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dogbites-puppylove · 1 month

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Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW: Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human.

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer.

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower.

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath.

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him.

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours. To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love.

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root. Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again.

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them.

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty.

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

#yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader

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cum-villain · 2 years

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#vent tw #god i just want these fuckers GONE already #they're sapping up all of the fat my body produces for SOME reason and just make things worse #i physically have trouble breathing because my lungs have trouble taking the weight of these things #god. im choking and light headed for no reason and its not even that uncommon a thing because. this just happens #my damn ribs seize because of the strain sometimes and i just want this OVER already.#braincell posting #brainsys body failure

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sunfl0werlevi · 1 year

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HOME

ʚ✩ɞ ratings: sfw, angst to fluff, comfort

ʚ✩ɞ cw/tw: jjk manga chapter 221 spoilers! slight angst and depressive tones. slight sexual tones hehe.

ʚ✩ɞ wc: 10.5k

ʚ✩ɞ tags: gojo satoru x fem!reader, husband gojo and wife reader are teachers

ʚ✩ɞ an: hi! yes, this is the first time ill be sharing one of the many works i have in my drafts (that im confidently not sharing ever). idek how it got this long. gojo being unsealed triggered something in me so i hope u enjoy. ( ˘ ³˘)♥

italicized texts are past dialogues! FEEDBACKS are highly appreciated.

you stared at the golden band around your ring finger, toying it around. your bed seemed to stretch twice its size and grow colder every morning that you wake up.

every morning, you trace the outline of the dips on his side of the bed. you left it dismantled the way he did, since 19 days ago. you could still see a few strands of silver hair on his pillow glowing under the daylight.

"satoru, please."

"you know there's a lot of souvenir shops in shibuya! maybe i'll take you to some if you're a good little wifey."

"you told me we're working together on this. just let me fight alongside with you-" you pouted and so he gives you a wet smack on the cheek and booped your nose.

"babe, my honey, sweetiepie, you're on children duties!"

"no fair!"

"don't worry, ijichi will take you there. toodles!" and then he warped out.

fools. you didn't even know half of the shit that was about to set loose.

the wooden sliding door of your shared room slammed open, startling you out of your thoughts. there stood an out of breath yuuji with both his hands clinging on to either side of the door frame.

"sensei," he looked at you with determination, a sense of sparkle behind his eyes.

no. no.

you can't have this right now. not right now. you were not ready--not when what you've been preparing yourself for was the worst. but this? this wasn't in your plan.

any indication of hope from him has all been but failure. you were under the high of false hope but now...now, you don't even know how to respond with this pressing matter in front of you.

what kind of wife are you to even think that way? will he even understand if you feel this way?

but you are here now and he is here now.

his frame stood patiently behind your student, waiting for you to say anything. but only the sound of your shallow, shuddering breaths filled the room.

the pink-haired boy staggered backwards to leave, as to give room to your man.

doors were always never tall enough for satoru so he has to duck down in order to grace the room with his presence. his presence that is so invigorating, with his own hint of charisma.

and there he is. he is still so beautiful. his alabaster hair unreasonably still glimmering. your eyes were met with the color of the sky--lustrous and comforting, anticipating you.

but beneath this façade, they were chagrin and desolated, designed with heavy lids and undereye bags that loitered his skin.

the man that came to face you is not your satoru. although indulging with the fact that he looks bigger, more rugged, with his toned arms filling up the sleeves of his shirt--this satoru is only the shell of the man that you used to know.

he scratched his neck, his eyes crinkling into a smile as he gave you a small assuring grin. he opened his arms, wide and warm, welcoming you into a zone you knew all too well.

"c'mere."

though against your will, your body seemed to have a mind of its own--lunging forward to the sense of familiarity that is in front of you. amidst the unconvinced and confused face you held, your body knew how much you ached for this moment and alas your feet brought you towards him.

he gripped your waist so tightly, so much that he could break you in half like--like there were no tomorrow.

words could not even begin to detail this feeling. missing him is an understatement. no--you yearned for him--for his touch, for his smell, for his warmth. for this moment.

you sank deeper into his broad chest. the feeling and the sound of his heartbeat confirming that this is all true and not just a pigment of your imagination, or not you going insane.

he stuck his nose on top of your head, breathing in your smell. god, he could cry. he missed you so much and he was going insane because he was beginning to forget what his favorite shampoo you use smells like.

the silence was both so comforting yet so delicate. there are both no words yet too many words to tell. one pin drop could make or break the atmosphere. a paradox in the flesh. just in character for your husband.

but just in time, he spoke up, breaking the tension. you had imagined this moment, him apologizing or saying i love you, over and over. but no, he yet again breaks the record.

"thank you."

the last thing you wanted was to ever forget him. so, you listened to every voice messages, voice mails, and videos that he sent you every day like it was a routine and a lullaby before you sleep.

you would not forgive yourself if you forgot what he sounds like.

with the sound of his voice triggering the turmoil in you, your chin quivered and your throat burned in an agonizing pain. all of the weeping and mourning you've suppressed poured out onto his shirt.

he brushed your hair and cooed you into silent hushes.

"i'm sorry."

"satoru, she never cried," shoko said.

gojo sat silently on shoko's loveseat chair with both his arms resting on its armrest. he is finally relaxed which unfortunately meant that he has the time to think.

all of the guilt is finally blossoming inside of him.

for the longest time, he wished that he'd be rid of all the burdens that are pushed onto his shoulders. he wanted to run away. with you.

but he knew that his being makes everything complicated and you'd be in greater danger beside him than staying with everybody else.

so, him being in that damned box? his wish came true. was he selfish to somehow feel relieved while being isolated, knowing everything he left behind and all the chaos that ensued?

his colleague and good friend, nanami, who all but strayed away from jujutsu, was pushed towards it again by gojo. and now he's gone.

his teacher and a parent that he considered, principal yaga, lost his life fighting for everyone--especially for the children that gojo was supposed to protect.

his students--tiny but fighter nobara, with half of her head barely even of any shape and unresponsive on a pale hospital bed. yuuji who always graced a smile, now looked like he aged a dozen. and megumi--his son, who always quietly rooted and stood for everyone, lost his hope and is now a vessel to sukuna.

and you. he could not even begin to think how much of a toll it took on you.

"she kept everyone glued together, you know. when everything was falling apart after you...you were gone, she held all of their hands."

shoko blew a smoke out of her office window then tapped her cigarette onto an ashtray. "every day, she cleans nobara's body with a wet towel. when the students would come back with all unimaginable injuries, she tended to them with all of her reversal."

"satoru, i had to clinically force her, just so i could tend to her own injuries for a day. she did not want to stop working as if..."

"as if she will lose it, if she stopped," he finished the sentence, holding a firm gaze with shoko.

she and him knew what it was like to grieve for someone but still having all the responsibilities demanded at every second.

gojo, whether everybody admits or not, was their source of hope. the students gravitated towards him, and even curses do not fail to see the light that he shines--attracting them like moths to a flame.

he tended to everyone's troubles, to the bullshit of the higher-ups that even led to him killing his own bestfriend.

but you-you are the damned closest thing to him. you were his half. you are his half. and everybody knew you are a gojo too.

so they all went to you. for 19 whole days, you shared, albeit, owned his responsibilities. and you had to keep it together.

you should not fall apart. you cannot fall apart. the children relied on you for their strength and you kept them all stuck together like a little patched-up family of your own.

you became him. a true gojo. although it sounds gratifying, it was the last thing that he wanted for you to ever encounter.

he never wanted to share his pain and bare all of his weaknesses to you. but you unconditionally took them all, without any words nor complaints.

"she-she wasn't there."

"she didn't want to be disheartened and defeated if it had failed. you were gone and she is here. still here. you know where to find her, so go."

it wasn't just you. he also does not have the heart to see your face yet--he never really had a say on when he was getting released, anyway.

but he went to you.

your palms cupped his face, searching every inch of his skin like it is something foreign. his large hands held onto them, rubbing slow and soft circles on it.

"i've missed you...so much." you mumbled, risking a hiccup and another bout of tears to pour out of you. he dried your cheeks with both his thumbs.

"i know. i know, sweetheart," his voice was soft, barely a whisper, as he brought his lips towards your eyes.

he kissed your eyes tenderly, as if commanding for them to close for a minute. satoru knew how much you needed to crack--he wanted you to fall apart on him and he can pick up all of the pieces. he can make you whole again.

he can hold you together with his warm hands, thawing and melting you into a puddle of your own unresolved emotions. molding you exactly, to fit perfectly right where you belong.

right here. right next to him.

to him, you are the apple of his six eyes. the immeasurable devotion of his limitless. and the bottomless beloved of his infinity.

he could never leave you again. not like that. not ever.

he pressed his forehead against yours, his proximity tickling you with his breath and his pillowy lips brushing against yours. he rubbed his nose on yours and his eyelashes feather on your cheek.

"i love you," he rubbed his thumbs on both your cheeks while holding your gaze, accessing all of your senses with his presence.

he wants you to know, he's here.

he tentatively leans closer, only kissing you daintly. "kiss me. kiss me, satoru."

and so he planted his hand at the small of your back, leaning forward, obliging to your words. he kisses you--deeply and passionately. your mouth presses eagerly, gliding with his lips fervently without any lapses, like your life depended on it.

you put your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss even more. he gripped your hips tightly, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

satoru is trying his best to not tear your clothes off, on behalf of his student waiting outside.

"god-" he retracted, staring at your eyes.

"i-" he kisses your neck "-missed you-" your chin "-so-" your nose "-much."

there is no reason for the both of you to be separated at all. not anymore.

and so he interlocks your pinkies together like he always did. you giggled and he grins widely.

"i'm here. i'm home."

#gojou satoru #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo fanfic #gojo fic #itadori yuji #jujutsu kaisen #⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ sunfl0werlevi #DADDY'S HOOOOME

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bangaveragewhitewine · 7 months

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soft slow, morning glow

Steve Harrington x Reader

A prosaic peek at Steve Harrington’s inability to sleep in and stay in bed and his reasons for changing his ways.

October 1997; a cosy easy morning, where kisses are shared and ABBA songs are sung as a lullaby.

Word count: 4.3K

Content/Warnings: TW for talk of bleeding during pregnancy, borderline neglectful parents.

Mention of sex (18+), not explicit. This contains dad!Steve & mom! reader toward the end; pregnant reader. Kinda rambling. Very soft. Low angst (but not none).

Note: Thank you to my ST rewatch for making me fall for Steve all over again.

Proofread by @specialagentmonkey | Divider by @silkholland

Steve Harrington was always an early riser.

As a honey-haired little boy, he spent Saturday mornings on the sofa watching cartoons with the volume dialled low as his parents slept. He knew not to make a mess with the cereal, or the milk, rewarded with a stack of pancakes or a new toy for keeping himself amused as Richard and Katherine Harrington slept off the previous evening’s dinner party hangover.

Always the first awake at sleepovers, he would wait with bated breath for Tommy to stir or feign a sneeze to wake him.

He never had to be dragged from bed to go to school during the week, always up and at ‘em to go see his friends, play tag and swap baseball cards on the playground.

As a sporty and popular teenager, he started running when he didn’t have early swim practice or basketball. Steve rose with the sun and waved to his neighbours politely as his shiny sneakers slapped the pavements of Loch Nora.

He was never sure what he was running from, or towards, but the burn of chilly morning air in his lungs made him feel alive.

When he started going to house parties and hangouts on Saturday nights, his Sundays still started early, dragged to show face at his parent’s church. It was less about faith and god and all about appearances. He snuck out of bedroom windows, hopped white picket fences as the sun rose, fought hangovers as the priest’s voice droned and caught the eyes of pretty girls from the convent school a town over - they always blushed when he smiled at them or dropped them a sly little wink as the collection plate was passed around.

When his parents started travelling more, after the shortlived re-commitment to the church, Steve’s Sunday morning hangovers were kept at bay with cold swims in the pool or hot coffee and loud music in the kitchen as he tried and failed to focus on homework.

Steve started working right out of school as punishment for unsubmitted college applications and lower-than-predicted grades. He volunteered for the opening shifts in Scoops Ahoy and Family Video - he liked the responsibility and having a purpose, having an excuse to be out of the house before his parents could tutt and fuss and lecture him. It was easier when they weren’t there; when the office in Indy needed Richard’s attention more than his wife and son did, when Katherine spotted smears of lipstick on his collars again and insisted she spend some time with him in the city apartment.

In their absence, the Harrington house was a mausoleum of failure that Steve couldn’t bear to be in. So he raised his hand for early delivery shifts and stock takes and drove his friends to school when he didn’t have to, already awake after another night of nightmares, memories of flying fists.

Steve Harrington rose early and burned bright; burned out quickly when he realised he didn’t know what to do with himself or what his purpose was.

He filled his time with making himself useful to other people, chasing and seeking a purpose or a person to fill the gaps and spaces in his chest; the hollows once reserved for the people who didn’t return the outpouring of love he offered so freely, so innocently. He found and made a rag-bag bunch of friends, a found family, who returned the love he deserved in the ways they knew how. Woven and knotted friendship bracelets, squished candy bars, mixtapes, weed sold and rolled at buddy rates or for nothing at all.

Steve Harrington moved to the city with his best friends; a Beemer and a battered van filled with boxes and suitcases. The early morning drive made Steve Harrington glow golden in the rising sun, his excited eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses as Robin Buckley snored in the passenger seat and Eddie Munson listened to metal at an ear-bleeding volume in his van and flipped Steve off with that big grin in the rearview mirror. They stopped for strong coffee and sweet pancakes and started a new chapter in the city.

When you fell in love with Steve in 1990, he found a reason to stay in bed a little longer. A reason to slow down, soak up the sunshine glow you shone on him.

You spent Saturday nights with friends, a patchwork group cheering on Corroded Coffin and selling T-shirts and tapes at a merch table when they scored a bigger venue and a bigger crowd. Movie nights and takeout Chinese food and a stack of new and old movies from Blockbuster. Date nights at swanky bars and restaurants, with flickering candles and pizza on the way home because you didn’t want the night to end yet. You spent hours in bed together, night and morning, talking about everything under the rising sun and dwindling moon, learning about each other’s life and mapping each other’s body with kisses and gentle touches.

In the morning he gazed at your sleepy softness and took his own pulse to make sure he wasn’t dying. No heart attack, just falling in love.

He brought you cups of coffee and sweet pastries from the bakery a block away when his limbs felt restless. He always got back into bed with you to cuddle and while away the morning without a moment wasted. With Steve, those mornings were syrupy slow; he worshipped you between your thighs and held your hands as the headboard bashed against the wall.

You became Mrs. Steve Harrington in the spring of ‘94.

A small wedding. A big party for your friends. A honeymoon week where every morning felt like a perfect lazy Saturday.

When Steve found his reason to stay in bed, together you created a reason that kept you from it.

Bethany Rose Harrington. Born June 21st 1995.

Beth had her Daddy’s eyes and her Mama’s nose, and the sweetest little dimples in her smiley pink cheeks. She was her Daddy’s little doughnut, her Mama’s little bee. She inherited Steve’s charm and wrapped her extensive collection of doting uncles and aunts right around her tiny finger. She took after you in the way that Steve was completely and utterly in love with her.

Just like her Dad, Beth liked to start the day early. After a few weeks of seeking out and settling into a routine, Steve spent the earliest part of the day feeding his little Bethie her bottle of milk in the cosy armchair nestled in the corner of her pale yellow nursery. As he watched her big brown eyes gaze and blink, felt her tiny fist wrap around his finger, Steve decided that these were the happiest mornings of his life.

On those soft and slow mornings, you could hear Steve’s low murmur to your little girl through the baby monitor when his excitement to see her gummy smile or stop her sad fat tears bypassed the off-switch. You fell back asleep to the sound of Steve telling Beth about how the Cubs and the Bulls (their teams now) were doing this season, or about the walk in the park you were going to go on once ‘beautiful mama’ was awake. He sang to her; never typical lullabies, Queen and ABBA and Dusty Springfield.

Steve basked in the joy of her little smiles, soaked in the soft cooing noises as Beth found her voice to talk back to her Daddy. When she fell asleep again, milk-drunk with her cheek against his heartbeat, Steve watched the morning sky shift and brighten and listened out for the sound of your waking time. The soft thud and shuffle from bed to bathroom, running water, your yawn and stretch, the gentle steps to seek and find him and your little treasure. You filled reams of camera film, documenting Steve as a Dad, your little girl's first weeks and months. Lit by morning light, by afternoon sun and the shade of the tree in your yard, and dusky nighttime lit by nightlights.

