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qierxing · 11 months

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A/N: An interpreted continuation of @shiny-jr wonderful fic. This is one of the longest fics I’ve written…..carried by my love for Heartslabyul. Been chipping away at this every so often until now. I would strongly recommend reading Shiny’s part first, or else a good part of this will not make sense. Part two will be something that will be floating in the future.

TW/CW: Graphic descriptions of PTSD & panic attack symptoms, self-harm from bad coping habits, dissociation, dismemberment, references to Alice in Wonderland, made up lore LOL

I. II. | Isekai AU | Yan! Heartslabyul x Reader

"So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality…"

– Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Caroll

i. Cremation

Ramshackle's mailbox is a pitiful thing.

It sits right in front of the small graveyard near forgotten covered in tangled vines and weeds. Unlike its surroundings which shine from recent renovations and repairs, the hinges still squeak loudly when the latch is opened and the outer parts are scratched and dented. On bright sunny days, it sticks out like a sore thumb.

And today, it's even more obvious.

The box now is in danger of tilting off its support pole, filled with the weight of lumpy letters, spilling out envelopes upon the dirt. Around it sits various colorful wrapped boxes and packages that are piled haphazardly across each other. You swear it gets larger each passing day.

“How many does this make?”

A battered top hat pops into existence next to you, one of the resident Ramshackle ghosts who's been helping you around lately. (He had said you remind him of his siblings when he was alive. You're still unsure whether that was a good or bad thing.)

You let out a sigh through your nose. There's nothing to say about the situation in front of you. You wish they could disappear the minute you wish for it, yet the colorful wrappings and the various envelopes scattered around your feet don’t vanish the more you stare.

“I’m really sorry about all this.”

The ghost shakes his head, frowning at your apology.

“It’s not your fault, prefect.”

The words are reassuring, but they don’t make the gross feeling go away when you crouch down and start picking up letters that have fallen out of the mailbox.

From: Azul Ashengrotto

Sender: Vil Schoenheit

Sent by: Riddle Rosehearts

All of them are addressed to you, of course. You can already imagine their contents: filled to the brim with regret and guilt, blotted words begging for forgiveness for the wrongs they’ve done. When you told the Headmaster that you didn’t want anyone visiting Ramshackle, that wasn’t an invitation for them to flood you with unwanted mail. Then again, perhaps you should have foreseen that they would do this. All of them are stubborn to a fault. It wasn't like your phone was any better until you’ve blocked all numbers making it go off endlessly like a shrieking parrot.

The resulting letters alone are thick enough to rival the textbooks Professor Trein assigns students. Pressing your lips together, you turn around to start heading back to your temporary home.The rest of the bulky packages can wait. The ghost helps swing the door open and Grim perks up from his seat in the living room as you set down the letters.

“Grim, can you get a fire going?”

“Now?”

He eyes the thick pile of letters with wary slit pupils and asks, “Aren’t ya…gonna read ‘em?”

You did. For the first few ones, at least. They were barely discernible, their apologies blurring by as they begged for your grace and mercy. That they would do anything to right their wrongs. If you didn’t know any better, you would say their reverence was akin to a cult.

It makes your skin crawl.

After that, you stopped bothering to even skim through. What is the point of continuing to make sense of lunatics? Of cruel games and intrepid players?

"We have the wood, and the house is a bit chilly, so why not?" You reply. Grim scrunches his eyebrows but doesn't object as heavy wooden logs are dumped into the grate. He takes a deep breath and blows upon the letters scattered on the wood, encasing everything in familiar neon blue flames.

You settle into the armchair next to Grim, staring into flickering blue flames. Grim curls up next to you, purring contentedly. All too easily, your eyes lull close to the sound of crackling flames consuming paper.

–

When you step out onto the front porch the next morning, you're overtaken by an overwhelming fragrance.

There's crimson red petals floating through the air. Fluttering in the crisp morning wind, they fall in your hair and the rest end up crushed under your feet. You'd feel bad if it wasn't so pungent; the very air feels like it's infused with the scent of roses.

Your nose crinkles as you pick up the impossibly huge bouquet that is wrapped in silk and ribbons. It's certainly beautiful, you'll give it that. Yet this scent doesn't bring back good memories. It only brings vivid flashbacks of being lost among rose bushes, covered in dirt and scratches, trying so frantically to find a way out. When every single crack and snap was a possible life threat.

You don't realize you're crushing the bouquet until something trickles down your fingers. It doesn't feel like blood pooling between your skin. Relaxing your grip ever so slightly, you find pin sharp thorns running down the stems where you were gripping. The fleshy meat of your palm is punctured cleanly in the shapes of the thorns. Was it left unclipped on purpose?

The card is the next thing you find with bloodied fingers, rumpling white cardstock and soiling it without a care.

To our beloved player,

We deeply apologize for the pain we have caused you and beg for your forgiveness. We will make sure to atone for our sins of harming you.

The initial and the bouquet is too obvious of who it's from. Riddle must've penned it, because none of the card soldiers would ever write this formally. But it must've been Cater's idea to send the bouquet–Trey nor Riddle would've come up with such a sentimental and sappy idea. And Ace and Deuce would rather die than do such a cringey thing.

The door opens again behind you. You turn to see a half-awake Grim groggily yawning. He stops once his blue eyes land on the bouquet in your hands.

"Whazz that?" He points a paw at the rumpled roses, and you hastily shove them behind your back.

"Nothing." You say.

Grim makes a face before finally breaking the awkward silence with, "Do ya want me to go tell 'em off–"

"No."

The answer is rushed and makes Grim's eyes widen. It's crazy, you know. But to have Grim try to solve the problem for you doesn't sit well with you. It's not like it's his fault for what you went through.

And maybe, deep down, you couldn't bear the thought of telling them nasty insults and curses to make them hate you more.

"I'll take care of it." You add, trying to reassure Grim, who only stares impassively. He shakes his head.

"Am I making another fire?"

"...if you can, please."

ii. The Morgue

It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve been brought to Twisted Wonderland.

Yuu’s…body has been moved to another room. It freaks you out more than you would like to admit. It’s familiar, yet it’s not. It’s carved to your image, but with none of your personality. There’s something wrong with the way its eyes are tilted, the dip of its cheeks, the curve of the chin. An idealistic, dreamy mirror of yourself.

Still. You’ve seen many dolls in your lifetime, and even you cannot deny the life like artisanship. The seams of the joints are cleverly hidden and the skin is smooth and unfettered without any misshapen resin(or clay?)–these are marks of a true doll-maker.

“It’s your vessel.” Grim had said with a matter of fact tone. As if you weren't looking at an unmoving human body. “Everyone was freakin’ out cuz’ it just shut down outta nowhere.”

It must’ve been because you were brought here at that moment. The hypothesis doesn’t really make you feel any better. You should know better than to blame an inanimate shell of a vessel, but...

You jerk awake, cold sweat running down your neck and face. It takes a second for you to realize you're not being encased in burning scarlet flames and it's not claustrophobic verdant green hedges surrounding you. The bed sheets are tangled, wrapped in a chokehold around your legs and torso. Instead of translucent leaves, the bed canopy curtain shields you from the moonlight pouring in. The soft snores of Grim sync with your ragged breaths in time.

Tonight's nightmare had been recurring for a while. Every single time you thought you had shaken it off, it comes back like a bad omen.

Instinctively, your hand runs over the bumpy raise of scars running down your back and neck. Most of them had faded with magical treatment and time, but there are some that still have rough skin that has hardened like scales on a dragon.

Your fingertips curve inward and dig.

You thought you were safe. The rose maze is large and encompassing: hiding would be the best move. You breath in–

– and you were face to face with the Crimson Tyrant himself.

His face contains no humanity, his eyes only reflect dark, dark anger and resentment. You thought you were staring into a never ending abyss. Something inky black catches your eye, and you realize with horror that blot is trapping your feet and leaving stains upon your skin.

"Stop right there, imposter!"

Your nails scrabble at the bumps and raises, tearing through them with obsessive speed. Faster, faster–it doesn't feel right, you have to scrub your skin clean of those foreign textures.

Adrenaline is the only thing keeping your legs from collapsing to the blot climbing its way up. You have to do something–

–something wraps around your neck and torso, and all air leaves you as it squeezes and knife sharp needles gnaw into bone.

Your breathing grows more hoarse as your nails scratch faster and faster, desperate to remove more of those vile clumps of impurities.

"You will suffer as Yuu did." The verdict is declared with deranged gleeful vengeance. The tyrant points his scepter at your fallen body covered in thorny vines reminiscent of roses. Blot swallows your form and screams whole–

It's only when the familiar smell of iron registers in your mind, that you finally snap back to your senses. When you finally draw your hand back to view, it's covered in clotted blood and torn skin, both dead and fresh, all clogged under your nails. The open cold air now makes your neck and back sting sharply as blood trickles out of reopened wounds.

It's with a heavy heart that you quietly leave the bedroom entirely to wash away the blood in the kitchen sink. Crimson dyes the white ceramic for a brief moment before swirling away down the drain.

The wounds sting and ache, but you can barely be bothered to tend to them as you resign yourself to the living room couch with a thin blanket. You think of Grim sleeping unaware upstairs and close your eyes. The old weathered grandfather clock in the corner ticks on and on with each second.

No, you can't blame a puppet for functioning for its purpose.

But you could tear its limbs out of its sockets so it could never walk anywhere again. If you plucked out its fingers and eyes, it wouldn't be able to find its way around anymore. Sewing the mouth shut would seal the deal.

Then it would truly know how it felt to have no choice.

–

Working as Sam's assistant helps take the mind off things. Crowley had begged you to resume classes as Grim's 'beast tamer', but something in you screamed at the thought of having to shed your feelings aside to return to what normalcy was. As if this world didn't run on the giant malicious cogwheels of fate and lines of code.

How painfully obvious it is that your mere presence is just a substitute.

"Ah!"

You look up from sorting products on the shelves to a surprised looking Riddle Rosehearts. No no no no–

You take in his sunken gray eyes and pale skin, before going back to shelving products. It takes strength to play dumb. Your shaking hands betray the fear growing within as they sort through stationary merchandise. Finally, the products are lined up neatly and you're trying to bustle away as quickly as you can–

"W-wait!" You try to ignore the half whispered plea, moving behind the counter with an unnatural speed.

"Please, wait, I need something!" You do stop, because unfortunately, you can't completely ignore a customer in need. So you take a deep breath and grit your teeth, turning around with a polite smile. Stare straight ahead. Think not of smoldering flames and knife like rose thorns–

"What can I help you with?" He stares into your eyes, frantic and desperate. It's clear with the way his mouth opens and closes that he wasn't sure how to continue his case.

"If you aren't sure, take your time to browse, dear customer." The grin was starting to wear on your cheeks already with how much you struggle to keep it in place.

Please just leave, you internally beg. You settle behind the counter, watching as Riddle bows his head and disappears among the shelves for his items. A tired sigh leaves your nose.

Your hands keep shaking no matter how hard you clench and unclench them.

He can't hurt me here.

Sam is just a yell away and there's mace and a knife in your bag underneath the counter.

It'll be fine. It's not the Tyrant.

A clink of glass catches your attention, as some ink bottles are pushed on the counter.

"I've finished." Riddle's smoldering eyes choke you under their hues.

"I'll ring that up, then."

The exchange happens quietly yet as you hand him the bottles, he pauses, looking down. "What happened to your hand?"

Shit. There were still obvious swollen scratches and puncture holes imprinted on your hand. You completely forgot about bandages after Grim caught you with the bouquet the other day. You quickly hide your hand in your pocket. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He seems to want to say more, but is cut off when someone else comes up behind him, waiting to pay for their items. He only swallows hard and nods, setting out with only a guilty look back.

You finally breathe out a long sigh of relief when the door chimes echo behind him.

"That'll be ten thaumarks and thirty madols."

This is the fifth time Riddle's shown up during your shift and bought ink. This time, it's a deep crimson color not unlike the shade that saturates his dorm. It reminds you of torn skin on nails from that night, and it takes a minute to shake those thoughts off as you pick up the bottles.

"Prefect, could I talk to you after your shift ends?" You turn to fix him with an incredulous stare, and he grimaces.

"I promise I won't harm you! Did you not get our letters?" But how can I trust you? On this cracked chessboard you are forced to play upon, you don't know where to place Riddle at all. He is too much of an unstable bomb that could blow up in your face at the wrong impression.

"Fine." He definitely won't back down until you agree to hear him out, and it's best to let him state his case once and for all. "My shift ends in an hour. I'll meet you outside."

"Excellent. I shall wait for you then, prefect." He takes his bag and leaves with a small bow.

The time passes all too quickly. Sam shoos you out before you can try to coax some overtime hours from him. And much to your annoyance, Riddle is waiting for you promptly as you step outside.

He looks nervous as he bows his head in acknowledgement of your presence. You'd almost feel bad, if it weren't for the fact that he nearly beheaded you at first sight.

"Have you received our recent letter and flowers?" A long silence follows, before you reluctantly nod. Your hand throbs as you open and close it out of habit. You just removed the bandages this morning, but the unbearable itch to reopen the scars is too tempting. Steel eyes are immediately drawn to the movement. "I see. Then I won't drag this out. Prefect, could we prove to you our sincerity to make amends?"

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly as I said. Please let our dorm express to you our sincerity to mend our relationship." The intensity of his eyes makes you sick to your stomach.

"You've apologized enough, Housewarden Rosehearts. I'm sure your card soldiers have too." Subconsciously, your hand drifts toward your neck.

He winces. No doubt it must be a sting to his pride that his numerous penned letters weren't acknowledged. "It's not just about apologies. We want to start over–turn over a new leaf, if you will, for our relationship. It would be a disgrace to the Queen of Hearts herself if I could not atone for what I've done."

Always with the rules. You're not entirely sure what Riddle means when he says 'mending your relationship', but it seems he's already set his mind to it. It would be hard pressing to get him to change his mind now.

"...sure." You reluctantly acquiesce. The tips of your nails brush against scarred skin before drawing back. You shouldn't. It took so long for the wounds to close again, for sinew to piece itself together, and for skin to finally grow back. You don't want another lecture by Crewel or Trein.

He brightens considerably with a look of relief. "Good. Then, please wait for our call."

You watch in confusion as he trots off hurriedly after another deep bow. Wait for our call? What does that–

Something buzzes, and you realize it's your phone, lighting up with a notification from Magicam. You frown, tapping on the icon. A message?

cay4cay sent a message request

The second you processed the username and profile picture, you instantly hit the block button. With a frustrated scowl, you shove the phone into your pocket. You deleted Yuu's account and only had a burner account for info purposes. How the hell did that social butterfly find your handle?

You groan. This is all too much.

iii. Paying Respects

A letter arrives, but not by mail.

A jarring commotion rudely rips you from sleep's embrace. You groggily sit up, blinking once, twice, before realizing the noises were very much real and still happening. Who is this loud on a Sunday morning? Grim continues to snooze right next to you, unperturbed by the disturbances. You debate whether it's worth it to get out of the comfy covers. Then another yell echoes up to the room and you groan in annoyance.

You slam the entrance doors open, ready to give the lecture of a lifetime before you stop in your tracks.

Deuce Spade looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up whole. Even Ace Trappola, haughty asshole that he is, looks thoroughly ashamed to be caught in a compromising pose. The scene is so familiar that you can't seem to be confused. It takes a second of awkward staring from all three of you before you realize that you're still standing in your thin pajamas, out front in the public entryway in the cold.

"...May I help you?" The distant polite inquiry has them both flinching. They scramble to their feet, brushing off dirt and debris from their fist fight.

"We're very sorry!" Deuce bows deeply, while Ace scoffs and looks away.

"Housewarden Riddle told us to give you this, so…" Ace shoves a white envelope with a seal boasting a crown insignia into your hands. The Queen of Hearts. You exhale through your nose. So this is what Riddle meant earlier.

You open the envelope gingerly, carefully inspecting it as if it were some kind of trap.

"We're going to have a party soon." Ace is still determinedly avoiding your eyes. "You can come…if you want."

