing when Shoko throws her pen at him.

“We’ll be right back,” she announces, standing up. “You,” she points at Gojo, “play nice. And you,” she gives you a severe look, “don’t hesitate to hit him. I’m not joking.”

She leaves the room, escorted by Geto. Haibara doesn’t even stir when the door slams.

“Alright,” Gojo says, not wasting a second to reach for your chair so he can pull you closer to him, “it’s my turn to get my own personal tutor.” His fingers brush against your leg as he pulls you in, and you know, from how his eyes seem to drink in everything about you, that he doesn’t miss your quiet gasp nor the way your breath quickens. You’ve noticed this before, too. If he likes annoying Nanami, he seems to delight in your reactions at least as much — though he tries to make you laugh or to fluster you rather than piss you off.

“Um,” you say, with the eloquence that characterizes you around him, “what do you need help with?”

He tilts his head to the side as he studies you. You find him breathtaking, you always do, but you think you’ve gotten better at hiding it, so even if it feels like he’s looking right into your soul, you give him an easy smile.

Somehow, he is the one who ends up averting his eyes.

“How about philosophy?”

Right, the two of you share that one class on the history of ideas.

“Sure,” you say, already grabbing a book and thumbing through it. “I’ve taken quite a few notes for that class, actually, I can give them to you if you—”

“That’s boring,” he interrupts you. “We should do something else.”

You put down your book, intrigued, and something twists in your stomach when you see the look he’s giving you. He’s like a cat with a mouse, with exactly the same hunger in his eyes.

“What—” you clear your throat when your voice cracks. “What are you suggesting?”

“Well,” he leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and putting his chin in his palm, “I need an incentive to work, you know?”

You swallow. Sure.

“So how ‘bout I get a kiss for every right answer I give you?”

And you almost choke on air.

“What?” you manage to croak. Blood is rushing to your face, and it feels like your brain is short-circuiting. Your heart’s beating faster, hammering in your chest, and you feel your palms grow sweaty.

“C’mon,” he teases, reaching out to pull on a lock of your hair and twirl it around his finger, and you know, you know, he knows he’s got you right where he wants to, “help me study.”

“Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he all but purrs.

“Satoru,” you say, “what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he blinks innocently. “Just trying to find a fun way to study.”

You examine him carefully, try to figure out what, exactly, is going on behind these beautiful eyes of his. You’ve had— moments, with him. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car once. He held your hand through a busy festival, teasing you about not wanting you to get lost, and later helped you get on his shoulders so you’d get a better view of the stage. The one time you agreed to accompany Shoko to the club, you remember his hands on your hips, his breath against your ear, the ghost of his lips to your neck. But nothing actually happened between the two of you. You’d told yourself that it was all a distraction for him, that he didn’t want more.

This isn’t exactly confirmation. You don’t doubt that it’s all in good fun still, and knowing you, and how hard you tend to fall, you should walk away while you have the chance.

But you really, really want to kiss him. Want to know what it would feel like to taste his lips, to have his body pressed against yours, to feel his hands all over you.

You always take the smart decision. This is not the smart decision. But…

“What if you get it wrong?” you ask.

Satoru blinks.

“You can, uh, spray me with a water bottle?”

You let out a brief laugh.

“Isn’t that a dog thing? That feels unethical, Satoru.”

He preens at your use of his name.

“You should take your chance,” he drawls. “Shoko says it’s really cathartic.”

You’re not sure you need catharsis, but you feel a little lighter now. It’s all a joke to him, clearly, and from what you’ve seen in the past couple of hours, he hasn’t seriously studied once. He’s not going to get the answers right. You don’t think he’s even trying to.

“Fine,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes, reaching out for a water bottle and positioning your chair so you’re facing him. “Who came up with the notion of civil disobed—"

“Thoreau, 1848, but the essay was republished with that name in 1866.”

You stare. Gojo gives you a lazy smile.

“Now where’s my kiss?”

“Um,” you say. You feel incredibly awkward now. He’s leaning back against his chair, with eyes that have not left you once since he’s suggested that idea. You— have to move, now, don’t you?

Very slowly, very hesitantly, you push yourself to your feet. Satoru doesn’t move at all, and you don’t know if it relieves you or stresses you out even more. The position is quite uncomfortable, too, with you standing and him sitting down. You don’t know that you’ve ever towered over him like that. Gingerly, you put a hand on his shoulder, and then you’re leaning over him, and then you’re kissing him, and then you’re moving away as fast as you can. This was just a peck, really, a press of your lips to his that lasted a second, tops, and that you’re already trying to forget about.

You’re not a teenager anymore, and you know this shouldn’t be getting to you that much, but it’s— it’s Satoru Gojo. You’ve worked very, very hard not to think of him like that, because you didn’t want to let yourself get hurt. And now, you’ve let yourself be dragged into this so easily? Ugh. You wish you could slap yourself.

“Okay,” you say, voice more high-pitched than you’d like, but still understandable, which you’re grateful for. “Next, um, can you explain what philosopher kings are?”

Surely—

“Of course,” Satoru pretty much sing-songs. “Plato thought that cities should be ruled by trained philosophers, because only a philosopher would know and act for the good of a city.” There’s a brief pause, before he adds, “Aristotle thought that was bullshit, though. For the record.”

And then he waits. You narrow your eyes at him.

“When did you study for that?”

“I never study,” he answers lightly.

Instead of standing up this time, you scoot your chair closer to him, and you lean forward. Satoru chuckles, but humors you — even if the temptation of leaning further back to make you come to him, because you’re just adorable when you’re flustered, is great. This time, when you kiss him, though, he presses forward before you can move away, his nose brushing against your cheek as he chases after you. And oh, what a sight you are after that, wide eyed, lips parted, hands tightening on your notes.

“Next?” he asks.

“Right,” you say. You’re— not sure what’s happening here, to be quite honest. Should you stop this? You— don’t think you want to, but you’re also not sure what this charade is all about. “Um. Spinoza thought that free will—”

“—could only be reached through knowledge, and that most people never obtained it.”

Okay.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a physics major?”

He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely amused.

“Determinism’s a pretty big deal in science, actually, but let’s not change the subject here.”

You bite your lower lip, and his eyes track the movement like he’s starving for you.

You’re feeling hot all over, anticipation burning inside of you, and this time, you can’t pretend that he hasn’t done this on purpose. That he wanted to kiss you. You can’t quite reconcile the way you see yourself with that thought — how could Gojo Satoru want you, of all people? — but you find that it doesn’t matter.

You lean towards him once more, and this time, you let yourself kiss him. Really kiss him. You press your lips to his, soft at first, but when you don’t move away immediately, you feel him pressing against you, one hand coming to cup your cheek. His teeth pull at your bottom lip, and you let out a involuntary gasp. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to slide his tongue inside your mouth, and you keep inching closer to him, hands coming to his shoulders for support. You can feel yourself melt into him, and you curse your common sense when it leads you to break away from the kiss.

It doesn’t deter Satoru, though, because as you do, his hand slides under your knee, and next thing you know, he’s pulled you into his lap. His face is deliciously flushed, pink hue under the pale skin. He looks up at you, long fingers tightening around your thighs.

“We should waste less time like that,” he says.

Shoko likes to say he’s insufferable, and you can see why. Everything all seems to come so easy to him, and you’re defenseless against the way your heart races. When his eyes are on you, it feels like you’re the only person in the world. You’re not usually the type to indulge in that idea, but, ah, what’s the harm, as long as you know how to come back to earth later on?

You shake your head as you take him in.

“How are you even doing that?” you ask, mildly peeved.

“Haven’t you heard?” he grins widely. “I’m a genius.”

You roll your eyes at him. You’ve heard about that, of course, about how he maintains stellar grades without breaking a sweat. You just hadn’t seen that in application until now. In class, he’s usually asleep, or taking great joy in bothering the teacher. You’ve never seen him try to get something.

“Well, where’s my question?”

You sigh, putting your arms around his neck. You left your notes on the table, meaning that you might be less prepared than he is, actually.

“Descartes famously said—”

“Cogito ergo sum. C’mon, rational doubt is at the heart of science. I’m starting to think you’re just trying to kiss me.”

You do want to kiss him, but you have the self-control to shrug.

“Well, if you don’t want to—”

His mouth is on yours before you can think of how to end that sentence. He kisses you hungrily, hands gripping your hips as he tries to pulls you closer to him. Your chest presses into his, and you tighten your hold around him, fingers running through his hair. He grunts when you pull on it slightly, tilts his head back a little more to give you better access to his mouth, and when his tongue brushes against yours once more, you can’t help but to rock your hips against his. The friction makes you gasp into his mouth, and one of your hands falls down to his shoulder, fisting his shirt as you try to find better support.

“Fuck,“ you hear him mumble underneath you, right as you feel him grow hard. He pushes up against you. His fingers dig into your skin, one hand slipping under your shirt to run over your skin, leaving a trail of fire behind. It moves higher, brushing against your bra.

Against your better judgement, your hands travel down his body, tracing over his muscles. You feel him twitch under you, and when you roll your hips once more, with much more intent than the first time, he groans.

“Satoru,” you whisper, though even you don’t know if it’s a plea for him to stop or to keep going.

His eyes widen, and you feel him lift you up easily, pushing you onto the table. You lean back slightly, resting your weight on one hand. He’s red all over now, from his ears to his neck. His pupils are wide, his lips swollen, his hair messy. He looks like sin.

You don’t want to think about what you look like.

“C’mon,” he says. “Last question.”

“Haibara’s in the living room,” you point out. Even you know where this is leading.

“He’s dead asleep,” he merely shrugs. He’s mesmerizing, but you note that the glimmer of amusement that always dances in his eyes. This feels— serious.

“Um,” you say, licking your lips and watching how he bites his as his grip on your waist tightens once more — like he’s holding himself back. “Confucius—”

And then, the front door opens.

Gojo clicks his tongue and reluctantly steps back as you jump down from the table, beelining for the bathroom — you know that kiss is written all over your face.

You glare at yourself in the mirror. Your body’s still tingling, and you’re aching with want, now that release has been denied to you, but you know better. You’re supposed to know better. You take a few seconds to comb through your hair with your hands, and when it no longer looks like someone’s, well, kissed you senseless, you cautiously step back outside.

“We got you some fuel,” Shoko announces loudly, before getting shushes by Geto. He points in Haibara’s direction, who’s started snoring slightly.

“Thank you so much,” you say sweetly. “I’ll— Why are you wet?”

Gojo deadpans as he looks at you but, well, there’s water dripping from his hair, down his chin, and onto the shirt your hands were fisted in just a few minutes earlier, so, you think the question is valid.

“He was splashing water on his face when we got here,” Geto supplies helpfully. “Gojo runs hot.”

“And now it’s all over my floor,” Shoko mutters. “Next time, just wait ‘til the bathroom’s free, huh?”

Gojo looks like he has something to say just on the tip of his tongue, but he glances at you and seems to swallow it back.

“If anything, I made it cleaner,” he proclaims, leaning back on his chair. “Shoko, how long has it been since you cleaned in here? We really need to find you a partner who’s willing to do that stuff, otherwise you’ll keep living in fil—”

Shoko’s pencil case lands right in the middle of his face.

“You absolute brat,” she spits out, “I can’t believe you’d have the nerve to tell me something like that when you rely exclusively on Geto to—”

The bickering continues, but you tune it out. Under the table, Satoru’s knee brushes against yours. It’s almost hesitant at first, before he leans his leg against yours, when he realizes you’re not moving away. This isn’t the smart choice, either, but, ah, you’re always, always the smart girl. Is it so bad to have a night of fun? Is it so bad that you want to know what it would feel like to have him, even if it’s just once?

He’ll break your heart, the voice of reason says in the back of your mind, but then Satoru looks back at you, checking to see if you’re laughing at how he’s making fun of Shoko and, well.

You think you’ll let him.

Any and all feedback in the form of asks, reblogs, comments, tags is highly encouraged and appreciated~ If you enjoy my work, interactions are what keep me writing and motivated!

I haven't written anything in months and I think it shows but, well, I have to restart somewhere lol, so I hope it was still fun for you and you enjoyed yourselves here for a little while. Thank you for reading <3

prequel

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x you #my writing #gojo imagine #jjk x y/n

404 notes · View notes

ineffable-suffering · 7 months

Text

INEFFABLE META MASTERPOST

Because I'm slowly losing count and need to organize. So, here's all my self-written metas or ones that I reblogged with my own added theories and commentary! In rainbow colours, naturally.

1 – Aziraphale, I love you. But you lied. And here's why. My most lengthy and proudest meta about the Final Fifteen and why I think Aziraphale lied on purpose. (Also: The absolute darling @esthermitchell-author bravely fought their way through it and wrote up some more interesting points and different takes on what I came up with. If you want to go down a S2 rabbit hole with us, go read it here.)

2 – Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator (links below) A three-part meta in which I try to analyse and explain that all of the minisodes in Season 2 are not objective narrations but actually Aziraphale's memories.

Part 1: The Story of Job

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

Part 3: The Story of the Magic Show in 1941

3 – The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie A meta in which I go into unnecessarily great detail about how the Whickber Street Meeting Cotillion Ball was meant to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley.

4 – Crowley & Aziraphale were never free (reblog) A reblog of @baggvinshield's post in which I explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

5 – In Defense of Aziraphale (double reblog) A double try at explaining why I think Aziraphale's POV in the Final Fifteen is just as horrible as Crowley's and why I don't think him "choosing" to go back to Heaven was the only point of his character journey.

6 – The Art of Miscommunication: Ineffable Edition A meta in which i once again explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

7– Season 2 Bookshop Shot Meta A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a single bookshop frame in Season 2.

8 – What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle? A mini-meta in which I propose the theory that Jimbriel helped with the miracle to hide himself away from Heaven & Hell.

9 – Things in Good Omens Season 2 I still find weird (reblog) A reblog of @ok-sims and many other great OPs' thoughts on the weird loose strings in Season 2 and what unanswered questions I still have myself.

10 – The Deleted Bookshop Scene (reblog) A reblog of @skirtdyke's video and @i-only-ever-asked-questions' smart thoughts on it, with my own overly-excited 'what that could have meant for the "It's too late" line'-theroy.

11 – The Bentley Handle Easter Egg A meta I can proudly say has been liked by none other than Mr. Neil Gaiman himself about Crowley's Bentley handle that might have existed before the Bentley ever did.

12 – The F*cking Eccles Cakes A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a pastry. (Addendum: People said very smart things in the comments of the post!)

14 – Re: "You go too fast for me, Crowley" A meta in which I make myself sad by connecting that infamous line to Aziraphale assuming Crowley wanted the Holy Water as a suicide pill.

13 – Trauma-Dumping on your plants: The Anthony J. Crowley Chronicles A meta on why Crowley treats his plants the way that he does.

14 – Demonic Mental Health Awareness Post In which I talk about why I want to get Crowley a therapy voucher.

15 – The Curious Incident of The Flaming Sword in Good Omens A meta on why the Flaming Sword has no deeper meaning. Or does it? (Updated: here's a reblog from @queerfables who did a wonderfully exellent job at calmly explaining all the swordy questions I was yelling about! Consider this meta solved.)

16 – Ceci n'est pas une plume A meta in which I'm a bit of a nerd for language and also explain why learning French and magic the human way says so much about Aziraphale as a character.

17 – The meaning of "I forgive you" A meta in which I explain what both "I forgive you"s mean and why Aziraphale will always fight for what is right until he wins. Also, the lovely @sharksbeerr translated it to Chinese on Weibo!