When your laundry list of chores allowed it, you took one of your three options on those mornings of parenthood - take turns to bask in the warmth of lavender and milk-scented baby cuddles while the other showered; bring the sleeping beauty back to your bed to gaze at the ten fingers and ten toes you had created together; or leave the sleepy and full-tummied grub to sleep in her crib again to spend the slow dawn hours holding each other and trading kisses, and knotting yourselves up in the sheets together once the doctor gave you the all-clear and a prescription for birth control.

You did plenty of all three.

Summer turned to Autumn, then Winter, and Steve balanced being a father and husband with keeping a roof over your heads and the final year of his programme to get his qualification to become a guidance counsellor. His mornings with Beth were part of his routine, leaving her smiling and drooly for you when he kissed his girls goodbye. Missing him during full days of supervised sessions and hours in the college library when he wasn’t in classes bonded you and Beth, thick as thieves and lovestruck for the golden Harrington boy-turned-man. You made sure that he never missed a moment with how many pictures you took, and Beth saved all of her firsts for when he was home. You coached her to say ‘dada’ in Steve’s absence and he sobbed happy tears when she parroted it back. (He had been coaching her to say ‘mama’ during their early mornings together).

Your late nights of talking turned to early-to-bed nights, sleeping when the baby slept and when your little home was some semblance of clean and tidy. Steve fell asleep to the sound of Bethie’s breath on the monitor, your heart under his cheek and the soft stroke of your fingers in his hair, along the length of his arm.

Both of you were exhausted. Neither of you had ever been happier.

When he graduated in the Summer, you and Beth cheered and clapped for your golden boy along with his best friends - the loudest bunch in the college auditorium. A picture of the Harrington trio - Steve in his shirt and tie and graduation gown balancing a smiley baby and his degree as you kiss his cheek and tickle Beth’s tummy for the camera - was placed with pride on his desk when he started a counsellor job that landed in his lap in the late summer of ‘96. He coached basketball two afternoons a week on the side; it was perfect for him.

You go back to work part-time and you balance taking care of Beth and each other with the utmost care. With help from your family and Steve’s trust fund from the Harrington’s, you make it work. You are what he holds dear, pride of place in the centre of his chest, once vacant and hollow. The gaping space he yearned to fill with the wrong friends, the wrong girls, watery beer and too many cigarettes.

By the Fall of ‘97, Steve had learned to sleep again. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Enjoy your days off. Enjoy every moment. He is. He’s so tired but never happier.

This morning, you wake first.

Your little house in the Chicago suburbs is bathed in autumn darkness on a lazy Saturday. Six a.m. and Steve snores peacefully.

Beth is silent, dreaming of her two favourite things: fairies and pancakes. That top five list favourites is rounded out by her Daddy and Mama and Mrs. Murphy’s orange cat that visits the backyard.

The littlest Harrington is an early bird too, twirling in your tummy beneath Steve’s protective hand. Until Steve can take the morning shift, you are the early riser.

Beth is your sleepy little dreamer, she loves her bed like her Mama. She sneaks in between you and Steve (and the bump now too) when she wakes too early; you spend those mornings gazing and counting fingers and toes again like when she was a tiny thing.

This baby however seems to take after her father’s love of sport, the way she practices the aim and strength of her kicks on your bladder. You don’t officially know yet (they were less than cooperative at the last ultrasound), but you know it’s a girl. Steve swayed to boy for a day or two before realising you were right. Maybe next time…

The flush and sigh-groan from your aching back pulls Steve from sleep. When you pad back in from the little bathroom, he’s just about upright and wild-haired.

“Y’okay?” Eyes swollen with sleep, he reaches blindly for you to help you back into the cosy nest of blankets.

“Mm, needed to pee.”

You try to keep your cold feet away but Steve sandwiches them between his own size fourteen and always warm feet. His lips brush your shoulder and the back of your neck when you settle into a comfortable position; Bump dictates what will suffice as ‘comfortable’ and settles under her father’s comforting hand. Harrington’s magic touch is famed in your home; settling gassy babies and working out knotted shoulders, fixing leaky faucets and carrying all of the groceries inside in two heavy handfuls, making shadow-puppet shows on the bedroom wall and holding back your hair when you’re not well.

Slowly, small-spooned by Steve’s bigger body, you drift again. Sleep comes and goes like an inconsistent tide, and you are anchored safely in his arms. Baby names ebb and flow into your tired head and you wish Steve was awake to tell you what he thought of ‘Heather’ or ‘Ava’. Whether your (very slow) re-read of Little Women was influencing you too much to ‘Josie’. You wonder about how much candy you should get for the trick-or-treaters, and whether Beth will be too scared to help you answer the door to them this year.

You wish he was awake - because you always wish your every waking moment was spent with Steve Harrington - but you’re so glad he is sleeping soundly, snoring sweetly behind you. You wish you could take more responsibility, take the pressure he puts on his own shoulders from him, but this pregnancy is less easy than the first and you hate that you can’t do it all anymore. You take solace in the fact that Steve is asleep, not awake worrying or nesting.

Turning in his sleepy hold, you place his hand back on the bump to keep the littlest Harrington settled and content, and watch your handsome husband look like the teenager you wish you had known. You map the laughter lines instead of the ones etched by worry, counting the happy memories (which are insurmountable) as you fall back to sleep with him at last.

Sleeping Beauty herself slumbers on until almost 8 a.m., meaning that both you and Steve sleep until almost 8 a.m. too - later on you will toast coffee (decaf for you) over that parent win. For the next few months, the weekends mean Steve will be hitting snooze on his body clock when the chances arise.

This morning Beth’s little voice sings his name down the hall. Steve wakes with a smile and kisses your sleepy face as you stretch and peel your eyes open.

“You’re up, Coach.” Your voice is a tired yawn, mumbled into the fluffy duvet Steve untangles himself from.

“Bring her in for cuddles please.” You pout for a tired kiss and hum happily when he grants your wish.

Steve’s ankles crack as he walks from your room to Beth’s. She’s wide awake and wild-haired, matching her Dad, and she sits up in her bed with her bunny-teddy clutched in her fist.

“Hi bumblebee,” he gasps, his tiredness swept away by his genuine joy to see her. Steve lays down on her too-small-for-him baby bed and pretends to get comfy to sleep again. “Sleepover?” he asks, opening his arm for her.

“Nooooo, yo’bed!” Her sweet voice crackles with sleepiness and the remnants of a cold she picked up as the seasons changed.

In the warmth of your bed, you can hear the mini-eye-roll she’s giving her Dad as he plays up to her dramatics. Uncle Dustin has a lot to answer for.

“Bethie,” you call from your nest, “I miss you.”

Steve watches with barely restrained amusement as her face beams bright like sunshine before leaving him in the lurch to seek out Mama. “Hey! What about me?!”

You can hear his grumbling as he hauls himself up from the tiny toddler bed but your focus is the bundle of sunshine that bounds her way to your room in her sky-blue jammies. Pushing messy hair from her face, she squeaks happily as you lift her before Steve can beat you to it. You didn’t want another moment apart from your girl and she burrows against your chest under the toasty-warm duvet.

“Morning Betty Boop.” You press kisses to her smiling face and hear Steve stomp and flop back into the room and into the bed.

“Is Daddy not invited to this love-in? Just for Mama and Beth?” he asks, scowling at your smushed-together faces.

You cuddle Beth and stroke her back as the girl shifts her impish gaze to Steve. “What do you think, Betty? Kisses for Dada?”

She can never ever resist him and reach-grabs out to be gathered in his big strong arms for kisses and cuddles.

Steve lights up, features relaxing from his feigned annoyance, as he gives and receives morning kisses. You are gathered up alongside the titch of a girl and with her help, you smother kisses all over Steve’s happy face.

“Never ever not invited to the love-in, my love.” You kiss his shadowed jaw once and tuck yourself under his arm.

“Kiss d’baby?” Beth’s messy head pops up and looks at you hopefully.

“You wanna say good morning to Baby?” Steve asks, and she nods. “Mama?”

“I think she’s asleep, but I bet she’ll wake up when she hears Big Sis and Dada.” Beneath the pitched tent of the duvet, you lift Steve’s t-shirt and present the rounded bump for inclusion in the morning love-in.

Beth has been immensely eager to meet her baby since she took notice of your bump and realised the new baby was actually in there.

The little girl’s pillow-soft cheek rests against the curve as she hugs around your middle. “Moh’nin, baby.” Her little voice is still a little stuffed up, nasal.

Your heart and tears swell as you watch her with Steve, who kisses the bump and murmurs hello. You’re at that point of pregnancy where you could cry when the wind changes and you cover your eyes so Beth won’t go out in sympathy-tears with you.

Steve’s big hand squeezes your hand as he distracts Beth, who babbles in toddler talk to her sibling. His eyes are wide and worried as he looks up and sees the hitch of your chest. He’s had that worried look since you bled at ten weeks and the doctor put you on bed rest, just three weeks into actually knowing you were pregnant. Everything has settled bar your hormones and emotions; two perfect heartbeats, an active healthy baby, a happy but tired Mom. Steve is more scared now than he was with Beth but pretends to be brave for you.

You swipe at your hot tears, dry your hand in your t-shirt before reaching down to stroke through Steve’s thick hair.

“M’okay.” You give him a watery smile. “She’s just… so sweet, Stevie.”

Moving up to lie along your side, Steve wipes your cheek and presses a kiss to the trail of the tears left behind. “Sweetest. Sweet Bee. Feelin’ okay?”

His hand stays on top of your bump and then passes over Bethany’s bedhead when she looks up curiously.

Seeing that she is missing out, Beth decides she has had enough and wants to cuddle with you instead of the baby who won’t kick back hello. She wiggles up to lie on Steve’s chest, little fingers poking into the freckles and moles as he pulls the duvet back around you all like a cosy cocoon.

“Feeling good. You okay?”

Steve has tucked away his worry again, but you still see the pinch in his brow - though the curious little fingers might be the reason for that.

“Peachy.” He chases the poking fingers with a growling kiss, pulling a shrieking giggle from Beth. “Hello, can I help you? Why are we poking Daddy this morning, huh?”

You giggle with Beth and kiss where her fingers had pressed, modelling the gentle sweetness you know she possesses in multitudes. “Poor Daddy. See, Betty? Gentle kissies.” A kiss is snuck onto his mouth for good measure.

“Daddy,” Beth sing-songs, patting his cheek lovingly.

“Bethie,” Steve sings back to her, echoing her melody. He accepts a wet baby-kiss as you curl close to them both.

You twirl a finger in the messy wave of her hair. “What will we do today? Do you want to get some library books? Or we could… go to the park?”

Steve pats her back gently. “Oh wow. All the possibilities, huh?” His lips press to Beth’s forehead as she cuddles up to him, her fingers distracted by the gold chain he wears around his neck. “Gentle, please.” He kisses her head again and looks at you. “We can do both… Go get a t-r-e-a-t?”

You smile and nod, covering Steve’s hand on Beth’s small back. “I like t-r-e-a-ts. What do you want to do, big guy?”

Steve’s fingers slot with yours. His lips brush your head as you share his pillow - the firm one to help with his neck pain. “Just be with you two. Could stay right here all day and I’d be the happiest guy.”

You press your nose against his cheek and close your eyes; you’re both surrounded by your favourite people, it is utter bliss.

“I love you.” Your voice is soft and tired against his stubbly jaw.

“Love you. So much, babe.”

Steve tilts his head so you can share a morning-breath-be-damned kiss. He wishes he had woke up sooner, before the wide-eyed toddler, so that he could have showered you with kisses, made out like teenagers (despite the baby bump between you).

“No! Me!” The frustrated little whine makes you smile apologetically to each other, chancing one more peck before you both look to scowling Beth.

“Sorry, Bee. Mama’s too delicious for me to resist.”

“Steve!” you tuck your face in his neck as you laugh, an affectionate headbutt.

“What? The kid’s gotta know.”

The two-year-old smushes her face to her Dad’s chest, still too little to comprehend her Dad’s silly banter when she just wants to be the centre of both of your attention. You have a few months left to figure that out before the baby arrives, but it scares you that she might feel like she’s not the best thing that ever happened you (bar her Dad, of course).

Your pout matches hers and you push back the stinging Mom Guilt Tears. She is only coaxed away with sweet little cheek-kisses from you as you hum-sing Take a Chance on Me (accompanied by Steve’s tapping fingers on her back ‘take a chance, take a chance, take a, take a chance-chance.)

The girl's smile splits her frustrated face, a quiet giggle as she is serenaded by her current favourite song (you have just got I Was Made For Lovin’ You out of your head after Steve had introduced her to KISS in the car). Her little arm hooks around your head as you whisper how much you love her, soft voice tickling her ear and cheek.

Beth’s laughter coaxes a fluttering kick against your belly, which Steve feels against his side as you spoon against him. He wears the same wide-eyed joy on his face every time he has felt your babies kick.

“Oo, she’s awake again. Finally joining the party.” You rest your hand against the side of your rounded belly and telepathically tell the tiny one how much you love them too, how you can’t wait to meet them but please stay in there until they’re fully cooked and ready.

Steve’s free hand - the one not keeping Beth upright as she sits up on his torso - joins yours and echoes your telepathic communication to the littlest Harrington - I love you, I can’t wait to hold you, please stay safe in there and be nice to your Mom.

His wide palm on your bump settles the fluttering before she aims her kick right against it Hi Dad! Okay, Dad!

You share a secret little smile with him and kiss his cheek as his eyes shimmer before rolling onto your achy back, feeling the satisfaction of the pop and crack as your spine relaxes against the mattress. Steve’s hand stays on your belly, and you hug his arm to your chest, as Beth sings her toddler-babble version of an ABBA mashup for you both from her throne.

Steve’s face hurts from smiling as he listens to her, hears some semblance of the lyrics in Beth-speak. He doesn’t remember mornings like this with his parents, few and far between were the times he was even allowed to cuddle with them in bed on a weekend morning.

You glance at his face, watching shifting emotions come and go as he remembers, tries to forget and focuses on the memories being made right now in your cosy nest of a bed. You squeeze his arm and hold his hand on your belly - matching gold wedding rings clicking against each other as your fingers intertwine.

Steve squeezes your hand, three pulses. There is simply nowhere he would rather be.

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jesterwriting · 6 months

Text

scenario: stuck in a timeloop and the only way to restart is to die

pairing: sanji x reader, law x reader, ace x reader (separate)

contents: hurt/comfort, angst, gore, im serious about the gore tw, graphic description of death, post traumatic symptoms, maybe a touch of survivors guilt, breakdowns, time loops, if youve seen rezero you know whats up

word count: 1.6k words

note: okay if theres one thing i love, its angst and hurt comfort, and if there’s one thing i do when i write it, i go crazy with it. my hands were genuinely shaking while i wrote this. hope you enjoy! [evil laughter]

playlist: eleanor by cake bake betty

No matter how many times you died, you couldn’t help but scream when you woke up again. You lost count how many times it happened, and it wasn’t like there was any point in keeping count besides depressing yourself with your numerous failures. This was your power; horrible and nowhere near worth the cost of losing your ability to swim. With every death, you would restart back at a random checkpoint, beginning anew, able to change the way the timeline went. All it took was to die, and lord above, did you die. Sometimes it was quick, other times it was an agony that would haunt you for many loops after.

Your power left you lonely. Friendships you made in one timeline, didn’t exist in others. You remembered when you were young and greeted a friend from a past loop with a hug. Of course, they didn’t know who you were. They no longer remembered the adventures you experienced or the trials you endured, only you held those memories now. They pushed you away with a look of distress, and you cried for hours after that, burdened with the knowledge that whatever friendship you had before, was gone forever now.

You isolated yourself after that.

It wasn’t until recently that you found yourself with a crew, though no one knew of your ability. You hated talking about it, hated reliving each death again and again. Every time you felt strong enough to speak about it, you always ended up dying and resetting everything back to the status quo. You were surrounded by friends, but so completely, and utterly alone. It was a worm in your gut, chewing on you from within and tearing you apart.

Now, here you were. Dying again.

Failing again.

Your eye spasmed in your skull, the other nothing more than jelly in your socket. The taste of iron pooled in your mouth as you hunched over, organs squirming like maggots from the wound on your abdomen. Sobs wracked your body. With shaking hands, you scooped your entrails into the crook of your arm in hopes that you could put them back inside of you. They were slimy and warm, and you were reminded of eels, or perhaps hagfish.

