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gremlingottoosilly · 10 months

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[If you need to be mean] chapter 2

Chapter 1

Konig decided to meet his new favorite civilian at the cafe you work at. Unfortunately for both of you, you're both socially awkward. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig's perspective

— Did something good happen, colonel? You are practically shining.

Horangi always had this special ability of telling nonsense with the most serious face and deep voice. He also was the only one in his unit to ever be brave enough to joke with his superior – even though all the other KorTac members usually don’t risk their asses to be put on fire list because of some silly joke. He is the closest König has to a friend – and it’s kinda sad, actually, that a broken gambling addict is the only person who can read his emotions so well, even with his hood and permanently sour expression.

But something good did happen – you happen, of course.

He spend a few days of self-reflecting, drinking and punching training manekens in the gym, trying so fucking hard to put your adorable civillian face out of his mind. You were out of sight alright, but the way your features would get distorted into something even more adorable every time he closed his eyes, was concerning. He dealt with those little obsessions before – nothing that a few good rounds of jerking off until he would feel nothing but emptiness and hatred to himself couldn’t handle. He surely can’t fall that deep down, he only saw you for like an hour and it was literally three days ago!

— I read your reports about the last terrorist encounter. Good job, Horangi.

— And I heard about that civilian girl you pulled, sir. Thought we are bringing those to the police, not their houses.

— I had to make sure she wasn't a spy.

— And she wasn’t?

König thinks – would be far easier if he would have an official, legal reason to keep you locked up on the base without the right to come out. Would be far easier for him to just think about you as an enemy, so he would have normal reasons for thinking about you constantly, and not feeling guilty. It’s normal to think so much about your enemies – this is what keeps you alive on the field, if you can determine their shortcomings early and make sure that you can fight them. He would love having you as an enemy – it would at least give him some info before starting obsession over little ol’ you.

— No.

— That would give us at least some lead to the terrorist cell. Feels like all locals are protecting them from it.

— I understand your frustration. But at least they are not cutting our pay.

— We might as well rebel if they’d try to.

— We are not stepping on terrorist’s route.

— I was joking, sir. Only thing that’s left here except for card games.

Horangi hates stationing in this country as much as König is – and, given that he is a sergeant and doesn’t have as much rank expectations, can talk about this openly. This operation is perfect except for the lack of intel, lack of action and lack of basically anything to do – the local forces are handling minor threats, while mercs here are mostly to show off how the government has money to hire them. KorTac would pay for actually having to fight some bad guys around here – but the bigger ones are hiding and lower ones are already getting tracked down by the local military.

The only interesting thing to do, seemingly, is to obsess over local girls – and König thought he is better than this.

But he isn’t losing sleep over thinking about how scared and fragile you looked that night. Especially not even going to think about how adorable your little pout was, and the way your hands were trembling. He definitely doesn't want to know every tiny detail about your life, what you like and what you hate, what is your favorite position in bed and the color of underwear you are currently wearing – or even if you are wearing one. And he isn’t some sort of creep that would spend an obnoxiously long amount of time registering on social media – god, he is too old for this shit, it literally feels even more humiliating than his whole school experience – just so he can find your accounts and get instant masturbation material.

You really shouldn’t post so much half-naked photos – yes, this is a reel from your last summer vacation and yes, this swimsuit looks beautiful on you, but have you ever considered that some creep(not someone like him, he is palming himself very respectfully) would use those photos as a way to get themself off? Terrible, scary, he can’t wait for you to post some new photos – maybe in something that he would buy you, way skimpier and more expensive, so he could protect you from those people.

He looks at your posts about work – and he hates this stupid blue bird app because it never works for him, always filled with some assholes who are trying to argue with literally everyone, and the way he can’t even see your posts properly because of the weird ads. No, he doesn’t need a “Thing that would make your dick longer” he literally has a problem with making it smaller. No, he doesn’t need some dumb T-shirt even though he kinda reflects with the funny pun about pokemons and would love to wear something containing his major interest even though it would look ridiculous on a 6 '10 killing machine.