18 – Memory, or the lack thereof, in Season 2 A little reblog on how memory is a big and unresolved, leaky-bucket theme in Season 2.

Addendum:

The one non-spoiler-y ask I could come up with about S2 that was actually answered by Neil, yay!

Also, this wholesome little post I added to that Mr. Gaiman also reblogged. :‘)

*** This is a work in progress and will get updated every time I post a new meta! ***

#good omens #good omens season 2 #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #gos2 #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens s2 #my own meta #good omens season 1 #meta masterpost #ineffable-suffering

508 notes · View notes

faetreides · 25 days

Text

summary: priest!leto x afab!reader x priest!paul (title from scorpio by pour vous)

cw: blasphemy if i’m being so real, spit roasting, reader is lowkey losing it but they’ll be okay, dubcon, pwp-ish (there’s set up but it’s not that long imo), mention of paul being into predator/prey, daddy kink coded without the actual daddy kink, horror elements, unreliable narrator vibes, mention of them being willing to non con reader if things didn’t go their way, no incest between leto & paul 💀, reader’s their sad loser turned attic spouse, mention of eventual impreg, implied soft dom!leto & mean dom!paul, religious practice inaccuracies, possibly predictable plot twists, implied painful anal but reader’s too out of it to feel it, implied natural aphrodisiac in their spit, reader bleeds

wc: 2.5k

block & move on if uncomfortable,

do not translate/repost/give my works to ai

please consider commissioning me or leaving me a tip !!

You’ve been feeling… lost. The trees keep secrets from you and the clouds mix together like egg whites. You wish you knew what kind of pill you need to be on, you wish you knew what was wrong with you. You’re paranoid and seeing blank eyes watching you through the brick and mortar of your apartment. Your skin burns hotter than hell and sometimes you think that there are claws grabbing at your ankles when you sleep.

Church hasn’t been something you’ve bothered to attend since you were a kid, but you yearn for it now.

You pull your tattered coat around yourself as you step into the ancient building. The Church of Caladan is the oldest church in the country, if not the world. You hope you don’t look silly when you take caution with how hard your feet hit the stone. ‘You break it, you buy it’ must apply to old churches too.

Your unease rolls off you in waves, and a couple nearby priests seem to sense it in the same way that horses can sense fear. For a second you imagine bursting into flames, but there are hands groping your flesh through the great hellfire.

They’re about even in height, though one is clearly older. The gray hair weaved into his temples suits him more than it shows his age. The younger man has the same dark and wavy hair, but his gaze is a touch more haggard and rife with burden.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have burst in here…. I'm just looking around.” You rush to explain so they would go away, internally cringing at yourself.

“No, we want newcomers to feel comfortable enough to ask questions. I’m Leto,” He says and shakes your hand. “And this is my son, Paul. He’s recently started working here at the church with me.”

Paul steps up to shake your head as well, his mouth doesn’t move but you swear that the corners twitch. The stained glass windows cast a multicolored hue on his eyes and you find yourself lost in the swirling pools of light. Then black holes swallow the brightness in the irises, cosmic cannibalism.

You blink in alarm and awkwardly take a step back from the two priests. Father and son share a look between them that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing them.

Leto clears his throat and pointedly grabs your hands in both of his, encapsulating them in his warmth.

“You’ll have to forgive him, Paul’s never dealt with a lamb as darling as you before. He’s never dealt with one at all actually, you two can go through this together.”

Paul smiles but it fits all wrong, with teeth that should be fangs and with a tongue that appears forked. You blink again and all is well, the man before you fits his human skin like a glove. Maybe you should give them the benefit of the doubt, you’re convinced you’re going crazy anyway and Priests would never be capable of hurting someone. Ghosts aren’t real and Demons are just a crazed mother’s bedtime story.

“Um, okay. Thank you for accepting me.” That’s all you want, deep down, and they know that. “I felt moved to be here, I can’t explain it.”

Leto nods and Paul rubs your shoulder in sympathy. They would hiss that they know full well what called you here, but you might bleat and scurry away. You make a sad picture, abandoned and half insane, but that’s what they are for. To soothe and to serve you, to purify you from the inside out.

“Then all the more reason to stay and sit for a moment, don’t you think?” Paul finally speaks, the boyish tone surprising you.

“Paul’s right, let’s get this jacket off you, poor lamb. You must be freezing to death.” Leto coos, shushing your protests and carefully pulling the cheap thing off of you.

They take you on a little tour of sorts, pointing out the architectural details of the building itself as well as passionately delving into its history. Centuries of worship and service to the community, strangely never having sustained any kind of property damage. The priests speak of the church as if they were wandering through the halls all this time, and they chuckle when they tease you about how relieved they were that you didn’t suffer from a nosebleed. They’re quite common apparently.

“I think that should do it, i’d hate to think that we’ve been talking your ear off, dear.” Leto says, rubbing the inside of your wrist and directing you towards the large piano on the stage at the front of the church.

He must notice the sudden spark in your eyes at the sight, because his crow’s feet wrinkles deepen as he pulls the black piano bench out. Leto’s palm spreads out wide and he gives the leather seat a firm pat, signaling for you to sit down. Butterflies swirl in your stomach with anxiety but you feel too shy to refuse the clearly eager offer. You take a seat in front of an onyx grand piano far grander than you’re used to seeing in a church.

Leto soon occupies the space next to you. The bench is small enough that your thigh is pressing against his, warmth bleeds through your clothes and the indication of muscle really makes you wish you were alone in your room with a rose toy. You place your fingers on the pristinely polished keys and clumsily play some hodgepodge of a melody that you remember from your childhood. A mix of tchaikovsky and children's church songs.

You jump and play the wrong note when you feel thick fingers slide up your thigh. Your cheeks burn with heat but you focus on the music. Leto sighs with sugary sweet satisfaction but doesn’t move his fingers any further. He also doesn’t try to play, it’s almost like he only wants to bask in the domesticity of watching you perform. You think you hear him whisper “That’s it, who knew such a talented lamb would be gracing our doorstep?”

You get a flash of riding him on the piano, gasping into his hair chest when it breaks under the weight of your passion. Thin fingers come from behind to caress your ass as it moves, much colder than the cock you’re bouncing on. Then it fades away, and you’re back to making a fool of yourself with your little song.

Paul watches from the pulpit, eyes drinking in the way your curves expand and move as you squirm. His grip tightens on the bright wood but you’re none the wiser. You almost forget that he’s even there, something which he realizes because he strolls to stand behind you and his father. The music stops once you feel his breath on your neck and he bends down to tenderly pull your hair off of your shoulder, getting himself acquainted with the texture as he rubs his fingertips down the strands.

A distant voice calls out for Leto and he stands, smiling apologetically and thanking you for the performance. You feel adrift as you watch him walk away, reminding yourself that a man like him has other things to do than coddle you.

Paul slides a hand down your back and guides you down to the pew right up front, with a view of center stage, sitting right beside you with a wink. Once Leto returns, you spot the silver tray of communion wafers in his hands. The tray is set on the pulpit by his side.

The older man's eyes darken as he puts one in his mouth, and your brain shuts down when he snatches your face in his rough palms and kisses you sense no less. The wafer cracks as his tongue passes it into your mouth, the salty crumbs oddly making you crave something even saltier. There’s a sticky sweet sensation traveling through your body as you exchange saliva with him, your brain feels so foggy.

You break away, curling your hands into the collar of Leto’s uniform.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Your voice is small and not completely filled with disgust, you’re honestly too desperate for some form of human contact to make good decisions.

“We’re helping you, honey.” Leto purrs into the seam of your mouth, shaking his head in apparent fondness.

You’re too cute for your own good, at least they don’t have to worry about covering their tracks. Any incubus or succubus would be glad to get a hold of someone as lonely as you, but they wouldn’t love you like you deserve. You haven’t been watched by anyone as long as you’ve been watched by them. He hopes that Paul doesn’t shove his foot in his mouth and let it slip that he wished you gave them the opportunity to take you by force. His son carries a torch for a bit of predator and prey action, he likes playing with his food too much. You’re different from the scrambling mice that get torn to bits, though, you’re forever.

Plus, if you don’t get it now, he has no problems with explaining everything when you’re too weak to get up and try to run away.

Paul buries his face in your neck, spilling the vial of wine he had in his pocket down your shirt. It soaks the tank top underneath and though you try with all your might to wriggle away, the desire to resist gets brushed away under a heavy fog.

It’s nice to be touched, to be wanted after a lifetime of feeling the exact opposite. Perhaps this is why the lord guided you to his grandest home, so you could take his prophets into your body.

The black vanishes from Paul’s eyes and you sink against his chest, making out with his father as your eyes roll back into your head.

No words are uttered verbally as Paul shuffles to the side and pulls you to lie back on the pew’s cushion. Leto deprives you of his tongue and gives you a chance to breathe, which both men do with you in sync, resting their foreheads against you.

The nectar on your tongue tastes divine, little lamb, a voice whispers in your mind.

Let us give you purpose so you no longer need to roam, another begs.

You’re crying from the relief of having your mouth filled, Paul tilts your head up by your chin as he slowly slides his cock into your mouth. The ridges and bumps of what feels like piercings sends a jolt of arousal through you.

“Fuck-” He hisses and rubs your neck, watching you adjust to the stretch. “So warm-”

Leto tuts and clamps his hands around your hips, you’re already too fucked out to register sharp black claws taking care of your clothes. Leaving you bare. A shiver passes through your body as he drags his huge hand down to your pussy, being mindful not to accidentally scratch you. He intends for there to be no blood, this time, not a lot.

You gag on Paul’s length when Leto slams your hips against his pelvis, grinding not one but two large cocks against your cunt. If you were looking at his face, you’d see pitch black eyes and intimidating fangs, but all you can focus on is the hazy candle light and what must be someone playing an organ.

You catch a view of one of the stained class windows, a pair of angels cradling a lamb. It’s the only damaged part of the church, with cracks running along the angel’s wings. You’d think it’s a sneeze away from shattering entirely. Your view of it is blurred by Paul’s quick thrusts, gagging on it again. Drools drip onto the red carpet.

Leto grabs one of Paul’s curled horns and yanks his head to the side, scolding at him to be nicer to you. You’ve clearly never taken three cocks inside you, the one you’re servicing is proving to be overwhelming enough. Again, Paul’s new to this experience as well, just in a different way than you are. In a sense, it’s like he was born yesterday. The older man relays this to you through your choked moans and tears, assuring you that he’s taught Paul how to clean up his messes and be grateful. Something like this will be no different.

“Hush, beloved. I would have gladly speared your mouth but you would be dead before I could cum inside it.”

You see God in the sky when Leto slaps the tapered tip of one of his dicks against your slick entrance, God sees you when he gets the tight walls of ass to wrap around the other. Unbeknownst to you, it’s funny how so many things are, your blood pools around his balls. You’re in pain sure but you’ve never felt as much pleasure as you have in this instance. Both “Priests” smell your blood and well, only your body can tell the rest of the story. Later you’ll wake up to find that the building around you has ruby walls and it seems to be breathing. The shooting pain in your left hand is the result of two iron rings being chiseled into the bone of your ring finger.

The four leathery wings protruding from your back, with spikes poking out from the joints, are waiting to be discovered. As are the nubs sprouting out of your hair.

For now beads of sweat highlight your bouncing tits, Paul gropes one and Leto runs the edge of his claw along the side of the other. They’re hissing words that string together and disappear in the blink of an eye, voices slurred and sticky. Their babbling stops and starts again as you reflexively swallow around Paul’s cock when he skull fucks you without warning. They laugh too, but you can at least pretend that Leto’s tone is kinder.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough teasing.”

“But father-“

“I said no. And don’t think for a second that you’re getting anything else but their mouth.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“You lack self control, it wouldn’t be suitable for conception to occur like this. As delectable as their quivering cunt is, demons shouldn’t abstain from courting.”

“You’re saying that as you’re balls deep inside of them.”

“Don’t start with me, Paul.”

All while you’re making gurgling sounds in between the younger priest’s thighs. You hear growls that sound like a mountain lion’s emitting from both men, and the heavy thumps of something flapping in the air gets you holes clenching around Leto. Both men feverishly scratch up and down your limp body, but you’re so enraptured by the chorus of angels happening outside. You have no sense of time, it’s minutes or it’s hours before their cum spills inside of you. There’s too much to possibly keep it all inside, a good amount of it leaks from your cunt and your throat. Leto feels like Christ incarnate when you squirt all over him and yourself with the dumbest expression on your face. Multicolored pieces of glass fall down around you with the loud chime of an invisible bell.

202 notes · View notes

makethosenarratorsfight · 10 months

Text

UNRELIABLE NARRATORS; SEMI FINALS

*NOTE; propaganda is out of order due to the post length!

Eugenides Propaganda:

the entire plot hinges on a detail he lets the reader (and every other character) assume is true. I don't want to spoil it because it's a really fun reveal but he is lying from the first second he appears on the page and you can't trust him to tell the full truth about ANYTHING related to himself and his goals. he mostly does it to keep his advantage and not have other characters be suspicious of him but it's just so fun when you realise he's been lying the whole time

Kim Dokja Propaganda:

I haven't read orv but he's fucking gotta be from what I've osmosised

He tries to remove his emotions out of the narrative soooo much, literally the most repressed guy ever. Okay so for context orv is about how this guy, Kim Dokja, has been the only reader of an obscure post-apocalyptic webnovel for years and the novel suddenly becomes reality. And at first you'll probably get the weird impression that his behavior is pretty strange for, you know, a literal apocalypse happening in his world - like yes, he is concerned with survival but he doesn't seem all that scared and he kinda treats it like a video game where he has to grind to make himself stronger and he also treats his companions like a party in an rpg. Then there's also the way he approaches the protagonist of the webnovel, from the start he just kind of describes him as a ruthless psychopath and jerk that is unfortunately a pretty useful ally. And also there's the fact that he carefully omits any mention of his past and when somebody asks if he's worried about his family when the apocalypse starts he just kinda... brushes it off? Anyway so yeah, this bastard is definitely traumatized, although I don't know how much of spoiler territory that would be, considering the fact that literally when he first reveals his trauma he's also unreliable about it. And turns out he does indeed, care A LOT about this world and the people around him. Because well, he kinda didn't care to mention that this webnovel that has become reality was like... literally his whole world before it literally became his whole world. Like, it was the only thing keeping him going for 10+ years and the protagonist that he likes to call a stupid jerk was his comfort character who he pretended to be when he felt like he couldn't handle something in his life by being himself. The protagonist is also canonically the person he loves the most according to a prophecy and he literally can't fathom the thought of him dying, even the timeline versions of him that directly oppose him. And I haven't even mentioned the Fourth Wall yet but I feel like this propaganda is a little long already

misreading the intentions of his companion (yoo joonghyuk) so many time.

YOU DON'T UNDERSTANDDD DOKJA IS SUCH A UNRELIABLE NARRATORRRRRR GOD I COULD WRITE AN ESSAY BUT I KNOW YOU LOVE DOKJA TOO BUT OMG HE'S JUST SO AAAAAAAAAAAH

Rest of Propaganda under cut!

he is the worst like actually. he starts the story talking about how normal and average he is. he is not. he is constantly mischaracterizing his friends and he's so good at lying to the readers that you don't even realize it at first. almost every single time he cries we have to be told by other characters because he never says it himself. there is literally a scene where his narration says "i wasn't crying" and then the in-universe entity that narrates the actions of people (orv is really weird and meta) says that he was, in fact, crying. honestly genuinely anything he says about himself (or doesn't say) cannot be trusted. he is just so frustrating. he drives me mad. i love him dearly. but he drives me so mad.

