#will twist the knife until there's a heart shaped hole in your chest

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru x darling

TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au

gn reader

Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.

You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.

“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach – crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.

He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.

“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.

He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”

He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.

“I’m just another hungry animal…”

Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.

“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”

He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.

Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.

At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.

You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it. 

Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.

You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?

But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.

He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.

You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.

You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you. 

It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.

“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”

The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.

“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”

#yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo saturo #jjk gojo #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere satoru gojo #jjk smut #jujustu kaisen headcanons #gojo headcanons

[the-anxiety-ridden-writer]

knives on my body, blood on my hands

Chapter One: The House At The End of The Street, The Cabin Buried in the Woods

THE CLOCK HAS BARELY TICKED PAST NINE O’CLOCK when the last light flickers off. Ink black shadows swell in the thin backstreets whilst gray storm clouds obscure any light coming from the shining moon.

The old town plunges into darkness and hidden within it, a little girl revels in it. Tilts her head back and let’s the beginnings of the storm wash over her, as if the rain water that begins to seep into her very being can wash away the red that has stained her soul.

(It can’t, the blood on her hands will transcend lifetimes)

A bright clash of lightning brings her out of her thoughts. She melts into the shadows and continues on her way, making her way down the street with eerie silent footsteps.

Perhaps a lesser man would have stumbled down the street, unable to walk the burrard street without tripping over himself. But the little girl moves with a silent grace in her step, weaving around the bumps and cracks even when she can barely see the boots on her feet.

The training of her handlers, years spent in the Hydra and The Red Room overcoming her. She could walk the streets - could walk a path around the world and still carry the deadly grace and efficiency that they had beaten into given her.

Besides, the little girl was just The Asset to her handlers, Hydra’s own personal Angel Smerti. She was no man, much less one of low value.

The house at the end of the street is quiet when she enters it. The screams of the lightning hide the soft whine of the window when she opens it and the creak of the wooden floorboards when she lands on them.

The Asset squints her eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness and trail over the bookshelf lined walls. She stepped towards the oak desk, lifting one of the files scattered on the surface. She let her eyes scan the pages within before setting it down, letting the words winter soldier, car crash, two victims and serum mull over in her head before filtering it away for later, a loud clatter pulling her attention to the doorway.

A poison slick dagger is already soaring through the air and embedding itself in the figure before she can fully get a good look at them. The figure - a frail, old man with thinning white hair - stumbles back from the force of the knife, dark eyes widening in fear as the Asset stalks over to him.

She gives him quick once over, letting her eyes roam over the man as his muscles begin to tense up until he can’t move at all, until he is nothing but a mere puppet that the Asset can pull all the strings of. A puppet that the Asset can cut all the strings off of.

She carefully ignores how those last thoughts bring a small sense of dread and horror that pools in her stomach. Turn her head to the voice telling her ‘what’s one more body to add to the pile?’ And the voice asking her ‘just how monstrous have you become?’

(too much, far too much for someone her age)

The man finds his voice, previously lost in a sea of gasps and whimpers, “Please.” he begs, eyes wide, a wrinkled hand pressed to the dagger buried within his stomach.

“Please don’t ki-“ the Asset cuts him off, yanking the dagger out and shoving it into his throat. It doesn’t take long for the old man to leave these mortal planes, drifting off to be judged by an otherworldly being that can distinguish a saint and a sinner and never the between. To the otherworldly being that thinks he has any right to judge the actions of a human being trying to survive.

No, Death has never discriminated between the saints and the sinners.

‘And neither shall I’ the Asset thinks, ripping her dagger from his throat to slip back into the many holsters that cover her clothing.

She lugs the old man into the study, manhandling his body into the smooth leather chair, resting his head upon the oak desk, staining the folders with his blood. She stepped back, observing her work with a critical eye. It almost looked like the poor man had fallen asleep at his desk, if you - you know - ignore the blood.

The Asset eyed the scented candles perched atop one of the bookshelves, promptly labeled Cinnamon Sugar! Warm Spring Sunshine! and Peach! The Asset raised an eyebrow, an idea coming to mind.

An idea that would end in the echoing cries of firetruck sirens throughout the quaint street, the horrified muttering of neighbors and the ashes of an old man's study.

•☽○☾•

IT’S DAWN by the time the Asset makes her way back to where her handler—a sleazy, middle aged man that she hadn’t taken the time to remember his name—is currently based.

The sky is a disarray of colors, the sun spilling a cup of bright yellows and exotic oranges over the previously dark canvas. The Asset finds herself staring up at it, and feels a deep longing begin to stir. For the sky ran everywhere. It ran through the deepest of forests and the driest of deserts and over the endless waves of the ocean. The sky ran everywhere, demanding to be seen and heard and free and the Asset found herself envying it.

Truth be told, there used to be a fire in the Assets soul, before she was called Asset and went by the name that had been sewn into a velvet blanket by a woman that may have cared. It would burn through her veins, close to her heart and on days when her trainers would be harder on her than the rest for her heritage or when one of the girls - a pretty blond who went by Rowena - would make a cruel remark about the shape of her eyes, she’d let the fire consume her, let it burn through her and come out of her mouth, searing into them, until Rowena wept ugly tears into her hands and the trainers unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks before demanding an apology. The Asset can’t remember if the girl with her name sewn into a blanket had ever apologized, had never wanted to dwell too much on those memories.

(she hadn’t, the girl took all the pain and torture with her head held high. she refused to apologize for the fire in her soul. )

The Asset shook those thoughts away as the cabin her handler—Ivan Vanko—had holed himself up in came into sight. Just the sight of it, and the thought of facing Ivan had her straightening her posture, wiping any sign of weariness and schooling her face until there were no cracks in her porcelain mask, nothing for Ivan to dig into to expose all her thoughts.

There’s no noise when she enters, the door shutting silently behind her. She tenses, tilting her head to the side before pulling out one of her knives. Moving down the hall, she keeps her senses sharp, With no idea who she’s up against, she waits, muscles wound tight and her mouth a hard line, eyes darting around the slim hallway walls. She doesn’t have to wait long.

A hand thrusts out of the first doorway to her right, a strong pull has her flying through the air and losing the grip on her knife. Pain erupted in her shoulder but she didn't give it the time of day. Instead she rolls to her feet, springing up and throwing every ounce of her strength into the flying kick that sends her assailant slamming into the wall with a yell of pain.

The Asset lets herself breathe, if only for a second. Her eyes assess her assailant — a well dressed man with balding hair — cataloging every weakness she can find, from the way he favors his right side to the fading bruise on his right temple, while he lay recovering.

This time, when he lunged for her, she is ready.

She side steps his attack, digging her knee into his injured side, and sends a sharp elbow into his already bruised face. A loud crack echoes in the room, and when he stumbles back, a scream of pain that can only come from deep within himself, a small twisted part of her is pleased to see his nose is far from the correct position.

Adrenaline thumps through herself, a synchronized sympathy that plays in tempo with her heart. When both he and his little friend that had been waiting, watching in the shadows of the room lunge at her, she already knows who the victor of this battle will be.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where their dance begins. Or rather, her dance begins.

She dodges his friend's attack, turning and arching her leg in the air, slamming it into assailant number two — a short woman who was barely taller than The Asset — side. It leaves her stumbling back, groaning as she falls like a corpse into the glass table in the center of the room.

The Asset grunts as strong arms encircle her, lifting her up, up, up. She grunts, moving her arm up and once again digging her elbow in his face. It connects with his eye this time, the action leaving him stumbling back, clutching his hand to his eye. The Asset doesn’t give him time to recover, doesn’t have enough sympathy, enough empathy, enough mercy in the body that has been crafted with the fists and guns and needles of the men and women who have used her, trained her, killed her.

It’s why the dagger slips so easily out of its concealed holster and into the man's chest. A cry of agony is silenced with the arc of her leg, her foot connecting with his Adam's apple. He toppled over, hands held to his chest as if he can relieve the pain that she has brought to his body.

She stared him down, the soft creak of wood under her foot echoed like screams around the room. She plants one foot on his chest, pressing down as she pulls the dagger from his chest, baring her teeth behind her ninja-esque mask as he screams.

She leaves the man there, bleeding, beaten, broken and goes to find her handler.

AN: I don’t know what this is, but it’s dumb. I’m also dumb tho and I’m thinking of adding on.

Special thanks to @unmaskedagain , @nightlychaotic and @nobodyfamousposts for introducing me to maribat. I love all of your maribat posts.

Tag list: @avengerthewarrior , @nightlychaotic

#mlb x marvel #assassin marinette #Marinette is the asset #hyrda #maribat #but later #marinette dupain cheng #mlb x dc #marinette is the Asset #in case that wasn’t clear

[retrogalwrites]

Aizawa Shouta x Yandere!fReader

Title: “Kiss me as if you are punching me” / view on ao3

summary: Aizawa is kidnapped by a villain obsessed with him, who hopes to finally make the hero hers.

Warnings: dubcon, coercion, unhealthy relationships, drugging, kidnapping, yandere reader, hate fucking from Aizawa's side, delusions, masochism 

Other contents: creampie, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamic, spanking, rough sex, fingering, masturbation, name calling, a twist because i like twists

Words: 2917

When Aizawa opened his eyes, he was not surprised by the tight rope around his body that kept him viciously tied to a bulky chair. He had been held hostage before, more than once even, it just came with the job, you know?

However, typically, he'd expect some decaying dirty room, some dark, gloomy basement that smelled like shit, just the usual imagery you expect from situations like these.

Instead, his surprise—utter shock if you will—came from the smell of roses and cinnamon that filled his nostrils, the vibrant color red of opulent velvet wallpaper around him and fluffy carpet under his feet of matching color. The room was dimly lit by a varied array of candles carefully placed on expensive-looking furniture, even a fancy bed, it was a very girly and sensual atmosphere that completely crushed his usual expectations of being kidnapped by an enemy. It was one of those rare times that Aizawa felt at loss of words.

"Guess who~?"

Suddenly a saccharine voice, suggestive and obscene, called from behind as a pair of hands playfully covered his eyes. Aizawa froze, of course he knew that voice very well, he groaned at the feeling of round, soft breasts pressing against the back of his head, it gave him annoying goosebumps.

Of course he recognized that voice, even the feeling of your body. For months you had roamed the streets committing mostly petty crime with the sole purpose of getting the hero Eraserhead to chase after you, like some obsessed psycho. Like a little pest, you'd pop up to cause trouble while he was on his nightly rounds without fail, always dolled up, flaunting your assets like a harlot and provoking him shamelessly. Always boldly declaring your insane love for him before managing to slip away into the shadows...

It was such a bizarre case that other heroes had started to tease him about it, laughing about the femme fatale villain that had a crush on him. He despised it, your existence did nothing but to bring yet another thing for him to be tired and annoyed about.

At least, you were a low tier threat, basically harmless really, or so he thought. Being kidnapped by you was the last thing he had expected, and that only annoyed him more, the thought that he had underestimated the situation and how unhinged you really had been.

Aizawa uttered your name under his breath like a cursed word, and you giggled delighted against his ear.

"Yes, it's me~! As expected from my darling."

"Don't call me that." He refuted your pet-names as always, mustering his most stern voice to mask the fact he was still trying to process his own shortcomings that had lead him there. "What the hell is this?"

Removing your hands from his eyes, you remained behind him, placing them instead on his broad shoulders, reminding him of the lack of his scarf-his only offensive weapon- on them.

"Well, what does it look like? I abducted you, silly." You hummed amused, tone far too casual for his liking. But with your fingers digging into the muscle, massaging his soreness, he almost gave in and sighed in relief. "You've been playing so hard to get all this time, and trust me I do love the chase but...I just can't bear with it anymore."

"Then leave me alone." He managed to say instead, as he struggled on his seat, testing the tightness of the binding around him.

"No, can't do." You replied, fingers digging into his shoulders with a more vicious grip that made him wince. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? I love you so much, I need you so bad, I may just die."

"Then die." With a deep, angry tone, he growled. " I don't have time for none of this bullshit."

Of course, you only gushed excitedly, throwing your arms around his neck and embracing him from behind so lovingly, he could feel the heat of your body. "Oh baby, I love it when you are mean!"

"You're delusional." He said.

"Well, yes." You replied. "But I'm still going to get what I want."

As you pulled back, Aizawa felt the sharp tip of a blade pressed against the back of his neck, threatening to cut through if he didn't stay put. He broke into cold sweat.

"Open your mouth."

"..."

"Open your mouth or I'll cut your head off, I really don't want to do that, dear."

You had never threatened him like that before, he hesitated for a second before spitting back, expertly to not let his tumultuous feelings show.

"I'll bite your hand off."

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you did that." You giggled again. Aizawa  sighed deeply, feeling powerless against what was someone who clearly couldn't be reasoned with.

You took advantage of that to bring your fingers to his mouth, slipping inside two white pills before forcing his jaw shut with your hand so he'd have to swallow them. Aizawa tried to spit them out, but you weren't having none of it, in the end he had to swallow the dissolving drug into his system.

"What the hell...did you give me?!"

He demanded as soon as you let go of him, drool dribbling down his scruffy chin.

"Relax, it will make you feel good. I would never poison you, baby."

But it was a little too hard to believe you, of course. His silence said as much.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you...it's an aphrodisiac."

It was like you had actually stabbed him with that knife, the severity of your words weighing on him, an understanding of what you were planning to do with him filling the hero with dread that was almost as big as his self-hatred for having stupidly refused to take you as a bigger threat sooner.

With a soft, feminine laugh, twirling gracefully, you quickly moved around to stand in front of him.

Finally getting to properly look at you, Aizawa jaw almost dropped.

Dressed in a black nightie babydoll, all lace and ribbons, showing off the perfect curves of your body, supple skin of your breasts and nipples behind see-through fabric. The edges fluttered delicately just above your upper thighs, giving him full view of the crotchless panties you wore, your slit shamelessly displayed for him to see.

His body felt as though it was on fire, eyes glued to the glistening wetness already smeared over the pink skin of your folds, even more stickiness clinging to the skin of your inner thighs showing just how fucking wet you had to be.

It was work of the aphrodisiac, he realized, how his heart began racing madly in his chest with pumping blood, a dryness in his mouth and a heat in his abdomen that was making it hard to breath properly.

Aizawa's entire willpower worked harder it ever had just to try to look uninterested at the lewd sight of you. "Well, it sure is a shame you went through all this trouble for nothing."

You pouted at his comment almost childishly, something that gave him a sense of satisfaction despite his situation still being far from improving. But Aizawa had to remain calm, because knowing his colleagues, they would be out to look for him soon enough, all he had to do was to endure ...to endure...to endure what exactly? He still wasn't completely sure, and yet that only made him shiver with unwanted thrill.

"So you say, but you seem to be a little excited already."

Drawling your words, your eyes fixated on his crotch. He looked down as well and cringed, a bulge straining against the fabric of his pants, his cock swelling up simply by looking at your own depraved arousal. He reminded himself it wasn't his fault, it was the drug, he still could fight off the effects.

"You are pathetic, forcing yourself on someone like this." He said with a groan, because his hardening cock was starting to feel uncomfortably tight inside his pants. You rolled your eyes, and laughed.

"Oh no, I'm not going to do that."

Your answer, simple and honest, took him by surprise that Aizawa couldn't conceal.

"I'll simply stand here and enjoy myself, give you a little show. I won't touch you unless you ask me to, my darling."

Before he could respond, you were soon taking one step back from him. Standing on a pair of impractical high heels and stockings, Aizawa watched as you began to sway your hips side to side with hypnotic rhythm, the fluttering edges of the lacy babydoll bringing attention to the ripe shape of your plump thighs, he could even imagine grabbing them with his large hands...fuck, dealing with you would've been far easier from the very start if you weren't so infuriatingly gorgeous.

Aizawa groaned, lips tightly shut, refusing to give you any sort of satisfaction from this.

But as if you could read his mind, you turned around playfully to give him a full view of your backside. The roundness of your fat ass, perfect to grab and force against his aching cock and rut against until he was shooting his seed all over your asscheeks, fuck...his dirty thoughts kept pulling up.

Aizawa's throbbing erection twitched with need, and he tried to rub his thighs together for just a little bit of friction. You didn't notice it in that exact moment, because you were too busy leaning forward to show off your pussy at his hungry gaze, your fingers moving to the crotchless area of your panties to spread your folds with your fingers, giving him a perfect view of your pussy's tight hole.

Even with his dry eyes, he was having a hard time blinking, unable to part away from that obscene view. Your needy little hole so wet for him right there in full display, only a whore would have such little shame and modesty, a crazy whore like you.

Aizawa didn't realize his lip had started to bleed slightly from bitting it too hard.

"God, knowing you are looking at me makes me so excited, baby." You moaned softly, voice full of adoration, looking at him over your shoulder. "Like a dream come true."

Aizawa turned his head away just to try spite you, using his messy long hair to shield his vision, an attempt to dominate this bizarre game of yours, but uncaring to his resistance, you simply continued enjoying yourself for him to witness. Slowly, you slid one finger into your dripping cunt, your legs trembling as you moaned Aizawa's name outloud.

The fire in his blood was reaching a fever pitch, the sound so obscene of his name on your tongue, accompanied to the squelching noises of your finger pumping in and out your tight walls quickly had him looking back at your depraved little show.

As soon as you felt his gaze back on you, another finger was inserted, making yourself mewl dramatically with your back arching like a cat's, then a third finger testing the stretch of your hole around them. You were taking them so well, his breath hitched. Watching how you were fucking yourself like that ignited that primal urge in him to tackle you to the floor and replace those fingers with the thickness of his cock...

"Oh, Shouta...aahhh I love you so much...!!" You started mumbling, like begging, and it made him pitifully buck his hips into the air before he could stop himself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Aizawa was losing his mind with the drugs maximizing his lust. His cock was so swollen and hard that it was painful, his balls begging to be emptied, just any sort of relief.

Another loud, slutty moan from you that turned into a cry, as your wobbly legs gave out and you slid onto the floor slowly, still fingering yourself you switched positions. Facing him with your legs spread as you sat on the floor, you continued fingering yourself. Now your free hand massaging your own breast, punching the nipple over the fabric of the top.

"I'm so close...ahh...." you panted, looking directly at him, your little pink tongue poking out your gaping mouth. "I'll let you go once I cum, promise."

That was what broke his control, the power of the aphrodisiac too strong to fight. In that moment Aizawa knew he had lost his sense of reason. He struggled violently against the binding rope, a gutural growl erupting from deep in his chest.

"Don't you dare finishing without my permission, you damn bitch."

The commanding tone, the brutality of his voice, you froze in place as you stared at him with wide eyes. He spoke again, glaring at you with unfiltered lust and anger he hadn't felt before. "Untie me now, I'm going to fuck you. That's what you want isn't it? Then bring your pussy over here."

The look on your face was of absolute delight, almost childish in excitement. Before he knew it, you had severed the ropes tying him to the chair with the knife you had kept tucked by the elastic of your stocking.

The sequence that followed happened so fast he barely registered it, when he roughly grabbed you by the arms with his freed hands, forcing you to drop the knife as he pushed you down onto the floor. Crawling on top, Aizawa crashed his mouth against yours, lips violently molding against yours in a desperate, almost animilastic imitation of a kiss, sloppily inserting his tongue into your eager mouth, and you returned the gesture in kind. By the time he realized what had happened, he was already rutting his erection against the gash of your pussy, groaning and whining at the delicious friction.

Breaking the kiss, leaving you with bruised lips, he plopped himself onto his knees and started unbuckling his pants, pulling out his cock that was red and raw, drooling precum like it was about to burst.

"Don't get it wrong, this is only because of your damn aphrodisiac..." He hissed above you, boring his smoldering gaze into yours, stroking his member in one hand.

Then, to his still surprise, you blurted out a hearty laugh. Deviously looking at him like the cat who got the cream.

"Oh, baby...that wasn't an aphrodisiac. It was just regular aspirin."

You admitted so honestly, and Aizawa couldn't do more than stare at you completely dumbstruck for a second. But only a second.

Immediately, you helped loudly as Aizawa unceremoniously turned you over, pulling your hips up so your perky ass was up in the air, and impaled you with his thick, hard cock in one brutal thrust. You cried again, face forced flush against the carpet floor by Aizawa's hand. His hips ruthlessly starting a furious peace, drilling himself into your tight walls without mercy.

"You...damn bitch...are you trying to make a fool of me?!"

Aizawa panted, hissing each syllable with every thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your pussy mound over and over, the dry sound mixing with the wet squelching of your sex being abused.

"Apologize. Apologize for all the trouble you've caused me."

His other hand came down on your ass so hard, the stinging pain making you scream, leaving an raw imprint of his palm on your skin. And he hit you again, and again, as he fucked you relenthlessly.

"Yessss....I'm sorrryyy!!! I'm sorrryyy!!"

You moaned and cried, pain and pleasure too much to bear, words barely making sense. Tears streamed down your cheeks and yet the expression on your face couldn't be anything but pure happiness and adoration for Aizawa. "I love you so much darlin'...aaahh!!! I couldn't help myself!!"

You were so tight and snug inside, your slippery walks tightly squeezing his cock like you didn't want to ever let go of it, he could barely keep himself from cumming too soon with how fucking good you felt.

"You don't deserve to cum." He pushed himself against your back, her larger muscular frame easily pressing your entire body against the floor as he kept fucking you.

"Say it!"

"I...don't deserve to cum!!"

"I'm going to pump you full of my seed and you are going to be grateful for even that."

"Yesssss....!!!!"