But König reads all of your short posts about the way you hate working in customer service, and his hand is almost slipping to the ad about wedding rings. You hate your job, he hates his – practically soulmates, even though he doesn’t really hate the killing part of his employment, he just doesn’t want to be in charge of people and making them steal the fun of destroying. He would, however, agree to get as many ranks as possible if that would mean providing for you. If that would allow him to be by your side and listen to your sweet voice, he would agree for the next promotion even if higher ups would want him to make some PR wawes and become a fucking fashion model.

But he is completely sane about you. Totally normal. Absolutely nothing is wrong with him when he can’t even think about visiting you in real life, but he leaves a like on every of your posts in every social media he has – you have terrible online safety habits by the way, he can already see what the inside of your apartment looks like, your place of work from three different angles, and how the front door of your apartment is held together by a very easy to destroy lock. He could snatch it in one deliberate kick, not even speaking about just shooting it. Not like he would need to, he wants you to be with him willingly. Or, at least, don’t fight him too much in case he would actually lose his patience and do something drastic.

It has already been three days and he feels like he is going crazy. He had those things before, overthinking about tiniest details in someone he never truly knew, but even then he’d understand that he can’t be with them – it could be his school crushes that were, ironically, crushed because of his anxiety. It might be some casual flings with his fellow soldiers that would either get killed in the field or never happen because it would be fraternization. Some random people he saw at the airport and already imagined life with multiple kids and a dog. He always knew he had a problem – but it was never like this before. Never dangerous.

The problem is – he knows that he can have you.

Maybe not in a traditional way, he doubts that you would just marry him on the spot, but he can court you at least. He can shower you with gifts or ridiculous tips at your job, he can just snatch you away and leave you as his perfect little bedmate. He can make his men kidnap you, and while it is inhumane and you don’t deserve this, he would calm you down – and then have his happily ever after.

He knows that he can have you – and it drives him crazy. He could stop himself previously, when he didn’t have anything for himself to be considered desirable – but now, with his rank and all the new opportunities and money it brings, he can’t stop but fantasize.

You under him, panting and blushing, lips puffy from kisses, skin glazed from sweat and marked with his teeth.

You under him, so wonderfully tight, not letting him go even for an inch – and you are perfectly taking him, no matter how gigantic he is.

You under him, smiling, cuddling after a long night – every night after a mission, where he could spend his free time deep in your body, listening to your melodic moans and little whines.

You under…

— Can I…can I take your order, sir?

He is a disgusting human being because lives of thousand people are on a stake, he would just doom them all if he wouldn’t find those terrorists soon – and he wastes time on sitting in this tiny ass cafe, trying to place himself on the small seat while being all too nervous to just talk to you. Like a person. Of course he had to go to your shift – he already determined which days you were working because it increased the number of angry “I hate my job and want to kill my manager” posts on that dumb social media, and he knows which hours you work at – of course it’s almost night time, the closing shift, because he simply can’t have himself not worry about you.

He is a creep, weirdo and all that words in a song that he’s been blasting in his tiny headphones all of these days because he can smell the sweetness of your perfume and the way you are munching on the pen you are using to write his order. Oh, yes, order. He is supposed to order something, he can’t just give you money for how adorable you look in that white apron – even though you are absolutely stunning and should get money.

God, he would murder everyone in this building just for them to never look at your legs again.

God, he would bury himself between them if only you’d allow him to.

— Sir, is everything okay?

He served in the military for far longer that you lived, probably. Most of his life, he got used to being referred to as something honorable, or referring to other people like that – and he never thought that just being referred to as “sir” would make his dick twitch in his pants. He crosses his legs, hoping not to get too imposing – he already towers over the tiny table like a giant he is, barely even fitting in it. He thinks he has a healthy amount of self-control – then he looks at you again, and thanks all the gods he knows for the mask he is wearing – at least under the black surgeon piece and dark glasses you won’t really see his blush. Or that little twitching in his eyes that is indicating danger.