Everything hurt. You were so afraid, you couldn’t breathe. There was a loud bang and a heavy pressure on your chest. Or maybe, your inability to catch your breath stemmed from the bullet that had pierced through your ribcage and into your lungs. When did that happen? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, all you knew was that you didn’t want to die.

Of course, you didn’t get a say in the matter. Before you knew it, your muscles were going slack and your body was crumpling to the ground. Blood poured from between your lips as your tongue wagged numbly in your mouth. If you weren’t careful, you might bite it off. It had happened before, and you died drowning in your own blood rather than to the slow drain of your wounds. Maybe, if you were lucky, you could have been saved then.

Not now, though. Your guts were supposed to be inside you, not spewed and steaming on the ground.

And, just like that, it was over.

You awoke in bed and screamed. With gasping breaths, your hands frantically felt the intact skin of your belly, and your bulletless chest. Though you were safe, the ghost of your pain lingered like a knife against your back. Sobs tore from your throat as you curled in on yourself.

It had been a long time since a death this bad. So lost in your own misery — again, again, it happened again, why won’t it stop? — you didn’t hear the door open until it was too late.

“Black Leg” Sanji

Sanji was across the room, scooping you into his arms before you were able to blink. You gasped and squirmed slightly as he rubbed your back. A part of you was still there, bleeding out on the ground, and your heart wouldn’t stop hammering wildly in your chest, even as Sanji murmured sweet nothings into your ear. Phantom pain gripped you, and your stomach clenched when you remembered just how slimy your insides were as you tried to put them back where they belonged.

“I’m here, love, I’m here.”

That only made you cry more. Your breath hitched as you gripped the back of his dress shirt in your fist and buried your face into the crook of his neck. You were hyperventilating, afraid that the bullet in your chest followed you into this loop, threatening to drag you under again. You died in Sanji’s arms once before, and the terror on his face had etched itself into your brain forever. It couldn’t happen again, you would drag yourself away to die alone under a rock if you could help it.

Sanji’s hand shook as he stroked your hair. “What happened? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Finally, you caught your breath and wiped the tears from your face. With a watery smile, one you were sure was nowhere near as convincing as you wanted if Sanji’s worried expression was anything to go by.

“I had a nightmare,” You said.

If Sanji knew you were lying, he didn’t say anything. He only held you while you desperately pretended that you had stopped trembling.

Trafalgar Law

Law was the last person who you wanted to see like this. He carried too much already. You were sure that he would crumble if he knew the weight you had been carrying right under his nose. Frantic, you pawed at your face to remove the evidence of your breakdown as if he hadn’t heard you screaming moments before.

“Hey,” He said softly, crouching beside you to gently grab you by the shoulders. Law squeezed, and you took a shaky breath and remembered where you were. You weren’t dying alone in the middle of nowhere, you were on the Polar Tang, with Law, somewhere on the Grand Line.

You sniffled and cracked a small smile. “Hey.”

Unwanted visions of your previous death assaulted you from behind your eyes. A sharp gasp tore from your throat as your arms snaked around your middle to hold your organs inside. It still hurt, why did it still hurt? You were safe now, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Gently, Law pried your arms from your abdomen and pulled up your shirt to inspect it. “I don’t see any external injuries…”

You watched the possibility of an internal injury flit across his face. Before the word ‘room’ left his lips, you shook your head and choked on another sob.

“I had a dream I died,” You admitted the half truth with the sour taste of bile on your tongue.

Law’s brows knit and he let out a small, “Ah.”

Awkward, not yet used to the affection you bestowed upon him so readily, he wrapped his long arms around you with a small pat on your back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“If I died, you need to know I would never blame you.” It came out of nowhere, but it was the only thing you could think to say. The truth was, you would blame yourself, you had a lot of experience doing that, though you thought better of saying that aloud.

Law didn’t say anything in response, his thumb rubbing gentle circles between your shoulder blades.

Portgas D. Ace

“What happened? Why are you crying?” Ace was talking before he even reached you, pulling you against his bare chest before you even had a chance to realize he was here. His scent filled your nose, filled your head, until you were hysterical and pulling him as close as possible.

“Was someone here? Did someone hurt you?” With his righteous anger, his body temperature rose as harmless flames licked your fingers. All you could do was cry, so captivated with the man in front of you, your death was all but forgotten.

“No, no, I’m okay.” You pulled back to study his face, your own stained with snot and tears. He practically glowed in the moonlight that streamed through your window. Even at night, Ace shone like the sun. Your clumsy hands found his freckles, sweeping across the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks to his lips. Flesh and bone, alive and whole. You sobbed harder, low keening whines ripping from your throat before you could stop them.

“Had- Had a dream you were gone.”

Ace pulled you tighter against him. “Oh, babe, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

With your fingers tangled in his hair, Ace rocked you back and forth, hushing you softly while you wished to tear open your ribcage and keep him safe inside your body forever. The only way to get to him would be to rip you apart, and even then, you would come back again, stronger than ever. No one would be able to take him from you. You had died too many times to count, faced pain time and time again, there was no torture you wouldn’t endure if it meant you wouldn’t lose your sun.

How many loops had it been? How many times have you had to watch Ace die?

You’d save him this time, you would make sure of it.

#one piece x reader #black leg sanji x yn #sanji x reader #trafalgar law x reader #portgas ace x reader #portgas ace x y/n #trafalgar law x y/n #trafalgar law x you #black leg sanji x reader #portgas ace x you #.jesterwrites #had so much fun with this one

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bleedingichorhearts · 13 days

Text

𝕾𝖊𝖙 𝖁𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖞

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: What if I combined them all into one, for maximum efficiency? I blame this one, @kit-williams and this one, @barn-anon for this.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

TW // SMUT/NSFW, NonCon and Dubcon, Baby Trapping, Drug? Yandere Themes, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism.

Blasius slowly turns his head to the side from his crouched position. His mouth opening for a better scent thread as he sniffs the air heavily and chuffs.

So soon? He shakes his head, rising from his crouched position. Casting a shadow over the broken body below him. Such an eager little mate.

Glancing back down at the mauled body. Blasius brings forth an main appendage between his armor plates and licks the warm crimson staining his gauntlet. Savoring how rotten it tasted. Something he had almost forgotten about. How atrocious some could be, hopeless and decaying.

Something his little mate was not. Unlike this waste of flesh below him, unable to bring his little mate what she wanted. What she craved for. He can see it in her eyes, in her scent. How could this one not?

He was ignorant of course, too witless to acknowledge her effort. Too endorsed in his time running away from the nest and coming back smelling like another. His little mate was distressed when she figured out what he was doing. Yet, she still believed that he had some “good” left in him. Putting more of her dedication to prove that she was the worthy mate, when it was the other way around.

This false male was the unworthy one of breathing in the same air as his little mate. Undeserving of her attention, her love, her gifts and lingering touches of her commission of fidelity. It drove him crazy that she wasn’t paying attention to him as she poured her devotion into this male who uses her as a side trophy.

He wanted to give his little mate all that he had to offer. He wanted to return that love and attention she put on that failure of a human. He wanted to gift her all the things she found an interest in, but never acted upon it. Craving for that male to gift it to her, to acknowledge her. He wanted to provide what the male would not, could not.

It was no secret this man was a disappointment to any female that he encounters. He can hear the difference between the real and the fake moan’s his little mate does when they are coupled together or how his little mate has to take care of herself afterwards. Having yet to climax herself, but the male was also a disappointment by being infertile. Not that his little mate knows of that.

It is one of the reasons she has gotten a toy however, to sedate her ever growing desires. To finally have something to finish her off and at first, he wanted to rip the toy to shreds. Watch it decay beneath his fingertips, but he stops mid-way of finding the silicone c*ck in her closet. Realizing this singular tool has had a lot more to it than just for making his little mate climax on it.

So, he puts it back in its place where he found it. Leaving it to his little mates next use.

Blasius hums deeply as the appendix of the open body below him bursts, a quiet wheeze coming out of the mouth of the body as it splatters against his greaves. A mix of puss and blood inching down his armor to his sabatons. Another appendage coming out between his plating near his knee to clean up the mess the weak, organic body had made.

He uses another main appendage to reach inside the cut opening in the males body, pushing underneath his sternum and ribs, providing wet sounds and a squelch each time the appendage slips underneath another rib. Reaching the top of the body’s rib cage, he digs the appendage downwards between the lungs and wraps around the windpipe and tugs. A sickening squelch-like pop sounding out.

Pulling his appendage back to him. He wraps the rest of his appendage around the organ and lifts it up to his face, observing it. Sniffing it before he rumbles lowly in refusal. Whipping the rotten lung away with his appendage. Hearing it splat somewhere else.

That was not something he would preferably eat. Healthy organs are the better route of eating, they taste better. Saccharine even. They envelop the tongue like thick wine. Not that he found eating humans was a satisfactory, just a tasteful treat. He found far better sweets in this world to sedate his hunger than he would in his own world, but that rotted lung wouldn't give him the treat he was looking for.

Perhaps, his liver would work better? They were always far cleaner than the rest of the body’s he’s taken a snack on before. Maybe a little bitter with their alcohol consumption, but that doesn't deter him, he’s had worse before. If anything, that marinates more flavor into the organ.

Sliding his appendage between the body’s ribs and organs again. Wet sounds followed while he wraps his appendage around the liver twice. Pushing the other organs aside and over the opening of his torso and stomach. Feeling how the male's organs still pulsed with life. His dull eyes still staring up at his figure. A mule this one was.

With a particularly harsh tug, the body’s liver popped out with a sickening crack of his rips flying apart. His sternum breaking in half as bone shards littered inside and outside of the blood spewing body. The dirt drinking up the body’s lifeline like desert sands would do to water.

Blasius purrs quietly, approving of this body’s liver as he sniffs it. His mouth opening to wrap his tongue around the organ and lay it in his mouth before squeezing it with his tongue. Feeling it pop in his mouth and splatter before he chews, savoring the taste and the memory’s it came with it.

At least, the memories with his little mate in them. Ranging from how sweet his little mate was and how remarkable she was. Offering her food, her home to this male. Never blowing up on him when she clearly wanted to. Some of the many things that he hates the male for, but that was not a matter anymore.

Nurgle, and the intercourses with her. He knows he could have done way better than this male, but to envision her nude and submissive before him? His appendages began to salivate, including his mouth.

The things he would love to do to her.

Her scent wafts over him as he swallows hard. Shivering as his appendages become eager, desiring, and aching. Pushing up against his armor almost painfully. Telling him he wasn’t actually envisioning her scent of her arousal at all. This was real.

He takes a step away from the mutated body, not looking back as his appendages inside of him twitch in anticipation. Those wild packs of wolves that roam around here should eat the rest of the body up like nothing by tomorrow's dusk. Leaving absolutely no trace of him to be found.

Blasius uses his appendages to clean the rest of his armor off to temporarily relieve their eagerness to come out while he slowly follows his little mates arousal back to her nest. He knows has some time to get there before she climaxes and he must be presentable to his little mate after all. He knows how… unnerving he could look.

He hears her soft moans before he even enters into the nest. His senses heightened to seek her out through her strong arousal that begged him to fill his little mate as he inhales deeply, leaning down through the front door.

Nurgle, he is here little mate. He is here to provide. Let him provide for you.

He hears her cry out in ecstasy and that makes him move a bit faster through the house. Holding his breath as he moves swiftly between furniture. Quickly, opening the door and lean down through it to his little mates nesting spot.

The first thing he sees is her riding the false c*ck up and down into her core at a fast pace. Her skin glistening with sweat at all the effort to make herself climax. Her heated breaths staining her own skin as she moans out again, closing her eyes and throwing her head back.

He rumbles quietly and takes side steps into the grounds of his little mates nest. Watching as she chased that high. Kneeling down to the ground in front of her bed. Observing how her folds fluttered around the c*ck. Her muscles constricting around it as she cried out. Her juices leaking down the c*ck.

Yet, she doesn’t turn on the toy? Isn’t that what it was for? To fill her up her womb? Isn’t that what she wanted?

So, he turns on the toy instead, a gasp escaping his little mate as the toy pumps his c*m into her. Selection by selection, until there was nothing left in the toy.

Unfortunate, no worries. He has more to provide.

She makes a move to get up from the false c*ck, but he growls. His appendages coming out, spooking his little mate as he takes her by the hip and pushes her back down on the fake c*ck. Watching as she squirms on it, his c*m leaking around the edges from her hole and down the false c*ck.

He didn’t get drug from that questionable Ultramarine for no reason.

She whines at him, and as much as he would love to hear her cry out to him. He sticks an enthusiastic appendage down her throat. Silencing her cry’s as he shoves moves her shifting hips back down onto the false c*ck again.

Shhh, little mate. Let me take care of you. Your… partner won’t be around anytime soon to please your needs like I will. To caress your skin like I will. To protect you like I will. To provide to you like I will.

To have yours and mine procreation.

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thedailyplatypics · 9 months

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TW//pretty violent descriptions of Doof’s traps and wondering how they might actually kill Perry/Death/Falling/Suffocation/Burning

Perry Could Have Died A Lot:

Doofenshmirtz’s Traps Becoming Tamer, The Evolution Of Perry And Doof’s Relationship, And The Expendability Of OWCA Agents.

In Season 1 and 2 many of the traps created by Doofenshmirtz aimed to KILL Perry, either unintentionally or intentionally, and sometimes in the worst, most horrifying ways imaginable.

It’s genuinely concerning how bad some early traps were and what exactly Doofenshmirtz was expecting when these traps succeeded? I usually like to imagine Perry as an invincible fighting machine, but what if he wasn’t invincible? What if some of these traps actually succeeded? And What happens to the other poor OWCA agents that aren’t as skilled when their nemesis has something cruel in store?

Showing the de-escalation of these traps also shows just how much their relationship evolved over the course of the show.

But before we get into that though, let’s quickly go over some of these traps and just how badly they would have turned out for poor Perry.

I’ll be rating them from 0-10 on how awful each death would have been (10 being the worst) based on how slow the death would be, how helpless he would be, how horrifying it would be, how painful it would be, what the treatment of the remains would be like, and how bad it still is for Perry even though he escaped to give a FULL look at just how messed up Doof’s traps were.

A very slow, lonely death by suffocation and a helpless situation. What would Doof even have done to clean this up? Would he just keep Perry in there forever??

8/10 worst way to die

A long and horrifying death from falling as he would have been completely helpless to do anything, but wait for the inevitable thud and darkness at the end. If he fell on a hard surface the only thing recognizable from him would be his hat. More like Perry the Splat-ypus (I’m sorry)

7/10 worst way to die

A lot to breakdown here: Dismemberment, decapitation, blown to shreds by a canon ball, and literally a murder s**c*de bombing by nuclear detonation wtf☠️??? And imagine the cleanup for half these things..

7/10 worst way to die

Death by being mauled, torn to shreds, and eaten by crocodiles all while Doofenshmirtz watched with a smile on his face is pretty sick. (This is the second time Doof’s tried to feed him to crocs/gators)

7/10 worst way to die

This was mostly unintentional, but death by either hypothermia or suffocation.

6/10 worst way to die

This trap placed under a rocket booster would have instantly incinerated them if it had succeeded. While not very painful compared the rest, it’s equally as scary. Imagine being there for one second and then poof. The only thing that is left of you is ashes.

If they took too long to escape the health affects from the toxic gasses released by rocket fuel such as, NO2, HNO3, hydrazines, and other substances would have been destructive towards their health.

5/10 worst way to die

One of Doof’s worst traps if it wasn’t so easy to escape. Try to imagine a laser cutting into you like this, cutting into one organ after the other, slow, searing hot, and also yes, extremely painful. If the pain didn’t kill Perry first through something like cardiac arrest, then multi-organ failure would have.

AND Literally what else was Doof expecting to come home to after the LOVE MUFFIN event??? NOT a dead platypus cut in half??!! What would he even have done with his body after that!??

10/10 worst way to die

This one is just the worst one. Based on the color of this lava, it’s around 1,600 F°!

If the rope didn’t burn through first he would have basically suffocated, seared his lungs to a crisp from the hot air, roasted alive slowly, and burst into flames (Anakin Skylwalkered) but if the rope broke he would probably feel (and not feel) the worst pain imaginable on earth for a good few seconds as all the water in his body would boil, nerves would desintegrate, every single organic molecule in his body would denature, and the lava would wrap around him like grease when you put bacon on a frying pan (that last part might just only apply to rocks though). The bones would burn for the longest, but soon there would be no trace of him left.

It should be noted that lava is a dense liquid and would feel pretty solid unlike water.