Aizawa was soon shooting a heavy load into you, all that accumulated lust from all your teasing, all your annoying chase, all the undying love you proclaimed for him and he had no idea what to do with. He responded to your feelings the only way he knew how, and thick jets of white cum shoot into your womb, painting your walls with his semen until his balls stopped throbbing.

You were full of his cum, a babbling mess looking like you had seen heaven.

Aizawa wasn't sure himself, if he was in heaven or hell.

————

"Hey! Just got a call from the police, guess which wacky villainess is causing trouble downtown today?" The voice of Mic rang into the teacher lounge, peaking his head through he door.

"I don't want to guess." Aizawa muttered softly, quickly getting up on his feet and adjusting his googles, ready to head out. "I'll take care of it."

"Why, Shouta! If I didn't know better, I'd think ya rush to go see her quite a lot these days." A teasing smile, Mic tilted his head curiously. "Did something happen between you two?"

A pause, and the hero turned around to leave.

"Don't be ridiculous."

#aizawa thirst #aizawa x reader #tw dubcon #tw kidnapping #tw drugging #tw yandere

[love-and-monsters]

Cavern and Foe

M elf X GN reader, 8,276 words.

After coming across a sworn enemy and shooting him, you both fall into an underground cavern. The only way out is to work together. If, of course, you can manage it. 

You unfurled yourself from your hunting crouch and headed a few steps further into the forest. It was unnaturally quiet in the dusk, and you could feel your stomach grinding hungrily against your ribs- it had been hours since your last meal at dawn, but you still hadn’t managed to catch anything. The only animal you had managed to hit with your arrow had been a deer, and that had only been in the flank. Generally, your ritehood was not going well.

It would be another week and a half before you were allowed back in your village. Hunting wasn’t strictly necessary for the ritehood; there were plenty of people before you who had survived on a diet of plants alone, whether by choice or necessity. But an unwillingness or inability to bring down prey did preclude you from your chosen profession.

You wanted to be a warrior. And that meant proving that you were strong and skilled enough to become one.

Something rustled the undergrowth behind you. You shifted your weight, turning your body toward the noise without making any of your own. With only the smallest, most delicate motions, you removed an arrow from your quiver and threaded it. There were precious few of them left- you were going to need to make this shot count.

The rustling moved closer to you. You squinted through the woods, trying to make out the shape moving between the trees. It was tall. Perhaps a bear? Taking down one of those would surely confirm your path as a warrior. But it would have to be fairly young to be so quiet- bears were usually much heavier.

You caught a glimpse of tanned skin through the trees and loosed your arrow. It plunged straight and true into the flesh of your target.

The scream that went up made your hair stand on end. It was full of raw agony, a nearly human scream, but with a razor-sharp edge that made it sound a little like a wildcat’s. Your heart leapt. A cougar, perhaps? That would earn you a warrior position, surely. Barely breathing, you plunged through the woods toward your target.

What you saw made you stumble to a graceless stop.

It looked almost like a person, wearing off-white robes with an embroidered neckline. From its head, poking through its black hair, rose a crown of short, bone white horns. Its ears were long and pointed, extending almost past the back of its head.

An elf. You whipped out your bow and pointed an arrow at its throat. An elf. With its head, you would be the most respected member of your town. You could be a warrior, if you wanted; you would probably be given a high-ranking position right off the bat. Who would deny you, after you had killed one of your people’s greatest enemies?

The victory was already singing sweet inside your head, so you were too distracted to notice the elf’s tail whipping across the ground. It hooked your ankle with a surprisingly strong grip for its thin size and yanked.

Your feet went from underneath you. Only barely did you manage to catch yourself on your elbows, and by the point, the elf was on his feet, sprinting back into the forest.

Rage flashed through you. In seconds, you were on your feet, plunging after him. You could see him darting between trees and scrambling through the undergrowth. Bright spots of blood stood out against the deep green of the forest, guiding you after him.

He was slowing down, stumbling more and more. The splotches of blood were growing bigger- running seemed to be making the injury worse. You were right behind him, gaining on him with every step. Without breaking your stride, you pulled your bow off your back and nocked an arrow. You trained your sight on him. All you needed to do was get one good hit- just one.

And, before you could blink, he dropped out of sight.

Confused, you staggered, trying to kill your momentum. Where had he-

And then you pitched into the same pit he’d fallen down.

You felt yourself hit the ground in slow motion. One of your arms twisted underneath you. There was a split second of stomach-turning horror where you heard and felt your bone crunch as you landed on it. Then there was one second of nothing.

And then the pain hit you.

Agony. You couldn’t move your arm. You couldn’t fathom moving it. There was nothing to move. Your arm was nothing more than a white-hot blaze of pain. It made your stomach churn with the awfulness of it and you rolled onto your belly so you could vomit. Sobs and dry heaves mingled together, leaving your body convulsing and trembling.

Time lost all meaning for a while, but eventually, you got used to the pain. It was still there, but you were able to take one small part of your brain away from screaming in agony and figure out what was happening.

You were in some kind of small cave. The hole you had fallen through was distant above you, far enough away that you could blot it out with the palm of your hand. The room curved upward, like an inverted bowl. It was only the size of a small room, perhaps ten feet across. Sitting across the room, glaring at you, was the elf you had just been chasing.

There was a long, awkward silence. He was clutching at his shoulder, blood pumping slowly down his front. You moved instinctively for your bow, but froze when you touched it- it had been smashed upon landing, no more than splinters and string. Not that it mattered- you weren’t shooting one handed. With your good hand, you fumbled for your knife, but you weren’t excited about your chances- the broken arm was your strong arm, and you were pretty sure that even injured, he would be able to wrestle the knife away from you.

“It would seem we are at a stalemate,” the elf said. His voice was slightly accented and rather soft. “You cannot kill me, I have no desire to kill you, and we are not getting out of here any time soon.”

You glared at him from across the room, as much as you could manage. It was hard to stop your expression from twisting into a grimace of pain. “Maybe you’re giving up. I’m going to climb out.”

The elf somehow managed to make an eyebrow raise look sarcastic, but he said nothing else. Cradling your broken arm, you examined the wall. Unfortunately, the hole you had fallen through appeared to be roughly at the apex of a dome. Attempting to scale it would mean pretty big sections where you hung nearly upside down, a feat that would be difficult with two functional arms. With only one still working, it was nearly impossible.

That didn’t mean you weren’t going to give it a try. There were a few rocks that jutted out from the wall, creating solid footholds. You braced your good arm against the wall and started to climb.

Your fingers slipped from the stone when you were only couple of feet above the ground. You struck the ground hard, knocking the wind out of your lungs. For a moment, you just lay there, gasping and choking as pain radiated up your broken arm.

It took a few minutes for you to be able to sit up and you risked a glance at your broken arm. You had been avoiding looking at it, mostly out of fear.

Your stomach twisted as you looked at it. The bone had shifted against your skin. It hadn’t broken through, but you could see the unsettling jut of it, twisting the shape of your arm. It took several deep breaths and staring determinedly at the ground before you could settle your stomach.

“You’ll need to set that.” The elf sound smug. “It’ll be useless until then, and worse than useless if it heals like this.”

You looked down at your arm again. Experimentally, you probed it with your fingertips. The pain was bad enough that your vision hazed over for a moment, leaving you trembling and gasping on the ground.

When you came back to yourself, the elf was tearing strips of his toga apart. He wound the strips around the gash in his shoulder, tying it off. The movement of the arm seemed limited, but it was leagues better than yours. He paced slowly along his side of the room, resting his fingers against the wall. You followed the motion of his tail. His expression was smooth and unperturbed, but his tail whipped and coiled behind him, twining close to his legs.

Time slipped by with agonizing slowness. You could only tell it was passing because the light filtering into the cave was gradually growing dimmer. Your stomach growled, adding its own complaint to the aches and pains you were already feeling. You had been trying not to move, since that only seemed to aggravate your broken arm, but finally, driven by your groaning stomach, you shifted to look for your pack.

The elf watched you as you grabbed for your bag. It was small, but it contained a few days’ worth of rations. Looking at them made your nerves flare. There wasn’t enough to last you until your arm healed, and even if it had, you weren’t sure it was going to help. Your arm was not healing properly without being set, and every tiny touch made a nauseating wave of pain roll through you. You weren’t setting it on your own, and if your arm wasn’t set, you weren’t climbing out. Starvation was inevitable. It was only a matter of time.

Your stomach growled and you reached fumblingly for the food with your non-dominant hand. Fuck it. Might as well eat. Nothing would be solved by going hungry. You ripped into one of the strips of dried meat. Ugh. If it was going to be your last meal, you really wished it could have been something that tasted better.

“You have food?” The elf had gone still on the other side of the cave. One of his arms was pressed to his middle, like he was trying to massage away hunger pains. He was staring fixedly at you. In the dim light of the cave, his cheeks looked sallow and his eyes, sunken. Was he starving? You pulled the food bag tighter against your chest. Would you be able to hold him off if he decided to charge? He seemed to be thinking the same thing, eyes flicking over you. You might be able to get a few good kicks in, and if you got a lucky shot on his injury, you could probably incapacitate him. But he could easily incapacitate you, too. It was all up to luck. And neither of you were willing to take that chance.

The tension went out of him after a moment and he slumped against the wall, still staring at your bag. Your eyes drifted to the tight bandage at his shoulder. “Do you know how to set a broken bone?” you asked.

He looked at you cautiously. “I am aware of how to do it. I’ve never actually done it, though.”

“I’ll cut you a deal,” you said. “Set my arm and I’ll give you something to eat.”

His eyes drifted from your bag to you, then back to the bag. “And how are you going to stop me from twisting your arm and stealing the bag?” he asked.

“I’ve still got my knife on me,” you said, indicating the blade at your hip. “If you reach for the bag, I’ll have just enough time to gut you before you grab it.”

He eyed the knife. “And how do I know you’re not going to try to stab me the second I get within range?”

“Because then I’m not getting out of here either. I need my arm set. And you need to eat. We both need this. I’m not going to be stupid about this if you’re not.” The elf looked at you for a moment, weighing his options, then nodded.

He approached you slowly, eyes scanning your every move. You held as still as possible, keeping your hands low and nonthreatening. When he reached you, he crouched at your side, turning his body away from you. It was clear he was trying to keep any vulnerable points away from you.

His hands brushed your arm and you gave a strangled groan. “Usually, you’d set it with some sort of stick or piece of wood to keep the bone straight as it heals,” the elf said. “But I don’t have any of that.”

You glanced around. Your bow had chunks of wood that were as long as your forearm, but they were all curved. “Arrows,” you said. “I have a couple. Will those work?”

The elf lifted your quiver and slid one of the arrows free. He examined it for a moment, then deftly snapped off the tip and dropped it on the ground. You grimaced. The elf ripped at the hem of his clothes, tearing off another long strip of fabric. When he had a long enough chunk, he lay the fabric and arrow together and took your arm in his hands. Despite everything, his touch was soft and gentle, barely brushing your skin.

“The bone is out of place. I’ll have to shift it back in,” he said. “I can’t guarantee it’ll heal perfectly.”

“I’m good with good enough,” you said. You turned your head away. Looking at your arm was starting to make you feel sick. “Just go for it.”

“Hold on.” He reached down and seized another arrow. After snapping off the tip again, he pressed the body of the arrow to your lips. “Bite on it. It’ll hurt.”

You seized the arrow in your teeth. He nodded and looked back down at your arm. “All right. Three… t-” He hadn’t even finished saying two before he was pressing on your broken arm.

Your vision went white. Agony blazed through your brain. You couldn’t think. Distantly, you thought you could hear someone screaming. There was the vague sense that you were thrashing around. But you couldn’t be sure. The pain commanded all of your attention.

Slowly, the pain diminished. It didn’t go away, but you started being able to have coherent thoughts around it. You were lying down, sweat soaking into the dirt. Fine tremors ran over your body. The elf was sitting over you, looking ruffled.

“You kicked me,” he said. His voice was winded and, as your senses returned, you realized he was clutching his side.

“Sorry,” you said. Your voice was raspy and your throat protested even the simple aspect of talking. You’d said it reflexively, but to your surprise, you realized you were actually sorry. Genuinely, you hadn’t meant to hurt him. “You could, uh, kick me back.” It was a stupid thing to say, but you had said it so often to your siblings that it was nearly automatic. To your surprise, the elf laughed.

“I won’t.” He let out a slow breath. “Don’t move your arm. It’s bound, but it’s not stable. Arrows aren’t the best for splinting.”

Your arm was still throbbing bad enough to make your stomach turn, but you had enough wherewithal to turn and grab your bag. “Here,” you said, thrusting it at him. “Take some.”

He looked at you cautiously, then reached into the bag and started rummaging through your food. It would have been easy for him to drag the entire bag away from you. There was no way you were in enough of a shape to stop him. Instead, he pulled out a tied-off bag of dried fruit and laid the bag back at your feet. Transaction concluded, he retreated to his side of the cave.

It was rapidly getting darker in the cave. The sun was setting, and any light that you once had was fading. You shivered. The cave was chilly. Usually, you managed nights in the woods with a fire, but there was no wood and you weren’t quite desperate enough to sacrifice your clothes. Instead, you lay back on the dirt ground and did your best to cover your body with a coat. Shivering sucked. It made your arm ache even worse. Gradually, the cave dimmed into pitch blackness.

Despite your exhaustion, sleep refused to come. The sickening pain of your broken arm notwithstanding, every noise from across the cave made your eyes snap open again. Could he see you? There were rumors about elves having dark vision. If you fell asleep, it would be simple for him to steal your knife and slit your throat.

Your paranoia kept you from engaging in any but the lightest of sleep. The slightest sound brought you back to full wakefulness, and you never really lost consciousness. You only drifted in the dim, dreamy area between wakefulness and sleep.

Morning came to find you stiff, exhausted, and in a worse mood than you had been in the night. The pain in your arm was more insistent, a constant throbbing that shoved its way to the forefront of your mind. The elf appeared to be in only moderately better shape. He was holding his arm in a strange way, suggesting that his own wound had stiffened overnight, though he looked better rested.

Slowly and uncomfortably, you pushed yourself into a sitting position. The elf watched you, caution in every line of his body. You ignored him, instead scrounging in your bag for breakfast. Rationing was probably a good idea, so despite your weakness, you only ate a few strips of dried meat and a piece of hard biscuit. It barely filled the aching void of your stomach. Trying to distract yourself, you started fussing with the bandages on your arm.

“What do you think you’re doing, idiot?” the elf hissed at you. You paused, looking up at him. He had shifted closer to glare at you. “I went to all that trouble to bind your arm and you’re just screwing it up!”

Irritation flared in your chest. “I am not screwing it up! I’m making it tighter!”

He snorted. “Sure. Just don’t expect me to rebind it again when it comes apart. I’m not looking to get injured by you again.”

The anger grew brighter and hotter. Frustration at being trapped, injured, and afraid spilled over. “If you hadn’t been trespassing in the first place, I wouldn’t have shot at you! What were you doing on our land?” It felt good to vent your spleen on someone.

“Your land?” the elf snarled back. “You can’t own land! Just like a human, to think you can come in here and take whatever you want-”

“We take whatever we want?” Your voice echoed in the small space of the cave. “You stole our crops! But sure, act all high and mighty because we like to make sure our own people get fed-”

“You can’t steal a living creature! What lives belongs to the land and the land is for all! Only a human would want to possess everything!” The elf stormed toward you, jabbing a finger toward your chest.

“Only an elf would claim the moral high ground while stealing food from the mouths of our children!” You rose to meet him, faces inches apart. His features were as delicate as any elf’s beautiful even when twisted in rage. The constant ache of your arm only spurred your anger further.

“We did no such thing! If you have not sustained the land so that it will sustain you, then you only have yourselves to blame,” the elf sniffed. Red haze clouded your vision.

“How dare you! All you elves claim to be so pure and noble, but you’re all just a bunch of smug bastards, lording your superiority over everyone else! I bet if your people had to fight starvation off by tooth and nail every year, you wouldn’t be so damn high and mighty!”

“At least we’re not the ones shooting any human on sight! We’re not a bunch of savage murderers!”

“We can’t trust you not to take our stuff! It’s either that or you rob us blind and we’ll die as surely as if you slit our throats!” You had pushed each other to the middle of the cave, right under the single shaft of sunlight. Your voices echoed off the walls, filling the space with overlapping noise.

“And of course, your first instinct as a human is violence! You couldn’t negotiate to save your stupid hide!” The elf leaned over you, his face barely apart from yours. “All you know is how to shoot and ki-”

Something underneath you groaned. The ground shifted, buckling under the elf’s feet. He wobbled. Directly beneath him, the floor of the cave shuddered. You backed away, skittering toward the wall. The cave floor was unstable. Perhaps it hadn’t been able to take the weight of the two of you standing together. Perhaps your voices had been loud enough to shake something loose. Or perhaps it was just the last straw on the camel’s back.

You saw a look of undisguised terror on the elf’s face as the floor on his side of the cave crumbled away.

It was pure instinct on your part. Perhaps it would have said more to your character if it hadn’t been, if you had made the conscious decision to save an enemy. But it wasn’t. You just saw his look of fear as he went down and lunged to catch him.

Your good hand caught one of his. For a horrifying moment, he kept going, fingers sliding through yours. Just in time, his other hand snapped up and caught your wrist. His fingers were slick with sweat, but he managed to hold on.

You groaned. You weren’t quite lying on top of it, but the position you were in was putting your weight onto your bad arm. It took all your strength to just hold onto him. There was no way you were going to be able to pull him back up and if this went on, he was going to pull you over the edge too. But you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t let him fall.

His legs scrambled at the crumbling ledge beneath him. “I can’t pull you up,” you said. “Can you try to climb out?”

“I’m trying!” He pulled on your arm, trying to climb you like a rope. You kicked your legs furiously, trying to find something to anchor yourself with.

One of your feet caught on a chunk of stone. You wrapped your legs around it, hooking your foot around your ankle. Slowly, sick with the agonizing pain in your arm, you pulled yourself away from the ledge.

He scrambled up onto solid ground as soon as he could grip the ledge. Both of you scurried away from the edge of the pit, huddling together against the wall. Now that your adrenaline was fading, the pain in your arm was crawling to new levels. You must have done something to it when you lunged for him. Cautiously, you probed the bone through the bandage. A coil of pain kicked you straight in the stomach. You rolled over and vomited bile over the ground.

When you were done, you sat back up, back pressed to the wall. Your skin was clammy and fine tremors wracked your frame.

Slowly, you turned your head to look at the elf. He was pressed against the wall, smudged with dirt and a few smears of blood. His eyes were focused on you, wide as saucers. “You saved my life.”

You spat a bit of stomach acid onto the dirt. “Yeah. So, I guess it’s all evened out now, huh? Maybe you can stop yelling at me for almost killing you.”

He blinked at you. “No, I mean- why did you save me? If you wanted me dead, there was no better chance than that one.”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I don’t know why I saved you. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw that you were scared and- I don’t know. It’s one thing to attack a trespasser. It’s another to just… let someone die.”

The elf stared at you for a moment, the whites of his eyes bright against the dirty background of the cave. “Your arm,” he finally said, “is it… okay?”

You didn’t want to look at it. “I don’t know.”

“Sit back against the cave wall,” the elf said, waving his hand toward you. He crawled over to you, settling next to your injured arm. You turned your head away. “I’m going to unbind it. Please try not to kick me again.”

“No promises,” you said, trying to smile through your gritted teeth. You thought you caught a quiet huff of laughter as he bent over you.

Cold fingers delicately unwrapped the cloth bandages and removed the splint. The elf sucked in a sharp breath. Your stomach dropped. “That bad?”

“Um,” the elf said. “You sort of lay on top of it when you grabbed for me, right? I think you, um. I think you pushed the bone a little further out of alignment.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. There was a measure of unsteadiness to it. “It’s hard to see down here, so maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“How bad does it look?” you asked.

The elf grimaced. “It’s… swelling. And the bruises are bad. And the bone’s out of place again.”

“Fix it,” you said. “You shoved the bone back in place before, do it again.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I can stabilize it, but you’ve jostled it more out of place than it was before. I don’t want to risk damaging anything else.”

You leaned your head back against the wall. “Just do what you can.”

He at least attempted for gentleness this time, but you still had to grit your teeth against the sheer awfulness of the pain. His fingers were nimble, and the warmth of his body against yours was almost comforting. When he leaned away from you, you found yourself missing the contact.

The elf was apparently reluctant to part as well, because even after he finished with your arm, he stayed next to you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “We need to get out of here,” he said.

“Yes. We established that already. The problem is how,” you said. “I can’t climb out of here even without a broken arm, and unless you’re hiding some impressive wall-scaling abilities, you can’t either.”

Something tapped against your side. You looked down to see the elf’s tail twisting and coiling on the ground. Occasionally, the fluffy tip would hit you, though it seemed to be more incidental than intentional. “No, I can’t. Especially not with an arrow wound.” He moved a hand over it absently. “But there has to be a way out.” He got up and started pacing along the wall, touching it with his palm. His tail waved behind him, swinging from side to side.

“Maybe,” you said, unconvinced. “Or maybe not.”

He fumbled along the wall for a few minutes, before lashing out with a kick. “Dammit! The floor crumbled so damn easy, why won’t these walls?”

He kicked the wall again and again, sending tiny stones skittering across the floor. You watched, wide eyed. The elf slammed a particularly hard kick into the wall and yelped, then started hopping around, clutching his foot. He slumped to the ground, mumbling and cursing.

“You all right?” you asked.

“Just bruised,” he groused. “Sorry. I get grouchy when I’m hungry.”

“We’ve got some more supplies,” you said, nudging the bag closer to him. He snorted, pushing the bag back over to you.