Dictionary definition of unreliable narrator. Does not tell the reader anything and then things happen and he's like oh yeah btw there was also this and this earlier but i just didn't feel like mentioning it. There's even a thing called the "Fourth Wall" that is able to see through kdj's bs so occasionally you get gems like,

Kim Dokja: I didn't cry

The Fourth Wall: [Kim Dokja was crying]

Imagine being so unreliable as a narrator you need a more powerful narrator to call out the actual narrator.

^ same submission, just spacing it out

This goes into spoiler territory, but; Kim Dokja is in possession of a skill called the Fourth Wall, which on the surface seems like it appears because he read the book that reverse-isekai’d into his own. However, as the story goes on it becomes clear that it’s pretty much a souped up version of his pre-existing dissociation. You cannot trust him to be honest about his feelings, his past traumas or his feelings about his past traumas, not to mention his tendency to just outright omit information that only gets revealed later on either when it becomes relevant or when an outsider POV reveals what’s actually happening.

Exhibit A: he says (in 1st person POV) that he’s not crying. The Fourth Wall immediately contradicts this (as it is literally words of the novel) by saying (in 3rd person POV) ‘Kim Dokja was crying’.

Exhibit B: Fails to mention entire actions when it shows him emotionally honest even in the slightest; we had to read from another character entirely when Kim Dokja was being physically affectionate with his companion. It’s so bad that there’s this entire paragraph about Kim Dokja describing himself hiding his eyes in his hands in jerky, weirdly specific detail and just AVOIDING EVERY WORD THAT MIGHT SHOW HE’S CRYING. The brilliance of ORV is that when you re-read the entire thing you get hints that ‘yes, this WAS hinted at the entire time’ but you have to dig it out of Kim Dokja’s repressed, depressed self-hating internal dialogue with your own two hands.

^ same submission, spacing it out (i really should've done this earlier.)

i am a simple man (not a man). i see a tumblr text post with the words “unreliable narrator in it”. i read nothing else. i reblog & tag #kim dokja okay but in all seriousness i’m just going with the musty basic example: so there’s this moment where he sacrifices himself to save this guy. as he lays on the ground bleeding out, he says “hey, you don’t like me, right? you should kill me to get some money” the guy says “no kim dokja i cant do that (going through the five stages of grief except there’s only one and it’s anger)” the constellations (twitch viewers irl) are like omg he (the guy) doesn’t want to kill his companion (kim dokja) and shower him (the guy) with money kim dokja: oh, he’s not killing me for the money. smart!

as i quote a brilliant youtube video (all of omniscient reader’s viewpoint in 6 minutes) “yoo joonghyuk sees kim dokja as a c_____”

yoo joonghyuk: companion

kim dokja: cunt

^ same submission, once again. spacing it out.

Hides his true feelings, tells the readers what he thinks is convenient for the plot and that his own personal feelings don’t matter or are not so significant. Has unreliable thoughts abt his companion and is a liar. And is also an omniscient reader.

Kim Dokja always perceived his companions in this like nonchalant way like “oh yeah we get along but really we’re just fighting to survive (apocalypse setting) it doesn’t run that deep” when they all do genuinely care for him and he does in turn. He just, doesn’t think of it as an equal relationship? Dokja’ll sacrifice a lot for them but will get seriously flabbergasted if they do the same thing, so fricking problematic. Not to mention Yoo Joonghyuk, his “Life and Death Companion” (read: husband). Kim Dokja always seems to think that Joonghyuk has it out for him, which is kinda true, but he is literally blind to the fact that he’s attached to him. Like, it’s so obvious??? Also they have hella sexual tension but that’s another thing entirely

se get some many pov changes where kdj in his pov just assumed things based on what he knew the characters would do. however because of his interference the characters have changed and he wouldn’t know that if it hit him in the face

He's an unreliable narrator because he lies to himself and thus the audience. He literally rewrote his own childhood core memory. If someone says, "this guy is my friend!" He will go through so many hoola hoops in his mind just to rationalize it. Because he fundamentally believe that no one could love him and even if they did they couldn't know him and he's just gonna hurt them. He cries sometimes in canon but a lot of those times it's not even mentioned as crying he's that unreliable of a narrator. No joke, one time this guys he has a gay thing with called him his "companion" to someone who had just killed him (long story) and this bitch thought "oh wow he's doing it for the coins (another long story) he's so smart i wish I'd thought to that. He's terrible. He literally has an exchange with something called the Fourth Wall (an even longer story) where it said "you're crying" and he said "no I'm not" but he was crying. He makes me insane because the reader is supposed to project onto him. He made me see how much of an unreliable narrator I WAS. ORV is just like that tho.

#kim dokja #kdj #orv #omniscient readers viewpoint #once again #if kdj gets this poll blacklisted again im blowing him up #eugenides #the queens thief #queens thief #unreliable narrators battle #unreliable narrators #polls #semi finals

607 notes · View notes

writing-with-sophia · 6 months

Note

I don't know if you have ever done this type of genre before, so feel free to ignore this ask, but... Do you have any good tips or advice for writing horror stories? Like psychological and creepy stuff.

Love your blogs btw!! <3

Tips for writing horror stories

Awww, I love you guys too! Unfortunately, horror is not my strength, and I have never written a horror story before. I tried my best to write this, so if there is anything wrong, please tell me!

Tap into primal fears: Identify and explore universal fears that resonate with readers on a deep, primal level. Fear of the dark, fear of the unknown, fear of isolation, and fear of loss are all potent sources of horror.

Create suspense and tension: Build suspense by gradually escalating the stakes and creating a sense of impending doom. Use pacing, foreshadowing, and cliffhangers to keep readers engaged and on edge. You can also use short, consecutive sentences to create a sense of urgency and suspense.

Establish a chilling atmosphere: Set the tone and mood of your story through atmospheric descriptions. Utilize sensory details to immerse readers in a dark, foreboding, or eerie environment. Utilize the power of the unknown to create fear and anticipation. Sometimes what is unseen or left to the imagination can be more terrifying than explicit descriptions. Let the readers' minds fill in the gaps and create their own horrors.

Develop complex characters: Create well-rounded characters with their own fears, vulnerabilities, and flaws. Make readers care about them, and then subject them to terrifying or psychologically unsettling experiences.

Use psychological horror: Delve into the depths of the human psyche to evoke fear and unease. Explore themes such as paranoia, obsession, madness, or fractured perceptions of reality. Subtle, psychological twists can be just as impactful as overt scares.

Cultivate a sense of the uncanny: Take ordinary, everyday situations or objects and twist them into something sinister. This can create a stark contrast between the familiar and the horrifying, intensifying the impact on readers. Play with distorted reflections, doppelgangers, or seemingly ordinary objects that hold a sinister presence.

Leave room for interpretation: Allow readers to fill in the gaps and imagine the worst. Suggest horrors rather than explicitly showing them, leaving room for the reader's imagination to amplify the fear.

Build anticipation and reveal strategically: Tease and withhold information to keep readers engaged. Gradually reveal unsettling details or unveil the true nature of the horror at opportune moments for maximum impact. You can subvert their expectations and challenge their assumptions to keep them engaged and off-balance.

Explore taboo subjects: Fear can be evoked by exploring taboo or uncomfortable subjects that challenge societal norms. Use these themes tactfully and with sensitivity to create a disturbing effect.

Experiment with narrative techniques: Consider using different narrative perspectives to provide varying viewpoints and insights into the horror. First-person narratives can intensify the reader's connection with the protagonist, while third-person perspectives can offer a broader view of the unfolding terror. Use non-linear storytelling, unreliable narrators, or fragmented perspectives to create a sense of disorientation and psychological unease.

Study the genre: Read widely in the horror genre to understand different approaches and techniques. Analyze what works in other stories and adapt those techniques to your own writing style.

Edit with a critical eye: After completing your first draft, take the time to review and revise your work. Look for areas where you can heighten the horror, strengthen character development, or refine the atmosphere. Trim unnecessary details and ensure that each scene contributes to the overall sense of fear and unease.

If you want to read more posts about writing, please click here and give me a follow!

229 notes · View notes

doublekanble · 1 month

Text

Ghost in your home.

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 8.5k

or, ever since you came back into his life, you came back wrong. And every attempt to understand or to fix you only ever serves to widen the distance. (have you ever love someone who died and came back so much you try to forced them into the mold of who they used to be without considering the fact they're no longer the same person? instead of learning to love them again? well have i got good news for you.) tw: toxic relationship (what's new). 2-4 have a progression of injuries and gorish talk. semi unreliable narrator alastor

1. His house is always at a pleasant 20 degree Celsius, but it always feels like 0.

“Now, I’m sure this is a bit upsetting, yes. But I assured you it’s for the better— “

Sharp yellow teeth grinded against each other, Alastor do his best to keep his own temper in check when another pillow hit his chest. The sounds of radio dials going haywire blares out for a second before evening itself out and turn to a low frequency hum. He picked these because he knows you would’ve love them, seems your tantrum triumph your love for the colors, after all. Standing a respectable distance away from you, at the door, he simply tries to focus on the positive.

“Shut the fuck up!” you roared, whipping your head around to stare into his eyes from where you’re hunching over, he would try chiding you for your nasty mouth, but that can wait until he’s sure you won’t rip the carpet apart. “What are you even trying to do?! Was killing me before not enough for you? You just have to hunt me down and make me lose my job— “

“—An extremely unnecessary and useless job that you’ll never have to bother with ever again!” when he starts to walk towards you, arms open and still trying to put you above himself, your snarled at him and lowered yourself, as if ready to lung at any minute. It wasn’t until you bring your hands up that he realized what you were doing, your fingers clutching the duvet below you tightly. Almost like a wounded animal retreating into its hiding spot before choosing to fight, you sat on your knee with sharp fingers, and in a single tug, you tear it into two.

“I wanted that job, Alastor! That was my job!” bellowing out at him with a fury he have never seen in you while bunching however much of the useless cotton that can fit in your hand, you tried to throw it at him again. It fell just below his feet and bloom open instead. Alastor doesn’t bother kicking it off to the side, opting to step over it and the other mess you made in your room. “You go and get yourself one that can guarantee you decent rooming and livable wage in this hellhole without selling your soul you dog!”

His shadow covers your figure as he look down at you with what he hoped is a more than amicable smile. That duvet and the torn books, the lamp and the drawers, everything, was picked out just for you. Now it’s all on the floor, even before he got to your room. He laughs.

“That’s absurd, love! Are you really trying to justify working in that pigsty for nickels and dimes? And even so,” Judging from the way you cowered and the interference in his voice, Alastor made a wild guess that he failed, but there’s no need to dwell on the specific. Light escaped to the corners when statics runs through the air before cutting off completely and red stares back at him from the bottom of your irises, you grow just a tad smaller in his eyes. “There is absolutely no need throwing such fits over minor disagreements. We’re both decent folks raised right, aren’t we?” you winced visibly when he cranks his neck to a sharp ninety-degree, he almost feels bad for you.

“It’s not ‘minor’, everything I worked for is gone. You scorched them like they’re nothing…” You grumble out and break the eye contact, tone spiteful but small. There’s a tinge of cautions in it now, like a dog with tail in between it legs, still growling from it belly but caution of the fight.

“I wouldn’t have burn anything that meant something to you, love,” Cooing at you, he can feel his bones shifting back into place as Alastor reaches out a hand to smooth out your hair, finally able to frets over your messy and unkept state from the morning outburst. You keep absolutely still under his hold. “All those frivolous rubbish you kept in that tiny living quarter of yours combine won’t worth half as much as a single item in this room! And look at where they all ended up…”

“They meant something to me, Alastor.” He glances down at his hand, your sudden grip on it was tight, with the nail on your thumb pressing right at his vein as a warning. He can tell when someone’s doing something to scared him, this isn’t that at all. You seem to almost be unaware of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alastor finds the notion of you needing to know how to do this —or the fact you’re even doing it out of habit— wholly annoying and unpleasant. “I like them, and I worked to buy them with my own means.”

At that, he smiles, such a messy little thing, you always are. Awfully sentimental and always get caught up on the wrong thing. Alastor gets it, he really does. He gets sentimental over stupid, silly little objects and items too. The rock he picked up somewhere when he was five, placed in the corner of the drawer that he threw out once he found it again as an adult. His first tailored suit that he worked day and night for, collecting dust in his closet by the time he looked back. That letter of acceptance kept in a box, the one he burns the day that lousy owner of the radio station was discovered at a bottom of a creek and got replaced with someone much more pleasant.

Alastor has things he treasured too, and unlike you, he knows when to let something go and when to take a hold of it. That’s why your old place stand as nothing more than ashes blowing in the wind. You always have a knack for frantically holding onto your romanticism and the nonsensical. He honestly would rather be giving you more time to adapt, but not only are you horribly fussy about it, Alastor now has his good grace thrown in his face.

“Well then, if you’re so hung up on them, then you’ll feel more than at home to work for everything you’ve wrecked today, yes? Afterwards, we can get talking about getting you something else.”

You’re a terribly lucky thing, still able to even breathe where Alastor maimed so many for much less. He thinks you know you are, that’s only why you’re so insistent on being so difficult, glaring up at him with hate in your eyes and a such a rotten attitude.

“Get out,” your voice was small, but far from scared. With fingers curling around his wrist uselessly, you all but snarled, “Get. Out.”

“They’re awfully expensive, as you already know. They’ll do good to motivate you too. One stone two bird, as they’d say~” ignoring your silly attempt to provoke him into losing his temper again, Alastor wrapped his free hand around yours, and with what he thought was a gentle tug, pulls it from his wrist. He releases it when you winced, almost caught surprise by the change in the way you sit. Slightly hunching over, you held your hand close to you. His index nicked your wrist, and a bead of red ran from it.

Although it was no more than an accident, he knows you’re more than familiar with the ensembles of screams and cries running from the radio he placed in your room. You don’t need to know he will never let you join in with the harmony, but it’s nice to keep you on your toes sometimes.

“Stay good for me. Will you, darling?”

2. He gives you everything you could’ve ever wanted and more than you could ever need. He remembers your rapidly cooling body underneath him.

“Dearest,” sweetly, he calls out for you, gripping onto your shoulder, “Why are all the books in your bathtub?” he can tell it’s hurting you, but you keep your gaze far beyond the window and into the cityscape.

It wasn’t only the books, all of your lovely stationaries and art supplies and music sheets and what-else swims in that damned bathtub like a bloated corpse. Your room, although not as clean as it was before your little fit, it’s still a substantial improvement. It also gives you little to nothing in terms of fun aside from the lonely cacti sitting silently on a table with scratch marks, you’d refuses to step foot outside unless he needs you at the dinner table. Say whatever you want, Alastor is everything but heartless when it came to you, so he starts coming up with ways to give you some fun in your life.

He thought it’ll be the right thing to do, gifting you something for you to spent your times on and make a home out of your room. Which, in turns, might be the first push he needs for his home to become yours, too. He couldn’t really give himself too much credit, though. If anyone were to pay attention, they would all come to the same conclusion about you. Terribly restless and honest little thing, always on the move, always doing something. That’s what he loves so much about you, you can’t hide a single thought from him with how you can barely keep yourself together at times. Anything you feel always came up to your face. And if you were to dislike someone, he will know.

Even by the end, where you eventually grew quieter and more muted, looking behind your shoulders and fretful over invisible shadows hiding in the dark; your heart still stays so comically beautiful and kind. So lovingly, you still use the same fountain pen he gifted you. You were still you. So when he got you those things, Alastor was somewhat hoping to see just what you can come up with to further antagonized him. He’s not delusional as to hot-blooded and petty you are. You can hate him in this moment, but he knows you well enough to know you’ll never be like him. Always the kinder of the pair; you were never one for outright belligerent.