Even though he did escape this one, imagine the burns he got and seared lungs. Getting this close to molten lava typically sets people on fire and gives them serious burns. There’s also the toxic gases, heavy metals, and carcinogenic matter he inhaled. Additionally, this lava was bubbling and spraying everywhere. Once a drop of this molten rock like that hits your skin it burns your skin, burns your nerves, cools, and sticks on you. You wouldn’t feel it yet, but how did he hide that stuff when he came home to Phineas And Ferb? Burns can also lead to infections which could be serious and lead to removal of infected areas and amputation or even death,

While the long term health affects he suffered from this experience might not directly lead to his death in the future unless he does get a deadly infection, it could contribute significantly to things like future lung diseases and cancer. There’s also no doubt this experience (mostly from the hot air likely searing his lungs a bit) at least gives him breathing trouble now which would be incredibly depressing.

10/10 worst way to die

Perry didn’t deserve this.

Now, did Doofenshmirtz really have the intention to seriously injure or kill Perry or did he know he’d always escape and wreck his plans? I can’t say for sure, but he survived all of these and he’s also OWCA’s best agent. So, what happens to the lesser skilled agents….?

Perry’s Not The Only One (Tangent):

What percentage of OWCA agents have died in the field of battle with their nemesis and vice versa? We are shown that the one Canadian evil scientist almost died in MML: Agent Lentee Diogee and we know that Agent T (Turkey) was unfortunately killed on Thanksgiving (PNF: The Remains of A Platypus), whether he was mixed up in the turkey harvest process, it was actually because of a scheme unrelated to Thanksgiving, or because his Nemesis did in fact eat him is still unclear.

Also, does the government use animals in OWCA for secret missions because they have advantages humans don’t have or is it really because they’re actually more expendable compared to people. If you think about it, if a human dies because of U.S. government missions, everyone asks questions and there’s a lot of liability, but if a random pigeon or someone’s pet mysteriously goes missing, it’s not national news and no one’s asking the federal government what happened to it. An animal agent is not just a silly cartoon thing, it’s the perfect way to spy, and the US Government has literally tried and used animals as agents before (obviously those ones didn’t have human consciousness like in Phineas And Ferb though since it is a cartoon). They are very expendable and inexpensive.

Back To Doof And Perry:

When did Doof’s traps become more tame? Around the end of season 2 Doofenshmirtz sort of stopped the deadly traps that were designed to kill Perry and mostly focused on traps designed to restrain Perry instead. Sure they still have their laser fights and very dangerous situations and what not (like the Where’s Perry incident), but Doof and Perry are much closer friends now, and we know neither really want the other dead. As Dan Povenmire said, “they really are the most important person in each other’s lives.”

So, when did Doof stop/reduce the death traps? (I use reduce because I checked, but I’m not 100% certain the pnf wiki got every trap)

The last time I remember Doofenshmirtz actually fine with Perry dying was in the Across the 2nd Dimension Movie when he was perfectly okay with Perry being sent to his doom. However, at the end of the film seconds before the 2nd Dimension Doof is about to crush Perry, Phineas, and Ferb, Doofenshmirtz basically saves Perry’s life by stopping 2nd Dimension Doof at the last second and giving him his toy train. (Maybe a little because the horrifying thing 2D Doof did to his Perry too)

Of course he doesn’t remember this because of the Amnesia-inator applied to him and everyone else at the end of the movie, but as we know from the Giant Tire Swing episode when the kids start singing the Summer song from AT2D spontaneously, but cannot recall where it’s from, that memories are still somewhere in the subconscious of these characters.

So, I’d like to think that Doofenshmirtz’s desire to kill Perry sort of faded after actually seeing him come the closest to death he’d ever been in the entire series and while he doesn’t remember it, it’s still there subconsciously.

There’s More:

By the end of the series Doof really isn’t that evil anymore. He’s just a guy pretending to be evil. Perry and Doof are a lot more casual with each other and friendlier, but Doofenshmirtz in The Last Day Of Summer kinda sucks. It’s really the big, real, last push from his evil phase and it shows. He really sucked to both Vanessa and Perry.

In this episode a time looping machine gives Doofenshmirtz multiple tries to finally complete his scheme. In the looping he tries to perfect a trap that can restrain Perry and returns to the type of deadly traps from S1-2, but the mega-trap never overdoes itself and somehow only fails catch Perry, not kill him. Despite every deadly piece and Perry almost getting chopped in half by a bear trap, the mega-trap strangely doesn’t ever kill Perry. It only fails to catch Perry A LOT. This could just be luck and shows that Perry is truly invincible, but since this is later seasons we already know Doof doesn’t want to kill Perry anymore so is it that far off to say that he also didn’t just perfect this trap to not only restrain Perry, but also to not kill him and keep him alive? Does this mean sometimes he could have overdone the trap and there were failed tries to not kill him??

He probably considered that the day repeated so even if he overdid it and killed Perry, the day would restart anyways and he could tone down the part of the trap that killed him, but without the looping he knows the only way to stop Perry is to kill him.

This would be another reason for why he did what he did next.

In one of the final loops when he succeeds with his trap after an unknown amount of tries and finally becomes mayor. The time loop machine also disappears, so he thinks he can no longer loop time now which means no trap will ever be as affective as his time-loop trap and the only affective way to keep Perry from ruining his schemes as he now knows from the time loop, is to kill him. So he uses his new power to legally make it so that Perry can no longer fight him to avoid that entire problem and keep his power, and continue to be evil without hurting him.

It’s somewhat thoughtful that he still doesn’t want Perry dead which is consistent with his character development, but ultimately he chooses evil over his best and only friend and loses him.

Of course we know it works out when he turns good, and he mostly gives up evil after the finale.

This is just another angle to look from when it comes to their relationship.

I don’t know how to end this because that’s about all I’ve got and I have been completely sidetracked from my day to write this and I should probably get back to it. Hopefully this blog makes sense. Feel free to suggest corrections or mistakes or add on any details you’d like to point out.

#perry the platypus #doofenshmirtz #phineas and ferb #blog #essay #pnf #the last day of summer #across the 2nd dimension #Perry and Doof #agent p #Vanessa #owca #theories #headcannons #pnf headcanon

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silverflqmes · 1 month

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໒⦂ 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍.

synopsis. even when all is lost, withering or crumbling away into dust, the unwilling bond tugging them to one another, again and again, remains unyielding.

genre. angst

tw. violence, kinda manipulation but like- he’s right..

disclaimer. there were no suitable sefikura gifs so i made one myself. if you use it, don’t be an ass, credit.

sephiroth x cloud strife. ( could be seen as platonic too )

the blond’s shoulders shook with exhaustion, hands blistering beneath his worn out gloves as his breaths came out shallow — uneven. as though the very oxygen he breathed had been stripped from his lungs amidst the clashing of steel against steel.

meanwhile the man across from him, stood with an eerie, but predictable calm, bangs flowing in the frigid breeze as his fingers curled around the hilt of his blade, ready.

it was just like last time, and the time before that.. and the time before that. every fight was near identical; same beginning with an ending that was equally the same. the only thing different was the words exchanged.

cloud, however, had grown tired of repetition.

the buster sword, trembling in his grasp, finally sunk into the earth, or whatever remained of it, as the former SOLDIER held himself up with a shaky breath.

sephiroth, mildly confused, though it had not reached his features, lowered masamune to his side, curiosity flashing in his feline-like eyes. “giving up so soon.. cloud? that was the last thing i’d expected, certainly out of you.” came his quiet comment, a hum following. “are you reconsidering my offer, perhaps?”

his offer.. the blond remembered it clearly, it echoed continuously in his head, like a mantra, since it left his curled lips.

“cloud, lend me your strength..” the one winged angel had stated mere moments ago, outstretching his leather covered palm. “let us defy destiny.. together.”

on their previous encounters, the mercenary would have yelled before gathering himself for the end of the battle, once more to prove his nemesis wrong. but the fire in him, whatever continued to burn, at last, faded from dying embers to evaporating wisps of smoke. much like the ones that surrounded the horrifyingly beautiful swordsman standing inches away from him.

with all lost or on the verge of being lost, how was he expected to go on? to continue this life long war without end? a battle could be won and lost, but a war persisted and called for more battles without prevail.

such was this so-called destiny sephiroth wished for them to defy.

but the former infantryman was no fool. at least, he believed he wasn’t.

“i don’t.. need your comments, offers or pity, s-sephi.. roth..” cloud heaved out, shaking his head weakly, attempting to remove his weight from the broadsword he’d been leaning on. “let’s just f-finish this.. once and for all.”

except, even he knew it wouldn’t be once and for all. it never was.

the cherished and famed war hero of shinra always, always, no matter the circumstances, odds or how many times the buster sword was cleaved clean through him.. he never failed to return. like a cat with nine lives, he stayed true to those eyes of his.

cloud had lost nearly every person he held dear to his wounded heart — had almost all of them taken away from him while he simply stood by and watched. too late to have made even the slightest difference to prevent the cruel outcomes that befell his loved ones.

the only one that seemed to persist, despite it all.. was sephiroth, he realized.

whether as a taunt or a bitter reminder of his failures at ending him for good — maybe even both, the self proclaimed ruler of the planet came back time and time again to prove the mercenary wrong. regardless of how deep of a slash he’d put through him using his departed friend’s weapon.

sadly, it was the bitter reality cloud lived. who was to say his silver haired nemesis would not return a third time? perhaps even a fourth, fifth or sixth- maybe even a hundredth.

nonchalance seemed to flicker in those mako colored irises, lips curling into what could be perceived as a smirk, albeit feint. “i thought i would mention, as you seem more withdrawn than the previous battles we shared.” he stated lightly, drawing his hilt back into his signature stance. “i would not want to fight you if your heart was not wholly, and irrevocably in it, cloud.”

the spiky haired male narrowed his eyes, vision slightly blurred from his fatigue and confusion. “why.. should my condition matter to you? am i not allowed to be tired of whatever this is- of constantly having to reenact this fight??” he retaliated in a low hiss, wincing as he forced the weapon into a defensive hold.

“i never stated you were not allowed to feel burnt out from our repetitive battles.” the older spoke up softly, a contrasting gentleness to his cold blooded nature — the one that was seared into him. “in fact, i have given you a way out of this fate that we share, where our reunions end with our blades locked.” he added shortly after, chuckling quietly, albeit devoid of humor. “it is often always you, cloud, who turns to fighting, anyway, is it not?”

the boy in question felt his heart in his throat, pupils dilating just slightly before he gritted his teeth. he would not dare fall for the words he spoke again — would not allow himself to see sephiroth as anything short of a villain. it was just so like him to say, anyway, twisting his actions to make him feel remorse.

tightening his grasp on the broadsword he held, cloud took a staggered step towards the taller. “don’t you dare give me that shit, you have ruined everything for me!” he shouted back, a bubbling rage surfacing in him the more he eyed the man across from him. “you’re insane to think i would believe a word you say! i know better than to trust someone who wouldn’t think twice about destroying and redesigning me into his own fucked up image!”

how could he not do that? all the things sephiroth said and expressed — it had all amounted to harnessing the sorrow, agony, hatred.. and that burning rage born from the town — his home, that had been scorched to ash and rebuilt as though it had never happened.

all for the purpose of pushing cloud to the very edge of despair, to pull him in deeper into the cold, dark waters. far away from the surface- from any source of warmth or light that wasn’t the flames on that fateful evening.. and into his everything.

a solemn smile seemed to replace the faltering smirk sephiroth sported as he let out another hum. “i am many things, cloud, but a liar.. is not one of them.” he answered lowly, eyes darkening. “you were rejected from SOLDIER five years ago due to sensitivity to mako. you were weak, incompetent and would have likely died on the field, had you been enlisted as you were.”

the younger of the two seemed to blink as he gripped his claymore tighter, glowering at the male he once idolized. if only that boy knew what his hero would become. “s-stop talking.” it came out stuttered, quieter, than he wished for it to. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“oh but i do, cloud.” he continued, anyway, stalking towards him. “i know everything there is to know. the things you cannot remember, the things you choose not to remember.. even things you do not know about yourself.” the teal eyed male went on, returning his sword to his side. “your strength now is more than it was that day in nibelheim. five years soaking in mako, injected with my cells has made you my equal.” he muttered, watching as the sapphire eyed mercenary trembled not in fear.. but in a nurtured, channeled fury.

it pleased sephiroth greatly, like an artist gazing upon his greatest work, as he appeared behind the blond mercenary, faster than any lightning materia could strike.

while the last of the strife family was still processing his position, the long haired male leaned in closely, curling his lips in a mild amusement. “my will and every desire, as well as my aspirations.. they run through your veins and call out to me- yearn to be one with me. you cannot resist the pull of the reunion, that undeniable need to find the one that tugs your strings.” he whispered into his ear, silver locks spilling over his battered shoulder armor. “what would you be without me, if not a weak, dejected infantryman with crushed dreams in becoming a SOLDIER?”

cloud stood there, frozen in his place despite the mixture of feelings he felt and had planned to pour into every slash he would deliver this time on his adversary.

what would he have been, truly, if not for sephiroth? if not for the horrors he had been through to get to this point?

his head lowered in shame, breaths coming out uneven at the realization as the buster sword dropped from his grasp. “i-i’m not.. i refuse to be any of what you say..”

“oh, but you were, cloud. no matter how many ways you paint the story in your head, however narrative you use to retell it.. your origins are embedded in you, unchanging.. as are my own.” the swordsman clad in leather spoke, placing a hand on his bare, quivering shoulder. “fret not, cloud, for you have gained strength in your suffering, have you not?” he mused out, feeling the other tense beneath his touch.

he had grown and gotten more powerful, yes..

“but i lost everything.” he whispered in a voice so broken from it all, unlike the harsh one that he’d been using as he felt his eyes gloss over with tears; ones that dared not leak in his wake.

..though at what cost?

sephiroth seemed to hum at the crack in whatever stability remained in cloud’s tone, smoothing a hand over his arm, soothingly. “that is the price of strength, cloud. do you think i became the way i am by design?”

other than the propaganda that painted his old role model and the version he came to know now, the spiky haired merc.. knew near nothing of him.

the taller took his silence as a sign to proceed, placing the back of the other’s hand into his palm. “my childhood was spent in a laboratory. those who raised me, the researchers of shinra.. were not pleased with how i was born- what i was born with. they wished for more, to construct and remodel me into that which i am today.” he explained, feeling the blond go completely still.

a mere breath away from his ear, sephiroth parted his lips again to finish. “the famed war hero which you idolized in your youth.. was in reality, a perfectly crafted monster all along, dressed under the guise of an angelic-like grace.”

the one winged angel.

cloud knew shinra wasn’t anything short of sick, having experimented on him as well as many others.. but to this extent?

“unlike you, however, i did not wish for this strength or for anything that was injected, slipped, disciplined or instilled into me.” he finished calmly, no longer fazed by what shattered him, so long ago now. “i did not ask for this destiny, either.. to have to die at your hands repeatedly and be rejected each time by the lifestream. but alas, i have been chosen for this, and to guide you, cloud, as my other half, whenever you lose your way.” the silver haired male finished, raising his free hand to wipe his fresh tears. “so whenever you lose your reason and purpose, i will always be here to gift you a new one. weep not, cloud, for this dynamic is what binds us together.”

he was sure he’d heard something like that somewhere before, and not long ago.

“that which binds us together would be no more.” cloud recalled hearing him say, after the detonation of mako reactor one, amidst the fiery destruction, and his fragile state of mind. “and i would be loath to live in such a world.”

sephiroth had said that about the planet’s annihilation — a result of shinra’s carelessness and abuse of mako as an energy source.

his intentions were in regards to saving the world, but his methods — his vision.. it was flawed- fogged by his resentment for what everyone had done to him.

the self proclaimed first class SOLDIER wondered, would he, too, have reached that point — sephiroth’s point — had he not directed his drive and deplorable feelings into putting an end to him?

his head lowered in shame as he felt his breath catch in his throat. “if i knew strength would mean hurting — bringing death to everyone around me, then i would have never wanted it to begin with.” cloud willed himself to answer, flashes of his most cherished ones appearing in his mind. his mother, zack.. the late avalanche members..

he couldn’t keep doing this. his promise to tifa could barely be kept as it was. how could he be certain she would not be next? or even aerith, now?

sephiroth brought his chin to his shoulder, closing whatever proximity remained between their bodies as he lifted his chin up with his thumb. “it is not too late, cloud, to defy the destiny that has been written out against our will and knowing.” he encouraged in a gentle tone, resting his thumb so close to the corner of the merc’s bottom lip. “your beloved friends could be safe, the suffering would cease and we would stop our never ending fights. all you have to do, is lend your strength to me.. as the only one on this caving world who has endured similar suffering to your own and understands it best.”

ocean hues flashed like those of a deer in headlights, an involuntary shiver dancing down his spine.

to give into sephiroth..? the one thing he had been avoiding, suppressing himself- that part of him from doing.

and yet..