You hold back a sardonic chuckle. Even after everything that's happened, he's trying to act like some kind of cool, suave guy. Your eyes drop down again and you open up the flap to reveal the elegant crimson cursive that decorates the paper.

You're cordially invited to Heartslabyul's monthly tea party. Please send your response ASAP.

Date: XX/05

Time: 14:00 - 17:00

A silence lingers in the air, heavy as a rock. You can tell without looking that the two were holding bated breaths waiting for your reply.

This certainly was out of the blue. But. It was Ace and Deuce. Riddle may have issued the order, but they must've taken initiative in delivering her majesty's decree. Stubborn and tenacious, yet they were still endearing with their loyal friendship. Who in this world would run across a whole desert for you?

That wasn't for you though. The intrusive thought immediately makes your lips thin. The card soldiers shift at the subtle expression change, nervousness painted all over their faces.

You would be lying if you said you weren't curious. Why an invitation to a tea party? It was rather unlike Heartslabyul–or at least most of them–to be indirect like this.

"Sure. I'll be there. I can bring Grim, right?" You flip over the card and envelope, raising an eyebrow at their stunned faces.

"Wait, you serious?" Ace stutters. His ruby eyes blink rapidly as his mouth gapes open. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting you to actually say yes.

"Why would I waste my time lying to you?" You sigh, crossing your arms. Granted, you never did send any response back to that ostentatious bouquet, but you were already preoccupied with the hundred of other letters and packages flooding your mailbox.

"In that case, of course Grim can come!" Deuce says, looking like he's been released from an entire burden off his chest. It was no doubt plaguing him on what your answer would be.

"Great." You wave a careless hand, turning to close the door. You're so ready to go back under soft bed covers. "You can give my answer to your housewarden. See you then."

A hand grabs at your arm and tugs you back suddenly. You turn and open your mouth–

"You! You're the one that caused Yuu to shut down!!"

Wind blasts past you, leaving a thin trickle of blood down your cheek. Eyes wide, all you can do is stare at furious crimson eyes glaring you down.

"-Hey!"

Those eyes. It's the same bloody crimson. The same sharp glint of raw bloodlust. Your right cheek aches terribly. Cold sweat runs down your back. Try as you might, you cannot suppress the reactive instinct to flee.

"Don't touch me." Your terse response has Ace retracting his own hand immediately.

"S-sorry, sorry–" He’s scrambling to get past his mistake. If you were in a better state of mind, you would've laughed at his genuinely flustered state. "I–I didn't mean to grab you like that, it’s just that–"

"We also have something else.” Deuce cuts in, trying to cover for Ace’s blunder. He shoves something warm under your nose, and it takes a hot minute to process what you’re smelling.

Lavender. The cookies within his hands are simple and aren’t decorated, but the buttery floral aroma they emit leaves you salivating. You slowly take it from his hands, staring at the carefully packaged bag.

“...From Trey,” Deuce offers hesitantly after seeing your surprised expression. His tight expression and stiff posture betrays the way he is attempting to look respectable. “He's wanted to send you something for a while now.”

For a while? His dorm mates were all clambering to get any crumb of response from you. He might've had the manners then to understand that you wouldn't be delighted to hear from someone who only watched from the sidelines as you were being attacked. Did he only wait because his beloved housewarden didn't move yet? How typical.

“Tell him thanks for me.” The two of them shuffle their feet while exchanging glances at your freezing cold tone.

"Don't mind us, prefect." Deuce elbows Ace, causing the red head to click his tongue and glare back. "Sorry for bothering you like this–we'll get going now!"

The two actually leave without more fuss, leaving you to twirl the invitation in trepidation.

When you look down again, the flowy calligraphy has been smudged by your fingers, ink blooming on your skin like blood.

–

"What does one wear to a tea party, Sam?"

The question slips out before you know it, making the store keeper turn around and raise an eyebrow at you.

"And why is our little imp curious?" He teases. At your unamused face, his face splits into a garish grin.

"Perhaps you should ask Professor Crewel. After all, he does have quite the fashion sense." Sam strokes his chin in thought. "While we do have some outfits here, it might be best to get advice from someone who has been to these kinds of events."

And so, you find yourself standing in front of an indifferent Divus Crewel, who takes one look at you and takes another drag from his fashionable cigarette holder. He continues to shuffle through papers, all the while shaking his head.

“I should’ve known Sam would be the one to send you.” His voice sounds annoyed, yet carries no weight of anger. Much like how his bark is worse than his bite, Crewel isn’t one to heartlessly turn you away. “A tea party, you said?”

“Sam recommended that I go to you since you have more experience in this sort of thing.” Crewel does another critical once over of you, no doubt estimating your measurements for the look he’s thinking of. As expected of a former Pomefiore housewarden. He seems to already have an idea of what outfit would be best.

“I’ll help you, but you’re running some errands for me first, pup.”

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from the alchemy professor. Now you’re stuck picking out ingredients in the botanical garden while you’re waiting for him to get the materials together for your outfit.

Of all the botanical zones, it just had to be the tropical zone. The harsh artificial lights shine down as you lean down to pick herbs. While the temperature is bearable, you don't know how much more sweat your outfit can take before it gets soaked completely. The humidity is choking, and you feel dizzy from both the moisture and heat clouding your senses.

“Prefect?”

You look up wearily from basil plants to see Cater Diamond in his labwear, with a face that mirrors your stunned expression.

Give me a break. Immediately, your awkward customer service smile falls in place. First her Majesty, then Tweedle Dee and Dum, and now the March Hare? But Cater knows how to read the room. Maybe he'll know to let it go–

Your hopes are dashed as he immediately bounces up to you with a grin. “Didn't think I'd run into ya like this. Whatcha doing here?”

“Er, Crewel wanted my help with getting him ingredients…” This conversation was quickly swerving into awkward territory. “Why are you here?”

“Ah, you know…” Cater chuckles sheepishly, “I got assigned to water the plants…”

You take notice of the steel watering can in his gloved hands, then the long green hose by his boots. “Ah.”

“Guess that means we’ll be working together!” He chirps cheerfully and you cringe. Seven, anything but that! You quickly turn back to your basket and begin to pick up the pace in harvesting the basil. The quicker you finish, the faster you can get out of this deathly awkward situation.

“By the way, Acey and Deucey wouldn’t stop chatting about you accepting our invitation!” You flinch as Cater idles up next to you, using the hose to spray a generous amount of water over the patch of herbs. “It was pretty cute to see, y’know.”

“R-really?”

"Trey was also glad too. He and Riddle have been planning to make it the best tea party ever," he mock emphasizes. "They've been running the dorm ragged over the party deets. Cay Cay's been so busy with planning stuff!"

"That's not really necessary…" A feeling of guilt worms into your guts for a moment. You squash it. What Riddle and the others do is none of your business and no obligation of yours.

"Right? That's what I said too!" Is he implying that you're the reason there's more work than usual? How shameless is he?

After a good minute of dead silence, Cater pipes up again.

"Sooo, prefect, whatcha been up to lately?"

You can't take it anymore.

“Why are you talking like I have a gun to your head?”

Ever since he made his presence known, he's adopted a high pitched cheery tone that grates on your ears. It was akin to a customer service voice, but you know Cater. That's his influencer speak.

Cater's chipper smile vanishes instantly.

"Whaaaat?!" You catch a glimpse of his snaggle tooth in his exclamation. He quickly turns and moves to water a patch of sprouts further away, "Like, what are you even talking about? You know ol' Cay Cay's just trying to lighten the mood!"

More like he's desperately trying to appeal to you. He knows which attitude will get him the most views, and the best expressions to rake in likes and comments. You often thought that trait was endearing in its own way when you saw him as a fictional character. Now that you're dealing with him as a human being, it just pisses you off to no end. How could he? You know Cater isn't known for his genuineness but….you thought he would at least act his usual aloof casual self. Then you would know that it wouldn't matter if you offended him.

The straw basket is finally filled with everything Crewel asked you for. It's with dirtied skin and sore muscles that you turn towards the exit without sparing Cater a glance.

"If you say so, Diamond." You hurl the words like a molotov cocktail, and it's very effective. Cater's eyebrows twitch and his hands clench around the watering can. It's one thing to call him by his last name, it's another to completely blow off the nickname he blatantly shoves onto you. "See you later at the party."

“Wait, wait, time out for a second!! Can you at least unblock me on Magicam?” The last sentence makes you freeze in your tracks.

When you turn around, Cater’s somehow still smiling that insincere smile of his. Your neck prickles with dread.

You trust me now, right? His crinkled lime green eyes gleam.

You're not fooled. He is desperate to appeal to you not from genuine adoration, but rather guilty obligation. Although he tried to scrub it from his Magicam profile, you saw the blurry reels and pictures of you fleeing for your life. The detailed descriptions underneath. Each one boasting deliberate timestamps meant for best exposure. He put a bounty on your head with his own hands.

Two can play at that game.

"Block you? I don't have a Magicam account," is your dry response. Cater continues to smile as his eyes close.

"Really? I swear that it was you…" His lips jut out in an insincere pout, tilting his head. You shrug apathetically, hoping the conversation runs itself dead.

"Well, if you do make one, hit me up okay?" Cater calls out after your retreating back.

Once you're in the school corridors and catching your breath, you dig your phone out with shaky hands and pull up Magicam.

Hitting delete account has never felt more relieving.

–

The outfit, in your quiet opinion, was not worth the mental gymnastics you had to do in the botanical garden. Not that you were going to say anything to the very teacher who has been known to treat his students like barking dogs.

"It should fit just fine," Crewel smooths out the crinkles in the fabric before handing it to you. "Go on now. Try it on."

A simple white with a red ribbon bow tie and black slacks. It was rather simple, which is just fine. You didn't need or want to stand out in this party. But you certainly didn't want to end up looking like a slob either. This suit your needs quite nicely.

Smoothing down your shirt, you give a spin as Crewel looks on unimpressed. He waves you off with a dry "Don't expect me to do any more favors for you, pup." You mischievously grin and wave him goodbye as you trot off with your clothes in tow.

The last rays of the sun sets the hallway ablaze with orange and yellow hues. You hum as you take the familiar pathway back to Ramshackle. With everything crazy that’s been going on lately, it gets too easy to be swept up in the moment. As you watch the shadows flicker between the stone pillars, you slow down to observe the scenery for a bit.

The sunset catches a glint and reflects bright white for a moment. You blink and it’s gone when you focus. You stop, confused at the intrusion.

A loud click echoes behind you, but when you whip around, there’s nothing but the empty hallways.

You stand for a moment in place, waiting and listening apprehensively. Nothing else happens, and it’s with cautious paranoia that you turn around and start speed walking.

iiii. Funeral

It would be impolite to show up to a party without something.

But now as you're standing before the mirror leading to Heartslabyul, you're having second thoughts.

What if it isn't good? You glance down at your box containing the simple custard puddings you were able to make just last night. You didn't really have the skills to make complicated sweets and the puddings only took three ingredients. And your outfit, what if it isn't up to the Queen of Hearts' rules–

"C'mon, [First]! Or else the food will be gone by the time we get there!"

You breathe out a giggle. "I don't think anyone can beat you on your eating speed, Grim."

"You don't know that!" He hops up and down impatiently, waiting for you to adjust the box in your hands.

Right, who cares about any of that?

You follow your companion through the warped glass.

The fresh spring breeze graces you first, then the refreshing scent of flora, and finally, the warmth of the sun on your skin. When you open your eyes, the stretch of viridian green pastures and vibrant flowers greets you. The land of Heartslabyul is as picturesque as you remembered on screen. It feels unreal.

And waiting for you at the end of the path is the very first dorm you've befriended.

"Weird. Where's everyone at?" Grim grumbles, ears twitching in irritation.

The entrance is completely devoid of any human presence. You don’t sense anyone in the building either, which is completely strange.

Grim's right. Where is everyone? For an incoming tea party, wouldn’t there be various students rushing in and out for the preparations?

“Perhaps they’re in the maze?” You glance warily over to the tall hedges that bloom with beautiful roses. “Should we wait?”

“Ugh, that’s so rude of ‘em to keep us hangin’ though! I say we go lookin’ for them. Who knows how long we gotta stand out here!” Grim shakes his head, distraught at the thought of having to wait for his food. "Let's go to the kitchen!"

"You just want to see if you can eat something." You tut at Grim's scheming face.

"Mya, so what?!" He yowls. "I'm going and you can't stop me!"

"Grim, wait–" You call anxiously, but your companion is already scampering off into the dorm. You're left with no choice but to take a deep steadying breath and press on.

But the kitchen room is also empty when the two of you pop in. However, it seems like it was used recently, if not for the smell, then the sight of various dishes laid out on the counter would have clued you in. You sneakily compare your puddings to the spread laid out before you and wonder again if it isn't too late to put them away in a dark corner.

"What do you have there, prefect?" A low voice breathes in your ear.

You and Grim shriek in tandem, with you almost fumbling and dropping your box and Grim’s signature sharp nails digging into your shins.

The looming presence behind you is revealed to be Trey Clover, who has an apologetic face after spooking the two of you. At least he is conscientious.

"My bad, my bad," he chuckles, "I should've been more obvious about my arrival." He places a steady hovering hand behind your back. Just barely touching, yet close enough to feel its heat. Embarrassingly, the feeling is soothing enough that you can't find it in yourself to pull away.

"Sheesh, for real! You took some of my life with that, y'know Trey!" Grim hisses, detaching his claws from your poor legs. Trey only laughs and ruffles his head.

"I’m sorry about that Grim. Anyway, you guys came just in time," Trey begins to transfer the dishes onto a wheeled cart. "Food just needs to be carried out and the tea party can begin—but you have something, don't you?"

Regret seeps in when you think of your sad puddings next to all these gorgeous pastries and appetizers.

“Uhm, I don’t think it’s really needed since you got all this,” you laugh sheepishly as your hands automatically hide the box behind your back.

“No way.” Trey’s smile is warm but firm. When he gently guides your hands to give up the box, you can’t find it in yourself to protest. “It can’t be that bad, since you made it.”

You're struck silent, and Trey immediately takes advantage of your state to press his hand to your back to usher you forward. His fingertips graze your side, and for a second, you swear his lips quirk into a smirk.

You follow alongside Trey as he pushes the cart out through the door.

"By the way, I'm happy to hear you liked the lavender cookies." You look over to see the baker smile warmly. "I would've tried something with the candied violets I had, but I ran out just as I was making them." He sighs as he shakes his head.

Something with the way he's worded it makes it sound like there was more to the story, but you don't care enough to pry further. Trey's golden orbs slide to meet yours discreetly, and you realize he's waiting for you to respond. You murmur an apathetic response back, and he visibly droops.

It's a long, quiet walk through the rose maze.

It seems your arrival with Trey threw everyone off guard. You don't know why they look so alarmed: the venue looks absolutely resplendent. Colorful lanterns dot the tree lines, swinging back and forth cheerily with brightly colored flags. The long table is draped with fine cloth embroidered with intricate lace patterns. There's not a single wrinkle to be seen in the fabric. And the rose bushes, blooming with both red and white roses, are pruned cleanly, not a leaf or branch out of place.

It is a tea party fit for the Queen of Hearts.

"And the guest of honor is finally here!" Easygoing as ever, Cater calls out jauntily to you both. He seems to be the only one not visibly panicking. "Trey, what took ya so long?"

"Had to get the dishes here, you know." He shoots a knowing glare at Cater, who flinches with a sheepish smile. "Someone was supposed to help me, which would've made it a lot faster."

Ah. Cater giggles nervously while twirling his hair. Ace and Deuce exchange disbelieving looks before shaking their heads.

“Welcome, prefect.” Riddle greets you with a stiff bow. "And Grim." He hastily adds, seeing your companion’s face twist sulkily. The action makes you smile, if only for a moment.

“We’ve been waiting forever for you, Yuu—” Deuce jabs an elbow sharply into Ace’s side, making him cough and sputter mid sentence, but the damage has already been done. Another awkward silence reigns as everyone’s fearful faces are directed at you, trying to figure out how to best traverse the conversational minefield.

“W-What Acey meant to say is–” Cater is cut off immediately.