“Not that kind of hungry. There’s no light down here, except that tiny little patch.” He pointed up to the distant hole in the ceiling. The direct sunlight filtered down into the gaping hole in the ground. “I’ve been trying to meditate, but it’s just not effective without the sun. It’s making my skin crawl.” He gave an affected shudder before glancing at you. “How are you managing it? You’ve barely been affected by night-sickness at all.”

You stared at him. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”

The elf looked back at you with a similarly confused expression. “Night-sickness. Do humans call it something different? You know, when you haven’t done your light meditation for too long?” You shook your head. “Do you have totally different words for all of it? Look, how do you process the light from the sun into energy?”

“How do we- what?” You were staring to get frustrated. “You’re not making any sense. We don’t convert light into energy or whatever.”

“Then how do you get energy?” the elf said. He sounded well and truly bewildered, like the very idea was completely unheard of.

“We eat food? You know what eating food it. I’ve seen you eat.” Several expressions flitted across the elf’s face, from confusion to surprise to something like guilt.

“You only eat food?” he asked. You nodded. “Ah. That, er. Explains some things.”

“What does it explain?” you asked. “And what do you mean we only eat food? What else would we eat? Rocks?”

The elf chuckled weakly. “Then you would be a lot better position down here. No. Elves need sunlight. Without it, we get sick, and we can die. Food is still necessary, but we don’t need much. We have maybe one meal a day and we meditate to gain our energy other times.” His tail hooked around his chest, curling and twitching. “We can eat more food, but it’s… wasteful, I suppose. Or maybe overly indulgent.”

Several ideas were dawning upon you in the same moment. “That’s why elves don’t have farms. You don’t need them. You don’t eat much, so you can afford to just forage every now and then and gather what you want. Human farms must look greedy to you.”

“It did come across as a little…” He made a vague hand gesture. “A little gluttonous, perhaps. To have so much food and to be so possessive over it felt like an overreaction.”

“But we need it,” you said. “We got dangerously close to famine last winter.”

The elf shrank back. “We didn’t know! We don’t grow our own food! I mean, it’s not fun to go without food, but we can live. The idea of planting and growing living things that only you can harvest is just weird! You plant things because you like seeing things grow and get healthier, not because you have to.”

You kneaded at your forehead. “Are you telling me the war between our species for years has been because we didn’t know you guys eat sunlight?”

“We don’t eat sunlight,” the elf said. “It’s more of an energy transfer process. And you could have asked.”

“You could have asked before stealing our food!”

“We didn’t know it was stealing!” The elf had drawn closer to you as you were talking, and you were suddenly overly aware of how close you were. You could feel the heat of his body against yours. A wave of buzzing heat spread over your body from the pit of your stomach. Your eyes were unsettlingly drawn to his lips. His upper lip was fuller than his bottom one. Your mind wandered, almost casually, over to how it would feel to kiss the upper lips, to explore it with your teeth-

“Okay, get off me!” You struggled away from him. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but you thought there was a red flush staining his cheekbones. “It doesn’t matter how this whole thing started. Maybe, if we can tell people that this whole thing started with a misunderstanding, we can get them to end it. Or at least stop being so belligerently violent toward each other.”

The elf glanced at his injured shoulder. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try. But, uh. We’re still kind of trapped. We’re not going to be stopping a war if the only thing people find are our skeletons.”

“Which means we need to find a way out of here,” you said. You stood up, your legs wobbling. You hadn’t realized exactly how tired you were. Apparently falling into a pit, breaking your arm, and then rescuing the guy you had previously tried to kill was an exhausting process.

The elf stepped closer to you, eyeing you like he was worried you were going to fall over. “I looked around. I didn’t see anything.”

“Might as well give it another pass,” you said. “Not like we’ve got that much else to do.” You started to pace along the wall, trying to feel for any weak points that might lead to a tunnel. The elf stayed by your side, tail flicking around your ankles.

No matter how closely you examined the walls, they never became anything other than solid stone. “There isn’t a way out,” the elf said. He was starting to look despondent, slumping against the wall. “I’m going to die down here.”

“No one’s going to die down here any time soon,” you said. “We just need to figure out a way out of here! There must be one.”

“Or the only way out is the same way we fell in, which we can’t get to.” He watched as you kicked at the wall some more. “Don’t bother. It’s not going to work. If I couldn’t get out, you’re not going to do it.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Do people let you get away with this all the time at your home just because you’ve got a pretty face?” you snapped, then realized what you’d said. The elf, apparently unable to believe his ears, stared back at you.

“Er- what?”

“Never mind! I wasn’t thinking. It’s the pain. It’s making me loopy.” You gave another kick toward the wall. It remained as solid as ever. “Fuck!”

The elf stood back up. “Kicking solid rock isn’t going to help. You’re so stubborn. Are all humans like that?”

“Well, we don’t all give up like elves do, apparently,” you snorted.

“You waste your energy with fruitless endeavors instead,” the elf replied. He walked over to you, examining the wall. He still managed to have the refined air of an elf, even after spending a while at the bottom of a cave. “It’s not going to collapse.”

You staggered back from the wall. Your leg ached and the wall had suffered absolutely no damage. “Well, we can’t just stand here and do nothing.” You paced away from the wall and toward the pit. You couldn’t see the bottom, though it was already so dark it could have only been a few feet down. A breeze rustled your hair.

The elf sat down next to you. “You’re not thinking of throwing yourself off, are you?”

“No. You could push me, though. If you’re annoyed I’m still here.” It was a very weak attempt at a joke. The elf didn’t smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” he said. “Even if you’re the one who got me into this. I don’t want to be alone down here.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I, uh. Don’t mind having you down here either. I mean. I’m not happy you’re going to die too. If I could get you out, I would.”

“Me too. I just wish someone knew what we did. Maybe it could help people,” the elf said. His shoulder pressed against yours as he leaned closer to you. You leaned back into him. The contact was nice. He smelled oddly good, despite everything. Another breeze drifted up from the cavern beneath you, stirring your hair.

The elf went stiff next to you. “Did you feel that?”

“The breeze? Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

“It smells like the forest! Like fresh air! There must be a way out down there!” The elf scrambled to his feet. “If we can just climb down, we can get out.”

You looked uncertainly into the pit. The sides were jagged, with plenty of hand and footholds, but you weren’t sure how far you would be able to make it. “You’ll have to go on ahead,” you said. “I can’t scale the wall, not with my arm like this.”

The elf’s face fell. “I can’t just leave you here.”

“If you can get out, you can get help. I’ll be fine.”

The elf’s tail coiled around his legs and his ears twitched frantically. “No. I’m not going to leave you.”

“You’re going to have to! I can’t climb like this, and you’re even more of an idiot than I thought if you’re going to stay here just because I can’t get out. Go!” You waved your hands at him, ushering him toward the edge of the pit.

“No.” The elf planted his feet, fingers curling into fists. “I can get you out of here. You saved my life. I’m not going to abandon you.”

“Technically, I save your life after trying to kill you. So, I would say that sort of evens the whole thing out,” you said. The elf rolled his eyes, glancing around the small cave. “Look, the longer we stand around here chatting, the less time you have to get out of here-”

“No. I have an idea,” the elf said. He fumbled with the hem of his clothes, tearing it into strips. Most of his stomach was exposed, showing off toned muscle. You deliberately did not look at him. It was not difficult because he was definitely not appealing to look at. “Come here.” You took a cautious step closer to him. “No, come here.” He seized your arm and tugged you next to him. “Stand still.” He took the cloth strips, which he’d tied into a long band, and wrapped them around both of your waists, tying you together.

“What’s this going to do?” you asked. One of the elf’s arms fell loosely around your waist, trying to steady himself against you. An odd jolt jumped through your core. You froze.

“It’s a tether between us. I should be strong enough to support at least some of your weight. You can use your good arm to climb and I can support your other side.” You tried to twist your head to look at him, but that put your faces dangerously close together. You looked away. “But we’ll have to work together.”

“I can do that,” you said. The elf’s hand pressed to your back. His tail twined around your leg for a moment.

“Okay. Just watch your step.” It took some careful negotiating of your positions to start scaling down the cliff, but you managed. Your arm screamed with pain, but the elf’s body pressed against yours, bracing you. Climbing down the rock wall was a slow, uncomfortably process. Once or twice you slipped and the elf had to pause and brace himself to support you, and he even slipped once and you had to bear his weight. It was difficult, but you managed to coordinate your movements. Without speaking, you and the elf moved as one. His tail looped around your waist. It couldn’t support your weight, but it was comforting to feel the elf’s presence.

The wall went on and on. Your arm ached from the jostling alone, and you kept bumping it against outcropping stones. The elf’s breathing had taken on a ragged edge- clearly he was struggling to hold up both of you.

“Can you tell how much further?” you asked. The elf squirmed, trying to get a look at the ground.

“No. It’s really dark. Could be a couple feet. Could be further. I don’t know.” The elf leaned closer to you. “This may have been a bad idea. I… I can’t hold on much longer.”

“I know.” Your own arm was trembling. Going up was no longer an option. There was no way you’d make it back to the top. The only hope was that the ground wasn’t much further away.

The elf moved down a couple more feet. You could tell his moves were laborious. Maybe if he hadn’t been helping you, he would be doing fine, but supporting another person was taking its toll. “I’m sorry,” you said. “This is all my fault.”

“Yeah,” the elf said, “it kind of is, isn’t it?” He sighed. “At least we know the reason our species had a feud, though. Even if no one else ever does, we’ll know the truth.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I’m sorry I shot you and I’m sorry we ended up down here. But I’m gad we met.”

The elf’s tail curled tighter around your waist. There was almost no light, so you couldn’t see him, but you could feel him next to you. Just the two of you, huddled together in the dark. Even that small comfort felt precious. “I’m glad, too.”

As he moved to take another step down, the foothold he was using crumbled. You heard him yelp and felt him scramble to regain his grip, but his movements were clumsy and fumbling. The belt at your waist tugged and you tried to brace yourself, but it didn’t matter. You were tired and your weak grip was no longer enough. The elf’s weight pulled your grip free and you tumbled into the dark.

You barely had opened your mouth to scream when you slammed into the elf, landing squarely on top of him. He huffed out a breath and wheezed awkwardly as you tried to figure out what had just happened.

“What was that?” you groaned, struggling to push yourself up. There was just enough light to see by, which meant that you got a good look at the elf’s face, which was directly under yours, as he stared back at you. Your noses were almost close enough to touch. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest where you were lying on top of him.

“Um,” you squeaked. The elf didn’t seem to be processing the situation any better. He stared at you, eyes wide.

You recovered first. “We lived!” You scrambled up, wobbling a little. Your legs didn’t seem to be fully aware of the fact that you were alive. The elf made his way to his feet, equally unsteady.

“And you feel that, right?” The elf’s ears were twitching and his tail was waving in a constant, smooth motion. He tilted his head back, focused on the airflow of the cave. “The breeze is stronger. This way.” He took off at a light jog. You jogged after him, arm cradled against your chest.

There was a tiny glow of light in the cave that grew brighter and brighter the further you traveled. The tunnel sloped upward, your calves burning as you continued up the increased grade. The elf kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following him.

You turned a small bend and the light pouring into the cave became blinding. Instinctively, you squeezed your eyes shut. One of your hands fumbled and caught on the elf’s arm. He grabbed you back, and, clinging to each other, you plunged into the undergrowth of the forest.

Your eyes were slow to adjust to the brilliance, but apparently the elf’s were not, because he made a choked noise of horror. You squinted, eyes watering. There were dark shapes around you, humanoid shapes. Relief flooded through you. “It’s okay,” you said. “It’s oka-”

The pointy end of a spear hovered right in front of your chest. You froze. The elf, despite being about an inch taller than you, was trying to retreat behind you. You shifted to stand more directly in front of him, good arm out.

Now that your eyes were more properly adjusted to the light, you could see who was gathered in front of you. It was a hunting party, all four of them holding enormous spears and very ready to plunge those spears into the chest of an interloping elf and anyone who defended him.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your voice was slow and soothing as you could manage. “Guys. It’s me.”

The spear wavered. The man in front, Elias, frowned. “Step away from the elf,” he said. “We can take you back to town, get you some treatment.”

The elf was gripping your clothes tightly. His eyes were wide and he glanced at you uncertainly. You could read the terror in his eyes, the utter fear that you were going to hand him over to the humans.

You braced yourself. “No. Look. There was an accident. He helped me, even after I tried to kill him. He comes with me.”

Bewildered looks were exchanged between the hunting party. “He’s trespassing,” Elias said, but there was no longer as much conviction in his voice. You drew yourself up, trying to look as authoritative and confident as possible.

“He saved my life. And he had important news for us. He stays with me.” You ushered the elf fully behind you, daring the hunters to get around you. They looked at Elias uncertainly, waiting for his say so. He looked back at them. Already, they were lowering their spears, and Elias seemed to sense that they were no longer going to attack confidently.

“All right,” he said. “But the elf stays under guard.”

“I stay with him,” you said. The hunting party fell in around you. The elf squeezed your hand. You could feel a world of gratitude through that small motion.

You refused to leave the elf, even as they questioned him and treated your arm. Explaining about what you had discovered took some time, and there was certainly no small amount of skepticism. But after hours of waiting and repeating yourself, a delegation of elves entered the town.

“Guess you’ll be heading back home soon,” you said. The elf nodded.

“I’m glad of that,” he said. “Though I think… I think I’ll miss you. Isn’t that strange? Missing the person who tried to kill you?”

“Just as strange as missing the person you tried to kill,” you said. “I’m glad I met you, Viatas,” You had learned his name soon after the other elves had arrived.

“I’m glad I met you, too.” He leaned in and gave you a gentle hug, careful not to disturb your arm. He was warm and he smelled surprisingly nice and your heartbeat pounded in your ears as he squeezed you.

“We’ll see each other again,” you promised. “Now that we’re actually talking, I think things are going to get better.”

“I hope so,” said Viatas. He waved to you once more before following the elvish delegation into the forest. You watched him until he had completely vanished between the trees.

Three weeks later, you paced around the entrance to the cave. The sun was low in the sky, washing the area around you in an amber glow.

The foliage rustled. You froze, eyes locking onto the spot where it shifted. There was a moment of silence, then Viatas emerged, hands raised.

“Not going to shoot me again, are you?” he asked. You shook your head.

“Still can’t hold the bow, actually. My arm’s not fully healed yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Viatas sat down next to you on a fallen log. “I didn’t make it worse, did I?”

“No. They said I probably never would have been able to use it properly if you hadn’t set it. It’s just a bad break. You saved my life and my arm.” You nudged his leg playfully and he laughed. “I’m glad you got my message.”

“I was glad to hear from you. I’ve been worried. I mean, things are going well in my home, but I wasn’t sure how your people were taking anything. You’ve been all right, haven’t you?” He gave you a concerned look and you nodded reassuringly.

“I’m fine. Actually, I asked you here to talk about something. I just got assigned as an ambassador to the elves.”

Viatas’ eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah. Apparently an elf will come to my town and I’ll go to yours and that’s supposed to help with interspecies relations. So, uh. I’ll need some help when I go. And I figured that you’d be a good person to ask. I mean, you’re the only elf I really know.”

Viatas frowned. “You try to kill me, kick me when I try to help you, and my reward for getting you out of the cave you were going to die in is more work?”

You sputtered. “You don’t have to! I was just thinking I’d offer-”

Viatas rested a reassuring hand on your arm. “I’m kidding.” He drew closer. In the dim light, shadows played appealingly over his features. You found it a little hard to breathe all of a sudden. “I would love to work with you.” He drew closer still. “In fact, I’ve rather missed you-”

You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his. He moved in the same moment, lips molding to yours.

An amount of time passed. You weren’t really paying attention to how long. But you broke apart eventually. “You’re better at that than I thought you’d be,” Viatas said in a quiet, awestruck voice.

“Yeah?” you said. “I think you need some more practice.”

“Oh?” Viatas lifted his brows. “Well, perhaps I should get some.”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning close to him. “I think you should.”

#exophilia #elf boyfriend #elf lover #monster boyfriend #enemies to lovers #monster lover

[horrorslashergirl]

Chromeskull becoming infatuated with the reader so he stalks her and leaves special gifts on her doorsteps. 😊

Your girl here has a habit of getting writing ideas when buying lace lingerie and high brand perfume. Yes, because I bask into a little luxury...and Chromeskull.

Here you have a piece of some big-bad-killer-skull-daddy .

Chromeskull x Reader- Dating tips from Chromeskull

You attracted weirdos, that was your own opinion about yourself and you had a huge list of examples to attest to this said theory.

First, it was a guy in high-school who used to have a stash of playboy magazines. Nothing weird, only that he used to keep it in his backpack all the time with him. You even heard he masturbated in the school toilet. Gross. Just no.

Then there was a guy named Darwin that gave you love letters, only said love letters were always theories about how you resembled cartoon characters, not to mention the guy had a habit of spitting all the time when he talked.

Last, now in college, a pervert who always smelled of cheese and was a vegan. No, you weren't judgemental, but he always eats with his hands and tried to show his theories about eating meat is evil down your throat. You had enough to say the last.

Dating has never been your top game and being in college, you hoped you would find a decent guy, but your expectations weren't meet. Guys who were decent enough always scrambled away once they found out you weren't a dizzy bimbo who only giggled at every comment they made.

This is how you ended up on a Friday night at home, drinking some wine and watching serial killers documentaries, while your classmates were probably at a party, snorting cocaine and fucking into dirty bathroom stalls.

Yeah...Not exactly something you would look forward too.

Now, you weren't a prude, but giving head to a guy in a place that had probably STD all over the walls wasn't exactly appealing to say the last.

If only you could find a decent guy that would, at last, have the decency to wash before going on a date and who wouldn't choke on his own spit when laughing.

You were ready to get yourself a refill of wine when your doorbell rang, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

You sure weren't expecting anyone, but knowing some of your friends they sure would stumble to your house when drunk because they couldn't find their cellphones or keys.

Putting on your fluffy bunny slippers, you marched up to the front door and looked through the hole to see who it was. You learned from murderous documentaries that you shouldn't open the door at night if you don't know who it is.

None.

So, you opened it, looking from left to right to see if you could spot anyone, but no such luck. Probably some children messing around.

You were ready to close the door when your eyes looked down to see a white envelope on the welcome matt. Crouching down you grasped it and looked one more time left to right, hoping to spot the person who left it.

The silence of the night and chilly September night made you shiver a little, so you moved back inside to the couch and opened the envelope to see it was a letter, so you started reading it:

My dear little piggy,

Ever since the first time I meet you, I must say I always wondered how you would look in red, dripping down your body, your kissable lips into an 'o' shape, your nails dragging down my back as your flesh envelopes my knife.

Aren't you scared, so alone?

Your eyes widened at the twisted words on the white sheet, and the fact that the only sign at the bottom of the letter was a scribbled skull made it all the more unnerving.

That's the moment when you felt like you were being watched, your paranoid mind making you feel anxious.

If only you looked out the window you would see the ominous and out of the scenario black Bentley on the other side of the road.

In the past three months, things haven't been any decreasing either, because from twisted letters it all went to gifts if you could even call them that. Yes, they were gifts, but what made them unsettling was how the coincidence went.

You went out shopping one day and saw your favorite perfume, but didn't have the money to buy it. Imagine the surprise that after two days a velvet pink box sat in front of your door with the expensive perfume.

Then one time you saw a beautiful dress from Chanel that you were oh so tempted to buy, but rent and food were more important, then later that night you received it and it was your size. That was just disturbing.

This continued for months and from anxious to went to curious and intrigued. It was insane, but none in your life put so much thought in spoiling you, despite not knowing who this person is.

To put it simply you were basked into luxurious gifts and cards for shopping.

You felt special.

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

It came to no surprise that Chromeskull was always chasing piggies, but this time it was you that he was chasing after; not the usual slaughtering piggy way, but more like spoiling a little kitten who was you.

It was pretty comic to see a 40-year-old man chasing after a girl that has half his age, but what can you say? Jesse has always liked them young and fresh, no wonder he gave off big-bad-killer-daddy vibes.

He loved to see your appreciation for his gifts and attention towards you, despite it not being direct, but his self-consciousness after he lost his face made it almost impossible to get woman willingly.

Paying piggies to suck him off didn't count.

He wanted someone who was willing to go full length into a relationship with him, someone who he could have a good time, from conversations to mind-blowing sex.

That's why he chose you.

It all started with an unpredictable meeting.

Yes, you have meet Jesse, but you didn't know it.

How?

You were shopping and because you were in such a hurry to catch the bus, you run into him while you looked down at your phone, your head meeting his chest.

The way you looked up at him at that time almost made him want to stop you. Your wide eyes, not of fear or disgust, maybe it was surprising because he knew very well how a displeased face looks like, your pouty lips and slightly pink cheeks of embarrassment were so appealing.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir!"

That was the only thing you said before sprinting away and that was also the moment when he knew he wanted you and what Jesse Cromeans wants, he gets.

In the past months, he made sure you weren't lacking in anything and he was even more so pleased when you accepted all the gifts, seeing you wear the clothes he gave you made him feel like he owned you.

Normally, Jesse was the ever so most confident person you could meet, but now he felt like his shy teenage self, looking at you from a few feet away as you were grocery shopping.

He wanted to approach you. Badly, but how could he? His face and his muteness didn't help.

You were at the liquor part, looking over bottles with furrowed brows, not knowing what to get, until a pale hand gripped a bottle of expensive scotch from the top shelf, the forearms fully tattooed.

You looked behind you to see a tall and bald man, dressed in all black, the fully tattooed forearms been on display from how his sleeves were rolled up.