“I don’t know,” your voice was airy and light, then, “I don’t like any of them.”

But now, without him noticing, your eyes somehow carried the same glint as he does.

Down here in Hell, the day always been just a little bit brighter than the night. Obnoxious red always painted the sky, it’s really the furthest thing from the scenery back on Earth. Even then, the evening shade reflected in your eyes almost reminded him of the lovely days of being alive. With his red thumb practically piercing your collarbone with how hard he’s pressing down on you, sitting on the only chair in the room that’s still intact, by your half clawed-up desk, face sitting all neatly in the palm of one hand; you can almost be considered graceful like this, body lax and a wistful gaze. Alastor can almost be taken by the sight. Almost.

Although Alastor was only trying to turn you towards him for yet another scolding, for a second, he’d forgotten just how easy it is for his claws to tear. One moment, you were on the only chair left in the room, staring out a window and paying no mind to his growing ire. Another, you crumbled on the floor, hand replaced his. Slightly dazed from what just happened, he stands and watches on while you clutch at the bits of tendon and bones showing through skin, trying to squeeze the opening together with shaking hands. Red streams through between your fingers without a care as the familiar smell of metallic fills the room. You now faced towards the floor, frozen stiff like a scared little fawn. Alastor couldn’t bring himself from the sight. Right, you’re made of flesh, too.

He clenched the hand that touched you once to get rid of the ache soaking itself in his bone marrow, opens it, then twice, as if testing out the way your blood settles on his blackened palm. Shaking himself awake, he can almost feel the hunger clawing through his throat and molding itself into the will to bite. You really are lucky, if you were any old Joe, you wouldn’t even have a shoulder to rest that stupidly stubborn head of yours on.

“Darling,” a knee touching the floor, he kneels at his spot and reach a bloody hand out, moving the tip-over chair out of the way with another. An apology on the tip of his tongue, he bites and swallowed it when you inched yourself back just a bit with eyes still glued to the stained carpet. You wouldn’t really deserve one anyway. Long, heavy breath seeps through your bared teeth, your hold on that obnoxious gash tightened while the floor beneath you catches the blood that fell in droves. He sighs. “Come now, I’ll help clean you up.”

He can hear the sound of your heart, still frantically beating as you refused to answer or take his hand. Through the curtains of your bangs, he spots wild eyes darting to the door, before settling on his patiently waiting red claws. The moment you looked as if ready to bolt away, Alastor decides that he have been more than patient with you – seizing you by the elbow and dragging you up, he took you to his room for the day. You made a weak attempt at fighting out of his grip before giving up entirely. When your footstep slowly catches up to him, he thanked Lucifer.

In his well-decorated and tidy bathroom, over your humiliated protest and pitiful whine, Alastor forced a proper apology from your mouth while he scrubbed away the urge to sink his teeth into something and the crusted brown clinging to your flesh with a sponge and a grip too tight. You couldn’t complaint, too focused on what must be one of the worst pain you’ve felt since the day you were reborn. There’s nothing he can do for you, he thought to himself – you can handle a little more pain, you were so insisted about being so unfairly difficult despite his multiple humbling attempts at a peace offering or at least a truce. A brat until the end of time, no matter the length he’d go through for you.

Alastor would’ve wondered over and over to himself about just what was it that makes you so incredibly indispensable to him, but he knows why already. Standing by his window after patching you up and sending you back to your room with a “gentle” warning, leaving the bathtub ordeal to be dealt with tomorrow and having nothing else to do, he let a familiar tune plays from the neglected microphone leaning on his bed.

As a person, Alastor knows not of regrets. Everything he does since the day he buried his bastard of a father below the soil of the earth have been mark and marred with several distinct goals in mind. So that his mother can finally live the life God owed her, so that he can live the life he deserves, Alastor cheated and lied his way through life and climb up the social rank. With bloody hands and a silver tongue, he bought a house in a nice neighborhood and became well known amongst the community for his charm. And somewhere along the way, with dirt caked under his nails, he finds you in his life and you stayed until the day you died.

Life in New Orleans was always colorful, even when he was surfing through the night alone. But with you, it’s like getting to live through the good part twice. The day you died, a part of him died with you on the forest floor. Blooming under rotting leaves and buried below the rocks is the one other person that Alastor dare entrusted with his heart. It rots too, along with you, but he never really minded it all. Alastor knows you; he knows why you’re utterly indispensable to him.

As a person, Alastor knows not of regrets. But as Alastor, he finds that thoughts and daydreams can never talk and laugh like you do. In your absence, his thoroughly decayed heart only grows fonder of the you he remembers. When he came down here, he wasn’t able to bring a single thing of you with him. When he finds his way back up there, everything of yours was burnt and destroyed. So for the longest time, Alastor lives on with the thought of you in his mind and your warmth in his heart.

It's awfully painful, he quietly admitted to himself, it’s awfully painful how, even though you’re just a walk away now, room set right next to his, divided by thick wood; Alastor has never felt so much further away from the life he envisioned. His claws, clean of your blood, dance on the windowsill as he hummed along to a tune from the older days, the better days. He’s willing to wait, however. You surely will come around, you have to, and when you do, you’ll laugh about your stubborn streaks and poke fun at his willingness to let you trampled all over his ego like this. Surely.

For now, for the rest of the night, Alastor sat and stare out the window with nothing in mind. He hopes this feeling of fulfilled emptiness can leave before it takes roots in his heart.

3. The AM radio frequency only read white noise. He can’t hear your voice.

Your miserable sobs don’t get any quieter, even when he slammed the door closed.

Leaning against it with a huff, Alastor brushes off the familiar and unwelcome fatigue settling in his mind and adjusted the collar of his vest with one hand. There’s no use in going in there again for the night. If there’s one thing he can ever be sure of, it’s that you would throw yourself out the window the moment you see him again and made an even bigger mess for him to clean up. It’s shameful to admit he ever lose control over himself like that. In a perfect world, nobody should know the exact buttons to push like you do, no word should ever get to him like yours does. But Alastor long since accepted that if you were to ask for his heart, you’ll have it on a silver platter. You’re very firm on taking the stand of martyrdom before you ever ask him for anything, but he likes to think that he’s working towards that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alastor started towards the kitchen. He hasn’t cook anything for the day yet, and he’s sure that the first-aid kit was still in there from your last tantrum. All this trouble, and he can’t even make a roast out of this. He knows you’re not too fond of meatloaf – or anything he made for you nowadays – but it’ll have to do, since you’re so keen on wrecking his schedule with your childish attempt at a spat and your nonsensical sentimental for that useless life you kept insisting you want back. Despite all of it, he does feel just a tad bit of pity for you. You, and your right arm, the one sitting silently in his left, bleeding all over his carpet floor. Hopefully this will teach you to stop moving around so much next time, you’re not unfamiliar with a broken wrist, but you just kept writhing and clawing at his hands, and his slipped.

Quite frankly, this is still a much better life than for you to be in the same room and so close to those revolting roughnecks and floors stained with Satan-knows-what. He can’t even fathom just why you’re still clinging onto it so tightly when there’s so much for you here. When he’s here.

He stills remember the sinking feeling in his chest when he makes his way to a figure quickly retreating behind the counter, under the dim lights and the rowdiness of a dingy café that barely qualifies as one. He wasn’t sure at first – Hell has a way of masking one’s appearance with a roulette game, and despite his growing contracts and connections, information might just be wrong. You could’ve been exorcised, or even worse, managed to wrangled your way into Heaven somehow and left him down here alone. But he placed his confident in a good friend, who promised him that if this isn’t you, then nobody else can be.

Bless the Christian God himself for his mercy, the moment he let that familiar name fell from his lips again after so many years of living without it, Alastor find himself staring into the same gaze that haunted his waking days and sleepless night. Holding onto you with a bruising grip, when you finally bring yourself to stare back at him like a deer in front of head light, his rotting heart comes alive with a fervor and he knew you’ll never be separated from him ever again. Back in his arms and under his wings.

Despite the time it took and your less-than-ideal reunion, he was more than thrilled to show you he finally made good of himself down here, just like he said he would. As Alastor lead you back with a smile splitting his face open, he tells you all about what he’s been doing. In his house is a room prepared just for you with everything you’ve ever love that he can get his claws on. It used to sit there and taunt him in the night where the silence stretches on and on and nothing in the underworld can distract him from the idea of your separation lasting until the end of time and the end of his life, that for all his preparations to make sure you two will never parted, he managed to miss the one chance he had with you in life. His halls echoed a voice that he barely able to recalled while he chased a shadow he desperately tries to remembers in whatever he can remember of you. The passage of time and his work might take your lovely voice and visage from him, but it will never let him forget how you feel about dark coffee or your favorite composer.

The time he lost being far away from you, the time you both lost being away from each other, Alastor was ready to make up for all of it. With good food, good wine, a good home and a good life. Finally, nobody will ever be able to turn their nose up at you both. If they do, he has more than enough means to fix it. His broadcast station no longer stays dependent on some white hotshot he needs to keep in a good mood at all time, it now plays only the things Alastor wants it to, forever. And now that you’re back, it’ll plays whatever it is you want too. All of it, just for yours and his sake alone. And then you turn your nose up at him, demanding for your old pathetic life back.

Ever since Alastor found you and took you home, you’ve been nothing but ungrateful, unpredictable, and downright hazardous to yourself and his furniture. Nothing like the darling he cared for from way back then. All bites and no barks, that’s what your silly threats and your mischief used to be in life. It’s nothing here, too, but he can only get so far restraining you to your bed until you learn how to break your own hands and slip it through the cuffs. You were always a lot of things, but this vindictive side of you still are so incredibly off-putting to him.

And yet, even with all of this, Alastor’s eroding heart breaks for you. Recently, he discovered an old book, one he took with him from the burning pile of your apartment and kept in his overcoat for a long time. It was a book that you shared with him when you both were alive, he was more than elated once reminded of the fact. Stained with black on the cover and slightly misshapen, the book must’ve gone through so much, considering your occupation at the time. Alastor remembers just how hard it is to get used to the disrespectful crowd down here, even for someone like him who can simply waved his hand and turn them into red paste on the filthy streets. You must’ve been so confused and scared, having to re-familiarized yourself to a new and much more unwelcoming world, making your way through an utterly horrific landscape without him there to help you with.

Naive, kind hearted and gentle you, even when you’ve killed before, you’re an easy prey in an awful, awful world. Mother always reminded him that wounded animal takes time to trust and they bite and clawed their way out of hands that moves too fast, so he need to make good by her words and keep on giving you just that, time. No matter the fact you barely improve, no matter how much time he gave you, or the fact it was him who clawed off your arm in the first place.

So, with a bright attitude, Alastor strides to your shut door with the sounds of your hysteria long gone. He knocks three times and calls out to you, then leave you alone with the first-aid kit. He’ll give you until midnight to do it yourself.

4. Love and hate are a hair away, he realized he hates loving you at times.

You’ve been improving, day by day. You stop biting back so much and starts to listen more, you sit when he asked you to and learned not to talk so brazenly while you’re at it, too. You don’t ever smile, yes, and his hallways still feel so cold at times. You walked as if you’re on eggshells, and you sleep with your body huddled under the blanket, as if there’s something hiding in the dark that will take you away if you dare peak out from it. You stacked books and boxes underneath your bed, too.

At times, Alastor felt like he’s having a guest staying over, maybe it’s because you’re acting more and more like one. Someone whom he knows well enough to accommodate their every need, but there’s an air of unfamiliarity, of the fact they’re not a close enough friend to stay over for so long, and their every decision needed checking. The thought itself is beyond ridiculous, he knew you for years before you died. He’s the closest friend you have, alive or death. He knows how you like your eggs; he memorized your voice; he knows when you need to sleep and when you like to wake up. But he digressed. Progress is progress, you’re getting better day by day, and he only ever have to threatened you a bit at times.

Which must’ve been why it felt so wrong, holding you like this.

He can only hope you won’t be able to discern his heavy panting over your own growing panic. Alastor could’ve sworn that he’s a better man than this, that he has more patience and more tact, already lived through a childhood with his head down and a smile stitched neatly on his lips. But he rationalized the way his pointer and thumb pinch together with the same compassion he have for a stray dog, separate only by your tongue, slowed and unmoving only by his own desire to give you another chance to explain yourself and take back your word and let him returns to his days of thinking you’re getting better, never minded the fact he’s not hearing anything out of his good ear right now. It’s not that he’s drawn to the way your pupils dilating and turned pinprick as your near incoherent pleading slowly cut itself off, realizing this might not end well. It’s not that he’s intently observing the trickle of blood running into the back of your throat, or the way your hot breath hit his hand, unable to close your jaw from the grip he has on you.

From the first dawn of this day until mere minutes ago, things were just lovely. Alastor managed to hold a ten-minute conversation with you in the morning, and by noon, able to coaxed you out of your hiding spot and onto your seat at the table with the promises of getting you whatever else you requested, as long as you keep your manner in check. You raised an eyebrow at the unusual and grand display of dishes for what you must’ve thought was a normal meal, but you stay silent. The four walls in your room had to be decorated by his own hands, and anything you refuses to keep, you throw into the toilet or buried under your growing number of plants out in the garden he’s not allowed to step foot in; thusly, there’s no longer a calendar in your room for you to keep tracks on dates.

When he pulls out a bottle of wine – full bodied, his favorite from when he was alive, it feels like blood sliding down his throats at times – you look at him, your eyes tells a world of distrust as he smile at you and pour it into two glass and hand you one. Alastor could’ve cried true tears of joy when you accepted it without making a fuss and simply placed it by your left, picking up a fork with your dominant hand. You waited for him to say something, before quietly thank him for the food and starts to eat.

For most of the meal, you work away at your own plate while he talks for the both of you. Alastor doesn’t mind, the fact you bothered to pay attention is good enough, occasionally nodding along or giving him a small huff or two. You’ve been doing a great job at staying in line ever since a year ago, especially once you learned you’re also made of flesh, just like the rest of the voices stuck in his broadcast. Alastor would’ve gladly taken this, if not for how you’re glancing off every now and then, contemplating something.

Particularly, you’ve been holding onto your glass for an awfully long time now, drifting off in the middle of him relaying an encounter he had the day before. Alastor pauses when you take it near your face and cleared your throat.

“…It’s not your birthday today.” You said, nonchalantly staring into the bottom of the glass, spinning it to and fro between the middle of your pointer and thumb.

“I’m glad you still remember my birthday, dear. But yes, it’s not! It’s surprising you can even tell what day it is!” he laughs.

You only glance up, before letting out a deep sigh, “You’re way more eager on your birthday.”

“Well then love, would you care to enlighten me on how I am today?” Alastor leans over the table with a smile, mood light and hoping you stop with the implications. You look angsty, however, gently lifting the glass up to your lips and take a small gulp. When you finally look at him again, Alastor felt his smile strains, he knows what that look means.

“What day is it?” with a clink, the glass landed on the table and stay there, “It’s not my birthday, nor is it yours. It’s not a holiday, too, far as I know. “

The corner of his lips pulls taut, his half-lidded eyes stare straight into yours. The sounds of something sharp pulls through the radio, but you refuse to back down. Alastor caved and took his own glass into his right hand.