"Uh, er, come to think of it, what's your actual name?" Deuce is the one who pushes forward despite everyone else’s horrified looks. As if he had uttered a profane exclamation.

"My…name?" You echo back.

Right. Since all they knew was the puppet, they didn't know your true name. Heavy silence hovers in the air, even Grim was looking at you in anticipation.

"My name is…" Something chokes your throat. Reluctance? Or fear?

"[First]. [First] [Last]."

They mutter it among themselves, tasting the syllables and weaving the rhythms of the letters. How strange. With sugar coated lips, their voices ring like church bells for prayer. You're born anew, for the way they look at you is enough to make your heart soar for several fleeting seconds.

For a brief moment, you could believe that you were with your Heartslabyul again.

The tea party begins like a baby animal: slow, unsure, and always in danger of stumbling to the ground. But it’s Heartslabyul, and who else would know how to best host a party for its guests?

By the time the tea is being poured into your cups, a steady conversation has started naturally flowing between all of you.

“Is there something the matter?” Riddle asks for the nth time as he worriedly gazes at the way your eyes stray to the hedges and whimsical decorations beyond the table.

"Oh uhm…” You hesitate, still not meeting Riddle’s worried face. “Why are the roses both red and white? I thought one of your rules is that tea parties always have white roses."

Riddle exchanges a look with Trey at your question.

"That is true, [First], however…" He pauses, before continuing with a determined look. "Red and white roses are customary for parties celebrating with new friends."

“New…friends?” Your hand is frozen at your teacup.

Something fiercely warm fills your chest. There's cautious hope glimmering in Riddle and Trey's eyes. That wasn’t fair. How could they say something like that and not expect you to react?

The party ends on a light note unlike its stiff beginning. The soldiers gather to see you and Grim off, but once Grim scampers off with his leftovers in paw, her Majesty moves to your side.

“Prefect–no, [First], would you come again?” He asks. His hands are trembling, tugging at your sleeve timidly like a young child again. “F-For an Unbirthday party, of course!”

It’s a request that’s not selfish, you note. Her Majesty’s card soldiers look on expectantly behind their monarch, and it takes everything within you to not collapse.

“Of course. I can’t wait for it already.”

Your heart weighs heavy. They do not know that the promise is an empty white lie. Though you cherish them, you do not wish to act the role of a doll whose purpose is to play house.

When they looked at you with those pleading eyes, who did they see?

Yuu, the puppet they adored for its safe default responses and supportive words?

Or you, the player who has their own flaws and biased personality?

It's okay, you reason.

They won't be able to tell the difference between clay and flesh.

v. Burial

You have a hunch about Yuu.

Only a guess based on many hypotheticals, but better than nothing.

If the puppet stopped working when you arrived, then shouldn't it go without saying that if you left this world, that it would return back to life?

The wooden door creaks open, stirring up dust and sending it flying into the air. You cough and sneeze, waving your hand to disperse the irritant. Serves you right. After all, you refused to step into this room since Yuu's body was hauled here. Didn't even dare to come clean the room. The dust settles and you can finally make out the puppet's silhouette from the waning light rays of the window.

It still adorns its proper NRC uniform, wrinkled in the spots where you had lifted it. It hasn't moved at all from its sprawled pose on the sofa. You remember the dread at realizing the only fitting school uniform you could possibly wear was on this puppet. It only cemented your resolve to break away from the puppet's image. Even if you had to resort to clearing out ancient closets and haggling with faculty, you'd rather take the raggedy shawls and worn flannel over the crisp blazer and button up the puppet wore.

Its skin has become ashen gray, drained of any life. Old joints creaked in agony when you adjusted it to a sitting position for better examination. For a while, the both of you stare at each other.

Despair tugs at your mind. How long will you be trapped in this world? Has the Headmaster even done anything to help you get home? You snort. He couldn’t even bother doing anything when it was just the vessel. Why would that change now?

Can you hear me?

The voice, so quiet yet clear, makes you whip your head around. No one's in the room. Are you finally going crazy?

You can hear me, right?

Is one of the ghosts playing a prank on you? You can't pinpoint the source of the voice at all.

I'm here–look!

With dread and fear pooling in your heart, your head turns slowly to meet the doll's eyes; whose pupils are now fixated on you.

The urge to scream and push away the doll is overwhelming. But in a world where the supernatural is natural, you suppose that dolls that can speak are the least impossible thing out there.

I can help you find your way home.

You swallow thickly. Pursing your lips, your grip on its arms tightens as you lean in. Something stirs, and it’s crazy, but you swear it hums in pleasure.

Listen to what I say carefully…

Decorations? Check. Refreshments? Check.

Outfits? Check.

So why does it feel like there's something missing?

"What's wrong, Riddle?" He turns to see Trey's concerned face. He gives an awkward smile back.

"I'm not quite sure, but something feels amiss." He explains, rubbing his neck. It's obvious enough to make him feel the familiar slivers of irritation slither through him.

He tries to will it away. It's a good day, and there was nothing to be angry about. The player–no, [First]–had decided to give them a chance and agreed to come over to celebrate an Unbirthday party with them. Ace and Deuce are behaving as good, law-abiding card soldiers should be. The roses were saturated with dripping red, the dormouse had its nose smeared with jam–so what is this itch that won't go away?

"We can do a double check of everything again," Trey offers gently. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

Riddle shakes his head. “It’s almost time for them to arrive. I will not have them waiting on something that isn’t even a problem.”

“Housewarden~!” Speak of the devil. He turns with a frown at Ace’s loud shout, but it fades to a small smile when he sees you trailing after Ace.

"Hello, Riddle." You smile warmly at him, and his cheeks flush pink.

Wait. He stops. Have you ever called his name? He doesn’t have time to ponder this before he’s interrupted by Trey and Cater bringing in the food.

When everyone is seated and the party is in swing, he notices something.

“Is the food not to your liking, [First]?” He inquires as politely as possible, softening his tone to make it sound less accusatory.

You fluster, waving a hand. “Not at all. I’m just not that hungry right now.”

He decides to leave it, because it’s not as if it’s wrong, per se, if the guest wasn’t eating. He recalls Ace’s previous words to him.

“Housewarden, you really should loosen up a bit! Otherwise you’re gonna end up being a killjoy!”

He may be many things, but he is not a killjoy! Just because he was particular about certain things doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to let go.

But something feels off.

Then he realizes that while the conversation is flowing as usual, you are hardly speaking at all. You only speak when directly spoken to, and even then, it’s short, clipped responses.

He watches incredulously as you pour yourself a cup of tea and then drink it.

The golden scepter materializes in his hand as easily as breathing.

Everyone else reacts explosively, looking alarmed at the scene unfolding. Meanwhile, you merely stare blankly at the end of the scepter nearly several inches from your nose.

"Riddle, hold the phone, what are you doing?!" He barely hears Cater's frantic voice to his left. He's too focused on the way that…that thing is not reacting at all.

"You. Where is [First]?"

It's silent for a moment, and then a disturbing crooked grin breaks out from its poker face. It starts cackling loudly and it makes his blood start boiling.

"Start speaking or it's off with your head!" He screeches, scepter shaking uncontrollably in his hands.

"Boo, I was hoping you guys were stupid enough to fall for it.” The thing taunts, leaning back in their chair.

Red fills his vision. How dare this thing use your visage and breath such vile words? Before he could register it, his arm swipes across. By the time his eyes clear and his breathing steadies, he's staring at a decapitated body that is mangled beyond repair.

It takes another moment to realize he is not the only one who has raised their magical pen.

Trey is at his right, golden eyes dark as Riddle realizes he positioned himself to shield him. Cater mirrors Trey, but his arms are visibly shaking and his eyes keep switching from him to the broken body on the trimmed lawn. Ace and Deuce had positioned themselves to the backside, but they too, barely seem to be holding themselves together, clenched fists at the ready for physical blows.

“What…” he breathes, “is going on?”

The only answer he gets is the wind whistling through the grass blades.

He collapses to his knees as he fumbles with a body that has been torn asunder, but instead of flesh and bones, he only finds clay and chipped resin.

“What have we done?”

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere heartslabyul #my works #if this gets good reception i'll have a easier time of writing part 2

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sleekista · 2 months

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death is a funny thing

alexia putellas x fem!reader

prompt: alexia angst on 10/10 out of angst scale - for madres bday

A/N: happy birthday madre @greynatomy ! 🥳🥳 you are now stuck at the restaurant

i cried while making this. i dont cry while writing or reading fanfic.

TW: Death, hurt/no comfort, the thought of me not making a part 2 for this

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

2 weeks. That's what the doctor said. 2 weeks until you're dead and you soul is gone from the earth. How does one hold that infomation? How are they supposed to take it? It's not like anyone's alive to really tell you how to cope or react.

So, you sit in silence. Being taken back to the memories of playing football as a child, being in your national team for the first time. Playing for your senior team for the first time. That first kiss with Alexia which was unlike any you'd had before. The first time you'd told her you loved her, and how she immediately said it back.

All of it would come to an end.

You knew you should've been here weeks ago when you first started feeling off, but you weren't one to go a doctor when something felt bad. Just hoped it would go away unless you knew it was an injury that'd affect your career. The only reason you were in the room was because Alexia dragged you there.

What would have happened if she hadn't?

You stare at the wall in front of you, mind without thoughts. Just the shell of someone who used to be there. You feel bad for Alexia, how would she cope? You knew she had plans of proposing, you just didn't know when. That will all be a dream in only a fortnight.

How much will change by then? Will she push you out like she does with most others? Or will she hold you close, thinking that if she did you wouldn't leave her when you both know that won't happen.

When you do look at her, there's tears streaming down her face. Staining her shirt and falling onto the floor. The doctor leads you both out giving a form of all legal action needed before you die. Who to give your money to, how you want to be buried or cremated.

You wonder how they can say such news then proceed to hand papers while being devoid of any emotion. Maybe they've done it too many times to really feel.

- - - - -

Alexia drives home, eyes still leaking with tears. You're not quite sure how she's driving but you both make it home. You watch her mundane and robotic movements, until she's in the living room. That's her breaking point.

You immediately go to her, wrapping your arms around her without saying a word. This makes her sob harder.

"I can't live without you. Please no." Is all you hear over the sound of her breaking down.

"Alexia." You say, but she shakes her head.

"Alexia look at me." Again, it's no use.

"Ale please." She finally listens, looking up shaking as her lip wobbles.

"When I am gone, you will be sad yes but I trust you'll get over me. I trust you will be even better than you are now. You are the greatest woman I've ever met and you are the strongest. I will be with you here until the end and even when I'm not here physically..." You pause and touch her heart with your hand. "I'll always be with you here, remember that. And if heaven or the afterlife is real, I'll watch over you. I promise." You whisper resting your forehead against her own.

She whails into the evening, you cry along with her. Reality and the fear of death finally sinking deep into your bones. You will die. You can't be here forever.

- - - - -

The next day when training is supposed to be on is when you tell everyone at the club, sadness lingers in the air as you hug your friends. The ones who had become a new family for you. The young players like Salma and Vicky whom you'd baiscally 'adopted' when they joined the senior team. You consoled them along with Caroline (your best friend) the most. Those apart from Alexia being the ones you were always with.

It was decided a farewell dinner would be hosted. The last memories and last time to be with you.

- - - - -

Alexia wouldn't leave your side, you didn't want to leave hers either. The weight she'd carry on herself after this is too much for your own failing heart. You wanted to be with her for the rest of your life, and by that you meant grow old. Not die at 27.

The dinner was as much as anyone would expect it to be. Teary eyes and frowns painted on everyones face. The mourning had started before you left, and somehow that was even more painful.

Your will was mainly going to the football club, with no family left to give it to. Part of it went to investment in womens sports and some went to Alexia. You'd asked to be cremated, 1/3 of your ashes in the new Camp Nou, 1/3 of your ashes to be washed away by the heavy winds at the beach you loved so much, and a third to be with Alexia to do as she pleases. Whether to keep or give to people you held so close.

The end is near, it's relieving in a sense. That all this anxiety toward the date will just go. Everything for you will stop. But, you hate being the reason people are upset. All you'll leave is pain and anguish until one by one your friends heal. Alexia heals.

- - - - -

Today was the day, you're not sure how you know but you do. You wait with Alexia, remembering all good times. No words are said, she's trying to remember every detail in your face. Fearing the she'll forget you.

"Alexia." She takes a deep breath, nodding at you to continue.

"I love you, I love you in everyway possible. I love you in every universe. I love you to the moon and saturn. Never forget me, as I'll never forget you." You whisper, breath shaky as you feel yourself drifting away.

"I could never, forget you amor. You're safer wherever you are next. I love you. More than words could ever convey." Her voice breaks.

You don't want to leave her, why did it have to be like this?

She places her lips against yours one last time. Your eyes close, one last time.

—————————————————————————

well... no part 2. reader will not come back from the dead like melanie martinez

but last night i dreamt i kissed taylor swift so theres that

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #woso fanfics #barcelona femeni #wlw #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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plazmafields · 1 month

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We're all aware that your favorite (living) 90 year old rocker is a wanted criminal in Night City. Kerry's charges even change each time you meet up with him in game, which is hilarious. But some of the charges are unlike the others.

TW for mentions of murder and human remains/dead bodies.

Here are some of the average charges Kerry accrues throughout the game. Most of them are drug or assault charges, specifically against police and corpo suits. Typical rockerboy shit, really keeping the punk spirit alive. (Also copyright infringement which always makes me laugh seeing it next to literal MURDER)

The charges so far are all pretty expectable for Kerry. We even see charges like "hostage taking" and "unauthorized use of military hardware" that line up with events that take place in his side missions. However, there are two charges that always stood out to me:

So what the hell are these about? When I first saw these charges I assumed they referred to situations where an officer/corpo was already dead and Kerry continued to fire on them. However, if that were the case, the wording would be something more akin to "mutilation of a corpse" or "tampering with a corpse." The specific word choice of "human remains" implies the body had already been processed for burial.

I discovered these charges many months apart and had never connected them to a possible singular event until, while replaying Holdin' On, I remembered these:

Kerry has two urns on his wardrobe. I assume these are for his parents' ashes. However, as is implied in Cyberpunk: Edgerunners, it is illegal to keep cremated remains. And although not expressly stated in Cyberpunk 2077, much media in the cyberpunk genre (or with themes of late stage capitalism) give ownership of human remains to the state, or the corporate entity that the deceased worked for. I could absolutely see this being the case in Cyberpunk 2077 as well, seeing as Jackie's body can be seized by Arasaka and claimed as "corporate property." In that case, the urns would just be in memorial and contain no actual remains. I think, though, that most people would prefer to use something from that family member's past to memorialize them, like an object that represented their interests.

So, with Kerry having two distinct charges for both obtaining and "defiling" human remains, and having two urns despite the requirement that cremated remains be stored in the columbarium, I theorize that Kerry stole his parent's ashes back from the city/the company they worked for. Who knows, maybe some of his other charges came about during the theft as well.

#this man is a menace #and i love him #kerry eurodyne #cyberpunk kerry #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk

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stargirlfics · 1 year

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B U T T E R F L Y

Joel Miller x Black Latina Reader

Summary: Sometimes the path to healing starts with a reminder of what’s been lost

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, death tw, child death tw, some TLOU spoilers but doesn’t follow canon, post-outbreak!Joel, angst, hurt/comfort, trauma and violence mentions, fluff, slow burn vibe, mutual pining

Word Count: 5.6k

My mind has been stuck on the butterfly imagery connecting Sarah and Joel in the show, and in the game too! I grew up hearing from my abuelita that monarch butterflies are symbols of loved ones who’ve passed and I thought that would fit well here! This fic explores grief and pain but also finding hope through it too 🦋

To be soft-hearted at the world’s violent end, that’s where you’d decided to make a home for your heart with all its fragile beating.

Doomed is what they all said you were, surviving the outbreak this long sooner or later came with a price and they had been right, but still, half out of spite, half out of needing something to hang onto, the tenderness of you remained.