'This one is the finest scotch from here if you want to drink something more refined.' an electronic voice spoke from his phone that he held in the other hand.

You were to say so surprisedly by this man's approach.

"Oh...You're mute? I know ASL, so there's no need to type on the phone if it's easier for you." you quickly said, making the man grin.

Did you know ASL? How could he miss that? You were full of surprises.

'That's good. I hate to use the electronic reader all the time.' he signed, his grin never leaving his scarred lips.

'I'm Jesse.' he signed and you introduced yourself, shaking his bigger hand.

"I would love to try this scotch, but donating my kidney for glass doesn't sound too appealing." you said with a dry chuckle.

Dark sense of humor. Good. Check.

'How about I buy it and you go out on a date with me? Sounds like a deal?' he signed and you arched an eyebrow, a lop-sided smile on your face.

That was the moment Jesse felt nervous, despite not showing. He could already imagine you laughing at him, for thinking that a cute girl like you would go out with someone like him.

"Sure."

What? His brown eye widened a little and you giggled at his shocked expression.

"You don't have to buy me a 2,500$ bottle of scotch to go on a date with me." you said, making him silently chuckle.

'Do you want a ride?' he asked, signing and you grinned, nodding.

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

Yes, that was the start of an interesting relationship. At first, it had ups and downs because of the age-gap and the hateful comments, that made Jesse want to murder all the people that even dared to question his relationship with you.

Imagine the surprise when one time you punched one guy for calling Jesse 'old-sugar-daddy' and you 'nasty-gold-digger'.

That was another aspect of you that he learned that you had and started to love it a lot; you were a feisty little thing and protective of him.

You always took care of his ego, assuring him that he was perfect just how he is and it made Jesse's heart swell with things he almost forgot existed.

To put it simply, you completed each other....In all ways.

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

Your hair was splayed in a mess on the black silk pillows, one hand fisting the bedsheets and the other rubbing the bald scalp of your lover who had your red lace panties pulled aside and his tongue wiggling inside your heat, making your toes curl.

"Fuck.......Jesse......I-If you don't stop...I-I'm gonna squirt." you breathed out, chest heaving and nipples hard from all the pleasure that was jolting up your spine.

The man between your legs stopped, giving your clit a flick with his tongue, his body moving up on top of you, scarred lips meeting plush ones, kissing with you such vigor you sometimes couldn't keep up.

He broke the kiss, looking down at you, so perfect on his bed.

'I'm going to wreck your world.' he signed with a dark smirk and you couldn't help but smile, your hand coming to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his scars.

"Please do, Chromeskull." you whispered, looking up at him from under your eyelashes.

Jesse grinned, pulling you into another passionate kiss, taking your breath away.

#Laid to rest 2009 #Chromeskull: Laid to rest 2 #Chromeskull #Jesse Cromeans #chromeskull x reader #jesse cromeans x reader #slasher x reader #horror movies #SkullDaddy can throw me in a coffin any day he wants

[theskywaslookingback]

I've seen you taking prompts and if it's not a bother, Jontim with angy Tim letting all his anger go after Elias or someone equally nasty hurts Jon real bad?

you have the patience of a saint. here you go.

litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

"Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?" - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

When the tape clicks on, Tim can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. He’s been viciously marking over statements for at least an hour, highlighting anything that mentions a circus, skin, or a dance. There’s less of it than he thinks there should be, and every minute his eyes skim over written word after written word makes his blood boil higher and higher. He throws the marker to the floor, the bump and skid of the nub marking a trail of yellow from the desk to the floor where it rolls under Melanie’s desk.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly, his shoulders tucked up to his ears.

The recorder whirrs, cassette winding in its casing, a low hum of static emitting from it as the previously locked trap door to the tunnels swings open. Jon comes tumbling out, breathing hard. He looks...God, he looks like a wreck. Hair cropped haphazardly short, like chunks had been cut out with a bread knife, clothes hanging off him like rags. The door closes with an ominous creak, and is that--? Vaguely he makes out the shape of a hand, though that’s not right because no hand looks like that , waving right before the trap door shuts. But no, that’s…

“Well then, where have you been?”

Jon looks up, startled. There are deep bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. His eyes dart off of Tim to the desk where the tape recorder sits. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was...gone.” He says awkwardly. He keeps rubbing at his wrist and hand like they ache, and the skin does look rubbed red and raw.

“I know that. It’s not like you’re ever really here .”

The last time Tim really saw Jon must have been at least six weeks ago, shortly after their boss outed himself as a murderer . Tim tries not to think about that overmuch. The way Jon’s hand had gone for the recorder almost absently as he tried to apologize, to explain. Tim had yelled, he remembers that, said if Jon wanted to talk they would have to do it without the recorders and then Jon had left . And, well, that was the end of it, really.

Now, Jon flinches. His eyes resolutely trained on the floor at Tim’s feet and Tim can’t remember the last time that Jon looked him in the eye. Like everything else at the moment it just makes him angry.

“I-- I have to talk to Elias.” Jon says. He pulls himself up to standing and shuffles past Tim like it hurts to move.

“Jon.”

Jon stops. “Get this thing off my desk.” Tim can’t bear to look at him.

“Oh.” Christ , why does he sound so sad? “Yes, of course.”

The hand that comes down is so small, dark skin pocked over with holes that mirror the ones in Tim’s own hand. He remembers when they were both smooth, unmarked. The weight of that hand in his own, the feel of that palm under his lips. That seems so long ago now, before the stale air of the Archives turned them both sour and rotten. Jon’s hand closes around the smooth dark tape recorder, fingers folded around it both careless and reverential. His wrist and forearm are covered in abrasions, the skin peeling back in spots leaving half scarred, raw red skin. Before he can stop himself Tim closes his hand over Jon’s.

Jon jerks, in either fear or surprise Tim can’t say. “Tim, I--”

“What did this?”

“Tim it’s-- it’s fine I just...I need to talk to Elias.” Jon tries to pull away again and Tim squeezes hard enough to feel those delicate bones under him shift. “Ah! Ah! Tim--”

“ Jon .”

“Ah, the Circus, it was-- one of them kidnapped me and ah, they had me tied to a chair.” Jon chokes a little on his own words. “They-they we’re going to uh, wear me. I-I-I think it had something to do with a ritual. A dance. They called it the Unknowing .”

Tim lets go and Jon takes a step back, cradling his hand and tape recorder next to his heart. Tim can barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. He flexes his fists, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.

“So what they just...let you go?”

“Not exactly,” Jon huffs, “it’s-- it’s complicated.” He glances over his shoulder to the Archives entrance, like calculating his chance at getting out the door before Tim can-- do what? Stop him? Is that what he wants to do? He looks so tired, his shoulders hunched and arms scabbed over with half healed rope burns.

“They hurt you.”

Jon huffs out a breath, preparing for...something. Some kind of denial most likely, or maybe even an apology. Whatever it is Tim can’t hear it right now. He stands, the scrape of his chair on the floor making Jon’s jaw snap shut.

He swallows. “Well, yes and no. I mean, my skin is in better condition than it’s been in years.” Jon smiles for the briefest moment before it falters into a grimace, “Is that weird? That’s...kind of all they talked about.”

“Of course that’s weird ,” Tim bites, “everything about you is weird .” He takes a full step toward the door before Jon grabs his arm. Tim shakes him off, more violently than he needs to or even intends.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have a word with Elias.”

“Why?” Jon asks. It sounds startled out of him, like the abrupt firing of a gun. The tape crackles in Jon’s hand, growling like an aching, hungry stomach. “I mean, why do you care?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just curious.

‘I don’t,’ is what Tim wants to say. It’s what he means to say. But instead his stomach swoops and the words tumble from his mouth, unwanted and unbidden but true, “You’re all I have left.”

Jon’s mouth does something funny, trembling into an ‘o’. He fumbles for words, though nothing comes out but vague stammering noises. Tim snarls and grabs him by the shirt, twisting his hand in the fabric and pulling hard until Jon meets him chest to chest.

“Do not do that to me ever again.”

“I-I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t.”

Jon goes quiet. His hand twitches like he wants to grab Tim’s but lets it hover indecisively to the side until Tim lets him go. Jon stumbles backward, bumping into Martin’s desk. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, “okay, I-- okay.” Then, even softer with his eyes on the floor he says, “I’m sorry.”

The inside of his chest explodes white hot, a mix of anger and guilt and shame, and Tim slams his hand on his desk. The cheap wood rattles, pens bouncing off onto the floor and rolling away. His poor desk plant tips to the side and crashes hard against the wood floor and spills ceramic and potting soil across the ground. Martin comes thundering down the stairs a moment later, his eyes wide and startled.

“Tim, what’s--” He starts before his eyes land on Jon and his mouth drops into a soft ‘o’. “Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon breathes, and it comes out sounding overwhelmingly relieved.

Martin crosses the room to fuss, his hands reaching out like he wants to touch but knows he’s not allowed. He reaches out and takes the tape recorder from Jon’s hand, overly gentle. Tim can’t...he turns and strides up the stairs with furious purpose. Martin can do whatever he’d like. If he wants to work himself up into knots trying to care for someone with no sense of self preservation or common sense he’s certainly welcome to do so. Tim’s already burned that bridge.

It’s just...when Tim had nothing else at least he had Jon. And there is a very small part of himself that misses Jon terribly. The easy laughter drawn out by late nights with bad takeout, bent over research reports and books on the occult they couldn’t possibly hope to understand. The curve of his mouth, small and shy, after a kiss. The feel of his hand on Tim’s back, or holding his own. His body, small and lithe, curled into Tim’s side while they walked to the tube after work.

He misses his friend more than any of that. He misses the trust.

Tim is at Elias’ office before he can even think about it, riding a wave of rage so strong it almost knocks the air out of him. He throws the door open, letting it slam against the wall as he storms through.

Elias sits back in his chair and doesn’t even pretend at surprise. “Hello Tim.” He says cordially, smiling for all the world like nothing could ever go wrong for him. “Jon’s back then, is he?”

“You knew,” Tim starts, voice simmering with fury, “this whole time you knew where he was, didn’t you.”

Elias blows out a slow breath. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Tim--”

“Elias.”

“I knew Jon had been taken, yes,” Elias says, splaying his hands out in front of him as though in supplication, though the look on his face is amused, “but I did not know where. I was working on it, though it seems Jon did not need my help in the end.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Tim snarls, slamming his hands down on Elias’ desk and leaning in toward him. “Why didn’t you say anything ? Why did you let us think--” He cuts himself off, biting into the inside of his own cheek.

Elias tilts his head and narrows his eyes, there’s something vaguely predator-like about that gaze that almost makes Tim uneasy. “And what good would that have done, Tim? Hm? Would you have gone to him? Saved him?” Elias leans in and his eyes are so bright Tim has to lean back. “No. Don’t lie to yourself. You would have watched too, just to see him suffer because you thought he deserved it.”

Tim clenches his jaw, teeth clacking together hard enough it sends a jolt of pain up the muscle. “You--” He starts, but there are no words to convey the wrath making itself at home in his ribcage. A rage turned inward because Elias is right and Tim doesn’t know what to do with that.

Elias just stares at him, patiently, eyes bright and lips turned up in amusement. When nothing else comes he finally leans back into his chair. “Right,” He closes his eyes for half a heart beat and then looks up at the door, “That will do for now, I think. Jon is on his way up here right now so no need to close the door on your way out.”

Tim turns on his heel and leaves, his throat tight. He does slam the door shut behind himself as he leaves, an attempt to soothe the complicated torrent working its way around his chest, making it hard to breathe. He sees Jon down the hall, striding purposefully toward Elias’ office. He’s barehanded, no tape recorder in sight, and somehow that gives Tim enough pause to gasp in a breath.

Jon hesitates when he sees Tim, rocking back on his heel like he doesn’t know where to go, and then Tim takes two steps forward and pulls him into his arms. It’s not quite a hug, Tim’s arms are too tight and Jon has no way to move either forward or back, but Tim presses his face into Jon’s hair anyway just for a moment. When he lets go Jon stares up at him, bewildered.

“Tim?"

“No.” Tim says sharply, “Don’t start, just--”

“Right,” Jon says, confused, “right, okay--”

“Just--” Tim huffs out a breath, “Stay safe.” He says and leaves Jon standing there in the middle of the hall.

Tim has lost so much in his life. He’d lost Danny, and he’d lost Sasha. Now he’d almost lost Jon and didn’t even realize it. It wouldn’t happen again, Tim thought fiercely, not ever again.

#prompts #anonymous #fic #my fic #jontim #jonathan sims #tim stoker #elias bouchard #litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

[journalofimprobablethings]

take me back to the start

That idea about the Chalice and Lucretia would not leave me alone, so here's the full dang thing. Turns out Lucretia's temptation takes about 4k words.

Tags: Mentioned Lup, Mentioned Magnus Burnsides, Stolen Century Spoilers, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation

Summary: The Chalice makes Lucretia an offer, and she has to decide whether she's willing to pay the price for a second chance.

Full thing below but you can also read it on AO3 here

--

Lucretia wakes up in a white space.

She blinks, and as the room comes into focus, she can see it's not just an undefined void. There are shapes around her: furniture and plants, pillows and blankets and a coffee table, all so familiar—and she realizes with a pang that she's in the lounge of the Starblaster. But it's like she's in a ghost version of the room; everything is washed out, somehow insubstantial. She reaches out and touches a pillow, and even though she can feel it, there's something not quite there about it.

She looks around, torn between confusion at her surroundings and a sort of painful joy at the familiarity of it all. Then she jumps as a voice speaks behind her.

"Hey, Luce."

She turns and there, sitting on one of the couches, is Magnus.

Unlike the rest of the room, he's not washed out or ghostly. He's all there, solid, full-color. He's leaning back against the cushions, his arms spread over the top of the couch. He looks so relaxed, totally at home in a way she hasn't seen in a long time. Something about the whole scene bothers her, but she can't put a finger on what it is.

"Magnus? Where—what is this?"

"I thought we should talk. Since you finally found me and all."

"Finally found you? What are you—?" She looks at him more closely. There's something...off about him. The way he's sitting, the way he holds his head—it's like someone doing an impression of Magnus: the broad strokes are there, but the details are not quite right.

Then she realizes what it was that bothered her just now:

He'd called her Luce.

It's been years since anyone has called her that. Magnus always used to, before. But the Magnus she knows right now, at the Bureau, has never used that name for her. He's forgotten that he ever did.

She takes a step back.

"You're not Magnus."

He smiles, and there's a sharpness in it that sends a shiver down her spine. "No, I'm not."

"Who are you?"

Magnus—or the thing pretending to be Magnus—leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

"What were you doing just now? Before you came here?"

She thinks back. The boys had just gotten back from Refuge, had told her the story of the time-stuck town and all their loops—all their deaths. (And she'd wondered then whether it had felt familiar, all that dying. But she'd said nothing.) They'd told her, in broad terms, about the thrall of this most recent relic, how it was different from the others.

And then she'd gone back to her office, to channel the Light out of the relic into her staff.

She looks at not-Magnus again, a mix of fear and fascination roiling inside her.

"The Chalice," she says. "You're the Chalice."

He smiles, wider this time, and a smile that is distinctly un-Magnus-like.

"That's right," he says. "And I want to show you something."

Lucretia closes her eyes against that smile, takes a breath to steady herself.

The Chalice.

When she’s thought about what it would take to collect the relics, this is the one that has always worried and frightened her the most. The others have their thrall, but the things they offer—riches, power—are things that she has an easy enough time rejecting. She’s never wanted those things, not really.

But the Chalice holds something that she has always wanted desperately: the opportunity to fix your mistakes. The idea of second chances.

She’d worried about sending Magnus and Merle and Taako after it—even without all their memories, there are plenty of things they might wish were different. They didn’t go into detail about what the Chalice offered them, but she knows it can’t have been easy. She's proud of them for resisting it.

She's not sure she'd be as strong.

Lucretia opens her eyes, and summons every bit of the gravitas and distance she has cultivated in the last decade, pulling her professional mask back into place.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” she says. “I know what I’ve done. And even if there are things I wish were different, I know you’re not the solution.”

His face twists into a wry smile. “Look at you, Luce. We used to think you were such a wallflower. And now here you are: Madam Director. You're so...sure. So certain that everything you've done is for the best."

She shouldn't let it hurt her, the hint of judgement in his voice. This isn't Magnus, after all. But she can't help feeling stung.

"I did what I had to do," she says.

"And it's worth it? Worth the price you made us pay?"

"Don't say us," she snaps. "You're not him."

"You're avoiding the question."

He stands, and she resists the urge to step away from him as he approaches her.

“Come on,” the Chalice says, with Magnus’s voice, Magnus’s earnestness. “There really isn't anything you'd change? You really don't want a second chance to get it right?”

She could almost laugh at the question. Of course she wants a second chance. Of course there are things she wants to change. Every day when she looks at Davenport, when she watches the boys train and notes the difference in how they treat each other, she longs for what used to be. She can’t say she hasn’t thought about what she could do with the Chalice’s power, wondered what it would be like if she--

Wait.

There’s something missing here, something she’s forgetting. It’s a terrifying feeling, like missing a step on the stairs, putting your foot down expecting solid ground and finding only empty air. (Is this what it felt like? a tiny part of her whispers. Is this what she did to them?)

She does back away from the Chalice now, just a few steps. Her heart is beating hard in her chest, and she closes her hands into fists to stop them shaking.

"Why am I here?" she asks. “You shouldn’t be able to do this.”

"Oh, Luce." He smiles again, that same, awful, sharp smile. “You know why. You picked me up.”

She—

Oh.

Oh, no.

She had been in her office, getting ready to channel this piece of the Light into her staff, to join it with the others. She didn’t need to take the relic out of the iron ball it had been placed in to do this. No need to touch it, to risk being thralled. That was the point.

But she had been so curious.

This relic, of all of them, has always held such fascination for her.

“You wanted to see what I can do," the Chalice says. “And here I am.”

And with that, the lounge around them disappears. The ghostly furniture vanishes, leaving only the white void behind—and the Chalice standing next to her, still wearing Magnus's face. He reaches for her hand, but she jerks away before he can take it.

"Let me show you," he says. "I promise I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. Just let me show you."

Then he gestures, and the void around them bursts into life.

At first, there is so much at once the Lucretia can't parse through the chaos of colors and images. But as her eyes grow more accustomed, she realizes that they are surrounded by her memories. She sees snippets of herself over the last weeks, sitting in her office at the Bureau, talking to Avi in the cannon bay, visiting Johann and Fisher downstairs. She sees herself at the spa with Merle, trying Taako's macarons at the Candlenights party. The memories move farther and farther back in time, and as they do they begin to fly by faster and faster until the images blur together and the specifics are lost in a swirl of color. The flash and movement of it churns Lucretia's stomach, and she tries to turn away, to block it out, but the Chalice takes her by the arm and will not let her turn.

"Look," he says.

The blur of memories is slowing again, enough that she can once again pick out individual images—and as they resolve, the memories they show hit her like a knife in the gut.

Lucretia is surrounded, suddenly, but images of the day she broke their family apart.

She sees herself leaving Merle in the house she found for him on the beach

walking away from Magnus's carpentry shop in Raven's Roost

leaving Taako asleep in the back of his caravan

finding Barry's body in a field outside Neverwinter

collapsed on the floor beside Davenport's bed as he curls under the covers, clutching his temples.

Each image is clearer than the last, and each one twists the knife in her gut a little deeper. She wraps her arms tight around herself, trying to steady herself, to hold herself together, but she can't keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Please," she says. "I don't want to see this."

"Why not? I thought you did what you had to do." There is no pity in his voice. "I thought this price was worth paying."

The memories keep coming, and she sees herself finding each of her family after the redaction, reaching out to try and calm and comfort them. She sees Magnus walking into her room, the journal floating in Fisher's tank, a duck painted to look just like her dropping to the floor. She watches herself catch Magnus as he staggers, watches as her knees give out under his weight, as she catches his head before it can hit the floor and whispers assurances and love that he is too lost to hear.

The Magnus standing next to her watches too, expressionless.

It feels like they linger on that scene for an eternity before it, too, fades away.

Then, finally, the flashes of memories slow and stop, exactly where Lucretia knew they would.

They're standing in her quarters on the Starblaster, the glow from Fisher's tank casting the room into shades of grey and blue. Along one wall, the bookcase where she kept all her journals is half empty, each shelf pockmarked with holes. The desk is a mess of papers and journals and mugs of tea long gone cold. Lucretia looks to the corner where Fisher's tank sits, and even though she knows what to expect, the sight still takes her breath away.

She sees herself, wearing her red IPRE jacket, her hair longer than she's had it in years, stray curls escaping from the cord holding it in place. She's standing frozen in front of Fisher's tank, holding a blue journal bound in silver trim in both hands. Her grip on the journal is so tight that her knuckles are white.

The Chalice looks over at Lucretia. The whole time he was scanning through her memories, his face had been blank, dispassionate. But now, for the first time, he's looking at her with compassion and understanding in his eyes.

“This was the moment, right? The moment you changed everything.”

Lucretia nods. She remembers the feeling of this moment: like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, getting ready to jump. The terror of it, and the possibility.

She looks at her past self, standing at Fisher’s tank clutching the journal in her hands. Gods, she forgot how young she used to look. Her face is lit by the glow of the tank, her lips pressed tight together and eyes shining. There’s fear there, but there’s also hope—hope that this will be worth it, that she will be able to help her family be happy again. Hope that she will be able to fix everything.

She’s not sure when that hope transformed into a need; when the belief that her plan would work morphed from a quiet determination to a desperate desire, a story she told herself because to believe otherwise would break her.