— Sorry, I…can I, um, have a coffee? Bitte…please, I mean.

He hates how nervous he is – like high school again, asking his crush out just to be ridiculed. But you look perfect like this – controlled environment, you can’t just laugh at him and say that he is a weird nerd from another class, you have a manager who is controlling of such behavior. He would never tell on you, of course, he wants you to be happy, even if this job makes you the most miserable – even though he kinda thinks of you as a weak for this, his job literally involves killing people and he doesn't argue that much!

But you giggle – sweet, innocent sound, it drives him crazy even more than he previously was. It doesn’t feel like those girls at school – yes, he still can’t let that go, even though his therapist says he has to – and he loses all control at how beautiful you sound. He wants to take you away right now, pay you for your workplace however you get them, and just use you as he wants – no matter how socially unacceptable. He protects this country, he has the right for a little prize, right? No, this would be terrible, he shouldn’t just harass sweet little civilians like you, he should…

— What type of coffee, sir? Do you want some dessert?

This is a typical question, he was at cafes and coffee shops a thousand times but, for some reason, it feels almost like you are teasing him. You bite the end of your pen with those adorable teeth of yours – he wants to feel it on his fingers, he wants you to leave bite marks all over his body as a sign of marking him as yours. He smiles under his mask, hoping that you would somehow feel it – how happy you make him feel, how hard it’s for him not to lose control.

— No. Just coffee.

— Sugar?

He would like some sugar, of course – but the one he wants is probably not for sale, even though that adorable white apron of yours makes you look like a candy. He would love to unwrap you from those silly clothes and devour what belongs to him for the right of protector, but he knows how scared you might be. He is not a good person, he killed more people that he could count – countless fathers, sons, mothers, he shouldn’t even think about having a right for a family of his own after all of this. He is not a good person and his moral code changes with every kill he gets – but for hell sake, he wants to be nice with you. You deserve it, he knows. More than he is, for sure.

König doesn’t really like sugary stuff, it was always too childish, made him too energetic, disrupted his very peculiar way of eating things. Sweets makes him only more hungry, makes him crave more, and he wants to be as serious as possible – so he usually drinks and eats stuff that is no tastier than a pile of dry sand. But he responds before he can think, too focused on that shiny lipgloss you have on your lips. He would lick and bite it all – soon, he hopes.

— Ja. Thank you.

— Good choice, sir.

Your lips are curling into a small, shy smile and he likes sugar now. He isn’t sure if you are telling everyone that their order is a good choice, maybe you just want to get more tips, but he hopes that maybe, he is special. Maybe there is something nice happening to him after all. A small reward for not being a total monster on the last mission he had, even though he could. He can’t do anything but to stare at you, his only saving grace is the dark lenses of his glasses – he can’t wear his hood in civil situations, unfortunately, people would stare, stare, stare and that would make him want to pull their eyes out.

But you smile and he smiles also, even if you can’t see it. He is looking at your legs and, fuck, he is a disgusting old creature that preys upon younger women because he never had a positive experience before. He is a total creep and a monster that should be put down already – but he stares at your legs under that waitress dress, and he would pay your manager a few thousand Euros to cut the length of your skirt in half.

Then he sees all the others looking at you the same way – old people, young people, there aren’t a lot of guests at this time in the evening, most people are afraid of going into public places while the war on terrorism is going on. There aren’t a lot of people while it’s almost closing time, but he doesn't even want to think about all the other men looking at you like this. Devouring you with their eyes, probably leaving sleazy comments as you go through the small cafe, just as overworked as your other coworkers. He wants to take you from here.

You don’t deserve people looking at you like you aren’t even a person – only he can look at you respectfully, stripping you with his eyes. He can be soft for you, can be perfect – if you would just let him.