“I was going to keep it a secret until we finished with our meal, but if you’re so insistent on spoiling the surprise—“ taking a long sip before continuing, if this goes south, he might need something stronger, “—It’s been a year since the day we reunited, right on the dot. I figured we should do something to celebrate, but you’ve always been such a stick in the mud about your past. So, I was going to have us finishing the meal first— “

The clanking of silverwares being drop onto porcelain plate was the first thing he catch, the ear-grating sound of your chair scrapping harshly against the kitchen floor’s the second. With both hand bracing against the table, you look half ready to launch yourself over it and kill him with your bare hands, but you breathe in, back straight, and simply look at him.

“Your mother would be livid if this is the you she knows.”

You looked as if you still have something else to say, but in a second, he have your face in his hand, grinning down at you while the base of his horns itch and creaks.

“Apologies, dear. I think I’ve heard something wrong,” the lights in the room flickered, in between the burning bright and the cold dark, he can only see red, “Do you want to try and repeat that for me?”

“Your fucking mother would’ve hated you.” Over the radio static bursting his own eardrums and your lovely voice spewing utter putrid, he tucked a thumb in before you can properly close your mouth, you clamped down onto it and grinded your teeth. He laughs.

“Oh~ you think you’re so incredibly brave, aren’t you?” sticking in another thumb, Alastor slowly pried your mouth open, the more he does, the quicker your attitude change, “So strong and so special. You can handle yourself just fine without me, can’t you? nothing I do will ever be enough for you.”

“Al—waih—“ you choked out, desperate. But he’s not having it today.

His pointer and thumb pull on your tongue.

Alastor swore up and down, he was raised a tactful and patient man. He followed his mother‘s word very carefully and tries his best to be charitable with you.

With eyes glued onto the trail of his blood, quickly drying on your chin, then to your tongue, with increasing pressure, he can feel his smile splitting open his own face, but there’s no joy to be found in his woeful, heavy heart.

It feels so wrong, holding you like this. He feels so wrong, looking into your eyes. You almost certainly accepted your fate by now, he feels a bit bad for you. So utterly helpless in his hold, realizing just how little power you truly have without his generous love, giving into you and letting you plays out your fantasy, even after everything you did. He knows you’re still getting used to this, he knows you needed more time. Alastor would almost consider this a lesson learned, but the statics blinds him to your pain, and for a moment, all he knew was that he wanted you to feel the same pain as he does.

So, because he loves you so much, because you want to hate him so badly, he ignored your hysterical cries as he pinches down on your tongue, then in one motion, he rips it from your nasty, bitter mouth.

5. Before he realized it, you weighted 21 grams.

It’s almost like he’s haunted, at times. The thought would’ve been amusing.

Humming a tune and walking up the three steps leading to the front door, Alastor eyed the Ficus sitting on either side of him, a brown leaf fell from the lulling branch while he fetching the keys from his pocket with one hand. They’re wilting faster than he can water them. What a shame it really is, not only have you lost your will for everything, you also lost the mood to take care of tacky house plant decor. Maybe he should try for some Begonia next?

“I’m home, love!”

Alastor is greeted with an empty corridor and a faint melody dancing through the air. He can only sigh and step further into his home, heading for the kitchen. Every day he hoped something would magically change, and every day Lucifer laughed at him from the top of his luxurious throne.

You can hear him, he knows you do. You managed to crawl all the way into the studies just to put on a song the moment he steps foot outside the house, after all. It’s a blessing, how you haven’t bolt right back into your room the moment you hear the door opened, you must’ve been in a good mood. He hopes you can stay that way until tomorrow, but it’s fine if you don’t, as long as you’re willing to eat whatever he puts in front of you. He peaked into the spotless kitchen, and with nothing out of place, he stepped inside.

Setting the groceries down, he pulled out everything he needs for dinner. Already with a dish in mind, Alastor whisked out an iron cast pot and set it on the stove. He shooed his shadows off and away, he can prepare for this recipe himself, and he want to be alone for a while anyway. He prepares all the ingredients before getting to the rice. The music flows from upstairs as he works in silence, mindful of his own microphone and keeping it off.

He doesn’t remember this song, it must’ve been one of the newer ones Rosie gave him to give back to you, assuring him you “just need more fun things in your life, then you’ll get to talking again”. Alastor wasn’t sure if you would’ve like it enough for him to keep it, but he wasn’t going to bother fighting with Rosie.

Turning the fire down, he closed the lid and set the kitchen timer to twenty-two on the dot. It should be enough time for him to make the roux, but he can check the rice early. Pouring oil into a pot to his right, he turned the fire up to max and began whisking the flour into it, when it turned brown, he drops the onion in and lower the heat to medium.

If not for him constantly reminding you, you would’ve ignored the needle-like pain in your stomach. Granted, you ignore it even when he did remind you, so he took to just make things and leave it in your room until you’re in the mood to eat. It’s been going on for two years now, enough time for him to regret playing into your hands and losing his temper. Alastor had hope that if he were to deprived you of everything he’s willing to give you for some times, you would finally get it through your thick skull that he only ever wanted good for you. Only, the you that greeted him after three long month was silent and still, lying on your bed with close eyes. The only sign you’re still alive in the first place was your breathing, almost invisible to the common eye.

He remembers hovering over you, a finger set on your chin and pulls it down. With an odd lump in his throat and a heaviness he rarely knows of, Alastor let out a weak chuckled, watching as a reformed lump of meat pulsates and weakly twitching in place of your tongue. Turns out, without the correct nutrients, the citizen of hell could only pray that whatever injury they obtained will kill them faster than they can heal it. And just as fate would have it, you’ve been holding onto such a thing ever since he locked you in.

Maybe that’s why your eyes haven’t change since, maybe that’s why you refuse to talk, maybe it still hurts, and maybe you afraid of getting used to the comfort he provides you. Or maybe you hated him for it, he wouldn’t know, you never really made yourself clear since that day. It’s the longest you’ve ever gone without anything that he gave you, and he’s trying his best now to make sure it’ll stay the longest you will ever go without anything ever again.

The roux turned a dark, shiny brown. He added almost everything else and stirs it for five minutes sharp. Quickly checking the rice once the timer calls for his attention, Alastor turned off the fire and reaches for the tomatoes and stocks. The music from upstairs come to a halt.

It’s became synonymous with you now, silent and stillness. Somewhere in the middle of an evening, Alastor came to the oddly upsetting realization that you just as well never return to the same you that he was trying so hard to recover.

Throwing in the two ingredients, he raises the heat back to high. When it began to boils, he puts it to medium and let it simmers for six minutes. A shadow came by and whispered winds and chimes into his flickering left ear, you’re back in your room with the gramophone.

When he was alive, every moment spent with you was bright and different. You were a wild spark of fire in the cold city, silently chasing after dreams with a caring and delicate heart. Your shared mirth used to fill the room as you talk over jazz and the constant chattering from loudmouth patrons. Those days became the only thing he held onto in the midst of his busy life down here.

Then one day, within his first few years of working his way up the ladder, still without your shadow haunting the empty room in his house; Alastor looked back on those days, the better days, and realized he can’t remember the exact note of your voice, he can only recall that you were happy. So he hunts down every corner of hell in a rush, afraid that the rest of you will slip away again. He laughs silently to himself; a meaningless thought crosses his mind. Is there even any of you left to fall through his fingers?

Putting the heat to low and adding in butter, he stirs until it blends and throws the shrimps and scallions in and something else hit him. He hasn’t been able to pin down the exact note and tone you tend to laugh in yet, nor have he able to watch any of your painting comes to life. He kept on stirring, after three minutes, he added seasoning. He catches a faraway song, barely making out the notes, he thinks that’s your favorite.

For weeks now, he kept going over everything he could’ve done wrong. Although he tries to ignore it, the animosity you shown since the second you saw him in Hell, maybe even before you’re dead, it might’ve stemmed from before he chased you down in the woods. But you know what he can do even in life, and you should’ve known Alastor would never hunt you down just to lock you inside the cacophonies he broadcasts on the daily. Alastor can at least understand that he struggled between giving into you and maintaining control. Perhaps that’s where your path diverts, perhaps you’re not meant to be by his side after all, ever since the day you die. Maybe you died before he even got to buried you, but Alastor can no longer pinpoint since when you died because he doesn’t know since when you started to play along with him. All he knows is that if he were to stops your breathing today, you’ll wake up tomorrow with no faith lost in him. The thought sits in his stomach and made itself home. But that’s alright.

Alastor rather stomached the idea of breaking you, the alternative was worse. If a life time of chasing your shadow only resulted in endless hate, that’s alright to him. As long as you’re still breathing and by his side, there’s surely a place for him in your heart. Surely.

His microphone sudden sparks up to life and died again. Right, the food, dinner. He gets to setting up your plate.

Having lived for this long, Alastor’s used to playing along and getting along with the oddest of crooks. He’s unsure of how to ever get along with you, though. You have been nothing but nasty and callous before, but at least you talk and react. Now, you walk at a slowed pace, no longer making any sort of distinguishable noise as you do. Less of a guest, and more of a transparent image of someone he barely able to call himself an acquaintance to.

Or more precisely, it’s as if he’s fostering a ghost in his own home, and now he’s going through all the troubles that came with one. At first, the ghost thrashed and trashed everything, confused and in pain and determined to hurt. Then, the ghost calmed and it starts making compromises to try and look for a way out. What he have now, Alastor muses as he plated your meal and ready his heart, is the melancholy of the ghost. When the grieving and the anger and the bargaining and the hurt passes on and left the shell behind, there’s only ever the emptiness lingering.

The stairs creaks under his shoes, shadows hanging around the corner and slowly melts back under Alastor as he walks by. One in particular waits on your door and chirps when he stepped towards it, seemingly in a good mood, its laughter akin to windchime as it reconnects itself to him. He ignores it and knock three times to give you time and hide away whatever it was you’re working on. The music kept on playing, a vulgar but joyous song burst through the door the instant he opens it, Alastor swallowed his disdain and step inside with a smile.

“Lovely tune, dear. Is it one of Rosie’s discs?” facing out the window, you sit at your desk, long void of the marks from your first tantrum. From here, he can see your index finger tapping gently to the beat, you must’ve memorized it. “Certainly interesting taste you both shared…but I’ll make sure to ask her for more.”

Living with the melancholy of the ghost means you know there’s something there, behind the peeling wallpaper and below the hollowed floorboards. You talk to it every day. You tell it about the dreams you abandoned on the sidewalk since you were a child in favor of carving out a path for yourself, you tell it about your day. You whispered words heavy with affection in the morning and practice your apology to it in the night. You do all of it, knowing it doesn’t have the vocal cord to formulate words, knowing even if it does, it won’t talk to you anymore. But you have hope.

Akin to whispering into an empty seashell, he supposed, there’s always the sounds of the waves hiding deep inside, but there’s no voice. He should get you some seashells, maybe that can give you some joy.

“I figured you’d like something a bit more filling, so shrimp étouffée it is! I met sir Vox on the way to the grocer, and we have a rather pleasant chat. He mentioned some talkies I think you’d quite enjoy, too.” he laugh, standing behind you. Alastor catches the charcoal line on white paper, knitting together to create a familiar figure that he just can’t quite put together yet, more taken aback by the fact you haven’t bothered to cover it up at all. He divert his eyes and place the plate down, right by your left hand. “But you wouldn’t ever be in the mood for it, and it sounds far from my taste, so I turn down the offer to go with him.”

Living with a ghost means you see shadows in the corners of your eyes and hear your familiar home echoes a thousand scream at night, but living with its melancholy means plunging deep under the ocean floor and hearing nothing but the silent of the water. Where there’s supposed to be sound, there’s only the slight echoes of one, barely reaching your ears under the blue. You learn to embrace the silence and linger in its weightlessness.

His ears flickered twice when a sigh escaped your lips, barely audible under the belting of a jazz singer. Alastor let his right hand lingered by your shoulder, you shrink a bit under his touch, he doesn’t move.

“The Ficus died. I was hoping they last longer than the roses would, but you were right,” Leaning in just a bit closer, Alastor laugh, “I never really have a talent for cultivating plants, it seems.”

And then one day, you look back, and maybe you’ll finally see that there was no ghost. And you’re all alone in a house that used to be a home, with dirt under your fingernails and blood leaking under your door. And while you drag a corpse to its final resting place, you hear dogs barking and feel rows of sharp teeth bit into your arms, there’s a familiar clicking sound. When you look up, the world embraces you in a white and burning pain for a single tick of a second. And then you came back to life, just as new. In a new house, in a new world, you do it all over again, you go and look for the ghost.

But a ghost is see-through and rigid cold and it held onto regrets it can never fulfill with cold hands and misty eyes. You’re warm and tangible and alive under his hands even after everything but he’s not sure if you still have any regrets you haven’t given up on, other than meeting him. Having a ghost haunts him would’ve bring less heartache, too.

Ever since you came back into his life, you came back wrong. And every attempt to understand you, to bring back the old you, the you he adores, the you he longed for, only ever serves to buried that you six more feet under the ground. He hates to admit defeat, but he thinks you won’t ever be the same anymore.

“I’ll think I’ll get some Gardenia and Begonia tomorrow for the front porch, but you should keep some in here. It must be boring only seeing the same five things a day, love.” With that, he slinks back out the hallway. Taking a final look of you, he closed the door without a goodbye, he never felt well saying such a thing to you anymore. As Alastor walks back down to the kitchen, another song plays out from your room.

Like the rest of the plants Alastor inevitably rots but refusing to stop holding onto, you also rot. His dinner table is set for two, and one of them is for a corpse. For the rest of the night, like every night, he drowned out the sound from your room with a bottle of whiskey and the thought of a you he can barely recalled. Without knowing what he’s holding onto, Alastor came to an oddly hallowing realization that he might've never know you at all.

He hoped you won't know, but maybe that's why you let him see your sketchbook.

(if he’s a ghost, will you let him hold you again)

#alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel oneshot #hazbin hotel oneshots

108 notes · View notes

shinakazami1 · 9 months

Text

TSPUD: Symbolism of The Pink Room

@stelar-time asked in Twitter (I refuse to call it X) post about people's headcanons about the Pink Room and I thought I'd share this here, too

CW for some religious mentions

First, I'd like you to look at the dialogues in this part.

The fact that it's the fourth figurine is not a coincidence.

The Pink Room seems to serve as a symbol of nostalgia and of how memories can change with time. They tend to be rough and down the pipe you go, they do tend to lose details or get some added parts in, for your brain to make sense of them. That's why this room doesn't come at the first or last Figley and instead in the middle, as those are more often the parts we tend to forget.

What is interesting, though, is how Narrator questions it. Because a similar situation occurs somewhere else.

At the end of the Demo, Narrator starts to do a callbacks to the journey you had. However, at some point, he starts to mention and show parts you've never seen before. In contrast to the Pink Room though, there is not a single questioning involved. So, what's so special about that room?

You could say it's only a symbol of a nostalgia and fragility of memory. That he is recalling some moments he felt halky about and due to it, puts rose-tinted glasses which show off in a form of this room. Why hadn't he done the same thing in the Demo, though?

Memory overall seems to have a bigger role in TSPUD.

Narrator overall seems to have memory issues - he tends to remember some of the previous resets (skipping parts of the Freedom run after going through it nth time in a row) and completely forgets others.

That's why he has Memory Zone. He uses it as a photo album, not knowing it's as unreliable as his own callbacks.

But then, I did wonder... Why an apple? Why does this room show it and not anything else, any pink fruit?

And then, I looked at the architecture of the place and it reminded me of something.

Big window, a statue of some sort on a pedestal before it, pointed archs, to ribbed vaulting... It seems to match a typical church architecture. And then, it hit me.

The Apple of Eden. Fruit of the forbidden knowledge. Of somebody being there, someone watching, listening. Of him not having fun control over his creation might have been bit when we were jsut skipping around, only seeing part of his struggle in the Skip Button.