Would she still have that hope, if she had made a different choice?

You can change it," the Chalice says. "Everything you just saw. All that pain you caused them. It doesn't have to go that way."

Lucretia looks at the frozen memory of herself, a version of her that thought she knew the cost of what she was doing. Who had no idea what loneliness and heartbreak she held in her hands.

What would it mean, if she had the chance to try again?

She could talk to the others about her plan, try to get them on board. She could still go through with the redaction, but she could make sure her family were inoculated first. The worst thing, the hardest thing, about what she’s done has been seeing what it did to the others. Seeing the sharp, cold person Taako’s become without Lup; the way that Davenport’s been left a shell of himself. Knowing that Barry is out there somewhere, alone and angry and afraid. The fact that the lives that she built for them fell apart one by one, and she could only watch.

She could save them that pain, if she changed this moment.

Everything she just had to watch, everything they've lost, everything they've suffered because of her.

She could fix it.

She could—

Could she?

The last time she tried to fix everything with one big decision, she ended up here.

If she did this, what new pains would come instead—what unintended consequences would such a choice unleash? If there’s anything she’s learned in the past decade, it’s that she can never fully predict the effects of her decisions, no matter how hard she tries. What if this decision only leads to new regrets?

Lucretia drops her head in her hands, all her desires and wishes and hopes warring inside her with a dreadful fear at what other hurts she might inadvertently cause.

The price of using any relic is so high; she's not even sure what exactly the price of this one would be. She has spent the last ten years working so hard to keep others from using them, to collect them so that she can cast her barrier and stop the Hunger once and for all. Would she really sacrifice all that to fix this one mistake?

She wants to say she would. She wants to say that if she knew she could spare her family pain, she would sacrifice everything else she’s done. But when she asks the question bluntly, the same answer that has gotten her through the last ten years comes up.

She did what she did for a reason. It cost them all so much more than she ever thought it would. But she’s not sure what else would be lost, if she tried to change this moment—and there is too much at stake for her to risk getting it wrong again.

No. She can't fix it. Not this way.

Lucretia lowers her hands, slowly, and shakes her head.

“I made my choice,” she says. “It hasn’t turned out exactly like I thought it would, but...I did what I had to do. I have to see it through.”

She lets her hands fall to her sides, staring at the still-frozen form of her past self. That's it, then.  She should feel proud of herself, she supposes, for resisting the Chalice’s thrall. But instead she just feels empty.

She looks up at the Chalice, expecting him to be angry, or frustrated, or at least disappointed. This was his last big play, after all. The temptation of Lucretia.

But the Chalice only smiles, and she hates the way that smile looks on Magnus’s face, all condescension and smug knowing.

“I thought you might say that,” he says. “You’re nothing if not stubborn."

What?

She had thought she knew what was happening here: a temptation, an offer that the Chalice hoped she would take and that she would have to resist, and if she did, then she would win. If that's not what this was--reliving those memories was bad enough, but to do it for no purpose?

Lucretia does her best to hide her confusion, to let only anger show in her voice. "Why did you show this to me if you knew I wouldn't change it?"

He shrugs. "It was worth a try. You might have surprised me. And it's important that you saw this first."

"What do you mean?" She doesn't like the sound of first. "I thought we were done."

“Not quite," the Chalice says. "There’s one other moment I want to show you."

The images around them are already blurring again, the vision of her standing in front of Fisher’s tank disappearing into flashes of color and memory. Lucretia braces herself for another onslaught, but it's only a few seconds before the blur slows, and when it stops, they are once again standing in her quarters on the Starblaster. It’s nighttime, the room lit only by a candle on her desk, and the glow from Fisher’s tank.

The younger version of her sits at the desk, her head leaning on one hand, the other hand twirling and pulling at a loose curl. She's reading one of her journals. Two more journals sit to one side on the desk, and there is a pile of several more at her feet. The young Lucretia’s leg is jiggling, and her hand pulls on her hair hard enough to hurt. Her posture might seem relaxed, but present Lucretia can feel her anxiety.

Her heart sinks. She remembers this night. It was the night after Lup had told them about the gauntlet’s latest death toll in Cordelia—and one of the first nights she really thought about what it would take, to use Fisher to erase the relics. She remembers the weariness on Lup’s face, the despair at what these things they’d made were doing to the world. How much she wanted to wipe that weariness away, how she’d thought that there had to be a way to fix it. She had sat up late into the night, a growing pile of journals surrounding her as she read through her records of the last year, and then further and further back into the century. Eventually she had fallen asleep at her desk, her head pillowed on an open journal, her mind spinning with questions—whether such a plan would work; whether it was worth it.

The next morning, they had found Lup’s note on the kitchen table.

"You think about this night a lot," the Chalice says. "The last night you were all together."

He walks over to the desk, looking down at the memory of her, and Lucretia resists the urge to step between them, to protect her younger self from the future looming over her.

“You didn’t know it at the time, but you were awake, when Lup left,” he continues. “She waited until she thought everyone would be asleep, and then she left her note on the table, and she slipped away. She thought she would only be gone a few days.

“And while she did that you were sitting at your desk, reading, thinking it might be time to take a break soon, but not ready to put down your work just yet."

Past Lucretia turns a page and sighs. Even more than the last version of her, Lucretia thinks, she has no idea what's coming.

"You never did end up taking a break, that night. And by morning she was gone.”

The scene shifts, and suddenly it’s like they’re standing inside the wall between her old room and the corridor outside. She can still see herself, sitting at her desk. But she can also see a figure in a hooded red robe making her way along the hall, her footfalls carefully soft. The scene freezes just as Lup passes Lucretia's door.

“Right now, in this moment, she’s walking past your room on her way to the kitchen. If you get up now, you’ll run into her, and you’ll be able to talk.”

Lucretia stares, frozen, at her younger self, at the cloaked figure of Lup outside the door. She had been right there. She had been so close. She never even thought—

What would have happened, if she and Lup had talked before Lup left?

If she had told Lup what she was thinking, of her plan to use Fisher to stop the war?

If she had asked Lup for help, tried to get her to stay?

What would have happened to them all, if they hadn’t lost Lup?

Suddenly, all her earlier firm resolve dissipates like mist. Lucretia looks at the figure silhouetted in the dim light of the corridor, and her heart aches and her stomach clenches with longing.

Lup.

It shouldn't change anything. All her arguments from before still stand.

She doesn’t know what consequences such a change would have.

She’d be sacrificing everything she’s done, everything she’s worked for the past ten years.

The price of using a relic is still so very high.

But Lup.

There’s a sudden, gentle touch on the back of her wrist. She startles, but this time she does not pull away as the Chalice takes her hand in his. His fingers are rough and calloused, the exact feel of Magnus’s hands, and the sensation brings tears to her eyes. It’s been so long since she’s felt anything like this.

“You can save us, Luce,” the Chalice says—Magnus says. “You know we fell apart, after Lup left. You can stop it. You can persuade her to stay, and we can find some other way to stop the war. Together.”

"Don't say us," she says, but there is no fire in it. She can see it, the future he describes. She can see it so clearly.

"Please, Lucretia." His eyes meet hers with such an earnest look. "You can save her."

And despite herself, despite all her caution and well-honed arguments, Lucretia can feel herself faltering.

When he made his first offer, she had been able to push her own desires aside. However much she might want to change what has happened since the redaction, she knows she did what she did for a reason, and she is too practiced at setting aside her guilt to let it sway her.

But this. This is different.

Lup's disappearance had no reason behind it, no purpose. She might have left with an intention in mind, but Lucretia is certain her not coming back was not part of any plan.

And now, she's being given the chance to make it right.

If she can keep Lup from leaving, then Barry will never have to waste away on a fruitless search, Taako will never be reduced to moving through the ship like a ghost, half empty. If she can talk to her, maybe they can keep their family together, keep them from falling into that place where the redaction felt like the only option. With Lup still with them, maybe the Chalice is right—maybe they can find another way to save the world.

There will be a price to pay. She knows this. The stakes are just as high as before, the uncertainty in some ways even higher. But by now she is used to calculating the costs of her decisions, and the prices she has to pay herself are always the easiest to bear.

And to save Lup? To bring her back? She's willing to pay just about anything.

Lucretia looks up at the Chalice, and though she knows he is not Magnus, he is so like him that just for this moment, she can pretend that there is nothing else lurking behind his earnest expression. She takes both of the Chalice's callused hands in hers, and she looks him dead in the eye, and she makes her choice.

"What do I have to do?”

#taz balance #taz lucretia #taz fanfic #taz #taz au #temporal chalice #grand relics #there's more to explore here in terms of alternate timelines #and maybe i'll do it someday #but time manipulation is Complicated and makes my head hurt D: #scribblings #long post #taz balance spoilers

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 28

Fandom: Marvel 

Summary:  Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​

The cheap excuse of a building, decorated quite violently in various obnoxious colorful shades, welcomed its new guests with blasts of a dying sanity. Music, you said. Loki would laugh, but he had to keep his teeth from chattering. 

The dancing, as you'd explained, was occurring in the vast central space of the large, windowless room, somewhere in between the wrenching, spasming bodies glistening from sweat and spilled drinks. Loki was unsure where precisely, for the lights were changing rapidly in colorful, nauseating bursts, but he trusted your word on it.

The interesting part actually seemed to be happening on the outskirts of the room, in the booths shadowed partially from the lights, and behind the few beautiful people dancing on the poles in a breathtaking show of agility with their painted bodies. 

Loki admired their skill for a moment before his attention was snatched to the two men standing by the far wall, nothing outstanding about them, right until the moment they opened a door for another man and then quickly closed it behind him. Despite the overwhelming amount of decorations stabbing Loki's eyeballs from every space he looked, the door was bare of any, making it almost invisible were it not for the movement. 

"Interesting," he muttered, his voice almost lost in the clamor. You only heard him because you were still standing together by the entrance, taking everything in. 

"We'll have to split up and find a nice tiger's tail to step on," you agreed. 

"Are you anticipating another fight? You should've warned me, I'd have taken a knife at least." 

You slowly made it down the few stairs leading to the dancing pit. On the other side of it, like a sole beacon in the writhing chaos, shimmered the bar. 

"You took it anyway," you said, sending him a wicked look. 

"What can I say," Loki shrugged. "If we're going to crash this party, we should at least do it with style." 

Your laughter rang in his ears, sweeter than anything the music boxes were capable of producing. You let go of his arm and for a moment, despite the accumulated heat of the ever present mass of bodies, the world felt cold again. 

"Good hunt," you wished him, holding his eyes for a bit longer, and slid into the crowd. 

Loki followed your figure and the shadows casted over your features, changing with each blast of color, but never truly twisting what he had come to know almost instinctively. His heart dropped the tiniest bit when he couldn't see you any longer. 

Loki squared his shoulders, clothed in the finest garment he could spot in this whole place, and decided to take another path, slightly closer to the booths on the left. 

He didn't rush, for he intended to be seen and he didn't shy away from the looks he gathered on his way. There was a cane leaning on one of the tables, behind someone's back. Loki's fingers merely brushed it on his way, and it fell right into his touch, already a part of him. He liked the firm wood under his fingers, although he personally would have chosen a different design. He shouldn't expect much from a person dressed like that, though, so he didn't. 

He merely gazed upon the booths, taking in the people laughing over drinks, some looking more focused on business and some twisted together, making the night memorable, if only poorly. 

By the time he made it to the bar, his ears rang with the deafening sounds, and he welcomed the soft suggestion of a change when the music seemed to quiet down a bit there, probably to allow for any non-yelled conversation. The long counter was polished and its edges engraved with faded silver. There were only a few occupants on the high, backless stools with soft cushions that encircled the place. Alcohol of various shapes and names Loki was unfamiliar with shone on the packed shelf behind the bar man's back. 

The moment Loki chose one of the stools, the bar man's eyes landed attentively on him. The boy seemed young, but Loki was not the best judge of humans' fleeting age. What he could, would, and in fact did base his judgment on, was their taste, and Loki, for the first time since entering this festering hole, enjoyed what he was seeing. 

He leaned to the man, his eyelids heavy and the softest hint of a smile playing on his painted lips. "Why don't you show me what you mortals have fun with, darling?" 

The man must've encountered all sorts of customers over his time, for he did not startle, and did not question Loki's words. He merely smiled, making Loki's eyes fall onto that beautiful feature, and reached behind him for the bottle. 

It was a good start, Loki decided, watching the art unraveling before his eyes. If there was anyone in this place aware of everything the clients did or wanted, the bartender would be the very first person they reached out to. Besides, Loki guessed, the man seemed fairly open to share a few things with him. He was not to blame, of course. There was a mirror behind the bar, and even though the lights danced constantly like feral things, Loki was sure that every second he had spent preparing for that night was visible, noticed, and striking wild jealousy into the hearts of others. Just as things should be. 

But as it happens with all good things, there were dimwitted individuals whose only reason in life was to interrupt such times. 

Loki's interruption looked like a frequent visitor to places of a disputable renown, and even though his clothes held a suggestion of not being ripped from the back of another person, the overall sense of fashion seemed to have been lost - a long time ago, and along with a toothbrush at that. 

"I haven't seen a new face around here lately," the man said, taking the seat next to Loki. 

With the greatest effort, the god forced himself to school his features and not wince or laugh his throat dry at the pathetic excuse to start a conversation. He had to remind himself why he was at that place, and that his main concern should be gathering information, even coming from such an unappealing source. 

"Oh?" he said then, because it wasn't saying anything, but merely acknowledging the man's presence. It was more than he deserved, but Loki was still in a good mood and felt enough generosity not to turn down a potential source. 

The bait had been noticed, and gulped down with the whole hook. 

"I'm pretty sure I'd remember someone so outstanding," the man said. "But I have a feeling we haven't been introduced. My name is Marco and I can't help but wonder what brought you here?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" Loki attended to his drink, sipping it with perfect manners and imperfect curiosity. 

"I'm afraid it isn't," Marco said, and the softest hint of steel plagued his smile. 

Loki sighed, burdened deeply with exhaustion one can only experience in unpleasant social situations. 

He turned his head just enough to see the man. "The word spreads, darling," he said quietly, even though the word was far from being spread yet. "Does it really surprise you that it garners attention?" 

There was a subtle difference between creating a perfect, but blunt bluff, and making it seem natural, and effortless. The night was growing hotter and perfect for crossing lines. 

Marco's gaze dropped for only the shortest bit, but it was enough of a suggestion that Loki's word struck something in him, and a seed of doubt had been planted. 

It would be reckless and naive to think of it as a success already, so Loki didn't let any of his thoughts show on his face. The drink in his hand was sweeter that he imagined, but carried just enough flavor not to overwhelm the taste.

Marco's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "Listen here, pal," he said. "I'd really like to know who precisely invited you in. We're not open for strangers, you see."

Loki put his hand to his chest. "You have no idea how much physical pain it gives me but I have to decline." 

The man blinked once, unsure if he was being mocked. "I beg your pardon?" he said through gritted teeth. 

Loki shrugged, indifferent. 

"Then beg." 

It was difficult to guess the changes in Marco's face, but Loki had a feeling it'd gotten a tad more red than it used to be. Such a beautiful sight it was, a man boiling inside. Loki chuckled and watched the man get to his feet. For a moment, it looked as if he was readying for a punch, but the idea left him as soon as it came. 

"This is not over," he spat and scrambled back into the twisting crowd. 

The barman, even though he had pretended not to see the conversation, cast a look after him. Loki leaned closer, baiting him with the empty glass. 

Another drink was served to him. Loki caught the bar man's eyes. "I've been wondering for some time now - this place is so huge and new to me. I would hate to wander off somewhere not meant for my humble self." 

The barman fiddled with the bottle for a second longer. 

"I'd certainly refrain from angering the mobsters," he finally said. His head motioned towards a booth at the far end of the wall to the right, only a few steps away from the not-so-secret door. 

The men sitting there were obscured in more shadows than other parts of the place. It almost looked like a conscious choice was made when the lights had been hanged. The dark suits were bare of any details, and so were their grim faces. It was difficult to see well through the bodies on the dance floor in between, but Loki thought he could see some cards being played. He wondered, although the answer should be obvious thanks to the semi-circle of empty space around them, if anyone would be reckless enough to join them for a round or two. 

A part of him tugged him in that direction. Stepping on a tiger's tail was a perfect description of what his soul sang for. If there ever was a better way to unleash chaos than angering the ones in power, Loki still hadn't found one. 

As if summoned by his wishes, the perfect partner in crime appeared on the edge of the crowd. Your cheeks were flushed from the heat emanating from the people, but your steps were as swaggering as ever. The smile you threw in Loki's direction was painted in the shades of deep, unruly satisfaction one was only able to achieve right before ruining someone's day. 

Loki felt your arms wrap around his shoulders as your hand gently turned his head in the mobsters' direction. 

"How do you feel about a game of cards?" 

His heart skipped a beat, his fingers twitched around the glass. "Dear, do I hear malicious intent in your voice?"

"Me? Suggesting we see how much they are able to lose before their patience snaps? I'd never." 

A laugh rumbled in his chest. "Then let's play the fairest game of cards this place has ever seen, love." 

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki/reader #loki/you #loki #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #Loki Laufeyson #loki laufeyson/reader #loki laufeyson/you #loki marvel #loki mcu #marvel

[rigorwh0retis]

I'll Take Care of You (NSFW)

Pairing: Michael Myers/Adam Francis

Tags: Genlte sex, Bottom Michael, Talking Michael and slight dirty talk.

Co-written with @knite-jin

"You're nothing but a nice hole for us to use. Look at you, enjoying us fucking your slutty ass. You stupid whore."

Evans words seared across his mind like a roaring fire as The Shape limped and stumbled. His fellow slashers were relentless when it came to fucking him, using him like their personal fuck toy that they tossed around to one another. Their cum leaked from Michael’s poor abused ass, uncomfortably sliding down his legs and staining his blue jumpsuit. Hot throbbing pain coursed through his body, screaming for him to rest but Michael's hunger wouldn't subside. He needed more cock. He needed to be fucked until his body couldn't physically take anymore of it. Michael continued in his carnal haze until he saw a bright beam of a flashlight flicker off into the distance. He knew that had to be one of the survivors.  

Their camp resided in these thick maze-like woods filled with unnatural, twisted trees that they used as protection from any slashers that tried to enter their domain. He didn't care who they were, it didn't matter which one of who he's gutted several times over and over, Michael needed their cock. He stalked over to them, tunnel vision focusing on the bright beam as it grew bigger and brighter until it almost blinded him. He stood there, eyes trying to adjust as he gazed at the familiar figure of the older man.

Adam Francis. He stood wide eyed, gripping the flashlight tightly in his hand as he appeared ready to run to the campsite. Michael didn't want Adam to go. He needed him now. Lunging forward, he dropped to his knees in front of Adam, hands grabbing the tight belt around the man's waist. Adam, hesitant at first, finds the courage to slowly kneel down on one knee. He looks for that awfully dreaded knife that his skin has tasted multiple times, and when he doesn't find one, his hesitation slowly diminishes. 

Adam reaches for the mask, and when he finds no fight coming from Michael he pulls it off to find tears and cumstains littering his face. Michael, being so cock drunk, starts to try undoing Adam's belt but is stopped. 

"Follow me, let me clean you up first, Michael."

Adam leads the younger man to a  little creek that the survivor's use to clean themselves up. It's decorated with strange glowing orange like flowers, almost illuminating a path for them around the shore. Adam has an arm behind Michael's back, guiding him to the pond. Michael immediately strips down, feverishly ripping his clothes off as Adam takes off many of his layers still leaving on his shirt and pants before he rolls up his sleeves. Michael slips into the shallow area, the cool water touching his burning skin. Adam's hands submerge in the water before wiping off the cum stains on Michael's face. 

They both start to thoroughly wash off the cum that coated his skin. Eventually, Adam's hands start to travel as he begins to scrub him down even further.  His hands naturally followed the curves of muscle on Michael's body. He swallowed a thick blob of saliva that got caught in his throat. The more his hands trailed over his hot skin, the more difficult the task became. His cock twitched in his pants as his hands glided over Michael's wet skin. Adam's hand trails down to Michael's ass. Fuck. . . Adam softly speaks, "Get on your knees, Michael. Let me do this for you." His fingers easily enter Michael's ass. Adam slowly pumps his fingers in and out of Michael's ass, his lips kissing Michael's bare shoulder as Michael grips onto his shirt. Michael pulled him into the water, getting Adam’s slacks wet. The killer is panting,  teeth gritting as his ass still burns from pain caused earlier by the other killers. Adam keeps kissing his skin, his tongue gliding to Michael's clavicle while praising him. "You're doing so good for me Michael."

"That's it...relax yourself around my finger." "Good boy."

Michael looks down to see Adam's cock straining in his pants. The Shape reaches down to palm his erection through the soaked slacks. Adam gasps and let's Michael free his cock from its clothed prison. Precum is heavily leaking from his dick. Michael moves closer to Adam until their cocks touch and Michael runts against him, fingers gripping onto his shirt. Adam moans and moves his hand from Michael's ass to their cocks, wrapping his fingers around both and pumping them both at the same time

Adam is moaning and thrusting up against Michael too as he jerks them both off. He manages to sneak one of his hands back around to prod and tease Michael's hole. At this point Adam is in the water but he ignores the soaked clothes. Adam's lips brush against Michael's as he gasps and Michael grunts before roughly kissing Adam. Their teeth clank and Michael is shoving his tongue into the other man's mouth in an almost feral way. Adam kisses him back and starts to stroke them faster. He feels Michael's ass clench around his fingers as he cums all over Adam's hand and clothes. An almost growly moan escapes his mouth. Adam pulls away, still hard as he hasn't came yet, and peers down to see the cum all over him. "Did that feel good Mic-", he's cut off as Michael crashes into him. Adam tumbled backwards and smacked his back on the shore of the pond. He jarred his back and head from the full force of Michael ramming into him. The killer is on top of Adam, heavily panting as he positions himself on Adam's cock before sinking down on it. He starts to ride Adam, his body still burning but he wants more. Adam's hands find themselves gripping tightly at Michael's hips, helping the killer find his rhythm and keep the pace.