König doesn’t want to be a creep around you, but he was looking at your legs for five minutes already, picturing the way your body would look under all of these clothes, and his cock gets painfully hard. He thanks himself for wearing normal, baggy pants, not something tighter – at least his embarrassment is completely covered by his clothes.

— Here is your coffee. Anything else?

You look nervous, of course – but he seems way softer than he was a couple days ago, at night. The absence of his creepy mask is obviously helping, and because he is sitting, you don’t have to tilt your head too high, causing your neck to stretch uncomfortably. He looks awkwards, like a big dog that still tries to fit into his old bed, and it causes you to smile a little bit more. You made sure to place a couple of sugar cubes on the plate, so he could decide for himself, if he wants to use them all – but the mere thought of that giant of a man, a colonel, hardened soldier liking something silly and sweet is making you giggle.

He looks way softer than he was that night, and you can almost forget about how scared you were – how you were thinking that this would be the end for you, that one, overthinking part of your mind already making up the scenarios of getting martial lawed because of the broken curfew. You can even see his hair – and fight the urge to touch it a little. He is still who-knows-how-old and still a military presence in your peaceful country.

You still want to ruffle his hair.

He still wants to take your clothes off and make you his.

— Nein, thank you.

He stares at the cup for a good few seconds – if he wants to drink, he needs to actually take it off. He has many scars on his face, and his mouth sometimes feels like it has more dead skin than alive one – he doesn’t want to attract attention. Some people are already staring at his badge and how awkward a giant man like him looking in that cozy, tiny place – but he also wants you to see how much pain he can withstand without getting killed. How he can protect you from anything because there literally isn’t anything he won’t do for you. You would appreciate a man with scars, it’s a sign of bravery, right?

Then he thinks about all the times he would take off his mask and how people around him would look at him – with pity, with fear, with disgust sometimes even though he is certain that his face isn’t as deformed as some other parts of his body. He even almost managed to grow a beard once! Then he had to scrub it all off because hair was growing in very uneven patches and he looked like something crawled on his chin and died.

König fought in countless battles, spent his youth training to be the best killer possible, took part in many major conflicts and killed hundreds of people while feeling nothing but recoil. He isn’t afraid of anything – except for talking to people sometimes, maybe, and even now he is trying to work on it with his therapist, instead of just killing anyone who looks at him funny. He isn’t afraid of the dark, of death, of uncertainty in his life. But he is afraid of you looking at him unmasked and thinking that you, in fact, find him disgusting.

You almost want to take your time to look at what he will do – is he going to take off his mask? Is he going to drink right through the fabric? You have too much work to just stay at his table and stare, even if you want to – but you are trying to give him occasional glances as he just…sits at his table. Not even moving, just staring at the cup and sometimes moving his head to look at you – or just ornaments at the wall behind you. Yes, probably the ornament.

König sits at the table and, well, he doesn’t even want to drink his coffee because just looking at the way your ass sways under that terribly short skirt is enough to set him on fire. He wants to take you home with him – even though his home is all the way up in Austria. He would take you, you probably wouldn’t even be mad at you – you could be a perfect little family. He already waited too long to start one, never finding anyone who would win his heart for a long run but he was sure that this three-days-obsession would last long. He isn’t sure, however, if he likes it or not.

He ended up not drinking at all – he knows that he can’t just waste multiple hours, he already got his lieutenants covering the spot with paper work while their commander is away at searching for the love of his life. He wants to be with you longer, probably walk you home again and make sure to protect you from any creeps that would want to attack. He can’t have that, it’s obvious – he is a colonel, unfortunately, he is still on the hunt for those terrorists, he can barely give himself an hour of free time these days.

He already indulged in his fantasies too much when he folds a 100 Euros banknote and puts it into the bill – not sure about how much money it is here, not wanting to give you any trouble with exchanging currency, he just hopes that would be enough for you to at least not worry about food for a few days. Or buy yourself something nice – what girls like these days? Guns, books, some fancy lip gloss, a hat for their adorable little turtles? He would buy you a pet turtle, he always wanted one as a kid – right before his father said that all lizards are products of sinful corporations and a lazy pet like a turtle, unlike a giant dog breed, is completely useless and unmanly.