You might be then asking, why doesn't it have a bite mark then?

There are two possibilities I've considered:

1) it could shows Narrator's ignorance that he shows quite often. That could be true since he just tries to accept what had changed, trying to just say 'don't focus on it, it's a silly thing, let's move on'. He brings it up though since he already learnt from the Broom Closet that things untold seem to interest the Player more.

2) It's a memory within a memory. The apple before he bit in. It's the knowledge he beholds and shows us in a non direct way.

Just like the Bucket.

Nostalgia is supposed to give a good vibe but - it doesn't always succeed.

But this room can indirectly show Narrator's progress. The fact he knows more, the fact he can tell his memories get altered, the fact that - he changed.

In ways we misremember.

#My ramblings #Tspud #Pink room #The Stanley parable #Ultra deluxe #Figley #Figlurines #Theory #Narrator

298 notes · View notes

swallowerofdharma · 1 month

Text

Yashiro’s Cruel God part one

Disclaimer: this post contains a detailed and straightforward analysis of chapter 25. Doumeki isn’t the villain, if you were worried about that. Actually I must apologize because I wanted to talk about him too, but as usual I started this meta with Yashiro and got carried away. This is also why I am dividing it in parts to avoid having a very very long post. So other parts will hopefully follow to fully elaborate the premise I made. Thank you for understanding. And please take care of your wellbeing, if mentioning Yashiro’s stepfather upset you, maybe skip this one.

Premise: not a matter of perfection but of balance

This person I followed reblogged the Declarations of healthy adulthood by David Richo in big big font and - having only one thought on my mind apparently - I read all that text in Yashiro’s POV. I actually don’t think that this is a perfect model or anything, and I am generally skeptical of self help books (I only assume this is something like it), but why not use this as an example, while considering something that I find interesting about Yashiro and Doumeki? During the discussion about the latest chapter, I said something along the lines of Doumeki representing young love, while Yashiro’s approach has been more mature, and I meant it thinking about Yashiro being aware and cautious about hurting others [and being intentional when he does, since he put a bullet in Doumeki’s leg] and being quite self reliant, and yes I know that he is also afraid of being hurt/loved! in previous posts here, I have mentioned that Yashiro’s acceptance of his past is only-in-part denial or downplaying of trauma, because it has been also a strategy and an impressive sign of his maturity and determination to live in the present. Isn’t it exceptional that Yashiro doesn’t seem all that resentful of his parents? That he openly says that he doesn’t blame others? We have to confront his words always mindful of the fact that he usually is an unreliable narrator, but in many instances he says the truth or half truths and his demeanor confirmed that he did some of what David Richo proposes: I accept full responsibility for the shape my life has taken; I accept that I may never feel I am receiving - or have received - all the attention I seek; One by one, I drop every expectation of people and things; I let go of blame, regret, vengeance, and the infantile desire to punish those who hurt or reject me; No one can or needs to bail me out. I am not entitled to be taken care of by anyone or anything, I let go of control without losing control.

I thought that it was very interesting to consider the Yashiro/Doumeki dynamics from different angles, like older/younger, or even realist/romantic, for example. The point of this experiment isn’t to make a comparison of merit nor to talk about a character in better light than another. Maybe those differences need to be confronted or balanced: for example the realist maybe needs some of the romantic’s idealism to soar and not be stuck on the ground. Yoneda-san might be onto something so human and amazing here. An important clarification is due before saying anything else. As characters that are written as full human beings, with their complexity and contradictions, Yashiro and Doumeki can’t be put neatly into the opposite categories I proposed. The story is much more dynamic, so I ask you to take a further step and put those opposites at the ends of a spectrum and to move our characters freely in both directions. Yashiro tends toward being effectively the older and more realistic one but he has traits that make him move down towards the other end too, even to the extreme of being childish. Consider for example these other statements, from the Declarations of healthy adulthood: I need never fear my own truth, powers, fantasies wishes, thoughts, sexuality, dreams, or ghosts; When change and growth scare me, I still choose them. I may act with fear, but never because of it; I am still safe when I cease following the rules my parents (or others) set for me; If people knew me as I really am, they would love me for being human like them. These points clearly demonstrate Yashiro’s unresolved problems, where he is stuck if you want, and why probably nobody believed me when I pointed at him as being mature (eh, he has his moments tho, you can’t deny that).

I challenge everyone to consider that those four points in particular are quite challenging for most people in general, but particularly so for someone who has fear/betrayal as the foundational principle in their childhood instead of a normal amount even a scarse amount of parental love/safety. And I want to underline childhood here, not teenage years or later.

I need never fear my own truth, powers, fantasies wishes, thoughts, sexuality, dreams, or ghosts. Yashiro here is a mix of contradictions, because he outwardly seems to own those things, even making them a point of his persona, but most of those things are based on the lies he told himself, or his stepfather told him: see this other point

I am still safe when I cease following the rules my parents (or others) set for me. Isn’t this statement extremely helpful to understand Yashiro’s situation? To feel safe he had to build his personality according to the rules of the one who had all the power over him and had already taken away any sense of security from him. This is probably one of those things that can be hard to understand when you have never been there. Most notably, not only in the manga this has been pointed out, but it has been pointed out by Yashiro himself. He is self conscious of this, he knows that he lied to himself as a child, that he had to, and he is constantly choosing to continue lying because that is still the only foundation he has. There was no familial love, no other relative safety. Letting go of the lies actually means going to pieces and breaking down.

This isn’t different from what happens to people who are tortured. Yashiro’s father completely took away any sense of security and safety. The aggravating circumstances were that Yashiro as a child didn’t have any other point of reference or knowledge to understand what was happening with his body and in that state of mind what his father told him had to be the only truth possible. Parents who abuse their children most often don’t even realize what they are doing to its full extent. That’s the immense cruelty of these types of situations. The rules are lies, but the lies are rules to follow to be safe:

You like it when it hurts, right? If it doesn’t hurt, I can’t get into it.

What happened in chapter 25: why now?

Yashiro didn’t want to have sex with Doumeki and said so repeatedly. Doumeki has grown on him, behind liking his physical appearance or using him as a substitute for Kageyama: Yashiro truly liked this person and he liked that Doumeki was impotent. Thanks to that, Yashiro grew comfortable around Doumeki and with comfort and safety comes familiarity. When Yashiro discovered that the impotence was gone, he was angry and terrified. They had become too close and now the premise has changed and Yashiro couldn’t trust Doumeki or himself anymore. I won’t analyze here the scene in the shower but I’ll skip to the point. Doumeki only understood that his love was required, that he was wanted and stopped thinking. He acted passionately like any young person who had a normal foundation in love would. He didn’t understand anything that Yashiro asked or why there were mixed signals and what it all meant. He pushed and hurt and broke without being aware of what he was doing.

And Yashiro was trapped in a situation he had tried to escape from his all life: with a person who felt familiar, a person he loved and relied on, in the safety of a home, who wanted sex and was going to do what he wanted regardless of what Yashiro had to say. Yashiro desperately tried to control what was happening through usual patterns, making it hurt, asking Doumeki to do from behind, detaching the sex from his emotions, but he couldn’t and for the first time in his life sex was different from what he knew, because while Yashiro had loved his stepfather, his father didn’t love him and he didn’t treat him like Doumeki did. And every lies built around his father’s abuse came to the surface. Including the fact that his father never loved him. Doumeki broke him indeed because he broke through the lies/rules upon which Yashiro had intentionally built his entire personality/safety. And he wasn’t ready for it, he specifically said he didn’t want it, he had known all along, he already knew when men before Doumeki tried to make love to him and when he built a strategy to specifically avoid being confronted with those lies/rules. He didn’t love those men. He did love Doumeki though. But once again Yashiro didn’t have a choice. And he was physically hurt and recovering after being shot and knowing his life was in danger outside of that room. He had just discovered that Doumeki lied about being impotent the previous time he touched him in the car and before that. It was probably the worst timing possible for making love. At some point Yashiro grew resigned and even reciprocated a little, reaching for Doumeki, caressing his face, and he even reassured him before he fell asleep. There were words that Doumeki said that Yoneda didn’t disclose fully, choosing instead to immediately took us in the flashback with Yashiro. I think it is probable that what Doumeki said was something that Yashiro’s father had said and that we are going to confront before the end of the manga. I personally want to know these words more than what Yashiro said while an airplane passed by and Doumeki was unconscious. Morbid maybe on my part.

I have stated that I am not going to make Doumeki a villain here. The point of this analysis is just to see where Doumeki was in terms of maturity. To be continued…

#saezuru tori wa habatakanai #saezuru analysis #yashiro #doumeki chikara #yashiro x doumeki #yoneda kou #eri reads saezuru

69 notes · View notes

carnivalcarriondiscarded · 2 months

Note

Not sure if this theory makes any sense at all but I'm starting to believe that there's no time skip between Wally's phone calls and what we see/hear in the show's Media/Merchandise. If we see the Toyland call being made before the Homewarming episode then it would make sense that Wally's expecting Barnaby to come over soon. As well as the Homewarming sketch from the prior update. (I don't know, still kind of brainstorming this perspective)

that theory Does make sense and i've been considering it! the "timeline" is such a nebulous thing right now because we still... don't really know! there are too many variables and too many Maybes for any solid answer.

maybe the reality that the neighbors live in exists outside of time like you say, and like half of me suspects. there's so much reality fuckery already present, but I'm also... unsure of how much merit this holds given what we know / can infer about how time passes in Home. i'm putting this theory on a low shelf to look at but not prioritize

maybe it really has been 50 years, and Barnaby is either still around / Wally is still in contact with him, or Barnaby... isn't there. who knows, maybe Wally was just verbalizing some Wishful Thinking. i mean, Wally is a bit of an unreliable narrator, isn't he? we can't assume that everything he says is entirely accurate or truthful. and i mean, if it's been 50 years it makes sense that Wally would be pushing for connection / to revive WH. who knows how long he's been trying.

hm... i mean. it could be a mix of that and the Outside Of Time theory. who knows, maybe W is receiving calls from different points in the timeline - Wally may have started out just calling, and has just graduated to invading the WH website / getting pushy with the envelopes and media that's been sent to the WHRP. maybe Wally got tired of waiting for W to respond before W was even born. who's to say!

#i mean. idk the emphasis wally puts on Its So Quiet makes my brain tilt its head #it feels like wally breaking composure before he pastes the Facade back on with '-during homewarming'#that and just the way he phrased 'everyones usually so busy so its just me and home for a long while'#Usually so busy. Usually. why not Always? or Is?#usually.#and then the 'its just me and home for a long while'#the phrasing here has Connotations i think!#homebogging #welcome home speculation #wh speculation #OF COURSE. I HAVE TO DEBUNK MYSELF!#what we hear / see from Wally is - ironically - more genuine than the WHRP's or W's recovered media (save the eddie excerpts)#the WH media shows us the ideal homewarming - where everyone is getting into the spirit and spending time together and the like #but then wally could be telling us what homewarming is Really like - lonely. quiet.#WHICH MAKES SENSE THEMATICALLY! and it mirrors how christmas time is. its marketed as this joyful thing that brings people together #when in reality its lonely and stressful. i know i certainly never feel more lonely than i do at that time of year!#so there's just. layers. right now im simultaneously believing in the time discrepancy And them existing outside of time #im leaning on the first one but you know!#BUT!!! IM CONFIDENT THAT THE HOMEWARMING WALLY WAS CALLING FROM WAS NOT THE ONE WE SAW IN THE UPDATE.#wally spoke with enough familiarity about the time of year to make me think 'hes lived through many of these hasnt he'#it could be that time Has passed for the neighbors and its been many homewarmings.#it could be that it Started as what the commercials/update showed us.#but as time passed maybe it became a time where everyone just... Isolates for one reason or another. so now it's just quiet and lonely #im still rolling it all around in my head! many factors and implications to consider w/ this update!#Take All Of This With A Grain Of Salt As Usual!

56 notes · View notes

ltrllynbdy · 3 months

Text

So a few years ago I bought this trilogy called captive prince but after reading a few chapters of the first book I kind of gave up on it. I normally don't have a problem with exploring darker themes in a story but captive prince in particular was unenjoyable for me at that time

Later, I was bored with nothing much to do, so I decided to check my bookshelves, found captive prince and started reading and boy I am so glad that I did! I finished the books in a few days and proceeded to read all the short stories.

First of all, before I get to praise the book, I want to say my main criticism about the books: "the slavery stuff in the first book is badly written". Don't get me wrong, Captive prince does not glorify slavery like some haters suggest. I'm not exactly opposed to writing slavery in fiction and there are many political/historical fictional stories that have main characters trying to abolish slavery. It's a common theme.

Captive prince is not much different from the main character ,Damen ,who used to be a slaver himself, gets turned into a slave and tries to abolish it by the end of the series.

It's a fine idea on surface level but there's one big problem with it , I'd like to call it the "Erasmus problem". The first book of captive prince heavily suggested that there were slaves like Erasmus who liked to have a master and I want to believe it's Damen being biased and bigoted because of his privileged upbringing but the story itself still falls apart. There are also instances where sexual slavery becomes apparent and uncomfortable. So if any of these bothers you like it bothered me, the first book of CP is definitely not for you.

OK now for the positives:

From the second book onward, this trilogy becomes a masterpiece.

This story is truly an enemy to love. Most of the other enemies to lovers stories that I have read are just characters either having a simple rivalry or a petty misunderstanding. They dislike each other because one character ignored the other when they were kids , or because they are simply on a different sports team. Captive prince does not shy away from giving the main characters good and logical reasons to hate each other and even hurt each other to an extreme for great and understandably human reasons. They have hurt each other a lot and have no business ever falling in love and still somehow manage to grow and understand and develop something special and unique and I think it's beautiful.

The slow burn: The romance starts only after the entire first book (in which they just hate each other) and most of the second book (where they get to know and understand each other), it's not the slowest burn I've ever read but for a book with characters like these two, it's necessary. and well written

Captive prince's author is extremely brave in making the first book and one of the main characters deliberately hateable with a seemingly unreliable narrator: I don't think I've ever read a story where I hate the first book and enjoy the rest. First impressions are very important and when people don't like an entire first book they probably wouldn't try to continue. I have no idea how and why this author managed to make people still invested enough to publish the second and third book but I'm glad that it happened. It was so enjoyable reading the story from one character's perspective and going from absolutely hating the other character to loving him and understanding him. with the unreliable narrator that is Damen.

The world building, writing and the political story: This may not be the greatest political story with the greatest worldbuilding I've ever read but considering the genre that is m/m romance, I think it's excellent. Let's face it, it's not common for m/m romance to do worldbuilding and politics well. I don't want to seem mean but I've read a decent amount of books and m/m romance and very few of them were actually satisfying to me in terms of politics. Captive prince was one of the rare gems. There might be a few plot holes for me here and there but seeing the characters struggle with each other and plan things out , helping each other or getting fooled by each other in a romance story focusing on mostly only two characters was great to see. I also found some aspects of Homonormativity in the world hilarious. Unless you are married, you are not allowed to be straight in Vere because they hate bastards lol

Despicable villain: This story has the worst and most hateable villain I've ever read in an m/m story. This again goes back to the author being brave enough to write the story the way it is since a lot of romance writers don't dare tackle some really darker aspects.