Surviving was a miracle and most could go on just grateful to wake up another day, but you’d seen how void life was lived here in the ruins of a former world, and as doomed as it all appeared, you tried your best to find pockets of light where you could, fighting the urge to shut yourself away.

Because maybe one day those pockets of light would be abundant where they were once scarce, maybe one day, if you kept yourself open to it, there would be a sign of a changing tide to let you know you were finally safe.

How strange signs could be, in plain sight but unseen until your brain could catch up with what your soul was feeling, and rarely did they ever come without complexity.

In your case, that complexity came with a stern scowl that belonged to one Joel Miller.

The first whispers you’d ever heard about Joel were that he was grumpy, stubborn, and not the kind of man to be messed with. He was the muscle behind trades done in shadowed alleys here in the QZ, illegal substances, weapons, extra ration cards, you name it.

He was intimidating to most people, even you; having a reputation for being a man of few words and an even shorter fuse would do that but you knew there to be sorrow there too, etched deep in the lines of his face, reflecting like moonlight in his eyes.

You’d never spoken to him, not in all your time in Boston, always seeming to narrowly avoid crossing paths, but you often saw him from afar. In the town square, catching glimpses of him waiting in line to collect a job’s earnings or in the pit, hauling bodies to the acrid cremation pyres smoldering hot throughout the day.

If you thought about it, that’s where you saw the sorrow most.

That old, faded bandana he wore over his nose to block out the stench of burning gave you the clearest view of his eyes; sad, angry orbs fixated on the task like it was penance for him.

All those hushed whispers told you he wasn’t a good man, that he had hurt people to get what he needed, and that wasn’t a surprise, you’d seen it enough to understand the grim nature of the wasteland you were in, how people often turned against each other if they thought it meant they’d live to see another day.

Maybe that understanding was how it happened that day, the first time you’d meet, something in your soul already well tangled with something in his yet neither of you knew it yet.

You’d been expecting someone else at your door that evening, a friend of yours with a bag of good soil snuck in from the outside in exchange for a radio of yours that was in decent shape.

Instead, you were greeted by Joel Miller, bag in hand, a frown already on his face as he explained the switch up, even pointing to a note on the bag in your friend's handwriting to vouch for him.

His voice had caught you off guard, a low, gruff bass in his careful cadence, Texan accent making the words go down smooth.

“Okay, no problem, she did tell me she wasn’t sure if she would really make use of it. You can step in if you want, I’ll just be a second.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so trusting.

That’s how people got robbed, taken advantage of, murdered and you weren’t going to get any sympathy from neighbors or any FEDRA soldiers in the area if something were to happen but despite that, and his reputation, you didn’t feel unsafe.

Quite the opposite.

Joel was certainly the grumpy type and you didn’t doubt he was capable of hurting you if he wanted but as you returned with the radio you found him just where you’d left him, his body filling your doorway in a way that reminded you of a guard dog.

Something had caught his eye in the time it had taken you to walk back, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

It took you a second to realize what exactly he was staring at, eyes tracking him and following until they landed on the butterfly figurine hanging from the makeshift curtains of your kitchen sink window.

Golden hour light warming the window had bathed the glass winged butterfly in its rays, casting fractals of color across the wall and the worn wooden floors.

You studied his face for a moment then, a familiar kind of sadness reaching his eyes, the darkened circles underneath them a little more noticeable now.

You wondered when the last time he got any proper sleep was.

“I made it…” interrupting his thoughts gently you gestured towards the window when he looked at you in question, “La mariposa...took me ages to fit the glass and wire together right but I think it came out ok.”

He grunted in response, finally handing over the bag of soil when you noticed the slightest tremble in his hands.

Oh…so he’d been caught off guard too.

Something about your butterfly had shaken him up and you were curious, who could blame you for being tempted to cross what you were sure he would say was a line, but you pretended not to notice, trying to offer him some privacy, a second to collect himself.

You’d appreciate it if he did the same for you in his place after all.

The exchange was completed swiftly after, a palpable silence settling between you before he was leaving almost as quickly as he arrived, taking the fading summer sunset with him.

–

Joel barely slept that night, woken by nightmares again, a routine he was familiar with, haunted by the same old ghosts but it was different this time, the barbed wire around his heart digging in just a little extra, memories of her surfacing.

Sarah. His Sarah.

He didn’t realize just how long it had been since he was reminded of her this way, of what it felt like to be her father, shutting himself off to that years ago, unable to think about his life with her before because that pain was nearly unbearable.

There is only after, the after in which she doesn’t exist, where he searches for her in his sleep and wakes knowing he won’t find her.

Because he watched her slip away, had pleaded and begged to the skies to bring her back, had held her in his arms, hands stained red with her blood, and had to accept that she was gone and he was granted no time to say goodbye.

Days turned to weeks, months into years and he had learned to operate on a certain level of numbness, just focused on surviving, never getting too attached, acting cold and angry, just a dead man walking.

Until now, his chest nearly caving in with the truth that he was still breathing even after so long spent closed off.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d considered your friend’s offer to complete the exchange at all, he knew he shouldn’t have, the radio you traded wasn’t in as great a shape as he would have liked, he knew that upfront and still begrudgingly agreed, not expecting to feel so exposed, so upended by a simple encounter.

That butterfly shining in the sunlight of your kitchen made his heart stop the second he saw it, flashes of memory surfacing, almost like his little girl was pulled to the surface of his skin again, like if he stepped inside he could reach out and she’d be there.

A dreadful reality had washed that away after a moment, grief swallowing up the hope just as he knew it would, like it always had, but something was undeniably different this time for Joel. A difference that left an ache in his center.

Because for those few fleeting seconds, he had felt alive again.

–

The second time you met Joel was intentional, another bag of soil in exchange for some instant coffee this time.

It was still early morning when he knocked on your door, quiet, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans and a sleepy kind of softness that you hadn’t seen before around the edges of his eyes which made you wish he didn’t look so inviting then.

It wasn’t so hard to look at him as unapproachable as he made himself seem, he was handsome, the streaks of gray peppered in his hair and along his beard lending to his rugged look.

“About the coffee, it’s not as strong as it could be but it’s the best I’ve got,” you handed over a jar, watching him open the lid and sniff its contents.

“That’ll do just fine.”

Relief arrived at his approval, you gathered it’d been a while since he had any and you were glad your stash wasn’t a disappointment.

You watched as he knelt down to set his backpack on the floor, stowing the jar inside and handing you the bag of fertilizer mix you had inquired about.

It wasn’t long now before he’d be out the door again, these things were best kept short and simple but as you thanked him for the exchange and moved to store the bag with your other garden supplies, you noticed a moment of reluctance.

Joel didn’t plan on lingering around now that you both had what you came for but then he was reminded of what he felt the last time he’d been in your space and his mouth was moving with the thoughts that were swimming in his head before he could bite back the words.

“That’s a good amount of soil you have, got some sorta secret garden FEDRA don’t know about?”

Suddenly you felt very silly for wanting to smile at his curiosity but also recognized the significance of him asking.

“Something like that, yeah. I…actually found a spot of flowers growing through one of the QZ fences and I’ve been tending to it. It's no garden but the flowers are in bloom now, first time I’ve seen real butterflies in years.”

You watched him perk up at the mention of real butterflies, furrowed brows hiding the flicker of emotion mere seconds later but it was too late, you’d seen it already.

Up until now, your little patch of greenery had been a private endeavor.

Something for you to put some love and effort in, and just a quiet, secluded place to be, to clear your head or be alone for a while, away from some of the chaos in the streets, and yet here you were, now, carefully asking him if he’d like to see it too.

You thought just maybe, bringing him there would do him as much good as it had done you.

And it’s there, in that moment when he says yes that you see all that hard exterior start to slip just an inch.

It’s an inch you can work with.

–

Early morning dew still clings to the soft blades of grass sprouting up near the fence line, the section where you’d been taking care of the vegetation noticeably more vibrant with color and growth.

Slowly, you’d been replacing the dirt, had saved as many roots and sprouts as possible, taking care in replanting them, and from there, a shabby little makeshift garden bed had formed.

This would be your third week caring for it and now Joel was trailing behind your steps to see it too.

His body language was tense like he couldn’t quite be sure you weren’t actually taking him to some secluded corner to ambush him, but you get it.

Being wary was smart, but you couldn’t lie that it was satisfying to let him take it in without explaining anything first, the tension in his shoulders easing, sagging when his eyes fell upon the dusky blue flowers and rich green leaves and vines growing up from the ground, searching for the sun’s nourishment.

Joel couldn’t be certain whether it was the day’s first tendrils of summer heat making him feel warm or the fluttering orange and speckled black wings of a butterfly nestled atop a marigold.

He glances at his wrist, at the memento that never leaves his side, a broken watch, and there’s a moment of clarity in the silence where Joel can feel it, all the shattered parts of him spilling out, and there isn’t any way he can catch it all, he’s already too late and he knows it.

Panic works its way into his bloodstream, causing his hands to shake, not used to being so disarmed, so flayed open.

His fingers curl into a fist, trying to steady himself, needing a moment to catch his breath, to process.

And there you were, your gentle voice cutting through the noise in his head and that tidal wave of emotion.

“They’re monarch butterflies, which means they’re special,” you’ve moved a little closer now, watching another one land next to its friend on the flower.

“What makes' em’ so special?” Joel takes a deep breath and you do too.

You thought for a second he might shut down and walk away, there wasn’t anything keeping him here after all, he had the coffee he came for and yet still took you up on your offer. That in itself was difficult not to attach yourself to immediately but there was no denying it felt good to know you’d earned maybe an ounce of his trust.

“In Mexico, my abuela used to say they were a sign of the dead coming to visit the living, loved ones, our ancestors, the monarchs carry their souls to us. I think they’re good luck too.”

The smile working its way onto your lips is fond, sad, one you knew he’d recognize, the silent but shared knowledge of loss was a heavy burden to carry. There was no mistake about it, but being here, amongst your flowers and your butterflies made it easier.

Orange and gold halos shimmered around the plant life softly swaying with the wind, your own features now warmed with the climbing sun, brown skin shining deeper under the light.

Joel was looking at you now, following your words. The meaning of what you were both looking upon hitting him square in the chest when that feeling blooms behind his eyes again, that itch of something alive, something beautiful growing again amongst concrete ruins.

And it's there, standing next to you, watching you water the soil while butterflies float around you that he works out what that feeling must be.

Salvation.

–

After that morning, trading goods with Joel became a regular occurrence.

Soil for another stash of coffee or a packet of seeds for a hunting knife in need of experienced hands, neither of you quite sure how it happened but eventually the trades became more like friendly favors to each other than practical transactions.

Your ‘garden’ also became a frequent place for you both to go, so much so that on any given day you could bet he was there, a quick stop on his way back home, or in the morning before the day started, it became an unspoken shared refuge.

Joel helped you fix up the makeshift garden beds when it became clear your tender care of the plants called for an upgrade and you were grateful for it, dismissive at first, not wanting him to feel obligated.

You could handle yourself around a hammer and a few nails but he insisted and you relented, the two of you knelt under the setting sun, working on the task together.

It didn’t matter that it was closing in on curfew time, or that you didn’t really have anything to compensate him for his time because, the moment itself, the small inklings of trust building between you were actually far better.

That’s when you started to see him nearly every day, sitting against bomb-scarred concrete, always facing those marigolds, the ones the monarch butterflies you’d told him about always flocked to.

At first you kept your distance, knowing better than to pry.

It was clear he’d been through a lot, most his age-if you were guessing correctly-had, old enough to have lived a good portion of their lives before the outbreak, the last witnesses of an old world. You wanted to respect that and as long as he was finding some sort of peace here, you were content.

You didn’t mind his company either, he wasn’t much of a talker, but his presence was comforting and familiar and you felt safe with him near.

Eventually though, keeping him at a distance became impossible, both of you stumbling through the uncertainty of what to say to each other yet not giving up on trying at the same time.

And Joel had resisted too, had tried to keep his words short, always residing somewhere in between neutral and aloof but the more he watched you in your element, amongst the seedling sprouts and vines and moss, the more it made him want to talk.

It was easy to find his voice around you.

You were soft-hearted, he could see that and it wasn’t easy to get used to the way you looked at him, like you cared, like you understood something about his brokenness right away, had let him sit here day after day watching the butterflies because somehow you knew it’s what he needed, but he didn’t mind the learning curve either.

His usual annoyance and reluctance to speak about feelings couldn’t keep up this time surrounded by reminders of Sarah, coaxing the small part of him that hadn’t died with her out of its state of numbness, softening him again.

‘You were never gonna do it for yourself’ rings in his ears.

He’d never been much good at that, doing things for himself, and Sarah was always so clever about calling it out, even now, nudging him awake again after all these years.

It’s why he decides to tell you when you ask one day, sitting next to him on sun-warmed stone.

He merely came by to sit for a little while and clear his head and found you already sat in his usual spot, butterfly watching, your eyes telling your secret, that you had been crying before he arrived, his first instinct carrying him forward, to your side.

He offered you some water, even sliced an apple in half to share with you, pleased with himself when he got a smile out of the gesture but remained as quiet as you were, wanting you to feel like you could just be.

“Who do they remind you of?” your voice was small, unsure of how he’d react to the question, overexplaining in hopes it would make him recoil less, “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it, I understand. It’s just that…what I told you about the monarch butterflies, I really do believe in it you know, the people I’ve lost…they feel so close to the surface, like they’re watching over me and I think you feel the same.”

Joel nods after a moment and you’re exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

It takes him a moment but he finds the words.

“My daughter…her name was Sarah. They were her favorite, actually, since she was bout old enough to talk. I used to call her my little butterfly when she was a baby which, yeah, got real old when she started middle school but I liked to remind her anyways, just to see her roll her eyes at me. Just as long as she knew I loved her, you know, that I never stopped, not since the moment I held her in my hands for the first time.”

It broke your heart to hear.

And it hurt him too, to speak about her and then remember that he had lost her, that twenty years had passed and he couldn’t remember what she smelled like anymore, and he hated the nightmares but without them, he was afraid of forgetting her face, her eyes, the coils of her hair, the sound of her voice calling out to him.

It was only now that he was seeing how deep he’d pushed it all down, bottled up tight out of fear, and then somehow you’d entered his life, Molotov aimed straight at his heart, stunning him into remembering her the way she deserved to be.

“I’m so sorry,” you extend all the comfort you can, knowing there weren’t any words that would ever make it right but you wanted to try anyway.

“Yeah, me too. But you’re right, she feels close, and I know you’ve put it together by now but it’s why I’ve been sittin here every day, I see those butterflies and I see her, I remember her and it feels...good. I didn’t want it to; don’t really trust things that feel good but it does and I wanna thank you for that, for letting me have that.”

He worries he’s said too much, or said the wrong thing, wanting to kick himself because he was never much good at words either but the sight of your lips pulling up into a small smile came as a relief.

“She’s with you, Joel. And there’s no need to thank me, it’s been good for me too, doing all this. I think it helps.”

He nods again, agreeing before asking you the same question, extending an opportunity to open up too; a big step when keeping personal histories to a minimum was the lay of the land around here.

And it wasn’t easy, to talk about the things that hurt, baring your grief to Joel, and trusting him with it but you did and he had held it so gently, understanding it for what it was.

Looking back you think maybe it’s there that things started to change, where your life and his started to merge.

Sometime after that conversation you gifted him one of those glass winged butterflies like the one in your window, showing it to him one evening in the garden, earning you the first real smile you’d ever seen from him.

It was after he told you more about himself, about Sarah, his brother Tommy, recounting happy memories; like the time he and Tommy surprised Sarah with her own soccer ball for her birthday one year, how he’d caved almost immediately the time she begged him to get her a polaroid camera, and you shared too, thinking on good times you’d had with the people in your life.

It meant a lot to Joel that you spent time crafting the ornament, knowing just how deep the symbolism of it went for him.

You were always doing that, looking out for him, planting tiny seed after tiny seed, slowly working your magic on him, ensnaring him deep, making him want to look out for you too.

Under the fading sun again you sat with him, watching the marigolds, the calm, slow fluttering of wings, and it’s in that same spot that you find your hand in his for the first time.