He doesn’t want to be here when you’ll get the bill – he is too afraid that he didn’t gave you enough, that you'd be disappointed. He would love to give you more, of course, but he doesn’t want to just shove you the money like you are some sort of cheap whore – he wants to give you gifts, something meaningful, to steal you from poverty altogether. König is an expert in infiltration and escaping arts, he can exit the location without anyone noticing a thing, even with his size – and then you look at him, directly into his eyes, covered by sunglasses – and your face is twisted in shock as you realize what exactly he left you.

— Wait, sir! Please, I…god, I will get you the change right now, I’m so sorry, it’s closing shift, I…I’m sorry, I completely forgot…

You are almost begging him to stop and let you give him his money, a honorable deed really – but all he can think of is how nice you would look on your knees, begging him to fuck you already. How perfect you would look all whiny and spoiled, asking him for something expensive, whatever your cute head would want. You would look so complete on his lap, tugging on his shirt and asking your daddy for a new toy. You would…

— It was a tip. Take it.

He wants to be able to tell you how perfect you look, how he wants to just throw you over his shoulder in a totally non-creepy way and make you his little wifey. How he would take multiple months of leave to just be with you, marry you, breed you. He wants to have a way with words, but they are useless to him – he can’t even say he likes you, it’s embarrassing, he is almost forty, he got his rank as youngest colonel in history of KorTac, he can literally have almost everything he wants – except for basic social skills.

He feels like a creep, an old man trying to steal that perfect girl from the shiny world, and he hates himself for it – but then you blush and he can almost convince himself that yeah, you like that creep too.

— I…shit, I mean, sorry…thank you, sir.

— Don’t wander at night again.

He feels like a scolding father and you giggle again, too innocent and naive to understand his thoughts.

— I won’t. Promise.

He then slowly leans closer, puts a hand on your shoulder again – goosebumps are running on your skin. His head is near yours now, he is whispering in your ear – and you are almost sure that you shouldn’t have come closer to him like this, that it’s unprofessional from your side, that everyone is staring at you. They are – and you try to ignore it, but…

— Wear shorts under your skirt next time. Never know who might look at your legs like that.

You would slap him here and there. You would scream and run away right now, but for some stupid, dumb, completely terrifying reason, you…almost like how protective he sounds. And the money he gave you is also helping – even if just a little bit.

König looks at the way you blush even more, and he knows already that he won’t ever let you go.

Tag list: @iwritesjud3

Please write if you want to be tagged in the next chapter!

#call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #konig mw2 #konig x reader #reader insert #yandere #yandere konig #yandere x reader #yandere cod #fem reader

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blughxreader · 1 year

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Platonic Yandere!Batman x gn!Reader

Purge AU. Info on au. You receive your official government letter announcing a yandere's claim on you in tomorrow's Purge. Accompanying it are five crimson letters from the yanderes themselves. ~600 words

Dear [Name],

I want to take this first encounter to assuage your fears—you are in no danger.

The fear you must be feeling might be the most dreadful you’ve ever experienced, and I’ll forever regret it. While the monotonous bureaucracy of the Purge is taxing on everyone, it’s a necessary evil… Inside this letter, you’ll receive what brief explanation I can give you and, hopefully, comfort you in some capacity.

[Name], I’m your father, and this letter is my official and legal introduction. In the next 24 hours, I and your siblings will bring you home.

You don’t know this yet, but we met on a moonless evening many months ago. You were walking alone, trying to leave the emptying streets before Gotham’s evening crowd took hold of the city. I worried for you and decided to keep a close eye until you were home safely, but something about your demeanor kept my attention. How polite and unassuming, yet quick to navigate the streets you were. You drifted through the evening like a wayward spirit, eventually finding yourself in my heart and soul.