Subversion of Tropes and Exploration of Power Dynamics : This one was a little hard for me to put into words but basically the series delves into power dynamics in relationships, politics, and society, offering nuanced portrayals of domination, submission, and consent and I don't necessarily mean sexually. In most romance stories, whenever character 1 goes to character 2's kingdom as a lover or sex slave (usually character 1 is the female character in a straight romance) you'd almost always see them have one specific power dynamic. In Captive prince, their characters and their dynamics clashes and changes rapidly and as the story goes on, Damen as a king becomes almost equal to Lauren (I would argue he even becomes politically more powerful than Laurent during certain parts of the story considering Laurent remains a prince for the most part but I digress)

Flawed and human characters who hurt each other without actually romanticizing toxicity: One thing that some people criticize about captive prince and I disagree with, is that it has a toxic relationship. I have to mention that there's basically no actual relationship between the characters until the end of the story and when they do get into a relationship they are a very sweet couple. I think people call them toxic because they were flawed and literal enemies who hurt each other because of it but that's not what I call toxic. Toxicity implies that them being together (they were not together) poisons their life. Both characters manage to grow and understand each other. Damen in particular is a character who you don't see his flaws at first but it becomes more evident how privileged and naive he was and he changes a lot as well as Laurent.

Overall I think excluding the slavery aspects of book 1 which are badly written, this story hits the mark of everything I need in a romance book and I just needed to talk about it. Thanks for coming to my ted talk!

#captiveprince #Captive prince #damen x laurent #laurent de vere #damianos of akielos #damen of akielos #Damen #Laurent #Book review #lgbtq #Prince gambit #kings rising #c s pacat #lamen #Capri #prince's gambit

85 notes · View notes

call-sign-shark · 9 months

Text

Hey Bunny pt. 2 || Yandere!Arthur Shelby x Reader

Summary: You try to escape. Arthur is clearly unhappy with that: don't you understand that you're made for each other?

Words: 5k

TW: Drugs use, unreliable narrator, unrequited love, graphic depictions of violence, blood, domestic violence, allusions to non-consensual sex, stalking, depiction of obsessive behavior, horror, psychological manipulation, — this is dark, experimental, and out of character.

Notes: Italicized+bold are quotes from the show said by Arthur.

PART 1. || Masterlist

How many days went by since Arthur Shelby brought you home?

Such information was impossible for you to tell, especially because of the throbbing headache that was still hammering your skull. What you knew though was that you could not help feeling exhausted and slightly ill. The sensation was quite hard to describe, but it mainly manifested itself with a general weakness; to the extent you had trouble standing for too long, on top of being the unlucky owner of a constant dizziness that left you disoriented. Gathering all your feeble strength, you tried to open the bedroom window for more air but nothing happened when you pulled its handle. You frowned, confused, but you hadn’t enough energy to insist nor to investigate further — your legs were threatening to give up at any moment. It was with drawling steps that you came back to bed, your flickering frame collapsing on the mattress. Then, you sunk your face into the pillow and whined.

“How’s me little Bunny doing today?”

You raised your face from the comfortable pillow at the sound of Arthur’s hoarse and low voice, looking at him above your shoulder. His tall silhouette was standing in front of the door, holding a plate: he came to bring your dinner. “I still feel exhausted, Arthur. It’s really unpleasant…” You replied with a little voice, for even speaking seemed to require too much effort. At this point, your fatigue was becoming a real nuisance — which was odd considering how full of energy you usually were. You rolled on the bed to lie on your back, your beautiful but so-tired eyes looking at the ceiling with tears dawning at their corner, “I don’t think it’s normal. Maybe we should call a doctor?” You suggested, bringing your trembling hands to your forehead to wipe the thin layer of sweat that was covering it. Arthur remained silent and stared at you for a little while, his steel blue eyes slightly squinted as if he was actively thinking about his answer. Finally, he let out a little sigh and walked to the bed, first putting the plate he had in his hands on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Once he did so, he gently grazed your cheek with his fingertips as if he had been afraid to break you with his simple touch. The physical contact with the leather of his gloves had the immediate effect to make you relax. Surprisingly enough, the infamous Arthur Shelby had been a real sweetheart with you these past few days. Indeed, the man was at your bedside, constantly spoiling you with care, good food, and company. The moments you appreciated the most were certainly when he held you in his long arms and fondled your hair, telling you about his favorite childhood memories or the many mischiefs he did with his little brothers. The more you talked, the more the emotional facet of Arthur you discovered, and the more your tiny soft spot for him grew. During this loving moment, you’d always end up dozing off, lulled by the warmth of his gravel voice. Such kindness definitely unsettled you though, when thinking about the Hell you’ve been through for months because of him. But when you thought about that it seemed too anchored in the past for you to really hate him. Moreover, people changed — or at least that was what you liked to believe.

“S’alright, love.” He whispered in a tone so soft, so loving, that you could not help but offer him a tiny and genuine smile; which made the gangster’s heart flutter — he bit the inside of his cheek. Fuck, you were so cute, lying in his bed, depending on him. Arthur stopped his caresses only to lay down next to you. He uplifted his body with one arm to lean over your frame, “The doctor came when ye were asleep eh. ‘Told me you caught a little something but it’s nothing serious. All ye need is rest and someone to take care of ye. Which is exactly what your Arthur does hmm.” He almost purred. The gangster had brought his face closer — so close that his nose was grazing your ear and his lips, hungry for you, were ghosting over your jaw. A deep shiver ran down your body at the caress of his scorching breath against your freezing skin. Despite his care and the comfort he gave you these last few days, you still turned your head to the other side to deny him access to your mouth. It did not seem to bother him though. His feverish sigh brushed the sensitive skin of your neck. “I brought ye dinner. It’s me Aunt who cooked it, yer going to like it. It’s yer favorite meal…” He let his sentence hang for his lips and pressed a delicate kiss right on your throat— A surge of electricity crossed through your body and died between your legs, leaving you a bit confused. Your brows slightly furrowed in response as one of his calloused hands languidly ran down your ribs, right above the fabric of the shirt he had lent you, “Me clothes suit you well, y’know.” The sight of you wearing nothing but your lace panties and one of his far-too-large shirts gave his stomach butterflies.

Something wasn’t coherent. How could a doctor came and diagnosed you without you even noticed it? Even asleep, you’d have heard something.

“Arthur— please…” You called him, your weak little hands trying to gently push him away, “Can you— can you tell me what happened again? I’m trying so hard to remember but everything is foggy. I feel like my mind has erased everything of this awful party…” Which was ultimately true. At your request, Arthur hummed and pulled his face back from your neck only to lock you in an intense stare, the proximity between you small enough for your noses to still touch.

“Of course, love.” The fingers of his free hands stopped fondling your body and reached your face in order to trap your chin between his thumb and his index, “Ye were partying at the Garrison when a bastard bothered you. Ye spent a bit of time with him outside, wearing light clothes. The doc’ said it was prolly why you caught somethin’ eh.” Listening attentively, you swallowed the lump in your throat. Arthur was clingy, so clingy that it stirred conflicting feelings In you. A part of you tensed at the thought of this criminal you barely knew being so lovey-dovey with you, with his hands and lips roaming freely on your frail body. The other part, lost and tired, was looking for any kind of comfort it could find, and the comfort of his arms outmatched everything you had ever experienced. “At some point, I checked if everything was okay but I overheard your conversation and he wanted to bring ye home. I heard you yelling so… I beat the shit out of this cunt and brought ye here safe.”

“You did?” Your voice was merely an exhausted meowing as you offered him another smile; He nodded in reply. Very timidly, you put your hand on the back of his head and pressed your forehead against his at the realization that he probably saved you from getting abused.

Something is wrong, that was what your instinct whispered to your ear.

Yet, your lonely heart was tamed by his softness. Could it be possible that you’ve misjudged him? Sure, what he did to Gaspard was unforgivable and he had sincerely creeped you out, but… Maybe he didn’t mean to do harm? After all, he protected you, so he could not be that bad right? Stuck in this suspended moment of utter tenderness, you observed the very details of his face as if it was the first time you saw him. Your heart missed a very small beat at his adorable freckles and the way his dark lashes fluttered when your breath melted with his — the oldest Shelby brother was definitely good-looking and charming. A kind of wild and raw charm.

Arthur could have stayed like this forever, lost in the beauty of your gaze and locked up in this room with you, but unfortunately, Tommy wanted to see him tonight and he could not say no to Shelby’s business. His lips parted and the words left his mouth reluctantly. “I’ll have to go right? Eat your dinner. Drink your nightly glass of milk and try to sleep hmm.” He hummed against the corner of your mouth . The vibration of his voice combined with the sensation of his facial hair melted your core and sent a wave of warmth in your belly. Finally, he kissed you there one last time before forcing himself to get up. This was at the moment he was about to leave the bed that Arthur felt the feeble grip of your little fingers closing on the fabric of his vest’s sleeve, trying to hold him back.

“Stay with me, please.” You sniffed, for his presence and the devoted way he took care of you made you feel safe. Something you hadn’t experienced in years. Your hazel eyes, whose color reminded him of sunlight going through a pool of honey, shone with a beseeching look, “Art’… Pretty please.”

“Oh… Bunny.” Arthur clenched his jaws — he felt his heart’s pace quicken in his chest at your intoxicating words and at the submissive way you were looking at him. At this very moment, keeping the thought of ruining you out of his mind was the most difficult struggle he had always faced. War in France was nothing compared to the restless battle that was happening in his soul. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek harder until the metallic taste of blood flooded his tastebuds and soothed his violent desire. His whole being had lit up with such an indescribable euphoria that you almost saw the flames dancing in the frozen desert of his eyes, “I’ll be back soon and stay with ye forever,” He let out a long and shaky exhale from his nostrils in an attempt to keep his brutal emotions in line. For sure he didn’t want to burst into hysterical laughter in front of you and scare you away. Not after everything he did, everything he sacrificed to make this moment happen. Once he managed to alleviate his inner turmoil, the gangster gently took your little hand in his and kissed each of your knuckles with indescribable tenderness. “Sleep tight and wait for me, I’ll come back soon, slip under your bedsheet and keep ye warm eh.”

You did not wait long after Arthur left the house to eat what he had brought. Despite your poor health condition, you surprisingly felt like you were starving. Eating the last slice of bread, your lips stretched in a faint smile: he didn’t lie when he said you were going to love it. His aunt truly cooked like a chief, and you mentally noted down that you’d had to compliment her for her cooking skills the day you’ll meet her. Following this pleasant meal, your general fatigue caught up with you and you decided to go back to sleep rather quickly. A little yawn escaped from your lips — never mind the glass of milk. You left it on the nightstand, untouched, because you were already dozing off. Ready to sleep, you snuggled in the good-smelling sheet, made yourself comfortable in the large bed, and even found the best position… But Morpheus didn’t want you anymore. Worst than not sleeping, you emerged from your torpor only twenty minutes later, with an insufferable aching feeling that twisted your stomach. The pain had been so sudden, so vivid, that you sat up straight on the mattress, your eyes wide-opened and cold sweat running down your spine. The room started to spin around you for what seemed to be an eternity — and it spin so bad your nails dug into the bedsheet in a desperate attempt not to faint. Your heart was beating so fast that you could feel it pulsing in your throat, ready to be thrown up and run away by itself. But despite these sudden symptoms, all the indescribable and odd fatigue you went through for the last couple of days had entirely vanished, leaving you well-awake. The only reminder of your weak condition was the bitter taste that remained on your tongue.

“Hell…” You exhaled slowly, the heavy nausea and dizziness you just experienced finally decreasing, but the relief was short. Indeed, it was at the very moment you started to feel better than the musky and masculine perfume that was floating in the room struck you. To these peculiar fragrances, your body reacted with another fit of panic: you could recognize this cologne among thousands of others, for its owner had been the bane of your existence since the night you met at the Garrison. Arthur Shelby’s scent was all around you. It impregnated the bedsheets and stuck to your own body and hair so strongly you even wondered if he hadn’t crawled under your skin in your sleep. With renewed energy, you jumped from the bed like a cat that had just touched water, and looked all around you with quick and erratic movements: this was not your bedroom.

“No, no…” You repeated, slipping one moist palm in your fire hair, and slicking it back, all the while your mind began swirling in a whirlwind of utter panic. However, you knew you had to stay the calmest you could if you wanted to understand what was happening and if you wanted to find a solution. Hence, you focused on the cold sensation of the wooden floor to keep track of reality. After wiggling your toes a few times, the realization that you were almost naked slowly crept into your mind, “No…” A gasp escaped from your lips when you looked down and discovered that you were only dressed in your panties and a man’s shirt that was running too large for you. The same shirt you saw Arthur wore sometimes. That damn white shirt with thin dark stripes. Panic settled in your bones again, making your breath hitched and your throat tightened as if an invisible hand was trying to choke you, “Calm down Y/N, calm down!” You scolded yourself. In an ultimate attempt to remain stoic, you focused on your shaking hands — as your mother had taught you before your very first day of school. However, it wasn’t the way your fingers shook that grabbed your attention but rather the burns and scars of ropes that were engraved in your wrists. The marks, still a bit reddened, showed how harsh Arthur had been. You took a few steps back as if you had just been stricken, and wobbled under the violence of the chaotic flashbacks that suddenly assaulted your mind.

The bottle of whiskey shattering on the ground.

The ropes hanging from a gloved hand.

Arthur’s lanky body pressed against yours, trapping you against the wall. Oh Bunny… I won’t hurt ye.

Ropes biting on your skin?

In search of the truth, your eyes quickly traveled on any visible parts of your body. Then, you saw them: similar marks on your thighs and ankles. The sole sight of them triggered a stream of uncontrollable tears to overflow from your eyes, and helped you reconstitute what happened during your odd blackout: Arthur Shelby had kidnapped you. The disgusting epiphany made you feel sick in your stomach all of a sudden. Yet, many questions still remained, buzzing in your head like a hive of furious hornets: how did he manage to abduct you? Why couldn’t you remember anything? And why were you so docile these past few days? In truth, all these interrogations would have been left without answer if your gaze did not fall upon the still-full glass of milk that was on the nightstand. Water had beaded over the surface as the beverage warmed up due to the room temperature, trickling down the glass just like your crystal tears did down your cheeks.

“He drugged the fucking milk…” You whispered with a broken voice. It was all becoming clear. Yes, your excruciating fatigue and dizziness suddenly made sense. Arthur had purposefully drugged your daily glass of milk to keep you all nice and quiet, hence finding another use for the meds the doctor had prescribed him. Consequent to this last information, your self-control broke down — it was too much to handle.

“FUCKING SICK BASTARD!!!” You yelled, for your repressed panic exploded in a fit of anger and sadness. The feeling of betrayal was so excruciating and your hopelessness so crushing that all you could do was grabbed the glass of milk and smashed it against the floor. The white liquid splattered all over the parquet and filled the small space between each board. Then, not relieved by this violent gesture, you pulled your hair and screamed louder, eyes squeezed tight and lungs burning. Never in your life you had felt so close to losing your goddamn mind — and it was awfully One sole rational thought crossed your mind at that moment: you had to get the fuck out of here before he came back. Without further waiting, you rushed to the door like a chased rabbit and tried to open it — but of course, it was locked. What were you expecting? “SON OF A BITCH!!” You screamed, shaking the handle as fiercely as you could, but the door remained shut and only the only thing that replied to your desperate shrieks was the dull silence of an empty house.