No words needed to be said, this was far better.

A little while later you saw your gift hanging from the window in his living room, right next to the radio you had first traded him for.

The two of you had found yourselves escaping the heat here after some time tending the garden together, pulling weeds, clearing new soil of rocks and rubble, now sharing his couch, a rusty old fan that still somehow worked cooling the sweat prickling the back of your neck.

Curfew hour was nearing and you knew you would have to start making your way back home but Joel warned that he’d heard from a FEDRA officer he did trades with that they were patrolling the streets early the next few nights.

You knew why, it was hard to forget the hail of gunfire last night, a group of Fireflies going after a group of officers on patrol, a fight that neither one had won.

Tensions in the QZ had been high all day since then and Joel suggested that you stay here with him for the night, saying he didn’t want you dealing with anything that might be going on out there.

He was being protective, a disapproving frown on that handsome face of his when you told him you didn’t want to intrude on his space but he was right, things had already started looking a little dangerous on your way back from the garden and you appreciated that he was trying to keep you safe.

So you stayed.

Curled up on Joel’s old, worn couch with a blanket that smelled like him tucked around you, the white noise of the fan still blowing and the knowledge that he wasn’t far, just in the next room over, carried you off to sleep.

–

One night had turned into two and then three and somewhere in the last couple months of summer that were left, you spent most of your days and nights with Joel.

No label had been applied to whatever your situation was with him, you knew better than to ask, this all needed time, and you were okay with that, just content on holding onto this good thing with him.

Because you liked being around, like sharing a space with him and sitting in the garden together, opening up to each other more and more every day.

It was nice watching Joel come out of that hardened shell of his, watching him find it easier to talk about things, noticing him trying to live life more, not as reluctant to connect.

Things were good, not to say that there hadn’t been bad days amongst all the progress made, there were plenty of them in fact.

Days where old patterns became default again, stretches of nights where the nightmares returned, both of you trying to wade through it.

When the aching of old wounds came knocking and the walls came back up again.

You hated to fight with Joel when that happened, and you hated not being on the same page but he was so stubborn it wasn’t always easy to bite back your frustration.

He had told you about his past, about the people he hurt in those early days and it’s something he wrestled with, believing in the goodness you saw inside him when all he could see were the bad things.

It frustrated you sometimes, how he preferred to shut himself off, to you, to Sarah’s memory because he felt like his hands were too dirty, too blood-stained to even try.

“Que, no entendes?! Please, Joel! Stop trying to be something you aren’t. You think you aren’t a good man but bad people don’t get upset about being bad. Do you think you can just turn it off, the part of you that was always a good man, a good father? Well sorry, but you can’t, that’s who you are to your core, I saw it the first moment I met you and every time since then.”

“I’ve killed people,” his tone was mean, and venomous, another attempt at pushing you away. “Goddamnit, it’s not as simple as-”

“I get that! Look I know that you’ve done bad things but you’ve also spent every waking moment punishing yourself for it, do you realize that? All these years you’ve been paying your penance any way you can and I’m trying to tell you it’s okay live well, that you don’t have to torture yourself anymore because we have to try and make something out of all this pain.”

It wasn’t easy to get him to see what you saw but you didn’t back down, even when it would have been easy to, Joel knew it too, guilt washing over him as you looked at him then, tears brimming in your eyes.

“You’ve endured enough.”

It’s those final three words from you that makes him ease up, a reminder you nudged him with often, that he could rest already, could make amends by making a choice to find the light.

He lets you take some space from him, coming to find you before bed because he doesn’t want to fall asleep without fixing things.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair, talkin to you like that. You’re just tryna help my sorry ass and I haven’t thanked you enough. I’m gonna get better at that.”

It’s the first time you ever hug him, noticing the tremble in his hands as he says the words, feeling the sincerity in his voice, unable to stop yourself from all but barreling into his arms.

He’s still for only a moment before his arms wrap around you in return, the two of you bathed in moonlight, that butterfly still hanging in his window, pushing you towards each other again just like it had when you first met.

–

Eventually, the day comes when the monarchs leave, the approaching fall and winter seasons carrying them to warmer places, a solemn change in what had been yours and Joel’s routine.

The absence of the butterflies that had provided so much hope the last few months was felt, but the world was also a lot more open and wide now too.

You no longer slept on Joel’s couch, you slept pressed against him now, and woke with your limbs tangled with his, a quiet partnership forming.

It scares both of you, knowing that you had grown to care for each other so quickly, knowing that was dangerous and reckless but also feeling stronger because you were a team.

You think that’s why you make the decision together, one rainy fall evening when Joel comes home with a message from Tommy.

They had gone through a rough patch recently, being apart from each other for some time and still not seeing eye to eye on Tommy’s choices but slowly, they’d started talking again and there was news that Tommy and the group he was with had gotten a hydroelectric plant that had once belonged to FEDRA up and running.

There was electricity and a place to stay if you and Joel were interested, plus Tommy wanted you to meet Maria, said she did him a whole world of good and this was some of that good in action.

It hadn’t been a hard choice to make even knowing how difficult the journey would be.

This was the chance you’d both been waiting for, and had talked about, a far off dream of running away from all the violence that was inescapable here in Boston, searching for something better out there, and now it was within reach.

So you’d left your garden in the care of a friend you knew would understand its importance, and you bide your time with Joel, making deals, doing jobs, collecting and saving up supplies, and helping him map the way to Jackson.

And then the day came when you left the QZ behind for good, watching the city fade away in the rearview mirror.

Making it to Tommy hadn’t been easy, there had been one too many close calls for comfort but the trust you and Joel had in each other didn’t waver, and here you were, finally on the other side.

Settling in hadn’t been the easiest, especially for Joel, his guard still up but little by little, you both sank into a new way of life.

You quickly learned how to ride a horse and hunt in the woods surrounding the power plant, even making friends with some of the families in the community.

Joel had taken to things a little slower, but even he couldn’t hide for long, helping some of the men in the group with repairs on things that needed fixing, even cautiously attempting to make friends with you.

Small pockets of peace started to open up the longer you stayed and the threat of raiders loomed over that peace at times, keeping everyone on alert for attacks but you all had Joel and Tommy now, always amongst the first to be out there protecting, defending fiercely.

You knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to you here.

As spring arrived again you found a nice spot for a garden, pointing out sprouting flower buds to Joel one day, almost missing the fond smile forming on his lips, both of you knowing what this meant.

You were happy here, and happy being with Joel, the two of you building a new garden together this time, until finally, as the chill spring breeze transitioned into summer heat and sunshine you were sat next to him like you had been what seemed like ages ago, watching the butterflies circle the flowers in bloom in what had become Sarah’s Garden.

Joel made you a promise; to keep going for family, the family you, him, and Tommy were now. And you promised the same, not scared of how much you cared for the man by your side anymore.

It wasn’t perfect, the world was still rotten and the broken parts of you all were still raw, still healing, but this time her light was guiding the way through it and that made it all worth it.

---

A/N: When I saw that butterfly hanging in the window of his place in Boston I just couldn’t resist writing something about how he got it and here we are! This world is so dark and tragic and while this fic doesn’t change those facts, I hope it plants some gentle, hopeful little seeds of healing, because Joel deserves that and so do you as the reader! thank you for reading this, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it! 💌

some tags no pressure! @inklore @allaboardthereadingrailroad @yelenas-lova @ozarkthedog @amethystwonders11 @blkmorticia @moreofem @eupheme @obiknights @tarrenterror25 @superhoeva @buckyhoney @plumbits

#amalia writes #joel miller x reader #joel miller x black!reader #joel miller x woc #joel miller x black reader #joel miller x latina reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x black latina reader #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 8 days

Text

Orchid Child, Dandelion Child

Pairings: Riddle & Sibling MC (NOT a romantic pairing)

Summary: This is going to take after Riddle’s overblot, and short and sweet. The term orchid child/dandelion child refer to children who may have very specific/different needs for their development, and those who need less accommodations or specific requirements for their development, respectively. They may grow up in the same environment but everyone’s needs are different, one child may have different coping mechanisms than the other. MC is heavily implied to have dyslexia, ADHD/Autism, and OCD (the latter two of which are often comorbid)

Notes: My brain is so dead. Enjoy this very short piece, sorry it's been a while.

TW: Graphic descriptions of embalming (weird tag I know but listen listen listen hear me out‒), also mentions of blood and human biology; past domestic/child abuse, and mental illness

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

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

Adjacent to your mother’s footsteps, you had always had a curiosity for the medical. Though it was never living bodies that enamored you. In death, biology levels all. Cremation, natural burial, or alkaline hydrolysis‒ no amount of money, or intelligence, magic, or talent would help anyone escape the inevitable. Whether able bodied, rich, poor, moral or not‒ all people returned to dust, bones, and decay.

Rituals like the embalming process always brought you a strange comfort‒ the draining and ejecting, bathing, refrigeration‒ the body incised, emptied of its filth, and sewn back up. Imagining the dissection of a body into each fleshy component relaxed your own‒ as if your cold body lay on a sleek, steel mortuary table, your jaws and eyes sewn shut and the biology of your body ready to be drained. Even if your insides were scraped out for people to see‒ you would not feel shame. No blood to rush to your cheeks, or your aching heart. Your mother had always dismissed this career choice, urging you to find something ‘more within your reach ’.

Your body would be clean from its excrement, scrubbed of all the insides that capsized you from this world, and its people.

Compartmentalization‒ your psychiatrist mentioned. It took you a few tries to correctly register the word in your head when you had gotten the report, you’re not sure if it’s correct. If you did not imagine this scene at least three times a day, you felt like your blood was going to burst forth from your membrane, hot and spastic, like a monstrous clot of nerves. Again. Again. Again. You cleansed this shaking contamination within you with whatever you could do. That’s wrong. You dig your nails into your palm, resisting the urge to lay the papers that were shuffled around by the headmaster on the floor, sorting and checking one by one if they were there. Again, again, again. You imagine an arterial tube weaving through the wounds of your hands, draining the warmth that itched against your skin, the function of your wandering eyes, and the defect of your mind.

“I’ve signed off on everything. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mx.Rosehearts?”

“No, nothing else. Thank you, Headmaster Crowley.”

You gather the stack of papers in your file, you check through‒ quickly‒ your medical records, doctor’s notes, psych evaluations, annotated versions of section 504, interpreter documents‒ a variety of other loose papers that wedge inside the old file as best you can, just in case . Even for such a minute accommodation, lacking a legally recognized diagnosis prepared you for the worst. Rejection‒ a tumble and drag into a system not designed for you in mind. These accommodations were an afterthought after that system was built, something to make you “whole”. There were many experiences in your interactions with school boards that warranted preparations like this, which you scrubbed into your mind and routine. No one will help you‒ not the board, the teachers, your peers, your family‒ you must be prepared to advocate for yourself. There was never room for failure, and you made sure that these accommodations made up for your innate nature to do so in this system.

You bow a perfect ninety degrees before you head out of the office, quietly shutting the door behind you with a soundless exhale. Adjusting the stack of papers in your file, you scurry off to the library to find a quiet corner to reorient yourself. You weave through the various open tables, the large seating area, and the comfortable nooks with beanbags‒ and instead, opt for your usual spot in the corner of the library, where you softly place the file on the desk.

That’s wrong. Again. Again. Again. Again.

You open and close the file four times, feeling a wriggling, hot feeling in your blood that completely halts your mind from moving forward with your process, despite the short amount of time you have until your next class.

No. Again.

With the sixth time, it feels right. You sigh in relief, thanking whatever higher being out there that the process didn’t take as long as before. Medical records, doctor’s notes, psych evaluations, annotated sections, interpreter documents. All in order, all there, only for you to see. A weight lifts off your chest as you shift your eyes around the library, and close the file.

You browse through the section of the library, running your finger along the spines of the books to spot a new read. A mauve leather-bound book catches your eye, the gold letter glinting in the dusty light of the library. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: Other Lessons From the Crematorium you skim the summary on the back. Satisfied, you work your way to the counter, where the librarian checks out the book with a smile. She pulls out the book slip at the front of the book and a pen.

Riddle Rosehearts.

You almost make a sound at the name, but instead, you quietly chew in your inner lip to provide some sort of grounding for the whirling feeling in your stomach. You feel sick when you write your name in the same cursive as the name above yours‒ just like your mother taught you.

“ Again .” Your mother would say.

You write. She slaps your hand with a ruler, reaching over your shoulder to erase the word.

“ Again .”

You write. She slaps, she erases.

“ Again .”

You write. She slaps, the paper begins to fray from the friction of your eraser, and the tears that run hot down your cheeks. Inertia. Inertia. Inertia. You repeat the word in your mind, trying to mold it with your hands. But the black text above the frayed paper seems to weave together, jumble, congeal. You push the hot coal in the back of your throat, forcing your bruised hand to write.

That’s not right. Again. Again. Again.

Why can't you just do it the way you're told?

Medical records, medical recommendations, psych evaluations, doctor’s notes, annotated sections, interpreter documents. So much extra weight that folder holds that you have to carry everywhere with you‒ just in case .

Again. Again. Again.

You open and close the locker shut, twisting the locker combination each time. At this rate, you know you’ll be late to class, way past your accommodations agreements. You hope Professor Trein won’t make such a big scene.

When you arrive at class, you are miraculously left alone by the professor and your peers. Breathing a sigh of relief, you take your usual seat, finding a practice exam on your desk.

You didn’t properly shut your locker. People are probably stealing your stuff now, breaking your things, tearing your extra records into pieces. You didn’t properly shut your locker. The documents are ruined, and you have to start all over again. You didn’t shut your locker. You grip your pencil, bouncing your leg, digging your nails into your palm. Yes, yes you did lock it. Three times in fact. Still, a voice persists‒ you didn’t do it right. Again. Again. Again. You scratch, and pick at the broken skin of your palm.

Eventually, as you continue staring at the packet‒ you feel a stab at the back of your shoulder. A student jabs forth the packet of papers that were collected from the back with an exasperated face. The papers are basically thrown your way as you add your half blank packet to the pile, swallowing down your anxiety. Trein continues class as usual, going over the review sheet.

“Mx. (Name). A word?”

You freeze in your seat, in the middle of gathering your things for next class. Students’ gaze furl towards you, and you pick at the wound of your palm to calm the rising panic in your abdomen. Begrudgingly, you pack up your things, and head towards Trein’s desk.

“I will excuse your tardiness for today since you have accommodations, but that does not explain the almost completely unfinished practice exam that we took in class. Do you care to explain?”

You refuse eye contact. “I…” There was no way to explain it with any sane sensibility, or without alerting your mother. “I apologize sir. I was distracted. It won’t happen again.”

He sighs, you know he doesn’t believe you. It’s your condition‒ you look to the stack of accommodation letters and agreements tucked under his elbow, and you feel that weight in your chest.

“Please, sir. I’ll do anything to make up for it I‒”

A hand is raised at your response, with a pinch at the bridge of his nose. “It’s…It’s quite alright. I know you are trying your best, considering your… situation . Please finish the packet before you come to class next time.” Trein hands the packet back to you, which you accept with a silent nod.

The situation, the condition, the baggage. There have been many terms used to describe your disablement from the world‒ each more alienating than the other. You draw blood on your palm once more, looking inside the crescent-shaped holes in your flesh. You feel nothing but the trembling deep in your chest.

You sit in the shared space of the Heartslabyul dorm, hoping that body doubling will allow you to finish your workload. Though it takes you some time, you manage to finish your work before the sun sets, and you scurry back into your dorm room to begin your book. As you try to relax, the thought of a missing assignment, a failed exam, a systematic blunter pricks at your skin, spreading and choking your flesh. You read the same sentence over and over, but understand nothing.

Why can't you just do it the way you're told?

You hear a knock at your door, seizing you from your thoughts. You sigh, shove whatever scrap paper that had been lying around into your book, and reluctantly open the door.

Riddle Rosehearts.

You remember him from his perfect handwriting, his words that mirrored your own mothers. You could never get the “R” quite right, something both your brother and mother scolded you for.

“Rule of threes, you understand what will happen when you fail the third time.” Again. Again. Again.