“what.. would i have to do?” cloud asked before he could stop himself from his curiosity, to which the former hero smiled.

“don’t worry, it’s a simple thing.” he assured, stepping around the other to be at his side as he slid his hand into his before gazing up at the sky. “you have gone against me time and time again, to which the cycle of us fighting has reiterated.” the one winged angel stated, trailing his slitted eyes down to the spiky haired hero beside him. “that leaves us with one method not yet attempted.”

partnership.

“what will it be,” sephiroth asked, squeezing his hand. “cloud?”

the former SOLDIER- no, infantryman, gazed down upon their intertwined hands, which he somehow did not reject as he let his words sink.

what would it be, indeed..

his lips pulled tightly together, and finally, he lifted his eyes to meet those of his greatest foe- who waited patiently, calmly, for his response.

one thing was for certain, cloud wouldn’t be able to stop himself from whatever left his lips in that moment.

cloud could only hope the right choice spilled passed his tainted appendages.

notes. the way i die off and come back to write the most fucked up shit ever.. anyways they have had me on a bad chokehold for DAYS. literally i am not ok. who let square make them this fucked up.. regardless, this is different from what i post- i don’t typically do ship writing any longer, so i hope it was decent!

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

#— ; 🏹 ) final fantasy vii fics.#sefikura #sephiroth x cloud #sephicloud #sephiroth #ff7 #cloud strife #final fantasy vii #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth x cloud strife #cloud ff7 #sephiroth ff7 #final fantasy 7 remake #sefikura writing

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hyperfixiation-station · 6 months

Text

Lighter Pt.2

Ask and ye shall receive :))

TW: Blood, death, angst

Part 1

Part 3

You feel a sense of disconnect, being able to see your own body. It had been that way since you slipped into a coma on the evac. Just you, your body, and the voices.

There are voices, almost uninterpretable, that call to you from beyond the veil. You do not hear the words they say, but you recognize them. They belong to your mother, to your best friend, to a fellow soldier, to all people who have died under your care. They want you to join them, but the voices are faint and do not sway you. Instead, you tether yourself to the man sitting by your bedside. For 12 short hours, he kept you tethered to the mortal plane. And then there was a tightness in your chest and the tether snapped.

It had been an interesting experience. In surgery, you had flatlined 3 times, but each time it felt like there was a tether holding you to your body, keeping you from following the voices. But later, in the ICU with Ghost by your side, you felt the tether disappear. There was a sudden tightness, the first sensation you’d felt since slipping into the coma, and then the tether just snapped. You felt yourself fading, the voices growing louder and louder and louder. Your body tingled and you stretched out a hand, reaching for the voices, wanting to end the discomfort and just go.

But then there was a spark, and you felt as though someone dumped a bucket of cold water over your skin. The voices faded, and you came back to yourself, tethered once more.

“Their heart gave out.” The doctors said, “The combined stress from blood loss and shock sent them into organ failure.” You had watched in sick fascination as you were placed on life support, a machine keeping your heart beating and lungs breathing. For the past 3 days you had sat with Ghost, watching your chest rise and fall and rise and fall in a rhythmic motion.

“Listen, Y/N. I’m not- I’m not big on…on words.” He shifted slightly, “but the doctor said talking is supposed to help you. I don’t bloody know how, but I said I would give it a try. I-” He paused, fidgeting with his gloves, “-I don’t-” He paused again, thinking, “-I’m sorry.” He finally managed to get out.

“About everything. You should never have been on the bloody mission, but when Price said we were working with another team, I jumped at the chance to work with you.” He paused, taking a steadying breath, “Which is stupid, considering I haven’t been able to say ‘I love you’ to your face.”

“And I’m sorry for that too. I’m sorry that I never say ‘I love you’, that I’m never affectionate in public, that I don’t compliment you like I should. I'm sorry that I’m such a fucking bastard all the time.” Now that he’s started talking, it's almost like he can’t stop. It feels like you are watching a train that you know is going to crash, and you can’t stop it, but you can’t look away either.

“I’m sor-” His breath catches, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry that you got shot. I’m sorry, I…I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry. I swear, I swear, if you wake up, I will spend every waking moment making it up to you. I will do whatever you want just-” He pauses, hands trembling, “-just please wake up.”

“Please don’t.” You whisper, “Please don’t do this to yourself.” You wrap your spectral arms around him, nestling your chin on his head, trying to provide comfort that neither of you can feel.

He hasn’t left your bedside in 5 days, despite urging from Soap, Price, and even Gaz.

“I’m not leaving them alone. What if their heart gives out for good and I’m not there?” Had been his response every time someone tried to get him to leave. The doctors had only made his stubbornness worse.

“If they can’t breathe on their own, then there is no hope of recovery. We are going to take them off the ventilator tomorrow and put them on a cannula, but if their lungs can inflate on their own, we may have to pull the plug.” The doctor had told Ghost yesterday, face full of sympathy. So now you stood by your bedside, hand on Ghost's back, watching the nurses take you off the ventilator.

It is equal parts disgusting and fascinating, watching them pull the tube from your throat. Disgusting, because they were pulling a tube from your throat, and fascinating, because, well, there was a tube being pulled from your throat.

Almost immediately the tightness is back, squeezing like a vice. It is different this time. The world around you fades, and the voices come back, soft and inviting.

“Come home.” The whisper to you.

Breathe, c’mon you can do this

“We miss you.”

Please Y/N

The air is warm and comfortable, the scent of your childhood home filing the room.

Breathe please, I’m begging you dove

“Come ooooon Y/N!” The voice of your best friend echoes in your ears, drowning out the rest of the world. You reach for him, wanting to join, but something stops you.

BREATHE Y/N

“It's not your time.” Your teammate whispers to you, her hand pushing you back to safety, just like she did the night she died. There is one high-pitched, steady beep in the back of your mind.

Please, Y/N Please!

“Go back.” She says. She shoves you harder and suddenly you are back in the hospital. Ghost is crying, actually crying, and the nurses and doctors are frantically trying to get you to breathe. Your heart monitor is one long, steady line.

“Go back.” She says again to you. She shoves you one more time and everything goes dark.

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #angst #cliffhangers mwhahahah #no beta we die like men #fanifc #angst fic

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dearestcynthiaw · 3 months

Text

Goodbye Stranger - House M.D x Reader

Chapter Two: Who Are You?

Source A: Photograph, with missing piece, and handwritten message: 'Spring 1928 - Trip to London' no other inscriptions.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Hello again!

Sorry for the long wait, this chapter might be a little dodgy writing wise, but I'm hoping it'll sound ok.

I just wanted to add that themes might get a bit heavier from here, but I'm still unsure. I'll let you know if any trigger warnings come up.

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Chapter One: World Weary

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TW: Mentions of blood, death, cigarettes and alcohol. (Sounds like a underground band name)

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In truth, House thought about this peculiar encounter for the rest of the day. He never once closed the Wikipedia tab on this mysterious, yet apparent English Rose. He'd found himself opening it frequently and scrolling to the bottom of endless pages to really see how far this woman would go with her 'fantasy'.

Due to this anomaly in his usual work day, he found it challenging to engage with his current case, often sitting in his office and pondering in the silence. His eyes glued to the door she had disappeared through hours earlier. Would she ever come back? She had been such a fascinating specimen, he just wanted to know exactly what was going on in her head. He thought about the endless illnesses that could have caused this odd phenomenon, ones that would cause hysteria or an overactive imagination.

Was she here to fool him into a prescription? Was she living out a long time wish to live the life of someone with great lineage and aristocratic fortune? Did she want to live in the romanticised perception of the past? It was all a colossal enigma that he wanted to unearth and tease out of the woman.

To him, the current case was a bore compared to what had transpired earlier that day. It sounded like a harsh flu, but not one that he’d ever seen. They’d isolated the patient and kept up with questions, which the man was reluctant to answer. With House acting distant, the diagnosis seemed far out of reach. House thought of giving up at one point, letting his team of three figure it out for themselves. That was until they found the man’s ankles were swollen.

At this point, due to House’s lack of interest, the whole procedure was moving at a snail’s pace. The case was getting increasingly worse and House’s team decided the patient would need to be scheduled for an X-Ray of the chest, checking the lungs for fluid and the heart for implications.

The conclusion was the possibility of heart failure, yet they were still unsure of how it got to this point.

The end of the day was nigh. Still after plenty of pestering, House rebuffed the idea of at least looking at the patient through the glass. The idea of this patient dying seemed to have no effect on him, maybe deep down it did, but he appeared oblivious or distracted.

It was late when he got back to his car. The rain was heavily pattering on the roof of the multistory car park. It was loud, but that never detached him from his buzzing thoughts.

Dr Wilson, his friend (you’d like to think) and colleague, caught him just before he left, knocking sternly on his driver's side window, which House reluctantly opened. Wilson’s eyebrows were knitted and his mouth was pulled into a straight line 'What's gotten into you? I’m made to believe this is a one-of-a-kind case, not even you can figure it out.’

House only huffed at this, rolling up the window. Again there was a torrent of knocks.

‘What? I’m late to a date with one of the hottest chicks in town.’

‘Don’t mess about, this is a life or death House. Why are you not interested?’ Wilson spoke, his voice sprinkled with concern.

In return, House revved his engine ‘No time to talk, probably won’t see you tomorrow, I doubt I'll be able to walk with all the fun I’ll be up to tonight. Bye.’ With that he flew out of his space, leaving Wilson in the dust.

Rain drops danced on his windows as he bolted down the bustling roads. The street lights and headlights of other cars painted his window screen with an array of vivid colours. The music on his radio hummed in the background along with the rattling of the wheels on the dodgy tarmac.

He was eventually stopped at a set of traffic lights, watching people trudge through the rain as he sat snugly in his warm car.

Amongst the hoard of busybodies was a young lady, one with a look of discomfort and panic. She was instantly recognisable, yet her togs were soggy and discoloured with the spatters of rain. Her hair was heavy with water and had lost its neat, waved styling.

He watched intensely as a singular man approached her, touching her shoulder, causing her to jump back in fright.

The lights flicked to orange and he was about ready to move on, when she was pushed up against the wall unbeknown to those around her.

He moved on through the green light. He thought nothing of this interaction, knowing someone else would interfere.

He was part way down the road when without thinking he flicked on his right indicator, stopping in a lay-by, hopping out in haste with his hand roughly gripping his cane.

Bracing against the frigid rain, he splashed through puddles approaching the pair.

He was close now, and could see how dangerous this situation was. The man was grabbing at her with his filthy hands, his face was close and his voice low.

House put his cane between the two causing an instant reaction from the unknown male.

‘Whatcha think you’re doing, cripple?’ The male hollered.

He attempted to push the stranger away, making sure to keep distance in case he decided to lash out, which his body language suggested.

House’s mind was sharp thinking ‘This woman has a disease that’s contagious through touch. She’s an escapee and has been on the run for the past 2 days. You’ve probably contracted it by being in close proximity.’

The man seemed to instantaneously spring backwards ‘How come you’re fine?’ his face scrunched up.

‘Inoculation, dummies don’t have access to it. Now move on, nothing to see here.’ and with that the frowzy man scurried away. The appearance of his walking aid would’ve probably been enough to strike fear in the stranger, but the spontaneous story-telling seemed to bring the alarming interaction to a close.

House moved away as well, pacing back to his car.

She hesitated before shouting after him, forgetting about nearby eavesdroppers ‘Why did you help me? I thought you said I was mad and should be locked away.’

‘Doesn’t matter, you coming or you just gonna stand there staring at my back?’ House turned back to look at her, water running down his face.

He finally got a closer look at her when they were back in the comfort of his car. She was soaked to the bone, dripping on the fabric seats. Black could be seen about her red, puffy eyes where her cake mascara had smudged. Her hair was tousled and unkept. She was quite a pitiful sight to behold.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the engine was started up. House was hesitating.

Again the music could only be heard faintly in the background, not even a single breath.

‘I’ve seen a lot. New things, that is.’ She attempted to start a conversation, hoping that after this frightful evening he would see some sense in what she had said previously that day.

He ignored her.

‘I’ve got a car at home.’ She muttered under her breath, she was speaking to herself more than him. She was partly facing away, looking out the window as the streets flew by.

He turned the radio up to drown out her rambling. He would much rather be glued to the thumping music and the overactive thoughts building in his mind. He detested the notion of making awkward conversation with a lady he did not wholly trust.

The music was blaring now, the bass rattling the plastic interior of the car.

As she listened intently, she heard a new plethora of instruments that was very unlike what she was used to. She didn’t know what to concentrate on, she couldn’t tell anything apart. Every instrument seemed to drown each other out.

Her eyes were wide from the boisterous sound but she happily sat tapping her fingers on her lap to the rhythm. She could only pick out one phrase from the lyrics;

“Who are you?’’.

Who was she? That really was the truth. The song just exaggerated that query.

House finally let a question sit in the noisy atmosphere ‘You like The Who?’.

‘Who?’ She turned to him.

‘Very funny.’ The conversation was quick, short and littered with sarcasm.

The song had a bit of a quieter section but jumped straight back into the chaos. It made her jump slightly with the suddenness of it all, consequently causing House to humph with a singular hissing laugh.

Again, there was a gap of silence and a sort of sizzling, filmy sound that rang out from the central system in the car. The bulky set of technology to her left disposed of a silver, holographic disk and she looked at it curiously.

Panicked, she asked ‘Did I break something?’.

In a quick movement, he flicked open a compartment in front of her knees ‘Pick one, and replace it.’

She tentatively did so, taking the plastic cases from the glove box and splaying them out on her lap, looking at the different images. She seemed to figure it out, it was much like the vinyls she was used to, but in a different format. She gently replaced the circular disk safely into its matching case. Opening another dark coloured case with a man and a blonde woman displayed on the front, she placed the disk where the other had originally come from. As it slid from her fingers into the machine, her eyebrows furrowed in awe.The new song flicked on after a couple seconds of whirring.

‘Top Gun? Really?’

‘I didn’t know what to pick, I’ve never seen any of these before. It's the only one I could see with the musicians on the front.’

‘They’re not the musicians, it's a film soundtrack, Marty. Maverick and Charlie? Have you not watched the movie?’ He used that odd nickname ‘Marty’ again amongst his rambling.

She sighed, looking down at her lap at the remaining disk holders. She brought one close to her face as the darkness obstructed the image. ‘You listen to King Oliver? Are you a fan of Jazz?’ she perceived his seated figure at the wheel. She was delighted that this music was still being heard. If she could relate to him with music then it might make the atmosphere more comfortable.

Irked by her continued persistence on making conversation, House stared back at her. ‘What? Are you going to tell me that you were there when they came out?’

He was still fighting conversation.

Feeling knocked back she spoke quietly again ‘I’m only curious, that’s all.’.

Her thoughts consumed her that when House had parked and was now exiting the car, she was too slow to realise. They were before an unfamiliar single-story building, he was bugging her to leave the passenger seat.

He ushered her towards the front door, both traipsing on damp gravel, water still continuing to cling to their raiments.

Hesitating, she stood by the entrance ‘Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there and freeze?’. She was already cold, she had barely had time to dry and was finding it hard to conceal her shivers.

It had been a rough looking public house, she had no longer been pleased when seeing its interior. Truthfully, she was glad to no longer be stuck on the streets but this brought no hope as to what House had in mind for her. She pined for her home, at this point it seemed ever so far out of reach. The panic was devouring her insides as she walked with him to the long stretch of bar.

She still had her bag of small belongings clasped to her side; a small pocket watch, a delicately painted case of cigarettes, a metal lighter, a compact mirror, a gold tube of lipstick and a small amount of notes and coins. It was a pure set of luck that it hadn’t been snatched out of her clutches whilst she helplessly wandered the streets.

House had already placed an order whilst she lingered a distance back from him. He’d downed a couple doubles and was waiting for his glass to be topped up.

The bartender seemed to look at her in inquiry, she felt pressured to place an order too.

‘Cognac, a little soda, please.’ Giving a small smile as she felt relieved to finally have a drink.

‘You think we do that here, sweetheart?’ The man seemed amused by her request.

She felt embarrassed, flushing a rosé shade on the cheeks ‘Just brandy then.’ She spoke as she placed a few shillings on the counter.

‘We don’t take whatever those are.’