Truth was, the most logical part of you knew that no matter what you attempted, it would not work. And this last conclusion killed the last bit of control that remained in your soul. Slipping into a temporary fit of fear-induced insanity, you slammed your tiny body against the heavy wooden door one first time. Your being shook at the collision with the hard surface but it didn’t stop you. Quite the contrary, adrenaline had numbed your nerves and you were more than ready to destroy your bones in bits if it was the price to pay for freedom. “OPEN IT!!” You roared, crashing yourself against the door a second time. A big thud resonated in the house. “FUCKING OPEN IT!” Another impact. And another. And another until all your strength left your body, exhausted by useless efforts. Silence fell again in Arthur’s bedroom: the only sound that could be heard was your erratic and whistling breath. You might as well face if: you were trapped for good, with no way out of this hell. All you did after your fit was to let your back slide along the door until you ended up sitting on the floor, hopeless. As your eyes aimlessly wandered around you, you noticed a sheet of paper floating in the puddle of milk. Curious, you frowned and tilted your head to the side to look at the drawing that was on it. The sketchy and dark lines were forming the shapes of a bunny, lying limp into the fangs-filled jaws of a creepy-looking wolf. You started crying again. And so did the bunny, for the milk had made the ink that composed the drawing run down the animal’s face in tar-black tears.

Arthur had been looking forwards to coming back home.

During the whole mission, his mind kept obsessing over the sight of you, peacefully sleeping in his bed with your doll face relaxed and your long fiery mane spread out on the immaculate white sheets. He had nervously moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue at the maddening memory of your feeble voice begging him to stay by your side — a sentence that was playing on repeat in his mind like a broken record. The way you had looked at him, with teary eyes and lips parted, got him on his knees. With spiraling thoughts all revolving around you, Arthur didn’t even reply to Tommy when the latter talked to him about the Epsom Derby and the Eden’s Club. All he did was stare blankly at the wall facing him, lost in the meanders of his own sick brain. The club, the races, the money, the pretty dancers, he didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was your frail arms around his body and the intoxicating way your lips grazed his burning skin when you nestled your face in the crook of his neck.

Tommy and John quickly glanced at each other after witnessing one too many of their older brother’s absences, but still, they did not ask any questions. Masculinity obliged. Moreover, it was not unusual for Arthur’s gaze to turn into the thousand-yard stare, especially after the war. Somehow he had never fully returned from France, like many other veterans. Like John and Tommy themselves — it was just more frequent in Arthur’s case. When Tommy told him they were done for tonight, Arthur simply mumbled a gruff “Alright, see ye brothers” before leaving with hastened steps, his tall silhouette disappearing in the dark veil of the nights with the walk of a preying wolf.

“Something’s wrong with Arthur lately.” Thomas Shelby’s husky and quiet voice stated as his mesmerizing turquoise eyes still remained fixed to the horizon, even after the darkness of Birmingham’s streets had swallowed his brother’s frame.

“Something’s always wrong with Arthur anyway.” John shrugged.

They never talked about it ever again.

As soon as he came home, the gangster hung up his long black coat stained with dried blood behind the door and threw his cap on the living room’s coffee table. Before heading upstairs, he stopped in front of the corridor’s mirror to slick his hair back, smooth his mustache and rearrange his bow tie: he had to be perfect for you. After a very short while of dolling himself up, Arthur finally grabbed the red carnation he had brought earlier and went up without wasting any more time. So late in the night you were certainly sleeping, but still, he had promised you to crawl in the bed, and, to be honest, he didn’t want to miss an opportunity to feel your dainty body against his. So strong, rough, and scarred. Stealthily, he walked to the bedroom, careful not to make any loud noise that would disturb your well-deserved rest. Yet, he stopped at the door and hesitated once he arrived – his heart went wild at the simple thought of seeing you. Arthur clenched his jaws, his mind spinning round and round to the point he had to grip the handle to keep himself from slipping into madness. That was because of this unpleasant feeling of being overwhelmed by his love that he took a blue little vial out of his trouser’s pocket and poured the white powder it contained on the back of his hand. Blocking one nostril with his index, Arthur snorted the cocaine line in one row, coughed a little bit, and then threw his head back, letting out a long and raspy moan. His lips parted as a sweet cocktail of euphoria and energy spread in him in a warm wave. Now he felt better, now he felt invincible. After that little boost, Arthur entered the room with a smile etched on his lips and closed the door behind him. What an unpleasant surprise it was for him when he saw you sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him with your face distorted by both anger and disgust. His smirk soon vanished when he noticed your eyes, swollen and bloodshot from hours of crying.

“Bunny?” He asked with a tinge of worry in his voice.

“You’ve kidnapped me.” You replied, biting down your enraged sobs. The gangster opened his mouth to reply to your cutting remark, but no sound came out: you had taken him aback. Instead, his steel-blue eyes quickly searched for the glass of milk, which he found smashed on the floor. It didn’t take much more for him to understand what had happened.

“It’s not what ye think, love.” He tried to remain quiet but panic was already setting in him. The red carnation slipped from his fingertips and fell on the wooden floor.

“You’ve locked me up in your bloody bedroom, almost naked…” Even you barely believed the words you were speaking, for they sounded almost surreal. It surely was a nightmare. An awful, awful nightmare.

“Fuck me.” Arthur grunted when he noticed the damaged door handle, undeniable proof that you had done everything in your power to escape. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat… You had tried to escape. In a matter of seconds, Arthur’s heart rate increased, and his mouth dried at the escalating anger he was experiencing. Why? Why would you want to escape? The first flicker of irritation manifested itself with the way his body tensed and the long inhale he took.

“I—I want to leave.” You said as firmly as you could, standing up in front of the bed.

“Leave?” His forehead creased above his frowning brows, “Nah, you ain’t leaving.” He straight off replied. All the softness and the honey with which he usually talked to you had disappeared, handing over a corrosive hostility. You batted your eyes, not recognizing him anymore. But despite everything, Arthur did try his best not to let the destructive rage that was burning within overcome him. Gathering all his willpower, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand and went on “Yer going to come back to bed eh. And yer going to let me take care of you, right? We’ll talk about it after a good night of sleep ‘cause you’re not thinking straight at the moment.” He talked slowly, making several short pauses in between words for he was fighting against the urge to let the switch in his brain flip. But the way he handled the situation, dismissing the problem and ordering you to go back to bed as if everything was normal made you lose your temper.

“Are you fucking serious? You think I’m going to obey and go back to bed? So what, Arthur? Do you want me to spread my legs for you and then thank you for fucking abducting me?” Now you were yelling, fear temporarily replaced by a blinding hatred you had never felt in your whole life, “You’re a maniac, a fucking sick bastard!” Tears flooded your vision as you spoke, "You've been ruining my life for months!"

“Stop it.” He said, as calmly as he could, his eyes flickering between you and his boots. Blood was boiling in his veins.

“The fuck is wrong with you ey?! You’ve tied me with ropes… You kept drugging me to use me as your puppet and satisfy your fucking twisted urges… Christ, Arthur!” Your voice boomed in the room. Carried on by your hatred, confidence grew in you and you approached him step by step, " Wake the fuck up!"

“Stop it.” Arthur had trouble breathing, his anger nearly suffocating him as seconds passed. He clenched his fist until his scarred knuckles whitened – God knew he didn’t want to hurt you, but a vortex of rage swirled inside him, and he knew he was about to reach his breaking point in a minute or another. Trying hard to suppress his caustic wrath, he slowly broke the distance between you and brushed your hips with his trembling fingers in a seemingly soft gesture, “Stop it, Bunny.”

But his touch felt like he had stabbed you with a knife.

“STOP CALLING ME BUNNY! MY NAME’S Y/N FOR FUCK’ SAKE. I’m not your bloody bunny! I’m nothing, and so you are!” You almost choked with your screams, pushing him with a surprising strength – At least, it had been enough to make him take a few steps back. “Get fucked, Arthur Shelby.” That being said, you pushed him again and rushed to the door in an attempt to run away from him. But Arthur’s reflexes were sharp, enhanced by cocaine, and he managed to catch you by the arm before you could reach the exit. Surely you didn't mean it, you were just a bit... Confused. But soon you'd understand that you loved him too.

“Y/N.” He scolded but you weren’t listening anymore. You didn’t want to listen, you wanted to leave this damn place and you wanted it now. Guided by panic, you threw a nasty punch right at his chin -- your knuckles aching from the shock with his jawbone. When you realized what you had just done, it was already too late. Arthur’s face turned to the side at the violence of your blow, making him bite his tongue so hard he felt the metallic taste of blood exploding in his mouth. Then, silence fell in the room. The threatening and chilling silence which follows the blast of a bomb, right before the screams and cries start to echo. “What the hell did ye…” He muttered, bringing his trembling free hand to his bleeding mouth. The other was still firmly holding your arm, keeping you from escaping so firmly that he almost broke your bone. His fair eyes, adorned with pretty lashes and charming crow feet, suddenly darkened like a predator that had just smelt the distress of a wounded prey.

“Let me go!” You whined, pulling on your arm as fiercely as you can and clawing his hand with your nails to try to break from his grip.

“ALRIGHT THEN!” He burst out, definitely losing control. With brutal movements, Arthur pounced on you with the strength of a rabid wolf, and trapped your wrists with one of his hands before pushing you against the nearby wall to pin them above your head, “Al-fucking-right! Are we hitting each other now? That’s what ye want?!” He barked loudly with blood dripping from his mouth, only a few inches away from your face. “Did I laid a fookin’ finger on you? Nah, so the least you can do is be FOOKIN’ civilized!” A cry of pain escaped from your lips as he shoved you a second time against the wall, the collision between it and your frail body making all your bones shake.

“You’re hurting me!” You lamented, wriggling under his grip. The gangster was holding your wrists so tight that your fingertips were starting to tingle.

“Am I?” He replied in a low growl – Arthur’s lips stretched into a carnivorous smile, showcasing blood-stained teeth whose canines were pointy. His face was red, his rage highlighted with the pumping vein on his forehead, “Listen to me. I don’t bloody know what the hell yer implying, but I didn’t satisfy my urges, as you said. If it had been the case, you would have woken up every day with cum dripping down yer tight pussy.” All you could see now was the white of his eyes. “I would have ruined ye until ye could not walk anymore, filled every fookin’ hole of your body,” He pressed you harder against the wall, his words stirring desire in him, “Marked every inch of your skin,” He licked the blood off his lips with the tip of his tongue, the taste only arousing his more, "Made you fookin' choke on my cock ‘til you’d look at me with teary eyes and drool running down your bratty mouth." The sparkle that lit up his steel-blue eyes betrayed how he enjoyed keeping you restrained -- and probably how the darkest side of his obsessive love would love to make such things to you, "So don’t make me fookin’ regret being a gentleman with ye.”

“Please Arthur, stop! I—I wanna go home please…” You begged him, despair and terror overcoming you.

“Now ye say please, ey! Now you ain’t callin’ me a maniac anymore, are ye?!” He let out a hoarse and menacing chuckle, spitting a few droplets of blood at your face as he did, “That’s not how ye should talk to your bloody man, sweetheart.” With ragged breath and bare teeth, you knew Arthur was at the very edge of going for your throat.

Yet, you looked at him straight in the eyes through your tears and spat at his face, disgusted by all he had said. “You’re not my man and you’ll never be!”

“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Trembling with rage, and fury shining in his eyes, Arthur grabbed you fiercely and threw you on the floor, right where the glass shards were scattered. You had barely understood what had just happened when the piercing and excruciating sensation of the glass cutting your flesh awoke in your body. You yelled in pain, your voice so loud that it did not seem human anymore – you sounded like prey screaming with agony. Terrified and in utter panic, you wanted to move but didn’t, for the sight of your own blood suddenly made you feel sick. You were bleeding. Fucking bleeding.

“Oh God, oh God…” You sobbed.

“Why don’t ye understand that I fookin’ love you eh?!” Arthur brawled even louder, standing in front of you and towering over you with all his height as you were crying in crimson stains of fresh blood and shattered glass, “We're made for each other, Bunny. I know it. I knew it from the moment ye smiled at me at the Garrison: you wanted me to come for you... And here I am, love! All fookin' yours!" He said, opening up his arms and tilting his head slightly to the side, his lips stretched in a blood-stained and frightening grin. As your eyes watched him with horror, you understood the extent of his madness. Then, Arthur leaned over you and grabbed you by the neck to bring you closer again. In a reflex, you shut your eyes tight at the sensation of his calloused hand tightening around your throat, “I won’t let you leave me, hm?” He groaned. His breath – erratic and panting – crashed on your face, “I’ll tell you…” He started with his low and gruff voice, whose gravel tones broke the last will of fighting that remained in you, “All you’re gonna do now is be a good fuckin’ wife,” He breathed heavily, while his free hand roamed over your face in a soft caress. In the violence of your fight, some strands of his hair had come loose and were now hanging down his sharp face, “Yeah, like the perfect couple. We’ll go in the bathroom hm.” Arthur strangle you a tiny bit harder to feel your heartbeat against his palm, which resulted in you moaning in pain. “ We’ll go in the bathroom. We’ll get you all clean yeah.” His lips crashed against yours without searching for your consent, stealing a few pecks from your plump lips before his voice turned into a whisper, “Yeah. We’ll make love, hmm?” He kissed you again and again until his light pecks weren't enough for him and he decided to let his tongue force its way into your mouth. The taste of whisky and blood overwhelmed you. Desperate, you tried to move away, for you were suffocating as he moaned softly and low in your mouth, but he was too strong.

“Please…” You begged against his lips, sobbing — but he remained unmoved by your cries. The room was spinning all around you as you realized how stupid you had been thinking you could have escaped. How suicidal it was to underestimate his obsession with you.

With trembling fingers, you cautiously touched the back of the hand that was choking you. Despite your thoughts crashing into each other in your skull and the despair that was beating you down, you still managed to understand one essential thing: you had to calm him down. You had to do it if you didn’t want him to kill you out of anger – especially since his brutal and crazy fit was enhanced by the fact he was high. Yes, you definitely had to find a way to lure him into a more stable mood…Because you just knew that if he couldn’t have you, no one else would. With everything it implied. Gathering your courage, you looked up and hold his gaze even though pure terror shone in your hazel iris, “I’m… I’m sorry Arthur…” You gritted your teeth, black dots dancing in front of your eyes. Air. You needed some air.

“Hmm?” He replied, his lips still grazing yours. Nevertheless, the tender sensation of your skin against his made him loosen his grip around your neck.

“You’re—You’re right. We’ll do that.”

“Are we?” He groaned, rubbing his cheek against yours like a wildcat. If he could have purred at this moment, he would have certainly do so.

You forced a smile, but tears still ran down uncontrollably from your honey eyes, “Yes Arthur.” You finally said, letting his void swallow you whole. Why would you fight? Your fate was sealed, and you just knew you would never leave. Your future was to be with him and nothing would ever change that. Even if you managed to escape one day, you knew he would track you down until you were either his or dead and cold. All you could do now was just do your best not to get yourself killed.

A few days ago you were Y/N. A young and joyful student, whose excellent grades and good nature made your mother proud. Now you were just Bunny. Fucked up and enslaved Bunny. And Bunny belonged to Arthur Shelby.

For the best.

But particularly the worst.

Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

The image of the limo rabbit in the wolfs mouth was an idea of the talented @zablife

Tagging some of Arthur’s bunnies: @helen06dreamer @zablife @brummiereader @peakyltd @peakyswritings @dearshelby @raincoffeeandfandoms @kissforvoid @psychadelichues @shelbydelrey

Gif by Ria (@alicent-targaryen)

#peaky blinders #Arthur shelby #Peaky blinders imagine #Arthur shelby x reader #Peaky blinders x reader #arthur shelby x y/n #arthur shelby x ofc #peaky blinders x y/n #peaky blinders fanfic #Tommy shelby #A little too much #dark fanfiction #yandere x reader #dark!arthur shelby

262 notes · View notes