Riddle had always resembled his mother much more than you had‒ in voice, in appearance, in tone. “ Rule of threes, (Name). You know what mother will do to you when you fail the third time .” He extended your mother's violence with all his likeness to her, in his face that would look down upon you with aberration, and his tightened fists that dragged your head to look closer at the paper, and realize your error. Every way he came into contact with you had been wrapped, tightly as flesh, your mother's violence.

You imagine that cold table again, but Riddle’s silvery eyes tethered you to the moment. It was as if you could feel every shifting tendon of your body, every pull of sinew and blood that pumped blood rapidly to your heart, and the back of your ears. But the guilty look on his face reminded you of one of the rare times he had broken mother’s rules. You realized he was as much of a child too, that day. Stretched thin and tall to fill your mothers expectations.

His stare is unbearable, you push through the tension in your throat.

“Can I help you, Dorm Leader Rosehearts?”

You think you see his worried expression, but your eyes dart from his gaze when he looks towards you again.

“You left this on the table in the common room.” He extends you the file that you thought had been safely tucked with your belongings. Your vision begins to distort‒ graying and distancing as you attempt to keep yourself calm from experiencing your literal nightmare . “I thought you wouldn’t want anyone to see it.”

“I…do not, no. I would not wish to shame you, or this dorm.”

Riddle takes a sharp inhale. You unconsciously tightening your body‒ imagining the postmortem stages. Pallor mortis, your blood pools to the souls of your feet. Algor Mortis, your skin feels on fire, and cools dead, limp. Rigor mortis, you stiffen and contract. The nutrients of your body drained, breaking down to gray sludge. You prepare for the breakdown of your body, your psyche, and your soul‒ the wounds on your body are only evidence to your movement through temporality in this system. Livor Mortis, your blood bruises your skin.

“I did not…mean that. I only meant‒ I felt…” He sighs, looking towards the floor. “I’m bad at this. But I didn’t mean that this is something shameful. I only wished to protect your privacy.”

You avert your eyes, unsure of what to do with him wanting to protect you in some sort of way. Perhaps his overblot changed him, but all you see if your mother’s shadow, when you look towards him.

“It’s not important, I apologize for the trouble, Dorm Leader Rosehearts.”

Maintaining his grasp on the file, he attempts to keep this connection going. “There’s so much I need to apologize for.”

You only manage a strangled sound, afraid to pull the file towards you. Afraid of movement, of air, of space, of time, of him. Everything seems to strangle you, you know that it was precisely designed that way.

He cups a hand over your own. You try to repress the tremble in your body from the searing feeling of his palm, too afraid to look, speak, or move. You remain still, like a corpse, hastily trying to turn off your nerves and the bursting blood in your body, slaughtering it, and draining all feeling from your body. It’s been so long‒ your body rushes to catch up. You’re always catching up. Always.

“I don’t want to upset you. I just came to apologize, but I understand if you don’t want to see me.”

Your mouth is sewn with silence, your jaw caught in a tremor in your mouth. Quickly‒ your mind makes the decision to speak‒ mother never liked when you didn’t answer to her questions.

The words scrape through your throat. “I…” A gulp to lubricate the convulsing motions of your esophagus. “Nothing is wrong. I apologize, dorm leader Rosehearts. It will never happen again‒ I apologize‒ I will make up for it. Please.”

His gaze softens. “I’m not asking because I’m asking you to apologize, or make up for anything. I’ve learned some things…I wanted to make up, but, I want to make sure you’re okay first.”

“Are you okay?”

You spare a glance at his face, almost caught in the worried expression adorned on his features. “I don’t understand what the purpose that question serves. I can’t understand…” Still, you worry what will happen if it seems like you blame him for your lack‒ so you shift the weight on yourself once more. “I am incapable…of understanding. I apologize.”

“Hey.” He mellows his voice as much as possible, releasing you from his grasp. “It’s okay.”

“You asked me a question. I was incapable of giving an answer that satisfies you. That is a violation of the rules, is it not?” You retract your hands to your chest, pressing your nails into the wounds on your palm.

Riddle folds his hands, almost nervously fidgeting with them. You almost react visibly with awe at the sight. “Our mother may have been wrong about a lot of things. I only recognized that after I attended here, and made many friends who helped me understand that. I am extremely regretful of the things I’ve done to you, and the things I’ve said. There’s no excuse for the things I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me someday‒ I want to reconnect, if you’ll allow me.”

You push the file against your chest. “...I don’t think it will be easy. For me, or for you. Especially for me.”

“Most things that are worth something aren’t. I realized something while I was overblotting.” His cheeks gradually bloom pink, a habit he’s had since he was a child. You remember the color most when he cried, but he looks sheepish. Igniting the same warmth in your cheeks, you look at his feet. Heels, you never noticed. He must be shorter than you. “I missed you. I really did. And I missed what we could have had. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better brother to you.”

“I think…I missed you too.” You admit. “I think neither of us can ask for help, we’ve been raised that way. We have drastically different ways of coping with that isolation.”

“I think so too. I have a lot of work to do.”

“ We do.”

Rubbing your arm up and down, you soothe yourself‒ thinking of bodies and corpses, your skin buzzing from the thought of decomposition‒ what grows from them. The fruits of death lay thick and sweet on your tongue, as you stumble through a small smile. Riddle reciprocates.

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

End Notes:

Obviously this is only a small glimpse into what healing from abuse and trauma is like. But it’s a start. The first steps count.

I’m also in no way shape or form attempting to justify Riddle’s behavior. He’s a complete and total asshole for sure, but he was a kid‒ I definitely see him as capable of change.

The terms Orchid/Dandelion child are relatively new, and I find the pop-psychology approach to it very distasteful (as pop psych usually is. do your fucking research people. PEER REVIEWED ARTICLES!) But I wanted to use the terms to kind of critique the notion of this divide between "resilient" and "nonresilient". It's just a matter of needs, which are different for everyone. Making this hierarchical distinction is arbitrary and often times ableist, as it normalizes a singular, hegemonic way of reacting/experience/compartmentalization/coping. Anyways read more disability studies if you want to know more.

Because I’m not officially diagnosed (my disabilities are not officially recognized by law because for me the disadvantages gross outweigh the benefits, like literally having your human rights stripped away) I don’t know the specific details of acquiring accommodations in a school setting apart from my position as a teacher, but please let me know if there are any errors in the information so I can fix them expeditiously

I also wanted to write about the systematic issues disabled people (particularly those with “invisible” disabilities or those who are “undiagnosed”), I feel like I’ve been experiencing a lot of issues and push back from a system which is not built for disabled people in mind (and often is used against the community in an attempt to eradicate the category). Furthermore, I wanted to explore the aspects in which traditional psychiatry/curative methods are not built for neurodivergent individuals specifically. We often get diagnosed (especially those who have been socialized or perceived as female) with other disorders because of the perpetual stigma against ADHD, and autism in particular. Mainly why I didn’t go the psychology/psychiatry route, despite (one of) my undergrad major(s). It would have been immoral for me to be one, if held up to the current regulations set by the American Psychology Association, or the regulations in my home country. Anyways, lots of problems I wanted to address‒ not sure if I was able to explore them more at length, but I’d like to do more of this in the future.

The book Smoke in your Eyes is a reference to Caitlin Doughty’s book. I highly highly highly recommend her youtube channel and any of her books tbh. She writes/talks a lot about death culture and our perceptions of death throughout history, and creating a more death-positive culture.

I wanted to avoid some of the common stereotypes and misconceptions of OCD, which is predominantly characterized by excessive handwashing, needing things very neat and in place. I wanted to explore the more internal obsessions, rather than focus solely on the external compulsions‒ as I feel like the external behaviors that are often portrayed in media don’t explore the inner workings that make the disorder so hard to live with (and treat).

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland angst #twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland fan fiction #twisted wonderland riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #twst riddle rosehearts #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland scenerios #twisted wonderland sibling

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heavenlyakin · 2 months

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Tw: reader is a mortician, death, dead body, kny mugen train spoilers, kny spoilers, grief, and I made up my own procedures for hashira preparations and funeral process.

The absolute stillness and quiet is what gets you. For as long as you knew Kyojuro he was always so lively and bright in your eyes and the eyes of others. Now as he lies here on your table, you’re not sure what to make of it.

You’d never imagined he’d be one of the ones you’d be tasked with making look full of color again. His hair is still as golden and red as before, but something about it is just wrong. You know it’s your emotion taking over, afterall, hair is all dead anyway.

Much like your Kyojuro.

Inhalking softly, quietly, you move to uncover his face. There’s still traces of blood from his mouth and nose, so you make careful haste of cleaning it away from the paling skin. It’s much easier to wash the rest of his body once the blood is gone and not soiling the water.

The rest of the process is like any other day a demon slayer is brought in. You wash the body, embalm it, wash it again. However, the next few steps are harder. You need to wash his hair.

It’s not like you haven’t done this before. In your five years in the demon slayer corps you have had to wash too many young men and women’s hair. However, when you imagined it would be your first time washing his hair, you’d be with him in a warm tub of water. Perhaps using your favorite lavender soap so he smells like you.

Instead, you use the soap you have on hand, something you like to think he’d like anyway. It smells of pine and peppermint. The red returns to his normal shade, the dirt and blood now washed out of the ends leaving it vibrant and bright against the contrasting gold.

You take a few moments to clean up the room, the buckets of water need to be drained and rinsed, the towels thrown in bins for washing. After it’s done, you pull a stool up to the table, uncovering Kyo’s face, setting your makeup tools down beside you.

There’s not much you need to do, since he’ll be wrapped and cremated in a ceremony in just a few hours. However, you can’t let him go to rest without looking like himself. Applying moisturizer, you let it seep into his skin that is still somehow soft. Adding some powders after, you bring the life back to his face, but the last step is to add his signature darkness around his eyes.

Your hand shakes the first attempt, and you have to start over. The second time , you nail it. The wing looks just as it usually does. You cock your head to look at him one last time.

Everything you’ve ever felt for him comes forward, and for the first time in this career, you feel helpless. If someone as strong and brave as he could die, what hope do you have?

You allow yourself to cry, clutching onto the table, careful not to touch his body and ruin any work you’ve done today.

It takes a while, but you finally pull yourself together and begin to wrap his body. As you get closer to his face, it becomes real. You’re going to be saying goodbye and have never been able to express your feelings for him.

Leaning down, you kiss his cheek softly, then wrap him and whisper your goodbyes before calling for the attendants to come take him so you can start on the next body.

#tw grief #tw death #kny mugen train spoilers #kny spoilers #kny angst #demon slayer angst #rengoku kyojuro #kny rengoku #rengoku kyoujurou x reader #rengoku kyojuro angst

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naraven · 8 months

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YOUR LIPS TASTED LIKE SWEET CHERRIES (AND YOUR HEART LIKE SOUR GRAPES)

an // this one i'm really proud of!! if y'all could maybe like and RB THAT'D BE EVEN BETTER

very proud of this one, it'd mean the world if you could rb :')

wc // 2.4k

tw // blood, death, cannibalism

“I’d really miss you if you died.”

The ever aloof Wanderer barely bats an eye at your strange words. After about a month of your odd duo meetings, he can confidently say that he had gotten used to the nonsense that spouted out of your mouth. Whispers behind both your backs were promptly ignored with idle chatter about whatever had inconvenienced you recently.

“Hat Guy,” as most students dubbed him, was uniquely different from other students. Well, you weren’t even sure if he was a student, lacking the Akademiya’s beret and robes, but that never really mattered to you, did it? In fact, you only started to get closer to the hatted man because you got bored studying in the House of Daena one day and started talking to him because he was seated alone at one of the emptier tables. You just nabbed a quiet, not so quiet anymore spot.

Do you even remember what you were talking about? Not really, and you doubt the Wanderer even remembered either, but since then you struck up a conversation when you got tired of whatever project that had been assigned by your professors. Wanderer would usually be the one listening to whatever topic you had learned earlier that day, from whatever you ate for breakfast to complaining about a particularly stubborn professor you disliked.

“If I die? You make it sound as if I won’t.” Wanderer leans back onto the chair, a near silent sigh exiting through his nose. You laugh lightly, turning a few heads, and flop your upper body onto the desk. “But thanks, I guess I would miss you if you died, too.”

Your laugh feels hollow. Airy, like you had nothing inside your body but wind continuously swirling around. At this point, the puppet had no clue if that was your real laugh or not. He considers his own mocking laugh to be more genuine than whatever you let out in amusement.

“Thanks, Hat Man. Maybe one of these days I’ll have a proper name to remember you by.”

And that. He refused to give you his name, out of laziness and for no particular reason at all, and he, in turn, simply called you “Weirdo.” Of course, none of you mean any malice in the nicknames. None at all.

“I’ll write you in my will. Don’t have much, but I guess I’ll give you something.” You pick up your pen once more. Your messy handwriting scribbles nonsense onto the page before presenting him with chicken scratch.

“My draft of my will. 80% of all my stuff will go to you.”

Wanderer’s eyebrows twitch upward. “What about your family? Not much going to them.”

“They could care less about what I do. It’s not like I could give them much in the first place.” You turn the paper back around and scribble other things that you planned on giving him in your will.

And once again, the Inazuman puppet is left puzzled. Your act of saying such unique yet frightful words in that indifferent tone of yours was a curious thing indeed. Like discussing the topic of death and leaving a will behind. The only other person that might be discussing a scenario such as this would be the General Mahamatra, but his work persona wouldn’t allow jokes of sensitive topics to be blurted out.

It says a lot about you, Wanderer thinks, when you laugh at the face of death so easily.

“Don’t want it. What would you even give me, anyway? You don’t even own property, you live in the dorms.”

“Well, just cremate my body or something then. Besides, I have a feeling you’d live longer than me anyway.”

Wanderer snorts. “What gave you that idea?”

He regrets asking. You cheekily lean onto your right palm, the corners of your eyes lifting and curling in delight.

“Nothing. Just a feeling.”

~~~

The Wanderer doesn’t exactly know how he feels about you.

Maybe annoyance. But whenever he spreads his lips and loosens his tongue, he can’t seem to conjure up anything negative to say about you. Not to say that you weren’t without flaws, but that he understood you. You liked talking to people but hated large crowds. Your gripes with coworkers made him remember his past Fatui Harbinger “allies.” The way you closed your eyes a bit too much when trying to make a genuine smile.

You were the antithesis of yourself. It often crossed Wanderer’s mind how and why you act the way you do.

Never spoke about your family. Avoided talking about anything related to you. He still had no idea about when your birthday was, despite him finding the human celebration rather useless. The student beret on your head was the only way he knew that you were an Amurta student.That is to say, you don’t share much about yourself.

He does know, however, that you enjoy snacking at pita pockets like no other. Munching, teeth sinking into the dough and meat and vegetables. You only seemed rather alive in his eyes when you had something in your mouth to chew and swallow. He watched you vibrate with excitement whenever he brought you to the Grand Bazaar to grab a quick bite.

“Hey, hey, Hat Guy! Have a bite of this!”

He couldn’t stop you, hands quickly returning near his mouth whenever you got pushed away. You pressed your meal on his mouth and wouldn’t relent until he slowly took a small bite. The giddy look on your face would light up with giggles as you watched him digest the food you gave him.

Honestly, most humans didn’t have half the… unique qualities you had. The Wanderer genuinely wondered why he would keep coming back to you and the table in the House of Daena, your talks getting longer and longer by the day.

“I’ve never had a crush on anyone. In fact, I’ve never had a lover.” You spoke up one day. He watched you study with a bag of Ajilenakh Nuts next to you, the crunch of each bite echoing in the largely quiet room.

“I believe that. I don’t believe for a fact that any sane person would be with you.” He crosses his arms. You glance up at him, mouth full of sweet nuts, and continue writing not long after.

“Explains why you’re the longest person that’s kept talking to me. Guess we’re both kind of weird, huh?” You chuckle. The Wanderer notices how your laugh was barely even an expression of laughter and more of a sigh, an exhale of air. “I’m glad I started talking to you that day.”

“...Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Many words are left unsaid. What those words are neither of you know. So you nor he say anything. The words will find themself eventually.

For now, you lean in closer.

It’s pretty anticlimactic. Time doesn’t stop and he doesn’t even close his eyes. It lasts less than a second and then it’s over. A smile creeps up your face as you stare into Wanderer’s eyes. His expression never changed, not before or after.

“You taste kinda like plastic. What’s up with that?” You giggle childishly, as if you didn’t just initiate a move on him. In the back of his mind Wanderer is secretly glad that there were only a couple other people in the House of Daena. This kind of thing, he thinks, was a moment that you would pull something like this.

“And you taste gross. Maybe should have chewed on some mint beforehand.” Wanderer spits out, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. But not wiping it, never. He doubts that he would forget the feeling even if he did wipe it away.

And he wouldn’t realize until much later, that he heard you laugh genuinely for the first time.