House surely thought she was a fool at this point, he pressed his glass to his lip and gave a sharp snicker. Every aspect of her life had to be littered with old-timey things. He thought; she was quite committed to leading this lifestyle and neglecting the reality of today’s society. She proceeded to sit beside him after the interaction with the bartender, who went to tend to another customer. Demoralised, she let out a shaky sigh, elbows on the bar and right hand over her eyes. She felt like crying, but was certain that the doctor would degrade her for it.

‘So what’s your real name then?’ House questioned after a lengthy couple of minutes, again grabbing the attention of the bartender to fill up his glass.

In a huff she pulled out a little red cloth-bound book from her purse and pushed it in front of him. ‘That’s my driving licence, have a look at it yourself.’ He opened it in a blasé manner, finding the same name she’d given when they met, written in neat looped writing. Alongside her name were the start and expiry dates for her driving permit that conveniently matched up with her story.

‘That’s all I've got in terms of identification. That’s it, that is my name. If you can’t believe me after this then I don’t know what will convince you.’

He continued to study it ‘This is a good forgery, looks authentic.’.

She didn’t know why she hung around, but she felt that he might be her only chance when it came to getting home. She opened her cigarette case, placing one at her lip, flicking open her lighter and taking a deep exhale.

‘Better put that out before you get caught.’ He said in a snarky voice with a face to match when she chose to ignore him.

With that final comment she left her seat marching outside, gasper still between her fingers. House trailed behind her to the overhead roof outside where she continued to take drags. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, not again, he was far from finishing his investigation.

Snapping she snarled ‘What is it? What is it that you want? You’re following me yet you refuse to help me. You don’t even believe me, not even my name! I’m beyond it all, I just- I just - want to get back home, yet you ridicule and tease me to no end! What is it ‘Dr’ House? What do you want me to say? That I’m faking all of this, then fine have it your way, I am. Are you finally satisfied?!.

There was a second of silent acrimony before she finally stated; ‘I’m going back to the hospital’. She stubbed the cigarette butt beneath her heel, beginning to move.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights blinked at them. They both stood still like a pair of stunned deer in the beam. ‘House!’ came a shout.

House squinted and called back ‘Can’t you see I’m with a babe?’.

She was too stunned to react to his crude joke.

‘She looks wet, House.’ The voice came closer, it sounded sympathetic.

‘I’m sure she is, from the sight of me.’

Gritting her teeth she sneered ‘For goodness sake!’ Crossing her arms for warmth and setting foot back into the intense rain, she began to trudge through the drenched car park. She stood by what she said, she was going to find her way back.

She walked as far as the side of the car who’s headlights had previously blinded them.

‘She looks distressed, Are you going to stop her? You can’t let her go back in the rain, the hospital is miles from here.’ The man came into view, appearing to her right. She flinched backwards as he tried to rest an assuring hand on her arm. His face was scrunched and his eyes were squinting from battling the downpour.

‘Just hold on a second, I’ll take you there- House- Jesus Christ, we need to get out of this rain-’ This new man managed to convince her to step back under cover, she still kept her distance from the both of them, arms defensively crossed over her chest.

‘I was trying to find you, and I found you at a bar? You need to take this seriously, your patient went into cardiac arrest, we were trying to get a hold of you but you weren’t answering your phone.’

Looking unbothered, House shot back ‘Is he stable?’

‘Yes but-’

‘Well it's fine then, let me get on with my night.’

You could hear a very heavy sigh from the other man as he pinched the bridge of his nose, ready to speak again.

She finally let her quiet fury go ‘You let this man deal with patients? He couldn’t be the slightest bit interested in a man that is actively dying. He can’t honestly be a doctor, he's such an ass!’

‘Hey! That's not very nice to say to your prince charming!’ his eyes flew wide, pulling a mock frown, his words were a little slurred.

‘Well, I’m not wrong, you’re being a complete and utter cad!’

House gasped, looking defensively at the other man shrugging his shoulders ‘I don’t know what she's on about Wilson.’.

That was his name, Wilson. Was that a first or last name? She was yet to know.

‘Can we stop fighting like children? You, House, are going home and you’re going to take the case-file with you. Get in the car.’ Wilson paused to look at the lady, taking in her peculiar outfit. He didn’t know whether it would be dubious to ask her the same, especially with how distraught her manner appeared.

‘Whaaat? Are you calling off my playdate?!’ House whined. ‘I can drive myself, you know.’ He added in a flat tone.

‘The man behind the bar has his keys, I saw him take them earlier.’ She muttered in earshot of the man named ‘Wilson’.

There was a stern ‘In!’ from Wilson before House gave in; ‘Fine fine, Jesus, you really know how to be a stick in my ass!’

She remained hesitant as this gentleman, Wilson, opened the back door for her, ushering her in. She really had no other choice at this point, afterall, she had nowhere else to go.

Wilson turned back to look at her when he had finally seated himself in front of the wheel. ‘What do you need to go back to the hospital for? The clinic closed two hours ago...’.

‘Don’t worry about it, any hotel will do, I’ll go in the morning.’ She spoke softly in defeat.

House let slip ‘Don’t know how you’ll do that with no money.’.

A gasp could be heard ‘House! I-I can’t believe you! Were you planning to spend an evening with her and then just dump her?!’ Wilson shouted in a whisper, which was partly inaudible to the lady in the back. ‘You can’t do that! You’ll have to let her atleast crash on your couch until tomorrow.’

‘Why can’t you?’ He mumbled back.

‘Because I’m living out of a hotel at the moment, you know it's not possible.’ His voice went lower ‘You got yourself into this, not me!’

House heaved out a sigh, he was too inebriated to protest.

The drive was prolonged by the squabbling going on up front. She let her ears tune out, concentrating on different landmarks passing by her window. She recognized a few from when she had been roaming earlier that day; The laundromat where a woman stopped her for a chat, commenting on how her voice sounded funny and there was the barbers where she had been catcalled whilst trying to ask about the area.These were only a handful of places that were recognizable. She set about situating them on a map in her mind. She had to know her way around before it was too late, knowing that it would become a survival tool when House inevitably left her on her own.

Her eyes were terribly heavy as she peered out of the rain soaked window, her elbow resting on the seal, her chin propped on her hand. She could see her likeness reflected in the pane, it looked pale and exhausted. Although she felt miserable, It was also surprising how comforting this stranger's car was. She should’ve felt on edge not knowing where she was going, but the warmth and humming chatter seemed to lull her into a peaceful state of mind and eventually a light slumber.

The door was pulled abruptly open, causing her to tumble sideways. ‘You getting out or what?’. She sleepily trailed behind House up a couple of steps towards a green front door. His keys turnt in the lock, this must’ve been where he lived.

She was greeted by an array of objects, all messily placed around the entirety of the apartment. There were dark bookshelves filled with all sorts of oddities, some of which were recognisable like lozenge bottles, anatomical figurines and the odd syringe that she would see used in her hospitals at home. They were being used like decorational items, which she found quite curious.

Amongst it all was a grand piano, one possibly made from a rich wood, it was the only surface completely clear.

House limped through the apartment leaving her standing stunned in the entryway, Wilson was behind her, moving to her left to follow the doctor. She’d only seen him in low light, now realising how much more smartly clad he was in comparison to House. He looked and acted more like a man bearing the title of ‘doctor’. He seemed genuinely kind, but after House’s reaction, she didn’t want anyone else caught up in the mess she had gotten herself into. They were still having their previous conversation, she could hear their muffled voices from the other room.

Her heels clicked faintly on the hardwood floor, following the two into what looked like a kitchen. House was propped against a cabinet with a vile of tablets clutched in his hand. He tipped a couple into his palm, tipping his head back to swallow them. He glanced to his side, his steel blue eyes fixing on her figure awkwardly standing just outside the kitchen.

‘I’m going to get her a towel or something, at least offer her a glass of water instead of staring at her.’ Wilson was prodding House to accommodate his guest. Wilson promptly made his way out of the kitchen space, making sure to keep his distance and disappearing down a corridor, leaving them both alone.

House appeared disapproving as he continued to study her, lips curling inwards in thought.

She looked down at her shoes and spoke at the floor to avoid eye contact ‘I apologise, I didn't get the chance to thank you…’. She spoke softly and with gentle words only to hear a sniff and a heavy swallow in reply.

‘I wasn't being very kind considering you did help me.’ She added.

Pushing past her, in a way that didn’t cause physical contact he announced ‘I'm going to bed, Wilson will show you where everything is. You’re sleeping on the couch-’

He turned on his heel slightly, looking over his shoulder, which caught her attention; ‘Unless you want to join me for some sweet, passionate sex.’ He teased. He couldn't help himself, she thought, he had to pull some rudimentary rubbish to cover his arse whenever she tried to be polite.

Showing a slight grimace, she watched his back as he staggered away. She shifted her weight behind her on the kitchen’s doorway, head positioned upwards regarding the textured plaster on the ceiling.

There were a couple subdued footsteps before she noticed Doctor Wilson beside her, holding out a rather plush looking towel.

With a soft ‘thank you’ and a nod, she wrapped it about her person.

‘I’ve run you a bath as well. House stopped me in the hallway and asked if I could. The bathroom is just down that hallway.’ Pointing his thumb over his shoulder he noted the direction she should take. ‘If that’s everything, I best be getting back. It's getting late.’

Just before he left she spoke up, clearing her throat quietly, ‘Oh uh, thank you for everything-’ was all she could stutter.

With a prompt nod and a thoughtful smile he slipped through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him.

It was deathly silent as she slipped through the passageway to the bathroom. She was still studying her surroundings, taking in all of the little nic-nacs, when she stopped by a shelf just outside the bathroom. Huddled amongst the books was a sweet, well-loved teddy. He was only a tiny thing, just bigger than hand. His fur was thoroughly worn, showing darker spots where the threads were visible. His nose was hand stitched and his eyes glimmered in the low light. She turned him over gently in her hands, finding his maker’s mark. He was a Steiff bear, absolutely identical to her own. Hugging him closely to her chest, she felt a wave of comfort fall over her. A kind of comfort that hurts so terribly.

She let a silent tear slide down her cheek, thinking desperately of home. Her dear companion was where she left it, settled amongst her bedsheets battling the biting cold of her bedroom. He would never know where she had gone.

The feeling further gnawed at her heart, her chest burnt with grief. She thought of family, how she’d left them behind, without uttering a goodbye. She thought of her friends and her dogs and finally her fiancé. She let her head tilt slightly back, her flushed lips parted, trying to stop the tears from dripping onto the floor, but they only bled down her neck, stinging as they made their path. Looking back at the bear, she pulled him back from her person, giving him a light kiss on his woolly cheek. Tenderly, she seated him back on the shelf and continued on her path.

She was finally amongst the cold tile of the bathroom. Quietly locking the door behind her, she began to undress, hooking her garments over the showerail above the tub. They might’ve had a chance of drying there.

She sat on the stool in the corner to unclip her stockings. There, she caught sight of a scrape on her knee where she had taken a fall earlier that day. The adrenaline had been overpowering the pain, only now realising how the crimson blood had seeped into the rayon. Peeling the fabric off the wound she set about washing away some of the blood in the sink, hoping that she could salvage the tattered hosiery. She left them to dry like the rest of her clothing and undergarments.

She felt it was only right to leave on her few pieces of jewellery, knowing her tired state, she would likely misplace them otherwise.

Placing a foot into the sudsy water, the pleasant water enveloped her numb limbs. She led down fully, letting the warmth rush over her, finally ridding herself of the dreadful frigidity that had lingered upon her skin. Allowing her eyes to close, she let out a contented sigh. This small pause, where her body was finally in a relaxed state, brought on small waves of dread. Much like the bath water sloshing about in the porcelain, the top of her stomach was sweeping like waves, twisting and pulling in agony.

She hunched over, pulling her knees up to her chest as a form of comfort. Her breath grew heavy, the sense of foreboding setting in. Burying her face into the hard bones of her knees, she struggled against her chest wracking with affliction. The pure anguish of the situation hit her, far worse than it had in the hallway. She desperately clung onto her breath not wanting to make a sound, tears smothering the entirety of her face. Her arms were firmly wrapped about her head, her nails digging into the tops of her arms, clinging onto any part of reality that wasn’t being deadened by her continuous fear.

She suffered a disjointed sob, drawing a further deep breath through her teeth. Her body shook with the deeply embedded desolation.

She hadn’t noticed the figure stood to her right as she continued to sink further into her melancholy, her form violently trembling with mournful weeps.

There was a masculine, pitiful exhale that filled the claustrophobic space.

From the sound, she let one bloodshot eye take a peak above her arms, perceiving a blurry staunch figure who was instantly recognisable.

Embarrassment entangled her as she realised how she might’ve appeared. Her voice sounded broken as she whispered a quick apology, drawing her limbs closer to her torso.

He continued with what he was doing, flipping open the mirrored cabinet above the sink.

All she could do was turn her head in the opposite direction to hide her obvious flushed face and tear stained cheeks. She heard his rusting around but was too humiliated to look.

Hearing his footsteps echoing away and the door closing once again, she turned to take a peek. There was a thin blue and white dressing gown led over the edge of the bath, it hadn’t been there before. She took that as a sign to leave the tepid soak, finishing up in the bath, placing on her chemise and French knickers that were mostly dry. It would have to suffice for the night. She assumed this dressing gown was left for her, delicately placing it upon her person and tying it tight.

She padded down the hallway, taking quick,quiet steps to the living room. Anticipating his presence in the sitting room, she felt she would have to turn back and lock herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. She couldn’t face him again, she felt completely mortified after he’d seen her in that state.

Perching on the chesterfield, making herself somewhat comfortable, she peered down at the coffee table in front of her, her eyes landed on the patient case file that the other doctor had left. Curiosity overtook her, she took a cautionate glance at the space before flipping open the blue folder to take a peak. She had wondered what the two were discussing earlier.

Her breath caught after taking in the symptoms. It was the usual symptoms of something like influenza, high temperature, fever, sore throat, difficulty breathing and swollen glands in the neck. It was sounding a lot like what her uncle had caught, but how could they not see it was a kind of flu? Was there something else they were missing? There were updated notes too, scrawled in the typical hard-read writing of a doctor.

It was affecting his heart.

‘What have I told you about patient confidentiality?’

‘It's just some.. Reading..’ Was all she could stutter, she was quite lost for words after jumping out of her skin at his abrupt emergence.

His eyebrows seemed to quirk in amusement ‘Can you not see the amount of books on the shelves around you?’

‘Yes I know, but, Dr Wilson was urging you to read this and you still wouldn’t. I thought I might have a look to see what you were avoiding. Well, I can see why...’

‘It's not the flu.’ House stated bluntly.

She sighed at his forthrightness, she was quite familiar with it now. ‘I was just…Starting to see the similarity it had to a relative’s death..’ She couldn't stand looking him in the eyes after her confession, she felt he might just laugh in her face.

His questions were quick and direct yet her willingness to answer was becoming restrained ‘What did they die from?’.

‘Distemper- no, uh? I can’t remember - I don’t like to think about it.’ Her eyes were visibly glazed, her eyes squinting when racking her brain for the given name of the illness.

He pushed further ‘You can’t remember any symptoms?’

Swallowing gravely, she continued ‘Well, they found a grey coating in their throat after they died. The doctor was too late to see it before. Their um.. Heart was weak from birth, so we barely saw symptoms before they passed. But it-it was like your patient…The um, cough and fever..’

His eyes seemed to focus on a point in front of him, his pupils constricting. His mind was whirring, connecting dots.

‘A Pseudomembrane. So it was bacteria?’

She looked clueless, wanting to shake her head in apprehensive confusion. He went on to pull a small rectangular silver case from his pocket, snapping it open and tapping a couple buttons on it, eventually holding it to his ear.

‘Corynebacterium diphtheriae. Have you checked inside the patient's nose? I think you'll find we're dealing with bacterial disease instead of a virus.’

There was a pause before he interrupted the murmur coming from the other end ‘-then dose him up on antibiotics and monitor his heart damage. Yes, I know you’ve found it’s myocarditis, so put him on anti-inflammatories and any other pain killers he’ll whine for. He’ll survive.’ Flipping the silver item, supposedly a phone, closed after rambling to the person on the other end, he examined the lady before him. Other than the slight scrunch about his eyes, his visage appeared completely blank.

Gasping as if he were to speak, he held his tongue to look upon her, further studying her face. He sat on the other end of the settee, lowering himself down slowly, holding his leg as he did so. Making himself comfortable, he placed his cane upon the table in front of them.