 "That's it Michael...oh god yes, you're doing such a good job"

As Michael continues to ride Adam, he can't help but notice the softness and gentle nature of Adam. He's not hitting me, slapping me . . . he's not hurting me. At this point Michael begins to slow till he gradually stops. Adam massages his side, "What's wrong, Michael?" Adam attempts to sit up but Michael's weight is definitely an obstacle. He raises his hand to stretch them out, but notices how Michael minutely flinched. Oh, I see . . . Adam whispers to Michael to get off and to lay flat on his back. 

Without a second to waste Michael obeys Adam's words. The soft grass tickled his hot skin, as he got as comfortable as he could. He watched with lidded eyes as Adam came over and leaned his body over his. Dark, tender  eyes making contact with his own. He hasn’t seen this from anyone before. It was foreign to be treated with care, gently tended, and especially to have his own pleasure being a priority for once.

"Michael? Michael hey, hey Earth to Michael" Adam was stroking Michael's thighs. 

The curly brunette looked back up at him with a slight flushed look spreading across his face. "I'll make you feel good, Michael." Adam slowly kissed down Michael's abdomen - leaving small bruises as he sucked gently at the skin. Adam looked back up at Michael who sat up on his elbows now. There was a slight questioning nature in the way Michael's brows knitted. 

"Do you trust me?" Adam asked as his breath touched Michael's cock.

Michael stares intensely down at Adam, unsure if he truly trusts the man in front of him. His killer instincts are snarling inside of him,  clawing at his brain to stop Adam and rip his throat out. Yet, the small humanity that clings onto Michael soaks in the soft touches and tender words that drip from Adam's mouth like sweet honey.

 Michael nods, soft brown curls bouncing softly. His heart is pounding in his chest, the thrum of it loud in his ears. Michael's body shudders in pleasure when he feels Adam's warm tongue swipe against his tip. His fingers claw at the dirt and wilted grass beneath them as the other man starts to run his hot tongue around Michael's throbbing cock. The appendage running along the veins that pulse beneath it. Adam laps at the precum leaking from Michael's cock

Michael's entire being began to shake as Adam began to swirl and suck at his sensitive tip. His chest began to rise and fall - his breaths becoming stuck in his throat as the overwhelming sensation of his orgasm began to peak once more. That familiar tightness in his abdomen began to grow, but at the last second Michael reached forward and pushed Adam away before he came.

"Ah, shoot", Adam slightly groaned as he brought his hand up to his nose. It was bleeding. 

Michael can't explain why he felt a sudden sense of guilt. It chewed at his skin when he watched the small droplets of blood drip from Adam's nose. He's going to punish me echoed through his head, but that blood-lust in his head also rang loud. Make him bleed more, make him hurt, make him-

Adam got up and walked on over to the body of water and splashed his face with the cool liquid. "Was it too much, Michael? You could have just told me to - oh, right . . . sorry." Adam had remembered from Laurie's stories about how Michael never uttered a single word. That he chooses not to; Adam respected his decision. He pinched his nose one last time before turning around towards the latter. Adam nearly jumped out of his skin when he came face to face with Michael. 

Kill him kill him kill him-

Michael grabbed Adam's forearms and led him back to the wilted grass. He brought Adam to lay on top of his chest, taking in the slightest lingering smell of his blood. Adam leaned down to his ear and whispered, "May I fuck you, Michael. I want to show you how good I can make you feel." Adam bucked his hips, rubbing his cock against Michael's, causing a deep lustful moan to come from the both of them.

Michael tilted his head back into the grass, inviting Adam to do as he pleases to every inch of his body. Adam once again peppered his skin with small kisses, biting at his clavicle and the crevice of his neck. His legs began to spread wider, allowing Adam to comfortably align himself with his entrance. 

"Shit . . ." Adam mumbled against Michael's ear. He hissed as he felt whatever cum was still deep within Michael's ass slowly dribble out, causing his cock to easily slide deep within him.

Although his hole has been used as the others slashers personal fuck-doll, his abused hole ached and burned as Adam entered him slowly. Adam moaned once his cock was fully sheathed deep inside of Michael. Grunting at the delicious hot tightness that hugged his cock. His hands gently, almost romantically, trailed down the curves and dip of Michael's navel and scarred hips. Michael looked absolutely handsome, even if he was a bloodthirsty killer that brutally killed Adam several times during trials. In this moment, he saw that sliver of humanity still in Michael as it lay defenseless before him. Adam moves ever so slightly, causing the man under him to whine. 

"Are you ready for me to move, Michael?" Adam asked, one of his hands trailing up to cup the soft, supple flesh of Michael's chest.

Michael's eyes looked away, peering off into the far distance where a tiny spec of light glimmered. That must be where the other survivors - 

"Hey", Adam said softly as he brushed away a strand of curly hair, "I promise no one will come out this far. Trust me." That was the second time Adam had told him to trust him. 

I trust you. . . Michael spoke it out-loud with the deep sigh that escaped his chest. He didn't know where to place his hands. He was used to them being bound and tied till his hands nearly turned purple. An electrical sensation of heat ripped through his core as Adam thrust himself deep within him. His arms in an instant found their home wrapping around Adam's back - pushing the older man's bare chest against his own. 

With Adam unable to sit up due to the tight embrace Michael had him in, he focused all his movement and strength in his lower half. Fucking Michael with steady, deep thrusts. Their foreheads were touching one another in this tight embrace, sharing the same breath as they synced their breathing as one. 

Michael wanted more, he needed more. His strong embrace loosened around Adam's back. His scarred hands found themselves cupping Adam's ass. He bucked his hips forward as he forced Adam to penetrate him harder and faster. His fingers dug into the meaty flesh of Adam's ass, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the older man as if he might disappear. 

He didn't want Adam to leave. He wanted, no, needed the older man more than he needed anything ever. Michael felt as if all his troubles melted away. As though the scars of the past that sunk its canines deep into his soul and the bloodlust of the entity, had temporarily vanished as Adam thrusted into him. His dark eyes pulling Michael into a loving ecstasy as Adam's cock stretched him, hitting his prostate as ways of pleasure shot through his body that made Michael see stars.                

"God, you feel amazing Michael," Adam panted. His lips brushing against The Shape's while his hips snapped into him as a hand reached down to stroke Michael's cock. Everything burns, like a wildfire burning through his veins as their bodies rub and brush against each other. The sensation of their skin gliding against each other, the feeling of Adam's fingers brushing against his skin, Adam chanting his name like a prayer as he continues to fuck Michael. He drowned himself in that euphoria. 

A low sob escaped Michael's lips as Adam's hand stroked his cock even faster. At this point he didn't care if he made noise, he didn't care that Adam could hear him sob and moan like a "wanton whore". As the Trapper had called him multiple times while he fucked him out of spite. But Adam did none of that. His gentle voice had ebbed those rancid memories and visions as he praised him - almost lovingly calling him by his name. 

Sweat dripped off the tip of Adam's nose, sliding down into the equally sweaty flushed neck of Michael's. His hand slowly cramped as he continuously stroked and pumped at the same speed as his thrusts. The facial expression sitting on Michael's face had created a pang of sorrow deep within his heart. I won't treat you like they treated you. I promise, Michael. 

"Does that feel good, Michael? Do you want more?", and he meant it. He slowed this thrusts as he slightly sat up back on his knees to look at him better. 

" . . .y-yes. . ." a low raspy voice filled the silent pocket of sound between their panting. Michael froze. He looked away as though Adam was the sun ready to burn his eyes. He shielded his face with his arms. No no no no - what is he doing to me? Kill him, kill him now! 

Adam gave a very soft chuckle, "Of course, Michael." Adam's heart raced as he heard the ruthless killer's voice fill the air between them. He knew how out of character that must have been for him, so he left it as is. Paying it no attention for the sake of Michael and his comfort. Adam grasped Michael's waist with his left hand, steadying himself before he nearly pulled his cock out. In one fluid motion he snapped his hips forward - directly hitting Michael's prostate. The cry of pleasure and pain rang sweetly in the air as Michael grasped at the grass. Adam fucked him with intent - but of one to bring him pleasure.  With every thrust, Michael's core throbbed - his entire soul drunken with the euphoric sensation of Adam's cock. 

Adam peppered kisses across Michael's scarred back, mementos by the other slashers littered his skin like an animal markings. Bruises, bites, scratch marks and fresh cuts from knives scattered across his back and Adam felt a pang of sadness and pity wash over him. Even if Michael was, as some might crudely call him, a monster he was still like the rest of them. A pawn forced to play a sick game to an abomination that forced them into a never ending hell. 

It made him angry, hell these marks downright pissed.  But right now all the older man wanted to do was worship Michael like the beautiful creature he was. Teeth gently nibbled on the sensitive skin of Michael's ears as he continued to thrust faster into the younger man as he almost sang praise to him. 

"You're so lovely Michael," Adam cooed, his hand moved down to fondle The Shapes balls. He felt the younger man's body start to tense and shake as he came closer to his climax. Adam was not far behind. "Will you be a good boy and cum for me?"

Good boy . . . 

He doesn't know why that name had sent chills down his spine - that turned pleasurable the more he chanted those words in his mind like a prayer. Fuck, he wanted to hear those words again - he wanted Adam to call him a good boy . . . to praise him and shower him with his suffocating gentleness. Michael closed his eyes, picturing Adam cumming on him as he sweetly praised him for doing good. Picturing Adam suck and stroke his cock until he came undone; being rewarded and called a good boy. 

The Shape steadied himself as he reached down to unite with Adam's hand that fondled his balls. He gritted his teeth as he fought his weakening body from collapsing to the ground. 

"God, you feel so good around my cock, Michael". Adam's thrusts gradually became sloppy as his climax began to swell. "Fuck!" Adam bit down on Michael's shoulder causing The Shape to moan out and pump his cock harder in response. "God, please cum with me - be a good boy and cum with me Michael", Adam began to ramble. "Can you be a good boy for me Michael?"

A breathless yes escaped Michael's mouth.

"Yeah?" 

". . .yes, please" Michael closed his eyes as he lost himself in Adam.

Adam smirked against his earlobe, "Then cum for me, cum for me now like the good boy you are." Michael cried out as his orgasm spilled into his hands, coating his fingers and slowly dribbling down into the grass below. Hearing Michael cry out easily sent Adam over. With a loud "Fuck", Adam pulled his cock out from The Shape's ass and spilled his cum across Michael's lower back.

". . .Michael . . . good boy. . ." Michael crashed onto the wilted grass below. His eyes had grown heavy, and before he knew it he had lost himself to a heavy, and well needed slumber.

Adam chuckles softly at Michael's glowing, sleeping body. For a killer, even Michael has his soft moments. Adam moves his body close to Myers, still feeling the heat radiate off his body before reaching over to softly play with the soft brown curls of Michael's hair. His knuckles gently brush against his strong jawline.

 Adam looks off into the distance to the campsite, the flickering light of the fire sways between the trees. He knows it's not before long another trial will start as their never-ending loop of violence starts again. Yet, as he glances down to Michael's peaceful face, all those thoughts seem to disappear as he stares at the younger man. He bends down to peck a kiss onto the scar that runs across his left eye before pulling him close to Adam's chest. For now, the only thing the older man wanted was to drift off into slumber with Michael in his arms.

#my writing #adam francis #Michael Myers #dead by daylight #RISQUE

[the-blind-assassin-12]

in the arms of the ocean- four

A/N: Oh hi there, don’t mind me just casually dropping off this new chapter at 1 am as if that were a normal thing to do... actually... it kind of fits for this one. you’ll see why. Anywho, this part is a little different. It only focuses on two time periods as opposed to the normal three, and we finally get to see Reader’s POV on some things!  

Word Count: 4,187

Warnings: death, trauma 

Present Day

NO! 

Your mind screamed the word as though it was the only one it held. Beneath the surface, the water was a brackish, murky brown, and the salinity stung your eyes as it churned around you. But you kept them wide open and trained on him, refusing to blink out of fear that if you did, you’d lose him to the frigid fathoms forever. He seemed just as reluctant to take his eyes off of you, just as afraid of what closing them might mean- that any second could be his last, or yours, and he wouldn’t waste that second blinking. 

No! No. I won’t let that happen. I have to get to him.   

The current was stronger than you’d ever felt, angry and deliberate as it tried to drag you further away from Caspian. You fought to free yourself from the pull, arms slicing and legs kicking as hard as you could. Ignoring the burn in your chest reminding you that it had almost been too long since your last breath, you thought only about reaching him before it was too late. Just as you swam close enough to see him clearly through the muck of the swirling sea though, your eyes widened even further as you watched thick, algae covered ropes snake up and around his wrists and ankles.  

Caspian, no! 

He thrashed against his bonds as they wound around his limbs, but the more he tried to shake them loose, the more tightly they twisted. You knew that you had to cut him free, and you knew that you had to do it quickly. Reaching down into your boot with your right  hand,  you pulled out a small knife, your left hand cutting through the water to find his. Fingers linking together, you squeezed his hand, and to your relief you saw some of the terror vanish from his eyes. Despite the way your chest was begging you for air, you let go some of your own fear and began sawing at the rope around his wrist  with your blade. You always kept it sharp, so it took only a few passes to sever the woven strands, and your heart thumped joyfully as his freed hand immediately found your face.

Caspian… It’ll be alright. I Just have to… 

You squeezed his hand once more and then tore it away, turning to his other arm. Repeating the same method you’d used before, you laced your fingers with his, and began to cut the tethers. But as soon as his second hand was free and he tried to reach out to touch you again, he was jerked backwards before he could make contact, the ropes you’d just cut wrapped back around his wrist as though they’d never been damaged at all. Surprise overtook him and he shouted out loud, and though you couldn’t make out the sound, you were certain that the stream of air bubbles rushing from his lips was the shout of your name. 

No. No, no, no! 

You knew that Caspian could hold his breath for longer than most men, but you also knew that he was dangerously close to his limit even before he called out to you. Frantically, you began working at the bonds around his ankles, hoping that you could somehow move more quickly than the enchanted ropes could knit themselves back together. But even as you moved from his right leg to his left, you could see the ropes slithering through the murky water like eels to encircle his ankle once more. 

Hopelessness began to take root in your heart, and it ached worse than your burning lungs as you realized you couldn’t save him; that he would die and that there was nothing you could do about it. You released the knife, useless to you now, and let it drop down to its new home on the ocean’s floor. The only thing left to do was to be near him, to hold him one last time so that he knew that he wasn’t alone, that he was loved. He continued to try to free himself, if only just to touch you, body writhing this way and that, but his movements became weaker and less determined with each passing second. As you wrapped him in your arms, you felt him slow, his breath choking it’s way out, until finally he was still and heavy. 

“NO!”

A despair that you had never experienced sliced at your soul as you felt the emptiness and the silence where his heartbeat should have knocked against yours, and you let out a cry that emptied your lungs of oxygen. The burning ceased as you involuntarily inhaled a breath of salt water, but instead of sputtering and drowning, you breathed freely, gulping and sobbing in grief. 

“Caspian,” you couldn’t understand why you were able to breathe and speak underwater, but it didn’t matter. He was gone, and all you had were the icy waves. “I’m sorry.” 

The ropes that were still wound around his limbs began to sink, pulling him down to the floor and out of your grasp, and as you watched him fade into the darkness, your gaze fell upon your own lower-half. Despite the gaping hole in your heart, your eyes widened in shock as they took in iridescent purple fins where your feet should be, delicately fanning out like lace in the current, your legs replaced by a tail covered in scales of the same striking shade. Before you could scream or cry or panic, a familiar voice filled your ear, the words you’d never forget echoing softly around you.

“Close to you I’ll always be to keep you safe upon the sea.” 

Mother? You absently touched the star-shaped pin in your hair as your tear-tired eyes strained, trying to cut through the dark water, searching for Sereia. But instead of the mother you hadn’t seen in twenty five years, you were met with a glowing green pair of eyes and the end of a sharp trident that the green-eyed being was thrusting in your face. 

“Choose.” It hissed, moving closer to you, close enough that you could make out its pallid, nearly translucent skin. “You must choose who will be saved.” Snarling, it rushed at you, the sharp points of the trident aimed at your eyes as you screamed…

A strong pair of hands gripped your biceps as another voice registered in your ear, this one closer, and concerned. “Shh, it’s alright. Breathe, you’re alright.” 

Caspian! Your eyes flew open and found his immediately, even in the dim light of the single lantern that lit his cabin. The Dawn Treader. We’re aboard...we’re docked at Isle Lorley and…He’s safe.  You blinked furiously, as though trying to confirm your surroundings. I was sleeping...dreaming. You looked over Caspian’s shoulder, eyes darting to the hammock hanging in the corner, blankets strewn on the floor and the colorful pillows overturned. You realized that he’d been asleep, too, and that he’d sprung awake, hurrying to get to you at the first sign of your distress. Breaths coming in gasps and pants, you tried to swallow the fear you’d felt while you slept. But he was… You shuddered, knowing that it was something that would stick with you for some time. 

He sighed your name as you returned your eyes to his, relieved that you were finally awake. “It was just a dream,” he told you, running his hands up and down your arms as you fell shaking into his chest. “You’re alright,” he murmured, lips burying in your hair to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You felt his warm breath on your scalp, heard his heart beating steadily in your ear, but still your eyes welled with tears to dampen the collar of his nightshirt. “You’re safe, I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’ll always be right here.”  

“No. It wasn’t me…” You whimpered the words between quiet sobs. “It was you, Caspian.” Muffled by material and watered down by tears, you knew that he couldn’t hear you clearly, but the words kept tumbling out. “It was you…”

“What did you..? I can’t…” He kissed your hair again and you felt a few strands get caught in his beard. “Can’t hear you, just…” One hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he held you. “Just breathe, please, it’s alright.” 

Your sharp breaths burned your throat, chest shuddering as you let the pain you felt in your dream pour out of you. You were vaguely aware of a rough knock on the cabin door followed by Drinian’s voice. “Your Majesty? Is everything..” 

Caspian’s lips were by your ear to drown out the rest of Drinian’s worried call. “I have to let him know we’re okay.” Of course.  He kissed the skin behind your earlobe as you nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, dragging his knuckle under your eye to rid your cheek of a stray tear. 

You watched him cross his quarters in two long strides, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging your shins. If you hadn’t been so terrified, so convinced that you had just watched the man that you love die in your arms, you’d be embarrassed at the fact that your nightmare had caused you to scream so loudly that the Captain must have assumed you or the King were under attack. Nightmares were uncommon for you, though, and this one had been powerful. Your chest felt tight and sore as you tried to calm yourself, and you knew that you wouldn’t completely calm down until Caspian’s arms were around you again. He looked back over his shoulder at you as he spoke to Drinian, convincing the man that it had only been a dream and that the two of you were not in any danger. You heard Caspian’s closest friend sigh in relief, and soon enough the door was clicking closed and you felt the mattress dip as he came back to your side. 

“Drinian is a good man.” Caspian moved to lean against the headboard, then reached for your waist to pull you into him. “He heard you and,” you circled your arms around him and he reciprocated the hold, pressing his lips to your temple. “He needed to make sure you were safe, that we were.” You nodded again, still unable to find words. Your breathing was still shaking your body, but it wasn’t as rapid and shallow. It was easier when you could feel him; strong and warm and real. “I told him it was just a dream.” 

Just a dream? It was by far the worst thing your subconscious had ever conjured, and you shuddered again as the icy remnants of the fear your mind had put you through raced down your spine. You had no idea where the nightmare had come from. The two of you had spent the day celebrating your engagement with your father, the revelry spilling out of the small house and onto the beach to include the entire crew of the Dawn Treader. Vash had shared his casks of berry wine, fueling the merriment as Grivez and Timmin fueled a large bonfire out of driftwood. Cheepimeek, who had had his fill of the deep purple drink, heartily spilling as much from his thimble as he swallowed, was regaling your father with the tale of his first voyage for the third time that evening. Takos had even joined Ropen in playing music, the Minotaur proving to be quite the virtuoso with a lyre despite his large hooves and somewhat oafish demeanor. You had danced with Caspian, your bare feet slipping through the sand as he twirled you under his arm, both of you laughing as you collided and collapsed. It was a perfect night...why did I… where did this come from? 

After a few more minutes had passed and you’d relaxed your body against his, Caspian’s calm but concerned voice was in your ear again. “Do you…” He adjusted his hold on you, moving his arm so that he could see your tear-streaked face. You peered up at him and he frowned, his brown eyes weighted with worry. “Can you tell me what happened? In your dream?” I can but… You closed your eyes for a beat as he continued. “You were screaming and I…” Your eyes opened in time to see his head shake. “Please, tell me what happened.” 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  .. 

One Year Ago 

“So,” Caspian glanced side-long at the three ships that were docked, their masts rising high above the cobalt waves, and then let his eyes wander to the other masts just slightly up the beach; the ones that he didn’t see when they first came ashore. “Are you going to tell me what happened there?” He gestured to the cracked posts and shattered pieces that lay scattered along the shoreline, some poking out of the sand at odd angles as the surf surged around them. “Were those all ship-”

“Shipwrecks,” you finished the word with a nod as you led him back out of the small house and towards the larger workshop. Your nonchalance was a shock to Caspian. She says that like they’re commonplace. “You were luckier than most, Caspian the Tenth. You only split one crossbeam, and all of the Dawn Treader’s masts are intact.” 