That chance encounter sent us spiraling down a destined path, one in which I never anticipated would lead to here. I never realized the grim darkness I had been living in until I experienced your light, and now, the day before our first meeting as father and child, the promise of eternal contentedness just beyond these 24 hours is almost too much to bear.

Your brothers and sisters are equally ecstatic. You’ll never be bored for a moment in your life moving forward, as the halls of our home are always thrum with the echoes of banter and excitement. I can’t promise it will be an easy life free from any sorrows, but your new family already loves you so, so dearly.

In time, I’m confident that you, too, will reflect on this event as the start of a better life.

However perfect your joining our family seems, I find myself asking how it came to this. How did I discover a soul as kind and lovely as yours? Despite all my failures and shortcomings, the world still crossed our paths and sent the merger of our lives into motion.

As a servant of justice, I’ve dedicated my life to protecting what is moral and just. I’ve spent decades refining my values and priorities, yet this has often left me at fragile crossroads between myself and my children.

I’m flawed. I’m imperfect. I don’t think I’ll ever be worthy of being your father. I need you to know these things before we meet, to save yourself from the inevitable misfortune that will strike us. Yet know this: there is not a force in this world that will keep me from you. I love you more than I love humanity, more than the Earth itself. I would defy the laws that govern the universe if it meant seeing you happy.

The world is dangerous and unpredictable. However inadequate I feel at protecting your light, I know you’re significantly more likely to fade from existence outside of my care.

To receive a crimson letter from the city a day before the Purge might be one of your darkest nightmares, and for that I’m sorry. With my heart, soul, and all my love for you, I promise to rectify the misery you and your biological family are experiencing. Please take comfort in the fact that you will be the most beloved and cherished person in the world.

I will give you everything. For your family’s sake, I hope they can rest easier with this knowledge.

Please remain put until we arrive.

See you soon.

Love,

Dad

Note... I love this self-hating old man. Damian's is finished and will be up soon! For more yandere batfam, visit my masterlist!

#platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam #platonic yandere #yandere batman #yandere x reader #batfam x reader #purge au #yandere purge #yandere letter

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hp-hcs · 5 months

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violent stalker mattheo riddle.... each guy and girl readers ever spoken to? damn wdym they showed up beaten up the next day and they dont even know who did it ????

i feel like he'd also get violent with reader and ykw .... im so insane id let him beat me bloody .

"i'm doing this because you're not listening to me, sweetheart. how else am i supposed to show you that trying to leave me is what you shouldn't do?"

hey uh, future requesters: giving me a line of dialogue or smth to build around means i’ll finish your request WAY faster. tysm anon 😭

requests open

prometheus — yandere! insane! stalker! mattheo riddle x gn! reader

wow! there’s a fuck ton of really fucking dark violence, murder, torture, manipulation, abduction, and horrific domestic abuse in this! please be careful if you choose to read this!

1.5k words!

i jokingly took a sociopathy test with a couple of friends earlier today and i scored like really high so uh dunno how to feel about that

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Am I…am I in trouble or something, Professor…?”

Professor McGonagall’s lips thinned and she looked at you over the rim of her glasses. She folded her hands together neatly where they rested on her desk before speaking. “Not for now, no. Relax a bit, dear. The law states that you’re innocent until proven guilty.”

“That’s not- that doesn’t really make me less nervous.”

The professor opened her mouth to speak again when a chime alerted her to an incoming floo call.

With a wave of her wand, the flames flared green and a genial-looking man stepped out of the fireplace. He brushed soot off of his robes and grinned brightly as soon as he caught sight of the professor.

“Minerva! Lovely to see you again. I’m afraid Quincy isn’t going to make it. Corbett is sick, poor thing, so he’s staying home with him today,” the man gushed, evidently quite close with the professor.

“Oh, send them both my well wishes, Hez, dear. Anyway, this is the student you asked to see, Y/n L/n,” she motioned towards you.