‘Who was this relative then?’ His words seemed to strike a nerve. She seemed to render a sorrowful glint in her eyes. ‘Who was it?’ He pressed.

‘My brother, the oldest.’

‘You have a brother?’ It wasn’t like he already knew, after reading up on her all day, he just wanted to hear it from her. He cruelly wanted to see if she had rehearsed the entirety of the historical documents he had found on the web, pitilessly trying to trip her up.

She only nodded, she was hesitant to give away any more information on her personal life, but she still stated that she once had four male siblings.

‘I’m sorry.’ Stating it unremorsefully, he still exhibited an unreadable blank expression.

He didn’t remain seated for long, making his way back to the kitchen in his usual slow walk. He returned, after a bit of rusting in the other room, carrying glasses and a bottle of unidentifiable amber alcohol. Pouring about an inches worth into both glasses, he passed one over to the accompanying female who took a reserved sip, brushing her tongue along her lip to identify the taste.

Reaching into her chestnut coloured handbag, she pulled out her ornate cigarette case, opening it to offer one to House who was sprawled out on the sofa.

‘I don’t smoke.’

Pulling an inquisitive grin she spoke ‘If you don’t, then why have an ashtray?’.

‘Decoration?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

She chuckled lightly at his comment. He did indeed take a straight, placing it at his lip as she sparked the metal lighter beneath it.

Doing the same for herself, the room became slightly hazy with the wispy smoke.

He appeared content with the taste ‘What are these then?’

‘Fribourg & Treyer, I have them when I'm in London.’ She gave a frolicsome smile ‘I’m not actually allowed to smoke, my father prohibits it.’

He made a humming sound, prompting her to continue. His interest was getting the better of him.

‘He’s a little old-fashioned, doesn’t believe women should smoke, he believes I’m starting to resemble the scandalous city girls. Not very fair considering my brother’s are happily welcomed to, and in his company. I mean one smokes a pipe, one does snuff for Heaven’s sake!’ Lamenting on the disparity of it all, she still displayed an impish grin.

His lips seemed to curl into a sort of smile as she spoke candidly.

‘What happened to your knee?’ He kept firing questions, one after the other.

She glanced down, finding the dressing gown was revealing the skin just above her knees. Readjusting the fabric she formed a response; ‘It's just a scrape, there’s nothing special about it. Anyway, are you ever going to stop interrogating me? I mean, you haven’t given me the chance to ask my own questions yet.’

‘Looks like you’ve been running, it’s elongated.’

She paused to flick her head away, looking back at him quickly again in discomfort, sharply stubbing out her cigarette.

‘Yes.. But that doesn’t matter.’

Regardless, he persisted ‘Who were you running from?’

‘I was just scared, alright?’ She exclaimed, nervously holding an odd smile.

It was deathly silent between them. The cars on the street outside echoed noisily throughout the front room.

‘Go on then, what were you going to ask me? No doubt it's going to be about my leg.’

She shook her head ‘That’s not for me to ask. I wanted to know what made you want to become a doctor?’.

‘I was greatly and passionately inspired by Patch Adams.’ He sounded dreamy, but she unperceived the underlying sarcasm.

‘I’ve never heard of them before? Did you know them?’

Bursting with an obnoxious laugh, he looked upon her as she rolled her eyes. There was no point trying to get any information out of him, House always found ways to deflect.

Leaning forward he forced himself to stand, hastily swallowing the rest of his nightcap, he began to stagger towards his bedroom. He gave one last comment before departing for good;

‘I know what you did.’ It was ominous. His back was still facing her.

‘I didn’t think you would have it in you to steal.’

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I hope you are enjoying it so far! This is going to end up being chock-full of metaphors XD

'Who Are You' - The Who 1978

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Tag list:

@indestructeible @suziek415

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~ I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on ~

#house #house md #housemd #drhouse #dr house #greg house #greg house x reader #gregoryhousexreader #housexreader #house md x reader #house x reader #1920s #1920s fanfic #historical fanfiction #dr house x reader #x reader #reader insert

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lorcandidlucienwill · 11 days

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For Day 3 of @tamlinweek , I am posting part of my Tamlin fic (Tamlin's Life Story: A Tragedy)! We are told that the mating bond is beautiful and everything everyone should wish for, but I don't believe Tamlin has a very good experience with the mating bond; his own parents were mated and terrible for each other.

So, this is a little dark, but what if Tamlin's mate was Amarantha? It would explain her obsession with him. Tamlin, by rejecting Amarantha in that little gathering (right before she took the High Lords' powers), rejected the mating bond and incited rage in Amarantha. What was it like for Tamlin when he first met Amarantha, when he was forced to be with her UTM, and after he killed her? Full fic can be found here: TW: mild descriptions of child SA, violence, angst

He still dreamt of it. When he was just a child, and he'd seen the Hybern general for the first time. Red hair with streaks of black, like her hair had been soaked with so much blood that it had mostly changed color, the streaks the only remnant of her that hadn't been corrupted. When he'd longed for acceptance from his father, receiving nothing but the barbed whip across his back for being a failure of a courtier, for playing his fiddle for the handsome Night Court lord he couldn't help but love, Amarantha had spoken to him.

She'd embraced him and told him he was worth every last bit of Prythian, and their mating bond had clicked in. So what if she caressed his chest far too possessively to be casual? So what if she grabbed him through his pants, sometimes squeezing hard enough to cause pain? She had told him he was valuable. That was more than his father ever did. The scars on his back were so numerous that nobody would be able to count them. But while Amarantha left bruises, none of them stayed.

It was only when she'd tried to strip him that he'd begged her to stop. He told her he was too young, that he was scared, that he had no idea what he was doing, that he wasn't comfortable with a sexual relationship at this point in time. In her rage, she'd ripped his antlers out with her bare hands and carved out his abdomen with them. It was only by a miracle that he'd escaped that place. He'd barely made it to his father, who'd saved his life.

Only to give him the worst beating of his life. By the time it was done, Tamlin was crying tears of blood. Yet, that wasn't the worst pain in the world. No, it was nothing compared to the hollow feeling in his chest. The golden thread, his last hope for joy in this world, snapped in one moment. The mating bond. He was in such torment that he was sure it would kill him. Unfortunately, he lived. And lived. And lived.

*********************************************************************** He lost track of the days. He couldn't remember his own name. He remembered nothing. At least in his earlier days of pain and abuse and sexual assault and torture, he'd felt something. There was meaning to his life, a hope for better. But now...it was an endless sea of agony. There were no coherent thoughts in his brain, only a dull, throbbing ache that sought to take him under and finish it. He wished it would. He prayed that the yawning blackness would simply embrace him. Unfortunately, it didn't. It was almost worse this way, that he'd gotten the taste of what it was like to have the semblance of a happy life, only to have it ripped away from him at the last moment.

He tried to remember something, anything, to make him keep going. Feyre, a phantom voice sometimes whispered. Lucien. But the burning pain quickly whisked those words away. He did not understand their significance, anyway. They sounded like made up words. Soon, he stopped trying to remember. He'd forgotten what he was fighting for. Amarantha demanded answers out of him that he couldn't give- she didn't understand that he was broken. Nothing she did to him could break him when he was already in pieces.

Until she came. Until suddenly breath returned to his lungs and he had a reason to breathe again. And reason to be absolutely terrified. He begged her to go, but she didn't. She stood there, bold as brass, and claimed him as her own. And Tamlin had never loved anyone more. He watched her get tortured, and he felt again. Rage and sorrow beyond a human's dizziest daydreams, but it was feeling. When the court had adjourned, Lucien had snuck over to him. His face was pale and ragged, but Tamlin also glimpsed something there he hadn't seen in a while: hope. Just the slightest glimpse of it.

"I swear to you, Tamlin," Lucien whispered, hands on his face, staring into his eyes, clouding Tamlin's senses, "I will do whatever it takes to keep her alive. Everything within my power, I will do it." Oh, Lucien. His bold, brave, selfless Lucien. Tamlin choked out the words, "Thank you." Lucien's face hardened with resolve. "Thank me by never giving in. No matter what happens, don't you dare give up." Tamlin stared into his beautiful mismatched eyes. "I swear it." **********************************************************************

However Tamlin had felt under the mountain, it was gone now.

Now that everything had settled back in, he could feel it. The mating bond threatening to split him in two. He'd rejected his own mate and then he'd killed her. And now it drove him mad at times.

Lucien was no longer enough to help him. He hired Ianthe to help with the wedding preparations, and he tried to forget his pain. He succeeded for the most part, his trauma only coming back to haunt him at night. Amarantha touching him, Lucien's broken back before him, Feyre's neck snapping-

It was the mating bond that bothered him most of the time. It was like a migraine that just wouldn't go away. His temper, which wasn't the best, he could admit, got much worse owing to the constant migraine. But how could he tell anyone his secret shame- that he'd been mated to Amarantha? That there was once a time he'd sought comfort in her?

He couldn't let her train. Ianthe was right. What if they came after her? What if her power drew Rhysand back? He couldn't allow that. He'd heard her neck snap, heard it in his dreams again and again and again and-

"Please, let her train," Lucien pleaded. Tamlin tried to concentrate on him over the roaring in his head. "Let her master this, so that she can protect herself when enemies come."

At the word enemies, Tamlin's entire body seized up. Magic exploded out of him, falling on Lucien and blasting him backward. Lucien glared at him, loathing simmering in his eyes. But he said nothing after that; only walking away before Tamlin could get on his knees and beg for his forgiveness.

#lucien vanserra #tamlin #tamlin week 2024 #feyre archeron #feylin #tamcien #pro tamlin #angst #amarantha

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iexistapparantly · 8 months

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'What the fuck is this supposed to be?' -Human!Reader X Madness Combat-

TW: Strong language, blood, violence (obviously)

Short stories, yay.

It's the dead of night, the dimly lit street stretches ahead, a solitary path occasionally punctuated by the distant hum of passing cars. You've just wrapped up another long, exhausting day at work. Your sister, in her infinite wisdom, decided this was the perfect time for a meetup at some bizarre restaurant you've never heard of. Gripping your phone like a lifeline, you mutter to yourself. "Why couldn't she pick a normal place? She always has such weird taste”

You squint at your phone's screen, the glow reflecting in your irritated eyes. With your pockets feeling as empty as your bank account, you decided to save gas and hoof it. Just your luck, though – as you walk, the weather decides that no, you may not have a good day. A tiny, singular drop of water plips on your nose. Then another lands on your phone. It's not long before multiple tiny raindrops start pelting down. You groan, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head. "Great, just great. I'm soaked already. This can’t get any worse."

But wait, there's hope! You're not entirely helpless; you had the foresight to bring an umbrella. Blessings upon blessings for not being a total dolt. However, your moment of self-congratulation is short-lived. As you're strolling along, raindrops gently bouncing off your trusty umbrella, things do indeed get worse.

Your foot snags on a crack in the pavement and you unceremoniously plummet face-first onto the concrete, your phone catapulting off into the nearby bushes. With an exasperated sigh, you pick yourself up, your now damp and filthy clothes clinging to your skin like glue. Cold, wet, dirty glue. "...I should have kept my mouth shut" Grumbling and swiping at your now mud-stained clothes, you begin your quest to retrieve your precious phone. You gaze around for a sign of its whereabouts, your frustration palpable. "It’s dark as shit out here, I can’t see anything- wait." Your eyes zero in on its location, and your heart drops as you realize it landed in a ditch.

Without a moment's thought, you lurch forward, desperation propelling you as your shoes kick up mud and leaves. You scramble toward the edge of the ditch, praying you can reach your phone before it meets a watery grave. But alas, you're just a hair too slow. It splashes into the water and floats away into a tunnel within the mountain. With a helpless gasp, you watch as your beloved slips from the ledge and disappears into a yawning tunnel leading deep into the mountain.

Panic surges within you. You unleash a shout of frustration. "No, no, no!" Ignoring the darkness and your complete lack of a plan, you blindly plunge into the tunnel, your hands frantically sweeping the water's surface. Your heart races as you grope through the murky depths, searching desperately for your precious device. You keep scrambling along in the never-ending tunnel, feeling like you're stuck in some sort of bad dream.

Your fingers scrape against the wet ground as you scuffle along on your hands and knees. It's dark, creepy, and your heart is still racing from the loss of your phone. You squint through the murky tunnel and spot a faint red glow. Your heart skips a beat. You squint your eyes further, your face scrunching as you step forward, hoping for a miracle. As you approach, the only thing you are able to see is the large hole your phone is floating towards. Without thinking, you lunge forward, thrusting your arm through the hole to snatch your phone before it slips away for good.

But your fingers grasp at empty air, and you're left with nothing but failure. "Damnit!" Frustration fuels your determination, and you stick your head out of the small opening. The first thing that hits you is the sand, and not in a fun beach way. It flies right into your face, getting into your eyes, your nose, and your mouth. You grunt and stumble backward, falling back into the water with a splash.

You're now completely drenched, adding insult to injury. “Great. Just fucking fantastic.” You try to get the sand out of your eyes, but it feels like your eyeballs have turned into scratchy sandpaper. You curse your luck once more, all while sitting in the water, soaked to the bone and feeling like the universe decided to just take a massive shit on your life. Tears mix with the sand on your face as frustration consumes you. You're drenched, irritated as hell, and your eyeballs feel like they've been through a desert sandstorm. But you can't give up, not when your precious phone is at stake. The files stored in that thing are irreplacable.

You take a deep breath, wiping your face with a soggy sleeve. "Alright, let's do this." After a quick check to ensure you can get back out of the hole, you stick your legs through and awkwardly plop down. The rocks dig into your skin as you slide through the narrow gap. Your hood gets caught on the jagged edges, exposing your midriff to the cold wind as you slide through. With an undignified yelp, you dangle in the air for a moment before dropping down onto your butt with a grunt. A small smile of relief graces your face as you retrieve your phone and attempt to power it on. That smile very quickly falls into a scowl when, with trembling fingers, you press the power button, praying for a miracle, but nope. It's as dead as hell. No matter how many times you jab at the power button, it refuses to cooperate.

You let out an indignant sigh, looking around the semi-lit cave you've ended up in. Your body goes lax in defeat and you decide it's time to climb out of this strange, semi-lit cave. But just as you're about to make your move, something catches your eye. An exit, a little farther away, bathed in the same eerie red light that you just fell through. But this one, it's definitely the source of that crimson glow.

You pause, your eyebrows furrowing as you take in the unsettling scene. The silence in that direction is deafening, save for the occasional flutter of sand in the stagnant air. But that's odd; there shouldn't be any wind down here to stir up the sand. Your gut twists with unease – something isn't right. You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to budge as you contemplate your next move. Your curiosity led you into this mess and it's not about to let you walk away now.

You're faced with a dilemma: A) Climb back up and save your precious sim card, or B) venture into the weird glowy exit. The answer is as clear as day, at least to your curious, slightly daft mind. You choose the latter. Crawling low to the ground, you cautiously poke your head out of the exit once more, squinting your eyes this time to block any sand. What you see makes your jaw drop "What the hell is this place supposed to be?!"

Before you stretches an expanse that can only be described as a whole ass desert. Well, you think it's a desert, given the vast amount of strange black sand, sandstone formations, and tge complete absence of trees. You're no expert though, so this might just be some really, really fucked up cave system. It’s an ominous change to the lush foliage back in your town. What truly boggles your mind is the sky – it's this strange, otherworldly shade of red.

You don't hesitate for long. You squeeze yourself out of the hole and stand up, fully taking in the surreal landscape before you. It seems almost endless, like you've stumbled into some sort of bizarre world. And you, being the curious (stupid) soul you are, feel compelled to explore it.

As you wander through this odd terrain, you start to notice more peculiarities. There are what appear to be tattered pieces of metal scattered about, and you catch glimpses of small skeletal remains poking out from beneath the sand. A heavy sense of dread gnaws at your stomach the whole time, that sense of dread soon becomes unbearable, intensifying with each step away from the cave exit.

After just a couple of minutes, you can't take it any longer, and you decide to turn back. But there's a problem – you can't find the cave. Dread sets in as you try to retrace your steps, only succeeding in getting yourself more lost. Everything looks the same, and there's not a single recognizable landmark in sight. You mutter to yourself, "Of course, this had to happen." You're in full-blown panic mode now, and that overwhelming sense of dread has you sprinting like your life depends on it. But let's be real – you're not exactly running far, just sort of scuttling in circles, hoping to stumble upon something familiar. Spoiler alert: that doesn't happen.