Despite the warm breeze, a chill trickled down his back. Luckier than most… we almost- he shook his head and looked away from the bones of those less fortunate vessels, and back at you as you continued. 

“Sure, you’ll need new sails, and we’re making some adjustments to the beams,” you ticked those things off on your fingers as you spoke. “But the shipbuilders who built your ship?” Your forehead creased and you looked straight into his eyes, a serious, almost melancholy tinge to yours that caught him off guard. “If they hadn’t done such good work… In a storm like that one, lives could have been lost.” 

I know. He winced, the faces of every crewman flashing through his mind before another realization dawned on him. If she’s seen multiple shipwrecks… Caspian counted the remains of at least six ships of varying sizes. Then she’s seen…  

“We save more than we don’t.” Your voice was quiet beneath the rush of the waves, but he heard you clearly and he snapped his attention back to you. She’s seen sailors die. “The men aboard the ships we-” you swallowed, eyes darting out to the ocean and then quickly back to his. “We try to save them all, but sometimes we...can’t.” You sighed and looked quietly out at the water. 

Caspian felt a weight drop into the bottom of his heart. He knew how it felt to carry what you spoke about, and he wished you didn’t have to. But he also knew that the odds were next to impossible that every soul would be saved in a bad wreck. And those were bad. Before he could think, he reached over and placed his hand on your arm just as you had done earlier. Oh. But he didn’t pull away, hoping that he was able to give you even a fraction of the comfort that you had provided him. You both looked down at where his long fingers curled around the back of your bicep, his thumb falling into the crook of your elbow. “You try to, though. And that’s what matters most.” He gave a small squeeze before letting his hand drop, and you watched it fall to his side before looking back up at him. You save so many lives, keep so many families whole. “You try to do as much good as possible.”

You smiled then, a warm surprise softening your eyes. “Thank you, Caspian.” You nodded. “We do try, very hard.” 

Suddenly, Caspian was overcome with curiosity and simply couldn’t keep from asking the question that had started burning in his brain the moment he met you. “I-” He paused, tongue slipping out to wet his lips as he tilted his head to the side. “I don’t... quite understand,” though tempted to look back out over the skeletal remains of the ships that had run ashore, he kept his eyes on you instead. “How have there been so many…” he shook his head, your name shaking loose with it. “What is this place?”

Your eyes narrowed and he watched a lump move in your throat as you swallowed again, and Caspian worried that he’d offended you with the way that his question came out.  I shouldn’t have asked like that, I just- But you didn’t let his worry hang in the air, your voice cutting off his thoughts. “Isle Loreley is…” chewing your bottom lip, you turned your face towards the cloudless sky. “Think of it as a safe harbor, one that could...appear, when a ship most needed one.” 

Magic. Caspian was no stranger to things that were not so easily explained. He’d met with wizards and magicians, seen curses and spells both cast and lifted. He’d sailed to the edge of sea, defeated witches and fought alongside Narnia’s kings and queens that had been sent from other realms. He knew of magic, and it never ceased to amaze him. So that’s why it isn’t on any map… that’s why she doesn’t acknowledge Narnia as her home or me as her King. “The island...what, moves?” 

You sighed with a shrug. “I know how it sounds and...I’ll admit that I can’t explain it all, but to put it simply? Yes.” 

To put it simply? “And...do so many ships really…” He trailed off, the answer obvious. 

“The sea is… it contains great power, Caspian.” You shook your head and the sunlight caught the pearls dangling from the starfish hairpin that held your hair back. “Isle Loreley represents some of the good, but not all of the ocean’s intent is pure. We…” You motioned for him to follow you, seemingly unwilling to stand in full view of the broken masts, as you continued on towards the workshop doors. “We do our best to try to balance the tide of...ill intent.” 

“You’re heroes.” He followed just a step behind you, as eager as you were to be clear of the sight. “You-” 

You turned then, and he nearly collided with you. Staggering back, he blinked in surprise, but you didn’t flinch. “Not heroes, Caspian. Just...doing our best.” Eyes flicking over his shoulder to the lapping of the surf, they returned to his face. “There are heroes in this world. Ones that make sacrifices so that others can be...can…” You sighed again. “There are heroes. We aren’t.” 

You are to us… Before his frown could cut too deeply into his face, you changed the subject, spinning back around in time to open the workshop’s large wooden door. “But we’re here to talk about sails, aren’t we?” 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..   

Present Day 

Caspian tried to keep the worry from his voice because more than anything, he wanted to offer you comfort. He’d never seen you so frightened. Reluctant to talk about certain things when first you met, sure. But since you’d made Cair Paravel your home and certainly since the two of you had started to become close shortly thereafter, he’d never known you to be afraid. I’ve never heard her scream like that. He stroked your hair, hand trailing down to your back and silently hoped he’d never have to again. Just as he wondered if you hadn’t heard what he’d asked, you started to answer.  

 “I couldn’t-“ another sharp inhale cut your words short. Beneath his palm, Caspian could feel your lungs fighting to find a natural rhythm. His frown deepened but his touch never faltered, and after a few more passes of his hand up and down your spine, you took a much more even breath and continued. “I couldn’t save you, Caspian. I-“ Your fingers curled more tightly, bunching up the fabric of his nightshirt, and he responded by tightening his hold on you as well. “There were ropes, winding around your arms and legs and,” you pulled away from his shoulder then, wiping at your eyes before training them on his. “And I tried to cut you free, but every time I cut through one, another would appear, even more tight, and,” you brought the hand that you’d just swept under your eyes with to his face, fingertips still damp with your tears. “And then you were dragged down, and I couldn’t...I just...I had to watch you d-” But you couldn’t finish the word, shaking your head and tucking yourself against his body again. 

He hadn’t stopped his soothing touch, even though he himself felt far from soothed. Burying his lips in your hair, Caspian pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Shh,” he hushed you, not sure of what else to say. “I’m right here. I’m alright, and you’re safe and no one is going to hurt us.” I won’t let it happen… He looked down at the way you were curled close to him, and though you looked small and fragile, he knew otherwise. You won’t let it happen either. 

“That wasn’t all,” he felt your breath against the skin at the opening of his collar as you spoke. “In my dream I... I heard my mother’s voice and I never…” You sat up then, turning to lean back against him. He immediately switched the position of his arm, wrapping it around your shoulder and coming around your front as you settled into his chest. “I never dream of her, Caspain. I never hear her. I… you know her words as well as I do now, but I never hear her…” 

His free hand ran up and down your arm and your side, the soothing touch and the low, flickering light and the gentle rock of the boat beneath you starting to finally lull you back away from your fear. He wanted to know more about your mother, but he never knew how to ask. She doesn’t know much about her either, he’d tell himself, not wanting to bring up the fact that she was taken from your life so long ago; that you’d spent most of your life without the woman. But she’s going to be my wife, my Queen, and I need...I want to know these things about her. “What do you-” he swallowed, fingers freezing midway up your arm before spreading out to cover your bicep with his palm. Squeezing gently he turned to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Will you tell me what you remember? About her?” 

You inhaled through your nose, your closed eyelids wrinkling as you clamped them more tightly shut before releasing the breath in a rush of air through your lips. I know. He winced, wishing he hadn’t had to ask, that somehow he could just know, without having to make you relive it. I know, you don’t want to talk about it but I- 

“I don’t remember much, Caspian, I was only three when she...when…” With a sigh, you leaned into him, your back pressed against his chest and your head resting on his shoulder. He hadn’t moved his lips from your hair, and he kissed you again, whispering your name and resuming the motion of his fingertips over your skin. “I…” You flipped the hand that was resting in your lap and Caspian filled it with his free one, knuckles sliding between yours. “Laughing. I remember laughing with her. All the time.” 

Though he still felt unsettled to know that your nightmare had been so realistic and frightening, the way that your voice changed when you spoke about the few happy memories you held onto with her made him smile. He slid down so that he could rest against the pillows, pulling you with him. You made to say something, likely questioning whether he was sure about falling asleep in the same bed, but he dragged the tip of his nose around to your cheek before kissing away the last of your tears. “Shh,” he said sleepily, still pulling you down to lay with him in the small bed. “I’m sure.” He kissed you again as you found your position, waiting until you were comfortable before speaking again. “What else do you remember?” 

Far outside the small windows of the cabin, leagues and fathoms away, the ocean churned. Cold currents clashed with warmer ones, icing them down and turning them tumultuous as storm clouds gathered above them. The night sky hid the way that the water changed from deep blue to harsh gray, and the rumble of thunder was so low and so far away from any pair of human ears that it might as well not have happened at all. But it did, and so did the flash of lightning that cracked right on it’s heels, illuminating the swirls of greenish tendrils stirring up the sea. 

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As always, thank you for reading! If you would like to be added or removed from the tags please feel free to let me know! 

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @malionnes @suchatinyinfinity @gollyderek @pheedraws @russobill @thesumofmychoices @beautifuldesastre @fific7 @dearmarii @tartiflvtte @ificouldhelpyouforget​ @vetseras​ @manymanymanyenvelopes @alraedesigns​ @valkblue​ 

#in the arms of the ocean #itAotO #caspian x #THE TENTH. #king caspian #king caspian x reader #king caspian x you #caspian mermaid au #king caspian narnia #meek made a lil appearance this time!

[war--lords]

Hot God for mitsuhide please? Congrats on milestone! 🎉

How is it possible to be busy doing nothing? Somehow there are so many little things I need to do it takes up the whole of my time. Here’s a short one. I’m sorry I’m not so productive.

The only AU here is Mitsuhide’s taste buds.

It’s quiet.

You’re the only person in the dimly lit kitchen, with only one simple task so as to not waste precious oil for the lanterns. Nevertheless, it needs to be done right. The last thing you want to do is make your client mad.

You begin by setting up the countertop for the upcoming work as you will drowsiness away from your eyes. You have been entrusted this client for a week, yet somehow you find waking up a few hours before dawn still requires more strength than climbing a hundred steps up the temple to deliver the item later.

Thinking about it has got you tired already.

Rolling up your yukata sleeves, you begin work.

You open a shallow wooden barrel to reveal rows and rows of aburage, fried tofu skin, in its golden perfection. They were prepared around midnight by your father, the client’s first chef of choice, as a way for him to help your takeover. His age is really catching up with him—something you thought would never happen, what naivete—and after twisting his ankle walking down the last few of the hundred steps that lead to the temple, he declares that you, his only child, shall shoulder that responsibility.

The temple’s abbot just couldn’t hire any other restaurant in town to make their daily offerings. 

You grab an earthen pot and pour the best grains of rice you have in store, as well as water and a little bit of vinegar. Closing its lid and placing it over an open fire, you are left waiting for it to steam. As the rice cooks, you wet your hands and begin opening up the flattened tofu pouches and placing them on a black and red lacquered wood delivery box.

The soft clatter of the shivering pot’s lid tells you that the rice is ready, so you open it to let it cool, enjoying the steam as it billows on your face. At least it’s fragrant, you think as you wipe a bead of sweat off your forehead. 

Soy sauce, cooking wine, and a pinch of sugar. You wonder if it’s too sweet. Placing your index finger into the bowl, you bring it up for a taste. Your father has never officially coached you in the kitchen, not to mention share his coveted recipe. But the abbot hasn’t complained about any of the food you’ve made for Inari Ōkami, and it has been a week since you took over, so the food must be alright. Surely.

You really have no time to dwell on insecurities. Several birds are already chirping outside, which means they sense the sun rising over the horizon soon, which in turn means you have to deliver the sushi soon.

Hurriedly pouring the sauce into the cooked rice, you use a spoon to mix them all up, careful to not smash the rice into mush. With your hands you scoop them up, shaping them in your palm before stuffing them inside the aburage pouch and flipping them right side up, so as to conceal the rice inside the pouch. Shape, stuff, flip—on and on you go, like a cogless machine going through the motions. 

It’s only a few minutes later that you’ve finished the sushi. Taking a step back, you spend a much needed second or two admiring your work—it’s definitely not your first time doing this, but somehow it still is sort of mesmerizing. The shiny skin of the tofu pouch, gleaming golden in the dim kitchen, the sweet scent of the rice... 

Oh, right, the abbot requested a kizami topping this time. You swiftly grab a small bowl of pickled red ginger and a pair of chopsticks.

“I actually prefer it plain, thank you.”

You let out a loud gasp and, in your shock and amidst your whirling to see who’s behind you, you have let go of the kizami bowl. It would crash against the ground with a loud noise and spill ginger all over the floor if not for the man’s help, because he has a hand below the bowl, smiling cunningly as he hands it back to your still surprised personage. 

It’s as if he knew that was going to happen. 

You point your chopsticks at him.

“How did you get in? What do you want?” You shout-whisper, not wanting to alert your sleeping father.

The man, hair as white as snow and clothed in the best silvers and reds, chuckles at your response. As if to prove to you he doesn’t mean any harm, he takes a few steps back to the doorframe, leaning against it without a care. 

“About a week ago I noticed the slight difference in the sushi. I am investigating, and I have found the answer that I seek.”

“Which is?” You say, clearly not understanding what is happening in the world. You can’t even bring yourself to confront him for not answering your first question.

“The old man isn’t in charge in the kitchen anymore. His,” the man’s eyes, which you now notice are gleaming yellow even in the dark, examine you from head to toe and you freeze, “only child is continuing his work.”

“And is there a problem with that?” You are aware of your words only sounding like mildly intimidating yet hollow signs of aggression, but that’s only because you want this weirdo to leave.

“Not at all. I quite like the child’s cooking, in fact.” His face remains that of lidded mischief before he chuckles again. “Pardon me, I didn’t mean to sound as though insulting you—you are clearly no child.”

“Get out of the kitchen,” you finally say. His only response to that is a few steps forward towards you and a palm pressing against the points of your chopsticks as if silently mocking you for threatening him with bamboo cutlery and not a knife. You are in a kitchen, after all.

“Do not be alarmed, little mouse. It is just that my business here is simply not complete until I can be assured that you will not put pickled ginger on my sushi.”

It is only then that you notice, through the dim of the kitchen, that the man in front of you has a tail, swishing left and right as a result of what you can only assume as annoyance. The man in front of you is no man.

You didn’t think it was possible for his smile to be bigger and look... schemier... but there he is, sporting a handsome grin that is too wide to mean anything good.

“Oh my God—”

“That would be me, yes,” he smirks, cupping your cheek. He’s suddenly standing so close. “It certainly took you a while to figure that out.”

An apologetic look passed through his eyes when he sees that you are unable to reply with a witty comeback—or any sort of response, at that, because you look like you’ve frozen up. He doesn’t blame you. Any human would rather dig themself a hole and stay there than realize that they’ve just pointed a pair of chopsticks as a way to threaten the Inari Ōkami.

He brushes his thumb against your cheek in what he hopes feels like a reassuring gesture. You look like you’ve calmed down a little. 

Looking at his face makes you feel all sorts of things in the pit of your stomach. Adrenaline, reverence, and fear—all of those conspiring to increase your heart rate to levels of medical emergency. Add that to the fact that his face is kind of close to yours and he looks nothing like you imagined (you thought all gods are supposed to be old?), you feel like you’re... blushing?

“...No pickled ginger?” You ask, hoping to distract him from the blood that’s quickly rising to your cheeks. He smiles.

“No pickled ginger.”

“I can’t do that.” Canary-colored irises widen a fraction.

“Why, pray tell?”

“The abbot is not going to accept something he didn’t order.”

“I’ll make it so that he won’t look into that box.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course, little mouse,” he says, letting go of his gentle hold on your face. He turns his attention to the lacquered wood box and hovers his hand above it. A small breeze appears in the room, and then a light from his palm, and then nothing—he turns back to you. The spell is presumably placed, and you have no idea of knowing, yet it doesn’t occur to you to question him.

“Okay,” you say, abandoning the bowl of pickled ginger on the countertop.

“Many thanks,” he says, smoothly placing himself in front of you again. You can’t help but notice that at that moment, his tail has also swished around to stroke you around your calves. 

“Your father’s recipe is astounding.” He begins, tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. You find yourself breathless. “But yours is something else. It’s exquisite.”

“Thank you,” you reply, mostly out of reflex. He’s so close!

“I hope you won’t find it troublesome if I come to visit again sometime.”

Your lips fall open, but no words come out. How can you even say no to a literal god? And there’s that smirk on his face again, like he can actually read the contents of your mind as if they were written on your forehead.

“Thank you for the food, little mouse. I’ll see you again soon.”

And then he tilts his head down, giving you the most delightful kiss on the lips that instantly renders your knees weak. There’s a taste on his mouth that feels so right, so addictive... you can’t help but close your eyes and lean into him. 

More. 

He welcomes you, guiding your hands to rest on his lean chest before snaking his own around your waist, pulling you closer, like a snake would a prey. And yet you can’t bring yourself to stop reciprocating—he chuckles against your lips as he delivers kiss after kiss, not at all shy at the sounds he makes, pulling away when you least expect him to and returning right after—

A rooster cries out from somewhere near and your eyes fly open in surprise.

He is nowhere to be found.

You find yourself immediately curling up into a sitting ball on the floor, melting in a kitchen with no live fire, save for the heat that’s generated by your cheeks, because they are positively burning. 

Inari Ōkami told you he enjoys your food and made out with you. Heavens, how was that not a dream?

The sound of birds chirping brings you back to reality. It’s sunrise. You have to deliver the sushi to the temple now lest you want to be late, which will terribly affect your father’s reputation. Trying to ignore your heart beating loudly in your ears, you put a lid on the box of ginger-less inari sushi, and you suddenly realize something.

If the abbot chews you out for messing up his order, you’ll know the fox man was a fever dream.

If the abbot really doesn’t look inside the box, you’ll know he was real.

Hurriedly slipping your geta on, you have a feeling that everything will be okay—the abbot will be too busy to personally receive his order and he won’t be looking inside the box because it’s a sacred offering. You’ll be paid as usual. Perhaps you’ll get to meet him again soon, maybe as you leave the temple grounds, but when you do meet he’ll definitely be smirking that smirk of his again.

Touching your lips, you wonder if you’ll get the chance to kiss him before long.

#mitsuhide #akechi mitsuhide #reader insert #gender neutral #au #1.5k #imagine #imagines #scenario #darling anon #ikemen sengoku #ikesen #cybird #sfw

[nelllraiser]

liability | solo

— - “our minds distort our mirrors”

contents: gore, death mention

     The attendant had given her a strange look when she offered him her ride tickets, as if he were looking for whoever she’d come to the carnival with. After all, why would someone go into a Hall of Mirrors alone? “Just me,” Nell offered him succinctly, not entirely having the emotional depth to say anything more at the moment. She just wanted to get this over with, to see what she’d come to see. Of course, there was no knowing what she’d see, exactly. But Morgan had promised her visions of the past, the future, or perhaps even things in between. Personally, Nell was hoping for the future.

     The path her life had taken thus far was one she knew well, and perhaps not one she was all that interested in reliving at the moment, not when it seemed she’d just been making mistake after mistake as of late. The most recent set of them had started all of nearly a year ago in the form of August Thompson and her summoning a demon in the depths of a Peruvian forest. Then Montgomery and Bea’s death. Did it count as two mistakes when it had metastasized from the original one? Or was it still just one? She decided it didn’t matter as she entered the first hall, and looked into the mirror. It was a familiar face, though she was already much changed from the girl that had returned to White Crest nearly a year ago. Compact with lean muscle, dark hair, a mouth that could turn as easily into a grin as it could a scowl, caught somewhere in between. Her arms were the most obvious change, the scars of the skin grafts and multiple attempted healings and reopenings sticking out like a sore thumb. Her skin was mottled, marred in a way that made her arms look like they’d been patched together, a quilt of slightly varying skin tones and textures, rough scarring in places, and smooth, shiny, skin in others. She’d been physically stitched back together after the resurrection, but what of the rest of her? Nell remembered what it had been like to shatter, to feel the very core of her world somehow both implode and explode, and she’d tried her best to pick up the pieces. To fit them back in the spots they’d been before. But the puzzle had changed, hadn’t it? The shapes and empty slots they were meant to fit into didn’t slide into place like they had before, so instead she’d had to jam them into place, folding and mashing them until she made them fit. She refused to be broken, to be anything other than something that could be turned into a tool to achieve the ends that she wanted, needed.

     But perhaps in doing that she’d made yet another mistake. The resurrection hadn’t gone as planned, she’d put blood on Adam’s hands, and then another old mistake had decided to surface. Her mistake to ask Remmy to the Ring, her mistake to confront Jax, her foolishness in believing that all the monster catchers had the same rules she did, the error she’d made with Jared and Ronald on his farm. How many mistakes was she allowed until she had to face the fact that perhaps she was poison, her own rottenness infecting the lives of others like a slow-spreading disease. Her latest past was muddled, and with the Ring gone, and no clear direction in her life, there was no future that she could see for certain. But the mirrors...maybe they give her something to work with, something to work towards. 

     There was still nothing as she stared into her reflection, dark brown eyes simply boring into themselves with an intensity that was often intimidating when she wasn’t smiling. And she certainly wasn’t now. “Give me your worst, then,” she demanded of the mirror, ready to sift through whatever it might want to show her until she found what she was looking for, even if she herself didn’t know what that was. As if ready to rise to her challenge, the mirror shimmered, her present self melting away until she was faced with her childhood self. The young Nell was playing with a deck of cards, shuffling and practicing sleight of hand while Bea and her mother were close by, beautiful eruptions of fire springing from her older sister’s hands. Nisa cooed at her eldest’s creations, and Nell seeing this, toddled over to the pair of them. “Mommy, look!” she began excitedly, doing her best to get the cards situated. “Pick a card!” Nisa spared her a quick glance, the matching brown of her eyes reflected in Nell’s. “Sweetie, I told you- it’s Bea’s lesson right now. I’ll get to you later.” But Nell knew what that meant. Later had yet to come, and seemed to never arrive when it came to her mother and teaching Bea the ways of fire magic and stage work. 