~~~

Then the Wanderer doesn’t know what happened.

Time passed. Moments between the two of you passed, moments alone passed, and suddenly it felt like it all slipped away from him with a snap.

No, not a snap. A tunk.

His neck turned to where you were. He saw you perfectly fine. Then a pointed arrow, straight through the middle of your chest.

It missed any vital organs, he was sure, so why were you collapsed into a heap on the floor?

Before he could react, more and more volleys came flying at the two of you. He couldn't activate his vision fast enough. It was difficult to pick you up in such an awkward position, so more arrows entered your body before he could carefully pick you up and glide to a safer location.

There was ringing in his ears. He was panting despite the lack of lungs in his body. You were coughing up blood while he was too busy getting you somewhere safe. Everything blurs past him and he reaches speeds previously unknown to him.

He settled in a cave somewhere in the Ashavan Realm. What was supposed to be a research trip for you ended up with you inching closer and closer to death, the flame of life within you dying.

“Ah, Hat Guy…”

Your hoarse gasps caught his attention as he made sure it was safe at the mouth of the cave. He couldn't hear anything for miles besides your tense gasps for pain and shuffling on the floor.

"You'll be okay, don't worry, I know enough basic first aid-"

"Nguh, no, I don't wanna die…"

He stopped. He heard you heaving in pain as you sobbed. When he tried to administer first aid he saw tears and dirt staining your cheeks.

"No, no, I don't want this, what's happening? I can't feel my face, what-what happened?"

Up until this point he had never seen you shed a tear. Even after you told him about how your mother died recently, you didn't even stutter or wince. He bore witness to you wiping away at your eyes and smearing mud everywhere.

"Why am I so scared? Hat Guy, my stomach feels so cold and hot at the same time, am I sick?"

"No, you're fine. I made sure to keep you safe."

He'd tried to keep you sane and mentally okay for the time being. Trying to help mend your wounds would be difficult when you were delirious. He helped pat your bloodied back in a soothing rhythm, slowly and gently.

"Don't worry."

He didn't have much to use to help you. He couldn't see any visible herbs or plants to help ease the pain either. He held you tighter and tighter as you slowly bled out on him.

"I feel so… sleepy… Wake me up in a bit, will you?" He heard you yawn, knowing you would be gone soon.

"I will. Go to sleep soon. Everything will be alright."

"Right. Love you."

Your grip on his torso grew looser while he clutched onto you. He shook when he felt your heartbeat slowly fade away. Growing increasingly exhausted he slowly laid you down.