It becomes painfully obvious that logic is not your strong suit as you continue your amazing plan of walking in random directions. You start to question your life choices and contemplate just what made you decide to enter an unknown, dangerous looking and unexplored area with no second thoughts. "Why am I like this?" you mutter between panicked breaths. Finally, you spot something up ahead. Is that... a wall? Yep, it definitely is. You approach it, taking note that it's not particularly imposing.

It reaches up to your head in height, and you can't quite gauge its thickness. It's constructed from an odd mishmash of small metal scraps, toothpick-like poles, and a generous sprinkling of menacing barbed wire. The dread in your gut grows, but so does your curiosity. A sensible person might think twice before attempting to hop over such a fence. But are you a sensible person? Hell no.

You decide to defy all reason and logic you've chastised yourself for not having a few moments ago. Instead of listening to that tiny voice in your head that's just trying to look out for your well-being, you opt for the best route possible. Circling around the wall, you scout out a sturdy rock, clamber onto it, and attempt to scale the makeshift barrier like a newborn baby learning how to stand. Spoiler alert again: it's not the most graceful climb. Your utter lack of upper body strength becomes painfully evident, and you end up resorting to rolling onto your stomach, then flopping down onto your back, landing on the ground with a resounding THUNK.

Gritting your teeth and grunting in pain, you squint your eyes open, half-expecting to find yourself in some sort of absurd fever dream. But instead, you're met with the sight of a large... city? Well, it's not exactly "large." In fact, it's pretty damn small, but there's a whole lot of it, considering it's dwarfed by your presence.

You sit up, wincing as you rub your sore back with your palm, and take a closer look at your surroundings. Most of the buildings around you reach only up to your shoulders. "Well, this is one way to feel tall," you mutter with a bemused grin, not quite processing the absurdity of it all. Your eyes drop to the ground where you landed, and you're met with the sight of a tiny truck. A really tiny one.

Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you crouch down to examine it more closely. That's when you notice something oozing out from the crushed vehicle. It's... yellow? And is that... blood? Your eyes widen, and you can't help but exclaim, "Wait, what the hell?" Your gaze locks onto a severed hand lying amidst the gruesome mess. It's not attached to anything, and it's got an odd light gray skin tone.

You can't help but mumble words of confusion as you pick up the surprisingly heavy miniature truck and inspect it more closely. In an utterly bizarre turn of events, when you lift the truck, the hand that shouldn't be attached to anything follows it. "No way, this can't be real," you mutter, pinching the disembodied hand between your fingers and tugging at it. To your bewilderment, there's resistance.

After a few moments of perplexed contemplation, you muster up the courage to pry open the crushed roof of the tiny truck and peer inside. Your heart races as you're met with the sight of a very squished, bloody, and rather unpleasant-looking pile of mush. Or at least you think it's blood – it sure as hell smells like it. You recoil, scrunching up your nose in disgust.

Panic sets in once more, and you start to freak out. Did you accidentally squash some bizarre mutant rat creature? Where the hell even are you? And why in the world are these buildings so ridiculously small? Questions swirl through your mind as you stand there, completely bewildered and utterly freaked out.

Before you can wrap your head around the bizarre mushy encounter, the soft thuds of approaching shoes catch your attention. You whip around and lock eyes with... well, whatever the hell it is that's staring right back at you. Your jaw drops, and so does the, uh, "rat," for lack of a better term. Your eyes widen like saucers as you take in this unprecedented sight. This creature is like nothing you've ever seen – not even in your wildest nightmares. It doesn't possess any eyes, but you can feel its gaze piercing through you. It's an eerie shade of gray, maybe about 16 inches tall, or possibly even smaller. The weirdest part? It has no limbs to speak of, just two floating hands and a pair of shoes awkwardly stuck to its lower body. Its clothing is oddly fancy – a snazzy suit that's completely out of place. Its "face," if you can call it that, is just a cross on the center of its head, topped with a pair of sunglasses. Sunglasses! It doesn't even have a nose! Oh, was it mentioned that it has floating hands? Because it totally has floating hands.

Your mouth hangs open in shock as the creature points at you and screams in bloody horror. It makes a break for it, disappearing into the miniature cityscape. Honestly, you can't blame it. You would run like hell if you saw a giant, homeless looking stinky ass homosapien too.

"Wait!" Without thinking, you scramble to follow, your curiosity now competing with your terror. But your curiosity takes a backseat when you round a corner and come face to face with a gaggle of more of these bizarre beings – all of them brandishing tiny guns.

"Oh, shit."

You stumble backward just as a hail of tiny bullets whizzes past you. Surprisingly, it hurts – like getting pelted by a thousand miniature sandblasters that actually penetrate your skin and make you bleed. Your flight-or-fight instincts kick into overdrive, and you choose the latter. Again.

You spring forward, channeling your fear and a touch of anger into a dropkick that sends one of the creatures soaring through the air, colliding with the miniature buildings. But the rest of them? They don't run away. Instead, they seem even more determined to kick your ass. You quickly become outnumbered, losing count of how many times you feel one of them mounting you and stabbing at your skin with their blunt instruments.

Realization dawns on you – you can't win this way. So, in a desperate bid for survival, you do the smartest thing you can think of and should have done originally: run like a bitch. But the situation takes a turn for the worse as more of those little shits start swarming in, all armed to the teeth and refusing to let you escape. The worst part? A much larger version of these creatures joins the fray, their guns looking closer in size to what humans use. You don't want to find out what it feels like to get shot by one of those.

That's it. No more curiosity. You want out. Your clothes are shredded, drenched in blood, you're riddled with pain, hunger gnaws at your gut, your phone is still a dead weight, and you're scared shitless. You'd give anything to be anywhere else right now. So, you leap over the wall and sprint down the empty, dark desert, leaving the madness behind. Even when you've put a good distance between you and the chaos, you can still hear their war cries echoing in the distance.

Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, you come across a larger building, looming ominously in the distance. Instead of approaching it, your instincts scream at you to stay as far away as possible. Unfortunately, the residents inside don't seem to share your sentiments. A tiny red dot appears between your eyes, and you have mere moments to react before a bullet slams into your skull. It doesn't pierce the bone, but the force of the impact sends you tumbling to the ground, your vision blurring. You groan, blood now mixing with the mess of dirt and sweat on your face.

You manage to prop yourself up, your hand clutching your now even more bloodied and injured head. Gazing up at the roof of the building, you spot another one of those little creatures perched on the edge, aiming a sniper rifle right at you. This one looks different from the others, with what appears to be a black mask, red goggles, and... is that a fucking mohawk? You can't be entirely sure from this distance.

Another figure with circular goggles appears beside the sniper, smacking the rifle's barrel away from you. A spark of hope flickers in your heart, but it's quickly extinguished when the creature slides down the wall, using a knife to slow its descent, and starts sprinting toward you with a katana in hand. Mercy is clearly not on the menu.

You scramble to your feet, but your many injuries slow you down. The adrenaline surging through your veins helps, but it's still a challenge to get up and run for it. The creature proves to be surprisingly swift, easily closing the distance. Its first target: your heels. It slices through the tendons of your foot, sending you tumbling to the ground once more. With only a spare second to react, you instinctively cover your neck, anticipating the worst. Your arms are nearly shredded as the creature's blade flashes down in a millisecond.

All you can see are two glowing red dots staring down at you and the fluttering of a coat. Before the creature can bring the blade down on your eye, you swing your injured arm out, but it's too late. The creature leaps and dodges your rather pathetic attempt, landing on your face and impaling your left eye with its katana.

Pain surges through your body, and you let out a guttural cry. Pain engulfs you as you scream, the creature's weight pressing down, creating a scorching heat from its blade searing through your flesh. It's a level of agony you've never known, and it feels like your world is being consumed by fire.

The blade twists to the side, mercilessly slashing through your skin like it's cutting through butter, running down your eyelid and part of your cheekbone. Tears pour uncontrollably from your only good eye, the sight of the blade lifting, poised to strike your other eye, reigniting your survival instincts.

This time, when you throw your hand out, it connects with the creature, and you manage to hit it off your face, its back hitting the ground harshly. Another cry escapes your lips as you clutch your injured eye, trembling and shaking uncontrollably. Scrambling backward, you avoid the creature as it stalks slowly toward you, its gloved fingers twirling the now bloodied blade in its hands, clearly relishing in your fear, panic, and pain.

Your back hits the building you had been trying to avoid, and you look up, catching sight of the other creature observing from above. Desperation courses through you, and in a swift, instinctual movement, you reach up and grab the head of the creature in your hand. It's a race against time, and your grip tightens as the creature attacking you hesitates. "I-I swear," you stammer through your sobs, your voice quivering with fear but laced with determination, "I'll crush his damn skull if you come any closer! Back off!"

The creature slowly backs off, still harboring a desire to attack. Meanwhile, the one in your grip struggles fiercely, its strength surprising you as you grapple to keep it restrained. There comes a point when it manages to draw a knife and stab your fingers, but you refuse to relent. If you let go now, you'll lose your other eye and, quite possibly, your life.

With your fingers aching and bleeding, you slowly step backward, tossing the creature's weapons aside. Once you're a safe distance away, you pivot on your heels and break into a limping sprint, faster than you've ever run before, adrenaline coursing through your veins like a raging river.

You glance over your shoulder, confirming that the creature is still in pursuit, and the other one is struggling to free itself. Gunshots ring out, and most of them seem to find their target. Despite the searing pain you feel with each hit, you refuse to stop running; you only push yourself harder.

You take as many twists and turns as possible, desperately trying to shake off the relentless pursuer. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you succeed in losing the creature on your heels. As soon as you're out of immediate danger, you lean against one of the many rocks scattered across the desert, clutching the creature tightly to your chest for comfort.

Overwhelmed by fear, pain, and helplessness, you can't hold back the sobs that wrack your body. You tremble uncontrollably as you wallow in self-pity, tears and blood streaming down your face. You clutch onto the tiny creature tightly, your nose pressed against its head, the hair on its scalp tickling your skin as you choke out pitiful hiccups and sobs. The creature in your hands is now silent, having given up its futile struggle a little while ago when it realized escape was highly improbable. After your intense sobbing fit subsides, you find yourself sitting in the desert, still clutching the creature you'd been struggling with moments ago, the searing pain in your eye still has not faded.

The adrenaline has left your body, leaving you drained and trembling, but you manage to regain your composure. Taking a few deep breaths, you turn your attention to the creature in your arms. "What the hell are you?" you manage to croak, your voice shaky.

The creature stirs slightly in your grasp, and it's deep, resonant voice cuts through the eerie silence of the desert. "Call me 2Bdamned," it responds bluntly.

“I said what are you?”

2Bdamned shifts his body, trying to adjust into a more comfortable position, “a grunt.” You blink in surprise at its straightforwardness.

"A grunt? Like from some weird fucked up animal?"

"Something like that," 2Bdamned replies, his tone cold and calculating. "But I've never seen anything like you before. What are you, and how did you end up here?" You take a moment to collect your thoughts before you begin recounting what you are and your bizarre journey, starting with the inexplicable fall through the tunnel and ending with the chaotic encounter with the other creatures.

"I honestly have no idea where 'here' even is," you admit, your voice tinged with frustration. “This whole situation has just been so fucked up.. And now I've lost a damn eye because of it.” 2Bdamned remains silent for a moment, processing your story.

"You’re in Nevada. You will never find anything but ‘fucked up situations’ here." he explains, sounding almost bored.

You nod, beginning to grasp the gravity of your situation. "Is there a way I can leave..?"

2Bdamned's voice remains as cold and pragmatic as ever. "Escaping Nevada won't be easy, but it might be possible if I figure out what brought you here in the first place." As you continue your conversation with 2Bdamned, you realize that despite the chaos and uncertainty that surrounds you both, he may be your best chance at navigating this surreal realm and finding a way to break free from the grip of Nevada's relentless madness.

As you sit there, trembling and lost in the madness of Nevada, 2Bdamned appears to grow tired of your sobbing and finally acknowledges your existence. His cold, calculating demeanor slowly gives way to a begrudging curiosity about what exactly you are. "Fine," he mutters with a resigned sigh, his reluctance palpable in his tone. "I'll help you, but don't expect any hospitality." You readily accept his offer, your eagerness to find a way out of this nightmarish Nevada outweighing any concerns about his demeanor. Together, you make your way back to the building, where the atmosphere is anything but friendly.

Inside, 2Bdamned confronts Hank, the grunt who had originally attacked you, his voice carrying a stern message, "Don't do that anymore." Hank, visibly displeased, gives you a death glare that could curdle milk. Despite his clear displeasure, he begrudgingly listens to 2Bdamned's command. You can practically feel the waves of bloodlust radiating off him, sending a shiver down your spine.

While you're sitting outside the building, anxiously waiting for some glimmer of hope in this bizarre desert, 2Bdamned finally emerges with news. He informs you that Deimos, another one of his mercenaries, is poring over the data and information he had provided, desperately searching for any anomalies within this bewildering desert to locate an exit, or something like that.

But in the meantime, 2Bdamned decides he should patch you up to prevent you from bleeding out and to prevent infection. With surprising skill, he tends to your wounds, you still wince and grimace at the pain like a complete baby. But you're grateful nonetheless, considering the alternative would involve a lot more bleeding and a lot less being alive.

When he's done, he offers you a miniature hotdog, which you can really only lick, it's like a damn crumb. It's a tiny snack for a big problem, but it'll have to do. As 2Bdamned starts to ask you questions, another grunt unexpectedly pokes his head out of the building. He’s wearing a cute little visor, the cap shifting as he flicks it up with his finger and eagerly informs 2Bdamned of his findings. But when he spots you, towering over both him and the entire damn base, he stares, slack jawed, "...what… the fuck…?" 2Bdamned simply gestures for him to leave, and the unfamiliar grunt’s cross scrunches with what you can only imagine to be irritation and a bit (a lot) of surprise.

Not one to pry into matters that don't concern him (for now at least), he decides to keep his questions to himself and retreats back into the building. 2Bdamned, a little bummed that his conversation got cut short, heads back inside to review the information Deimos brought him. Soon enough, he returns with a tracker and a map, indicating that it's time to embark on your journey.

The walk is excruciatingly slow, thanks to the vast difference in stride length between you and the grunts. After some time, you decide to take matters into your own hands – literally. You pick up 2Bdamned and ask him to point you in the right direction, much to his chagrin. Meanwhile, Hank, who had decided to tag along uninvited, scuffles up to you (without asking) and opts for a more unconventional mode of transportation, climbing onto your foot for the ride. (again, you did not offer. You still haven’t forgotten what he’s done to your eye and ankles.)

Eventually, all three of you reach the familiar cave entrance. You breathe a sigh of relief, grateful to have found your way back. At this point, you're exhausted beyond belief, and passing out seems like a very tempting option. You express your gratitude to the grunts for their assistance in finding your way back and for patching you up.

You turn to 2Bdamned and give him the best smile you can, though it does end up looking like a grimace, "Thanks a lot, 2Bdamned. Your help means a lot." 2Bdamned grumbles in response, still not quite fond of wasting his time on such inconvenient and meaningless things, but he does offer a nod of acknowledgment. Hank, on the other hand, has been silently staring this whole time, his unblinking gaze locked onto you. It's a bit unsettling, to be honest. You decide to give him some recognition too, albeit in an awkward manner.

You give Hank a small wave, "Uh, thanks, Hank. You...uh, did a great job not attacking me again." Hank remains silent, but he does cock his head to the side, which you take as a sign that he acknowledges your thanks in his own way. Or maybe he's just silently mocking you. It's hard to tell with this dude.

The cave entrance looks similar to the way you remember it. The walls of the entrance is barely big enough for you to fit. The air is damp and filled with a strange, earthy scent that lingers in your nostrils. With the less than pleasant goodbye to your.. Companions? Acquaintances? Weird midget alien frenemies? You're not really sure..

You take a moment to survey your surroundings. Sending a final wave to 2Bdamned and an awkward nod in Hank's direction, you decide it's time to make your way back into the cave. You leave the two grunts to their own devices, whatever those may be, and begin your journey back through the dark, damp tunnel.

Limping your way through the ditch, you can still feel the persistent drizzle of rain soaking through your clothes. It's as if the weather has decided to join in on the absurdity of Nevada. As you finally emerge from the tunnel and take that crucial step onto the surface, rain once again greets you. The shower immediately intensifies, turning from a drizzle to a downpour. You can't help but roll your eye at the timing. "Great," you mutter to yourself, drenched and shivering from both the rain and the bizarre events of your journey. "Just what I needed." Through the entire experience you just went through, you can say for certain.. You’re never walking into weird ass caves again.

Edited - 12/16/2023

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