     “No,” a present-day Nell replied fiercely. “I know where I’ve been. I know my past. Show me what I want.” These childhood memories of being ignored weren’t what she was looking for. She wanted answers, something to show her that maybe all these mistakes had been worth it, to give her a sliver of hope that she wasn’t the terrible person she feared she was. Trying to focus her intentions, Nell figured her attempts to shape the mirror’s path and magic were worth a try. “You will show me what I want,” she nearly growled between gritted teeth. 

     For a split second, it seemed to work, and another version of Nell appeared before her. Older, scars on her arms, as well as a collection of even more scars she didn’t recognize. Old enough to have crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes, but young enough to still be a woman in the prime of her life. Her gaze searched over the stranger before her, trying to discern anything she might be able to glean from the future version of herself that would give her guidance or hope. But nothing happened, she simply stood there, as still as a rock while the witch waited for something, anything to happen. Finally, frustration got the better of her, and a fisted hand banged against the glass of the mocking mirror. “Do something!” she yelled. Nothing happened. Or at least...nothing appeared to happen for a long moment. Then— from the corner of her reflection’s eye, something began to appear, pooling in the corner of it. A freckle? No, it was too dark for that. It gathered there, pooling before it dripped, ruby red down the front of Nell’s face. Blood. Suddenly, a twin tear trail of the blood dripped from her other eye, joining the other as they fell. Surprised and confused, the real Nell looked down, only to find that the rest of her future self had changed. Where her hand had been resting at her side before, it was now outstretched in her direction, cradling something in the center of it. A heart. A human heart by the looks of it, still beating as her future self’s hand closed around it, squeezing the bloodied organ until it deflated, and squished over the sides of her palm. The reflection’s lips had moved as well, stretched into a sharp smile as the rest of a scene began to unfold around her. A man, some ten feet from her reflection self, still standing with a look of horror and pain on his face, a hole where his heart had been literally wrenched from his chest. But Nell’s hand hadn’t been bloodied before she’d squished the heart, and there was no sign of any regular entry or exit wound on the person’s chest. Just a gaping hole, as if the heart had wormed its own way out through sheer force. Nell had done that? Without so much as using a knife or otherwise? Her reflection only smirked back in a silent answer. 

     It should scare her, worry her that her future self seemed to be so unmoved by the death of an unknown man, that she seemed to be reveling in it. But instead...all Nell could think about was how powerful she looked, holding a man’s heart in her hand and ripping it out as if it were nothing more than picking flowers from a field. This was the picture of a witch who didn’t have to watch as her sister was beheaded, who wasn’t cajoled into being a prisoner by an over-confident gancanagh, a woman that no one would even think of trapping in cages underground to steal memories from her mind against her will. 

     So in awe was she of her future self, that she almost didn’t realize the face of the man she’d killed begin to shift, to turn from one she didn’t recognize into one she very much did. His eyes shifted to brown, hair finding some medium color between dark blond and brunette. Adam. The power-hungry pride instantly dropped from her chest to a rock in her stomach, forming in a way that made her feel as if she might be sick. But as soon as she recognized the face, it was already shifting again, the mirror twisting it into another set of features she knew. This time, blond hair, blue eyes as the face of Jared stared back at her. “No,” she began in horror, taking an instinctive step back from the mirror. The blonde hair lengthened, eyes shifting again to match the color of Blanche’s. “No!” Nell yelled, hand fisting at her side as she now glared at her reflection, utter anguish etched into her face. She wouldn’t have done this, couldn’t have done this. Her friends meant everything to her. The body began to change once more, the bridge of Winston’s nose beginning to form, but it wouldn’t get the chance to finish. A loud crash rang through the Hall of Mirrors as Nell savagely screeched in denial, in anger, in pain. When she looked down again, it was to a broken mirror, her reflection back to normal and cracked around the shattered pieces of glass, her real, physical hand now bloody at the epicenter of it all. Her chest heaved with her breathing, and she grimaced as she carefully extracted her hand from the mirror, the pain nearly lost on her as she tried to deny what she’d seen. “I won’t- I won’t hurt them,” she whispered to herself, so quiet that she wasn’t even sure she’d said the words aloud, but fervent enough to burn as they passed over her lips. But hadn’t she already? August’s murder for Adam. The farm and Ronald for Jared. Asking Blanche to help with Bea’s ghost. Ripped the heart right out of them. All of them. 

     Nell turned sharply on her heel, refusing to stay in this cursed place any longer, turning her back on the future the mirror had shown her, and on the confirmation that all she did was hurt and maim and destroy those that she loved most. Ignoring the alarmed words of the attendant as she exited, she brushed past them, cradling her hand as she began to magically scab it over, watching the blood harden into place as, fixing the damage she’d done. She’d fix it. She’d fixed Bea and now she would fix the rest of it— fix herself so she could fix her friends, and make sure that no one hurt them ever again. Not Montgomery, not Ronald, not anything else that so much as glanced their way, and most certainly...not herself.

#// here have the solo i manic wrote at midnight last night #wickedswriting #solo #self para

[fandom-go-round]

can I get some slasher smut. head cannon or small scenarios are ok. But please include Brahms, Michael, and Frank from DbD. thank you!

 Warnings: Non Con, Rape, Forced Sex, Forced Blow Jobs, Bondage, Blood, Death, Torture, Mentioned Stalking

Thank you for letting me indulge in my boyfriend being tortured. I love David King and I love making him cry.

Michael Myers:

           You were trying not to breathe, fingers shaking as you stuffed yourself into a locker. You could hear David yelling in the distance, trying to distract the killer away from you. The two of you were the only one’s left and your generator was almost done. This didn’t deter the Shape from chasing you away at every opportunity.

           You bit your lip to keep from whimpering, exiting the locker and going back over to generator. You couldn’t feel the heart beat yet and focused on getting the generator finished. The bright ‘ding’ above you washed out your quiet cheer and you stood quickly, turning to run to an exit.

           “Run!” You turned to see David turn the corner, Michael right behind him. You shrieked as Michael grabbed him by the throat, knife sinking into him over and over. The mask didn’t move as David was thrown onto the ground, your cries making Michael turn to you.

           You didn’t get very far, swearing as he yanked you back by your hair. Both of you knew your struggles weren’t going to work but that didn’t stop you from try to escape. Michael slammed you into a tree, your cries turning into gurgles as he cut off your air.

           “M-Michael-“ The mask didn’t move, eye holes staring at you. You screamed, Michael’s knife sinking into your shoulder. He shoved you to the ground, the hand in your hair tugging your head up. You blinked, trying to clear the tears from your eyes as he straddled your chest.

           Your heart was pounding and your ears were filled with white noise. Throbbing pain radiated from your shoulder and you couldn’t stop the whimpers that came from your throat. Michael’s head slowly tilted, the hand on your hair tightening and the other reaching for his overalls.

           “No!” Your struggles started up again but you couldn’t break free; Michael was immoveable. He tugged his overalls down and lifted his shirt up, cock falling free. He was rock hard and leaking precum and you scowled, mouth firmly closed. This didn’t seem to deter him, one hand pinching your nose closed.

           You held out as long as you could, vision blurring around the edges before you gasped. Your eyes were shut as he pushed into you, your body shaking from pain and humiliation. Fingers began to poke at your eyes and you opened them as they got more insistent. You saw the mask staring back at you, fingers tightening in your hair as you looked up. You didn’t move but he seemed alright with that, rocking against you. You couldn’t look away and you knew by the grip in your hair that you weren’t looking away any time soon.

 Brahms Heelshire:

           You screamed behind the gag, arms yanking on rope but body not moving. Brahms had gotten the jump on you after coming from the walls, everything that had been happening in the house suddenly making sense. You had seen the doll after you moved in but hadn’t equated the two until it was too late. Now you were tied to the wall and couldn’t see anything inside the house.

           A gentle knock sounded by your ear and you jumped, head slamming into the wall behind you. High pitched giggles came from behind the wall and you whimpered; he had tied you up and left you here.

           “You look good like this.” The voice was muffled but distinctly male, the same voice as the man with the mask who had tried to talk to you. It had been going fine until he had gotten too close, hands wrapping around your throat.

           “Mummy said that I could have whoever watches me.” You shrieked as fingers brushed between your legs, your hips jerking from the sensation. A half glance down showed that you were naked from the waist down and you wailed, more laughter coming from behind the wall.

           “You’ll be mine, won’t you?” You couldn’t see from your angle against the wall but you felt something brush against you that wasn’t hands. You begged and pleaded but Brahms didn’t stop, dragging himself through your folds but not pushing in. Your heels hit the wall as you tried to break free but you were tied too tight.

           Your shriek mixed with Brahms’ groan as he filled you with one thrust. You sobbed, almost choking on tears as he began to pound into it. It burned with no prep and all you could focus on was the deep, snarling voice chanting ‘mine’ behind the wall.

 Frank Morrison:

           “Put ‘er down ya son o’ a bitch!” You shrieked and slammed your fists into the mask above you, the twisted smile not budging. Legion grabbed your arms and pinned them to the ground, hips holding you in place. David swore from the hook, trying to yank himself off with no luck. The twisted vines of the Entity began to curl from the sky and you whimpered, trying to get away from Frank.

           “She is down.” Frank’s voice had a twisted sort of glee in it, mask turning from you to David. He twirled the knife on the edge of your vision and moved it every time your eyes flickered to it. The man above you laughed harder and leaned close, cold metal pushing into your stomach.

           This trial had been bad to say the least. Feng and Ace were already dead and Frank had been chasing David and you for what seemed like forever. You had tried to get him off the hook but Frank was waiting. Now, instead of ending it he was going to torture you.

           “Hey, pretty thing. I’ll make you a deal.” The tip of the knife tapped against your cheek and your gaze moved from David to the killer above you. You could hear the grin on his face, not flinching when he dragged the tip against your skin.

           “W-What?” You voice cracked as you looked up at him. Frank hummed and cut your shirt open with one clean movement. Your yell matched David’s before he swore and began to struggle. You turned to see him fighting off the Entity’s claws and Frank’s knife brought you back. You froze at the roll of his hips, feeling his cock press against you.

           “You get me off before he gets taken and I’ll let you save him.” David yelled in the background and Frank chuckled, cutting a thin line on your stomach. “Better hurry up or I’ll make the decision for you.”

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #michael x reader #dead by daylight #dead by daylight imagines #DBD #dbd imagines #brahms heelshire #brahms heelshire x reader #the boy imagine #the boy 2016 #dbd legion #legion x reader #frank morrision #frank morrison x reader

[miguels-talons]

blood on my hands

eeeeyyyy another yancy fic! this one is super violent and bloody, and has some mild gore, as well as someone with unstable mental stuff happening, and a child killing their parents so like??? careful!

lemme know what you think!

—–

Yancy has had a bad day. Okay, no, scratch that. He’s had a horrible day. Every little thing has annoyed him to no end, causing his blood to boil and his teeth to grind together as he tried his best to tune out the world around him. That is what his therapist has told him to do when he was feeling angry; take deep breaths and think about something else. Ignore what is making you angry.

But he has had no such luck doing any of those steps, and now the palms of his hands were bleeding because he was digging his nails into them a bit too hard. He curses as he enters his home, wiping the blood off on the black and white shirt he was wearing. That is probably going to make his mom annoyed with him- she had just bought this shirt for him, and it was one of his only nice shirts left- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too angry to focus clearly, and so he doesn’t even notice the way his palms sting every time he wipes them down the front of the shirt.

Man, he could go for a nice plate of spaghetti. He’s pretty sure that’s the only thing that could turn this day around for him. Spaghetti was, after all, his favorite meal. Especially if his mother cooked it; she was the best cook that he knew.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, smelling something cooking in the kitchen already. He always got home around dinner time because of his tutoring after school keeping him in later than most other students. Though, today, he was just too pissed to focus if he’d actually gone, so he’d instead hung around the school campus until the late release buses arrived to take them home.

That bus ride did nothing but raise his anger and stress levels. Everyone on it was just so loud and annoying, screaming at one another and making the air thick and hot and sweaty. Yancy had situated himself near the front- the back is where the loudest and most crazy kids regularly sat- and tried to block all the noise out by plugging his ears and leaning his head against the window. But, that proved futile, and his world got blurred together as he went into what his therapist calls “sensory overload”.

He didn’t know what that meant really, or did he care, but he knew he was going into one now. He could recognize the feeling of his muscles tensing and his head banging and his palms sweating and his eyes burning as the world around him collapsed in on itself. It made it difficult to breathe, and his lungs ached for fresh air.

He was only able to breathe again once he ran from the bus, two blocks away from his usual stop, and took deep breaths. It helped the overload go away after a few minutes of breathing, cold air prickling at his skin, calming him, but it did not make his anger go away. That stuck around, curling in his gut like a snake waiting to strike.

He walked the rest of the way home, and by the time he arrived, his feet were aching and the snake had traveled to his chest, coiling around his heart. He was fuming, ready to snap at the first person or thing that got near him.

Now, he was stepping into the kitchen, calming himself down as he went. The food smelled great- he hopes it’s spaghetti. The snake remains, but he’s calmed it down enough to speak with his mom. He hates snapping at his mom. His dad, not so much, but never his mom. She was too sweet, and always believed in him even when he seemed like a wasted basket case.

“Hey, Mama,” he greeted, clearing his throat to rid it of its tightness. He walks to the table and hops up on it, swinging his feet as they hang just above the ground. He frowns. His growth spurt hadn’t made him as tall as he would have liked.

“Hello, Yancy dear,” his mother replied, smiling down at the pot she was stirring. Yancy takes another deep whiff of the smell, grinning. It smelt like spaghetti, alright. The snake lowers its head. “How was your day?

The snake raises it again at the question, hissing at the thought. But Yancy shrugs, picking at one of the cracks in the ancient wooden table. They hadn’t been able to get a replacement for it in years, and they were overdue for one. This one was falling apart and covered in cracks. It probably didn’t help that Yancy was sitting on it, but he didn’t are too much. He only worried about taking care of the things his mother gave him specifically or the things she told him to care for. If she were to tell him to get off the table, he would. But she hadn’t, so he leaned back on his hands.

“Not the best, honestly,” he replied, kicking his toes together half-heartedly. His shoes, which he’s had a couple of years, have stayed in pretty good shape. He’s done his best to keep them looking good, after all. “Everyone was annoyin’ as hell.”

“Language, dear,” his mother reprimanded without looking up. He says a quick apology. “I’m sorry it was such a bad day for you. Tomorrow should be better.” She always said that.

“How was your day, Mama?” he asked, and then finally notices the blood he’d gotten on the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he cursed, pushing to his feet and walking to the sink. He hadn’t even realized he’d done that! His blackouts were getting worse by the day. He’d have to speak to his therapist about that next.

“Language,” his mother said again, throwing a glare at his back. He says another quick apology and starts wetting a paper towel, trying and failing to wipe the blood stains from the white parts of the shirt. His mother frowns. “Did you already ruin the new shirt I got you, Yance? I told you that one was expensive.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Mama,” Yancy said, and the snake was rearing its head. How dare she speak to him like that when he already knew he’d made a stupid mistake? He was already beating himself up over it, she didn’t need to do the same. That was just wrong! “I’m not sure how I did it.”

His mother moves to stand beside him, and her eyes widen. “Is that blood?” she asked, and quickly snatches his hands, turning the palms over so she could see them. She looks up at him, her eyes wide. “Yance, what did you do?”

Yancy pulls his hands away and waves her away. The snake is snarling, its teeth bared. He clenched his own jaws, teeth grinding together, head beginning to pound. He needed to calm down. “It’s nothing, Mama,” he said, keeping his tone flat. He would not snap at her. He could control himself enough to not snap at one person in the least, goddammit. “Was an accident.” He pauses, and smiles at her, though they both know it’s forced. “What’s for dinner, though? I’m starvin’!”

She frowns up at him, but she must see the desperation in his eyes, because she turns and returns to the pot she is stirring. She’s learned over the years not to push him on matters like these, especially if he didn’t want to talk about it. It could easily trigger an episode, and those were fun for no one.

“Nothing special,” she said, forcing her own casual tone back into her voice. Yancy appreciates that.

“Your food is always delicious, Mama!” Yancy exclaimed, trying to be happy. He could be happy. His head wasn’t pounding, his blood wasn’t boiling and his teeth weren’t flattening from his hard he was grinding them. He was happy! “I hope it’s spaghetti tonight! I’ve been looking forward to having some of your spaghetti all day!”

His mother glances at him through the corner of her eye, her shoulders suddenly stiffening. Why was she acting like that? Like she was scared of him? Didn’t she know he was happy, and that he would never hurt her even if he wasn’t? The snake tightens its hold on his heart, and it’s becoming hard to breathe, his own muscles tightening. Why did it suddenly feel so tense? Weren’t they both happy?

“I was making fettuccine…” his mother said quietly, trailing off.

The room is filled with silence then. Yancy’s eye twitched, and the snake strikes.

He grabs the nearby knife, stabbing it in the counter surface. His mother jumps as he drags it across, dropping the ladle she’d been holding. He lifts his gaze to her face, her features beginning to blur, the edges of his vision clouding with red. Why was she still acting scared? Why was she so fucking scared goddammit!

“Why the fuck… would you make… fettucini…” he snarled, his words as sharp as the knife he was yanking from the hole he’d made in the counter. When had he made that hole? He’d thought he was just slicing it back and forth. The blade reflects the light pouring in from the window, and he could see the fear growing in his mother’s eyes. That just makes him angrier. Why would she be afraid of him! He’s nothing to be afraid of for fuck’s sake!

“Yance… puh-please calm- calm down,” his mother stammered, a sob breaking her words apart. Tears were streaming down her face as she takes a step back from, stumbling as he steps towards her, the knife hanging at his side. Why was she fucking crying? Why was she backing away from him? Why the FUCK is she afraid of him?! “You need- need to calm down, sw- sweetie.” Her voice is turning to begging. “I- I can make you- spaghetti, if- if you want it!”

“Stop acting scared!” he screamed suddenly, and he doesn’t miss the way she flinches, the way more tears explode from her eyes. His heart is racing, hammering against his chest, causing his blood to burn, his entire being to burn. “It’s pissing me the fuck off!” He slams the knife into the counter again, and his mother yelps.

That was it.

“I-I’m so-”

She didn’t get to finish.

The knife was acting on its own, lodging itself in her throat. Her blood sprays onto his hand, onto his face, onto his shirt. The shirt he’d just cleaned, too! Fucking bitch. She was screaming, pleading, and quivering under him, her back digging into the counter as he pins her there, twisting the knife further into her flesh. The red was fully filling his vision, and he couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel or think.

She didn’t get to be scared of him. She didn’t get to stain the shirt he’d just cleaned. She didn’t get to act like a fucking coward towards him, when he was doing everything in his goddamn power to be good.

The knife sinks further, and he drags it downwards, closer to her chest. He pulls it out, and then brings it down against, directly into the ribs in her chest and the heart beneath. His mother sputters on her own blood, chokes on it, her body quivering and arching, before it goes still, limp in his hold.

How dare she make him hold him up, like she was better than him!

He stabs the same spot repeatedly, the blood splashing on him, on the floor, on his sanity. It was warm and thick and sticky, and it was covering his arms and chest and face. But he kept going, until a large, gaping hole was left in her chest, sliced flesh and broken bones sticking in the middle of the mess.

He leans backwards- when did he end up on the floor?- and draws a deep breath through his mouth, some of the blood- why was there so much?- slides into his mouth, onto his tongue. He spits it out, and drops the knife- how was it so coated?- leaning against one of the cabinets, the spilled pot of noodles forgotten beside him- when had he knocked it over?

It takes him an hour to calm himself down.

And when he does, his eyes landing on the dead, mutilated corpse of his mother- how did that happen did he do that why did he do thath0ow did he do that how did he not realize he did that what the fuck what the fuck what tfukc oh god oh god oh god- he screams at the top of his lungs. The scream tears at his throat, causing it to bleed, but he doesn’t stop, until he sobs, crawling to the body. He cups both of her cheeks, throws up when he sees the holes in her neck and chest and stomach- oh god oh god he did this he did this he did this- and cries and cries and screams.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, burying his face into his mother’s hair, body trembling, heart screaming.

His father comes home shortly later, finds him cradling his mother’s body, sees him covered in her blood, and the knife coated in the red liquid. He screams as well, points an accusing finger at him.

“I knew you would do this!” he yelled, and the sound tears at Yancy’s ears. Why couldn’t he just be left to mourn his mother? He already knew he’d done this. “I always knew you were a fucking monster!”

Yancy screamed, hand flying to the knife of its own volition, and tackles his father. Years of anger built up explodes in a single moment, and he cuts into his father’s stomach, lets the guts spill out. Watches his father choke on his blood. Watches him bleed out and die, a crumpled mess on the floor that had been clean seconds before.

He was covered in blood.

So much of it was drying on his arms and legs and face. It was making it hard to move, to breathe, to think.

He did the only thing he could think of doing.

He calls the police.

—-

REBLOGS>LIKES

#mine #markiplier #yancy markiplier #jacksepticeye #blood #gore #matricide #patricide #my writing