Time to get to work.

~~~

He brings his hand closer to your chest. He sees multiple puncture wounds where the arrows entered and stuck.

He draws his fingers lightly over them. They dip and create valleys within your skin and muscles. Your body grows more and more tense as rigor mortis sets in. There was no blood pumping through your body anymore.

He traces over where your heart would be. There was no moving of your lungs taking in air.

So he plunges his fingers into your wounds.

The tell tale sound of organs squishing enters his ears. Your face unmoving and frozen, he wishes you could hear the sounds the two of you were making.

He opens up a hole to see inside you. Red, white, and bits of other colors greet him. He moves his hand a bit to find where your most important organ was.

Ah, he found it.

He accidentally snaps a few ribs in the process and your lungs are pressed against other organs. Blue-green and red veins hardly twitch while he rips your heart from them.

The thing that he was most envious of in humans. The thing that kept you alive, right in his hands.

Nothing much happens. A couple drops of sanguine liquid drip onto your already stained clothes. The pink organ lies limp in his hand and looks oddly like animal meat.

Meat…

You always loved fatty steaks and fried chicken. He would buy you a plate of high quality meat whenever you submitted an especially big project. Pigs, cows, chickens, goats, ducks, and other odd meats you would try at least once. When you (scarcely) traveled to other nations you would share about the different kinds of animals they would serve as delicacies.

So he has no doubt that being served as a meal yourself was the highest honor he would give you.

He brings you closer to his mouth. You taste gamey, tough to chew. His canines have to rip away to properly tear a chunk of you out.

Metallic blood adds even more flavor to the sourness of the meaty organ. He chews for a long time before he can swallow. Bite after bite he slowly but surely finishes you, making sure not to spill too much.

There are splotches of color on your skin when he finishes. He assumes that it's because there isn't anything to pump blood throughout your body. He wipes at his mouth before leaning in towards you.

He presses his lips lightly onto yours, your body temperature now much colder. Like the first, it doesn't last long. All the times you kissed, he realizes, was when he sees the real you. It made him frustrated that he could never get to see what you were truly like while you were alive.

If you survived, would you two have grown closer? Gained a sense of security in his presence? His wonders in his head fester as he watches you sleep eternally.

The sight would have been better if you were simply taking a nap. On his lap where your head rested, snoring lightly through your mouth. He would hope that his hand gently brushing over your cheeks wouldn't wake you up.

And then you'd wake up, stirring and stretching your arms from lack of movement. You'd smile, a real smile, and he'd scoff back at your cheeky grin.

But he can't. Because humans are just too fragile. A couple arrows through you and nothing could bring you back. He stares, and stares, at your eyes that would never open again.

He wishes you never said that. "If" he ever died. At this moment he wants nothing more than to become mortal like you, just to experience it all over with you again.

Together.

#scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer #wanderer x reader #balladeer #balladeer x reader #tw cannibalism #cannibalism #cannibalism tw #blood #blood tw #tw blood

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azulsluver · 2 years

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Twisted Tales In The Dark

Dead Man’s Treasure Halloween event!

tw. yandere, graphic violence, gore in general, noncon kissing, unhinged/possessive behavior, leona loses an eye.

❥ featuring the three pirates, Leona, Jack, Ruggie.

❥ special thanks to @v4mpirebit3z for helping me write the first bits!

Something jabs at the side of your face, your breath watery yet horse. You wince at the sore feeling in your lungs, coughing up bits of water. You look up and see a group of dirty-looking men staring down at you–covered in rags and bloodied patches. Pirates. You jump up to your feet, startled, and back away. One of the pirates runs off and yells, "Captain! Captain, they're awake!"

You take in your surroundings, somewhere by the edge of the ship as you lay on the hard and dirtied floor. Your hand is incredibly sore, raising your hand to look at your wound. But you didn’t see the soaked bandages, your hand was clean and perfectly healed. Mouth agape, you didn't notice someone coming closer to your dumbfounded figure.

A young-looking pirate with black hair and a feminine face takes a slow step towards you, his arm extended, offering his hand.

You look at his hand hesitantly and harden your expression, still in shock at the whole ordeal. Your mind refuses to answer the questions of what had recently happened, everything was a blur even if you tried thinking back.

“Are you gonna take me hand lad?”

“Thank you.” He looks at you confusingly before grunting in response. Grabbing your hand to help you stand. “But why did you save me?”

Another pirate with thick brown hair and a long jagged scar over his cheek replied, "You were floating among the sea like a lifeless fishy. You just reminded me of an ol’ friend of mine, my poor brain must’ve been seeing things.” Jokingly ruffling your wet hair, he stands up to throw you a dusty towel.

Another pirate, his face worn with age replies, "Well… I guess yer would make good food fer the fishies- but a youngster like you could be of good use on the ship." You gave a small scoff, face softening at their kindness. Great, you can remember now. The story mentions a small crew of pirates, eager to find the treasure for the sake of their town who lived in poverty. As scary as they look, they were kind. Sadly only one lived while his crew gets cremated to sand or murdered. Your eyes land on a very young man who stands by the side awkwardly, he couldn’t be any older than 14.

‘The youngster who got away, life held by a thread as he’s washed up in the sea. Soon to be found by his people, and a single gold coin held tightly under his palm.’ That was how the story ended.

Yet you couldn’t remember the aftermath of it all, how exactly did you end up on the sea. Your mind scratches and screeches terribly whenever you try to make sense of the pain and emotional trauma. Why say it if you don’t remember it happening? Yea, maybe you’re just overthinking.

“That’s a nice looking key you got ov’er there, something straight outta a royals bedroom key.” The man with thick brown hair laughs joyously, holding his stomach like the old man he is.

You make a confused face until he points at your waist, looking down there is a black key ring attached to your belt. Staring in awe at the beauty in beheld, red jewels and their dark patterns looked majestical. You trace your fingers over the key, mind now blanked from the cool touch.

“Yer kay lass?” Mumbling a quiet yes, you finish off drying your hair. The air was chilly and your soaked clothes could have made you catch a cold, so you wrap the small towel around you, caring little for how dirty or what it is used for.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, the life of a pirate. Being treated with a warm meal even if they didn’t have many supplies, you got to know the crew by name since the book never once mentioned it. The captain was an old geezer who gathered these young men to find hope for their town, hearing their personal stories of friends and families they had back home. His name was Edward, but he preferred to be called captain. The feminine-looking pirate was Klaus, a kind gentleman who had an interest in collecting small trinkets. He had two brothers on board named Hudd and Percy, both on cleaning duty. You remember the face of the one who had saved you, a cheerful grin showing missing teeth. Peter was very talkative, explaining to you how he fished a net and hooked you up on the ship, flexing his barely seen muscles now and then. And for him.

He stares at you once again, cutting up some vegetables as you chat away with the rest. You didn’t understand why they brought someone so young on board, it was a miracle he lived. You take a spoonful of fish soup in your mouth, moaning softly at the taste of fresh food. When was the last time you’ve eaten?

“Don’t worry about James over there, he’s a little shy.” You drop the spoon and stare widely at Peter. Your throat is suddenly dry and your nails dig into your palm.

“Pardon?” Your voice is weak, on the verge of crying from the sudden emotional wreck of the name. James, such a nice name it was, but hearing it made you sick. It made you think of things you don’t remember happening. It’s like you can smell the dirt and copper, the heaving of lungs, and a flashing image of flesh to bones. Peter holds the side of your shoulder and causes you to cry out, clutching your hands as the world before swirls into a fog.

A sharp sting comes from your cheek, making your eyesight slowly come back to normal. You hold the burning cheek as you stare back at Peter, a look of frustration and worry.

“What’s wrong with ya ey? You got poor ol’ James running away from his duty, did ya see a ghost or somethin?” Peter shakes you once again, letting you have small streaks of tears fall before apologizing to him. You rest your head on the small wooden table, Peter being a kind soul took your half-finished soup back to the kitchen.

It would be a burden to not help around the ship, you didn’t want to be a freeloader no matter how useless you were. Letting your head relax for a couple of minutes before heading to the kitchen. To start nice you wanted to apologize to James for giving him an ugly look. You were flattered knowing how the crew left you to your device, trusting you in such a short period to leave you alone on the ship. The kitchen was just across from you, James has been ignoring you. He was more focused on cutting the vegetables, with how much time had passed you guess he was struggling.

Knock

“Need some help?” You stand by the open doorway from where James stared at you, funny-looking pieces of potatoes and onions scattered across the cutting board. You stifled a laugh at his flustered face, but he didn’t refuse the offer. Holding out the large butcher knife for you to take.

You stand next to him, flipping the knife in your hand and chopping it down onto a new patch of potatoes. James leans in to watch your culinary skills, a small sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “You’re a pro at this, I’ve only seen ma cut veggies like that!” His childish nature brings a small smile to your face, you give the knife back to him and will show him a proper way of cutting. James was very shy in the book, talking and getting to know these people in person was enjoyable. They were so real you thought, looking at James and the rest of the crew made you rethink. You didn’t belong here. It’s not your first rodeo.

“Hey, James.” He gives a hum. “Don’t you think you guys can find a safer way of getting treasure? You’ve heard the stories so why to risk the danger?” James stops cutting and looks up at you. “My ma is very ill. We need the money to pay off her medicine, the king isn’t so kind after the death of his brother. So he started to collect more taxes from the whole town, we barely have enough to feed a family of four.” This was new, you haven’t heard of this part of the story.

“A king?” James nods. “The king had a brother who envied him, he became a pirate and sailed across the great seas. He owned a large fortune of money with the king, but the pirate refused to come back home. I heard it was because he wanted to start his own wealth elsewhere, but a terrible storm caught up to em. Causing it to crash on a faraway island just where we headin, even if the stories are true it’s too late to turn back.”

The silence fills in the space between you two, minus the sound of slicing.

“AY LASS WER HERE.” Both you and James were startled by Hudd and Percy who barged into the room. James drops the knife and runs past you. Who knew the time you fell into this world they were just in time for the treasure. A bead of sweat escapes your forehead as you follow suit.

The captain is already setting out a plank for the others to step foot onto the sandy ground. You quickly run up to him and place a hand over his shoulder. Brows furrow as you try to come up with a sentence.

“Ah, what got yer so worked up lad?” He turns to look at you.

“Captain please, let me grab the treasure for you! It’s dangerous out there and–” You stop yourself from explaining anymore, worried that if you told the truth they wouldn’t believe you. Leaving you on the island for such a nonsense imagination. Biting your lip, you give him a stern look that stops him from saying anything. “It’s the least I can do, please. It won’t take long. And once I’ve given you the treasure you must leave this island immediately.” Gripping his ragged clothes in protest, he gives you a reassuring look.

“Ok. If that's what you really wanna do then you have my thanks.” He pats your shoulders, you think you can see his glossy eyes irritating him. “Be safe. I’ll make sure everyone knows your name.” you give him a quick hug before snatching a sack away from Peter. Captain ordered everybody to stay back and scout for any sign of you. As you run past the rest you can hear a faint murmur from Klaus.

“Thank you.”

Stepping across the gritty land, you finally found the beaten ship, bodies of skeletons and swords lay in the pile of gold. There is a large hole in the middle of the ship, leaning against a dark and isolated cave. Clenching the bag tight in your hands, you try to recollect the outcome of the situation. As soon as you take one treasure you will be trapped on the island. James was lucky for how the ghost pirate was merciful or was that what happened? You kick the bundles of gold in the test, looking around to see if a key was around. You dared not to pick a gold coin, not until you found what you were looking for. The key to your way out of here. You hope you’re ready to have some sort of combat against greedy ghost pirates.

‘Shishishishi!’

Your body freezes at the sound, coming from your right yet no one was there.

“What the hell. I didn’t grab anything…” Twisting your body on time, you’re met face to face with one of the ghost pirates from the book. “Bucchi.” Ok, why did you say that?

“Hm, I knew there was something off about you. Say, the nice key you have there looks familiar. Are you perhaps looking for this?” He pulls out a golden yellow key, made of brown patterns and yellowish-orange gems. Spinning it on his index finger, he gives you a grin. Huffing, you needed to remember you’re facing another monster from the book, Ruggie Bucchi was ruthless to the crew by tearing their hope to live. You didn’t respond to him, only glaring back at him and the key. He was teasing you, he knows something about your situation by just the tip.

You held your breath before speaking. “Do you know something about this key?” The red key glints under his gaze, and he yawns before responding. “Keys. Yep. Used for transporting different worlds. I know an old buddy who had that key, strange to see it in the hands of a human.” Ruggie sits down under the piles of gold, leaning back and giving you a look of boredom.

“If you know about the key and its use, what are you willing to do to let me have it?” You hold out your hand, eyeing him up and down as his expression morphs; interested in what you have to say.

“You want this key badly huh? Shishishishi! Fine, humor me a little won't ya.” He throws the key at you, catching you off guard as you stumble to catch it mid-air. You looked perplexed as you examined the key, it felt real and didn’t turn into sand. Ruggie laughs at your face, standing up from his spot to stretch his limbs. You thought he wasn’t alive. Could have been the same cause as last time. Oh no, you’re head hurt again.

“You’re by yourself, odd. I was expecting to see a crew of fools digging into our precious booty, we put our lives under the line for this treasure ya know.” Ruggie caresses the edge of his hat, he gives you a dirty look. “Let’s play a game. If you want the treasure, you need to outrun us first. We haven’t had a visitor for years! So come on, I’ll even let you get some gold before I start counting.”

From a distance, you can hear a howl.

“1.”

You quickly kneeled to scoop up what you can grab, pearls, large and small gold, anything. Your fingers are in pain in a minute, and the bag is full. You hope it would be enough for them. It’s heavy, it’ll slow you down if you’re planning on running, luckily they didn’t set their ship far.

“70.”

With all your strength, you flip the bag over your shoulder and dash it, ignoring Ruggie’s annoyingly cute laugh as he calls out.

“Run! Run! Or he’ll catch you!!” A prick of needles is stabbed into your body as your feet pound the floor, in the distance, you can see the ship. The captain is waving his hands in panic, shouting at you to run faster. You can still hear him counting in your ear, irritating you further to hurry up.

You hurl the bag at the ship, hearing the treasure scatter.

“Go! Don’t look back and head home now!” James rushes over to the edge, tears in his eyes at the sight of you.

“Yer alive! You can come with us!” You suck in a breath and give a wheezed laugh. Shaking your head. He’s still counting. “Make sure your ma gets well, ok? Don’t come looking for me James, I won’t be here long.”

James attempts to jump off the ship to chase after you, Peter holding him back. You run into the woods, dodging branches and skulls. A rustling comes from behind you. A flash of white attacks your fleeting form, rolling down a hill with the beast on top of you. Its jaws are locked on your arm, making you bite your tongue till blood draws. Your other hand searches for a weapon, grabbing ahold of a rock and smashing it repeatedly over the head. You thought the hit was useless until you aimed for the eye. The white beast lets out a loud yelp before backing off.

Clutching your arm, you didn’t get to see the monster transform back. His devilish hair was stained with his blood. Alive or not?? He pulls out a sword from his chest, the flesh of his skin opening and closing. He lunges at you but you duck under, the sword hitting the tree behind you. You kick the back of his knee, making him stumble, and enough time for you to throw the weapon away from his reach.

“Oh my fucking god, you don’t give up do you.” His larger form looms over you as you look around for an exit. He resorts to lounging at you once again, keen on using his body weight to trap you.

You feel light-headed when he grips the side of your face and slams it down on the floor. Spit flying out of your mouth from the impact, you struggle to breathe as his palm holds down your windpipe. You can feel the hot of his breath on your shoulder, his blood drips down on your face. Teeth tear at your shoulder blade, going past the meat and breaking the bone. The sound is horrific as you scream in pain, gagging noises leaving your mouth as he continues the assault. His eyes have an animalistic tint to them, a hungry wolf gauging down his meal he hadn’t had for ages.

The pain is unbearable, the body is uncontrollably hot when you wither. You can’t die. You made it this far. The sword, you look up to see the sword. Taunting you as you reach for it. He’s too busy feasting on your shoulder to see you struggle. You let out another cry when your hand gets a hold of the handle, pulling your arm back and striking underneath him. The sword stabs into his stomach, and with one final try you push it upwards; cutting past the clothes and opening a large wound, his intestines dangled above you.

He doesn’t make a sound but rolls over, clutching his stomach and staring at you with wide eyes. So much for being a ghost. His breath is heavy as you struggle to stand, the open wound of your arm ugly. You take one last look at him in disgust, his face is coated by a shade of pink as drool and blood seep down his mouth.

“You’re perfect…You’ll be a fine trophy.” You couldn’t tell he said that out of respect, he was a huge guy and you didn’t think you would make it.

Turning away with a limp, you find yourself back to all the riches. Leaving stains behind as you make it to the cave. A flame lights its way down for you. You’re in for a ride.

“You’re still alive?”

A voice echoes from above. A man with an eyepatch stares down at you. His green hues are bright in the dark. “I must say. I’m impressed. Herbivores like you wouldn’t last a minute on this island.” He tilts his head at you before giving a sharp grin.

“Now don’t look at me like that, I didn’t cause that nasty scar on your shoulder.” He pulls out a sword from a rock beside him. “I plan on making my own.”

His body is fast and coming straight at you, with all the adrenaline building up, you back away from his hit. His moves are sharp and you couldn’t keep up, his sword hitting your body a couple of times and leaving cuts on you. Pain fills your body up once more, you’re not sure how much energy you have left to defend yourself. Behind him is a large mirror, so close yet so far.

He does a blow to your stomach, knocking you down with a thud. The heel of his boot presses down onto your chest, he looks down at you with disappointment.

“Can’t fight more? Shame, we were just having fun.” He laughs, dropping his sword and holding the collar of your neck towards him.

His lips smash against yours, his teeth brutally biting down on your lip and tongue. Your consciousness is fading in and out, the taste of copper flooding your nose as well. He groans at the taste of blood, hungrily lapping up the fallen tissue of your ruined lip. His hand travels down to your waist, you can hear the keys jingling under all his breathing and licking. A pump of determination fills you, panic in your system as you knee him. Hard. He sucks in a breath, clutching himself from the humiliation.

Crawling away from him, you grab the sword beside him. These idiots love leaving their weapons around for you. He looks up at the sound of metal clanging, just in time for you to stab it down on his eyepatch. He lets out a blood-curling yell, you leave the sword there as you run for the mirror.

“I’LL FIND YOU. I HAVE JUST THE PLACE FOR YOU.” You turn back to look at him, and a sickening smile and a crazed eye stare back at you.

Shivering, you held your hand out to the mirror, the swirls sucking you in. You didn’t notice the glistening shine of the keys. Leona had made a vow to find you. Such treasure must be confined by his truly.

Shishishi!

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #twst #twsited wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #ruggie bucchi x reader #jack howl x reader

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mr-miss-anonymous · 7 months

Text

Some Delphi doctor Pharma thoughts because, well… why not? More specifically, a thought-out explanation for successfully hiding the very, very illegal business of organ harvesting (or cog harvesting, if you’re Pharma). Very, very long, and mainly Pharma-centric. Also TW for mild mentions of gore below (near the end):

It would have been a very, very good question to ask how in the world he’d managed to get into the practice of harvesting cogs for the enemy, but that isn’t exactly the focus here. What it came down to, for the most part, was being stationed at Delphi of all areas. It was a rough place to work, and it had quite the reputation of being the worst of the worst when it came to practitioners AND survival rates. The extra factors were probably due to the fact that an ex-Decepticon and a war frame were both in high ranks of the medical staff (not to mention the awful habit Cybertron’s governors had of actually making sure funds went to keeping heat and lights on in the building), but none of this phased Pharma. When the offer—well, not so much offer as it was threat to end his life and career if he didn’t accept—came up, he wasn’t exactly in a place to decline.

It was easy work, really. All he had to do was stay after hours and harvest cogs from dead patients before they left to be cremated, or buried, or recycled, or… well, whatever their loved ones chose to do. He was practically running the hospital at that point, and no one had ever questioned his authority. Besides, no medical staff outside of himself and Ambulon had ever worked at Delphi for more than a few months tops. Delphi’s hospital was severely understaffed with one or two medical drones patrolling the area outside of himself and Ambulon, but that’s the way Pharma would have had it. After all, it’s what made his awful situation possible.

Besides… If push came to shove, and by some miracle someone found out about his forced ties with the DJD, he could always blame Ambulon. It would be easy enough to frame him, after all. No one would believe him, anyway. Not with his past as an ex ‘Con. Pharma wasn’t much better, being built a war frame despite his work in the medical field, but what choice did he have?

Things were going well, at first. Pharma was averaging at about three to four cogs a month, give or take a few. Despite what outsiders said, Delphi was typically the place where those too far gone came to live their last moments in the peace and comfort medical support was able to offer, so the supply was always steady. That is, it was steady, until Pharma got a rather threatening letter in the mail. The DJD had begun to demand four times what he was averaging, and that number was expected every two weeks.

The first time he took a life with his own hands, Pharma had felt physically ill. He spent the rest of the day locked up in his office, ignoring Ambulon’s pestering concerns with the complaint that he was feeling unwell, which was true, but that he didn’t require support, which was… well, sort of true. He’d barely managed to make it through a ration of energon that evening, and he’d spent most of the night forcing down bottle after bottle of cheap alcoholic drinks. The overwhelming guilt didn’t last long, however, since Pharma knew he couldn’t physically keep it up. He’d have to tough it out, take in a few extra cogs from living patients, and maybe—just maybe—his circumstances would change.

As expected, things most certainly did not change. At least, not for the better. Enter First Aid, who soon became a sort of Achilles heel to Pharma’s process. The new doctor was young and inexperienced, practically fresh out of the academy from what Pharma had heard. For the first few weeks, Pharma was absolutely relentless in his blatant dislike of First Aid, and he took every chance he could get to publicly disapprove or humiliate the young doctor when he could. It felt awful, it really did. But given the very dangerous situation he found himself in, he couldn’t risk having more than one other doctor around the hospital floors.

First Aid wasn’t supposed to have lasted as long as he did. One week became two, which became four, which turned into one month, but still, Pharma relented. He chastised the young medic every chance he could get and occasionally gave crude, condescending remarks about question just how long First Aid would last before he, too, dropped out of the Delphi work force. Would he even remain a doctor, Pharma wondered? Would the stress from his experience at Delphi turn him away from any and all future medical endeavors? He’d hoped it might end that way—not for his sake, but for First Aid’s safety. Still, his nagging coworker who still struggled to turn over a new leaf was also relentless, but in the aspect of helping the new recruit. Before Pharma knew it, Ambulon was taking First Aid under his wing, showing him the ropes. It was infuriating, and it posed a very, very great threat to Pharma’s new business.

Primus, he grew so nervous during that time, so very, very nervous. He shouldn’t have been doing it at all. Everything, all of it—the manipulation, the twisted work, the criticism to both First Aid’s character and his career, it was all so fucked up in the worst way. It was unethical. It was awful, it… it was—ohh fuck. Fuck, what choice did he have? He didn’t have one. He had no choice at all, and this was how things would end. A well-known, well respected medic who’d risen above the hierarchy and racism, only to destroy it all after doing such dirty work for the DJD.

Despite his petty and discreet efforts, First Aid relented. It was nearing six months into the young medic’s employment at Delphi when Pharma realized he needed to do something different, and fast. He had already experienced one too many close calls, what with the nosy little doctor running into him after hours on the wrong floor at the wrong time. Sexual innuendos and workplace relationships had only gotten him so far with Ambulon, and after an awkward interface session in the washracks while bodies lay decomposing in locked bathroom stalls mere feet away, Pharma simply couldn’t take it anymore. Drastic measures had to be taken, unfortunately, and despite the medical oaths he’d sworn to observe and the many, many moral boundaries he’d never wanted to cross, Pharma was no longer against twisting the tables in his own favor.

He started out innocently enough. Aid was a smart one, of course, and Pharma caught the skeptical looks the young medic gave him every time he dared to bring up Delphi’s sketchy past. Despite the visor covering his optics and the mask he wore nearly all the time, it wasn’t hard to gauge First Aid’s reaction, and given a few weeks, Pharma knew it was starting to take a toll on the new medic. It was only when Ambulon had begun to scold him behind closed doors for “scaring” First Aid that Pharma realized he needed to push things up a notch.

He wasn’t a terrible person. Truly, he wasn’t. He never meant for any of it to happen, and he had never intended for First Aid to be affected so deeply or for his own reputation to be tarnished. He’d known his fate was sealed the moment he was given over to the DJD as their own personal provider of anything organ-related, but that didn’t make him a bad person, right? He was only doing his job. He was doing what he had been forced to do. He was still a doctor, a good person. Right? He was still him. He still saved lives, he still helped others, he still held the role and responsibility of being a strong, confident medic. He was a good person, right? Right?

He hadn’t been thinking all that clearly when it had happened. Still, the pieces just so happened to fall into place, and Pharma knew that his secret was sealed for at least a few months. He had been in the process of dragging the most recent body into a storage closet for safe keeping while he dealt with other more impending issues when it had occurred. Of course, shoving a dead corpse into an old closet wasn’t the best course of action, but with his mind starting to crack under the pressure and his options starting to slim, Pharma knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

He could hear the sound of quiet pedesteps entering into the washracks. It was First Aid, he knew, stopping to get cleaned up after a long shift. He always came into the washracks at this time, after every shift. Primus, he did it almost daily. How could Pharma have forgotten? How could he have forgotten?

Never mind that, he supposed. Pharma had waited until First Aid was rifling through his belongings and getting everything unneeded placed into a locker (really, with there only being three bots capable of making it to the washracks, what was the need for the locker?) before making a run for the shower stalls. He had thrown the body over one shoulder as he headed there, and as expected, it made quite the sound. Instead of hearing a bout of silence to follow the sudden interruption of First Aid’s prep-work, he was instead met with a small, startled gasp from the young medic. He paused in the middle of pulling the curtain shut and waited, just in case his cover was to be blown. He would hate to do it, but if he needed to take out one of his fellow medics—

“Is someone out there?” First Aid had called out, the anxiety practically dripping from his voice.

If Pharma hadn’t been so busy with not getting caught carrying a corpse around, he would’ve felt a little bad for the poor doctor’s frazzled nerves. Still, a job had to be done, and a job was what he was going to do. Pharma laid the corpse down onto the shower stall and, after quietly drawing the curtains back to hide it, made his way towards the exit. He managed to escape without running into First Aid, which would end up being a blessed accident for him in the next ten minutes.

Pharma was nearly halfway to his office when he heard it. A guttural, blood-curdling scream that sent a chill racing down his spine. He knew what had happened, of course, but the sound—Primus, the sound, the palpable horror and fear in the air as First Aid screamed—it would stick with him for a very, very long time. It didn’t take long before Ambulon was rushing down the hallway, a mixed look of confusion and concern plastered across his face as though First Aid—a disposable, inexperienced waste of space on their hospital’s floor—could have actually meant anything to him.

Pharma turned around quickly enough to see First Aid bursting out of the washracks, his entire frame rattling with choked sobs that even Pharma could see the plating shift and grind from such a long distance. He couldn’t quite make out the words—not that the poor medic was saying anything legible, but still—from where he stood, but from the way First Aid all but collapsed against Ambulon’s front, wailing about a “dead body” and the poor soul he’d just checked on so and so minutes ago and the guilt he felt, oh the guilt. What could have he done differently? Was it his fault? Was he to blame? God, why couldn’t he stop crying? He couldn’t breathe, Ambulon, he couldn’t breathe—

It ended up being too much to bear, too much to witness. Pharma slipped past with a distant pat to Ambulon’s shoulder and muttered something about giving First Aid a little something to take the edge off before he headed in to “take a look.” Of course, Pharma took the chance to properly dispose of the body so that nothing else could be said about the standalone incident, and when Ambulon had come in sometime later and informed him that First Aid was in the medibay sleeping off some heavy sedatives, Pharma was more than willing to show him the now-empty and pristine shower stalls. Every one of them, too, not just the one that had just so happened to inhabit the… the victim.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when, a week later, there was a new medic among their ranks. First Aid had hardly even gone to the third floor—the floor where the incident had occured—at all during the week, and he had barely managed to keep himself moving throughout the normal shift changes. At first, Pharma expected him to drop out of the hospital staff like all of the other medics before him, but no. Instead, he was treated to a new recruit.

Ratchet was his name, Pharma recalls. Ratchet, Ambulon’s acquaintance, First Aid’s temporary mentor, and Pharma’s mortal enemy. Well, mortal enemy and secret obsession. If there was one thing Pharma had become good at during his many months spent harvesting the cogs of helpless victims, it was casting illusions. Though he had taken a deep, almost toxic, interest in Ratchet, Pharma knew he was more than capable of keeping up the charades.

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