The man gave you a cheery grin—far too cheerful for this early in the morning—and held out his hand for you to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mx. L/n. I’m Auror Hezekiah Ackerly. I’d just like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright?”

You dubiously shook his outstretched hand, a bit put off by his bright grin that never seemed to dim. “Sure.”

“Wonderful!” the Auror pulled the second office guest chair closer and sat down across from you. “Let’s get the easy questions out of the way. Do you have many friends? Or maybe a small, close-knit group of people you regularly hang out with?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The fuck kind of question was this?

“Uh, I guess a close-knit group?”

Auror Ackerly summoned a notebook and quill, writing quickly. “Who belongs to this group?”

Seriously, this felt more like being at a psychiatrist’s office than being questioned by a government official.

“Er, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger? And sometimes Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood?”

Seriously, what was going on?

“And do you have any…romantic relationships? Any troubles or issues there?”

Your eyes narrow. “What’re you playing at?”

“Cormac McLaggen was found dead in the Forbidden Forest this morning,” Professor McGonagall cut to the chase, interrupting Auror Ackerly. “You were the last known person to have spoken to him, and several of your peers attest that they heard an argument break out between the two of you last night after dinner.”

Your eyebrows shot up and your jaw dropped. “Dead? Wh- how?”

“That’s what we at the Ministry would like to know,” Auror Ackerly interjected smoothly. “You’re not in trouble, Mx. L/n, but I am here to escort you to the Ministry for questioning.”

Your jaw dropped.

They thought you did this?

~~~

You sat at a table, alone in some room deep inside the Ministry building.

You huffed, folding yet another paper crane from the stack of sticky notes Ackerly had oh-so-thoughtfully left for you after your interrogation.

You set the finished bird on the table, the small pile of origami cranes you’ve made while waiting slowly getting larger.

Peeling off another sticky note, you started folding another when a nice-looking man in well-pressed robes entered the barren room and stopped in front of your table. He looked down at you with mild bafflement.

“L/n, I presume?”

“That’d be me,” you mumbled, adding your newest crane to the pile.

The man smiled gently before waving a hand over your paper birds and enchanting them to fly.

You tried to hide your awe as you look up at the cranes that floated and soared around the room.

The man smiled at your reaction. “It’s quite nice to finally meet you, Mx. L/n. You’ve been the topic of many a discussion today.”

“I’d imagine so, yes,” you said dryly. “Not many teenagers accused of murder coming through the department, huh?”

He grinned. “Not really, no.”

The man pulled out the other chair at the table, sitting down across from you and rifling through the thick manila folder he held.

“Are you here to interrogate me some more?” You asked suspiciously. “Ask Ackerly, man. I already told him everything I know.”

He laughed. “No, I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m your lawyer, Mx. L/n.”

You blink. “I don’t have a lawyer. My family can’t afford that.”

“You always have the right to an attorney, Mx. L/n,” he said kindly as he held out his hand to you. “Octavian Foxglove, Esquire.”

“Y/n L/n, but you already knew that,” you greet, shaking his hand.

He smiled again.

He was a very smiley man.

He laid out the manila folder and turned it around on the table so that you would be able to see it.

The first paper on top was a copy of your school records, with a bright red PRIMARY SUSPECT stamped over the top of your picture.

You grimaced.

Your lawyer nodded sympathetically. “There’s a photo underneath that page, by the way. Supposedly the last photo we have of McLaggen still alive and, uh…it’s not looking great for you, in all honesty.”

You moved your school records page aside, finding a standard moving photograph paperclipped to the inside of the file.

It showed, quite clearly, you speaking with Cormac McLaggen in a hallway. Picture-Cormac angrily threw his arms up in the air and silently yelled at picture-you, while your body language in the photo loudly screamed ‘furious & upset’.

He was right. It wasn’t a great look.

“And there’s only one thing I need you to- oh, where is it?” He dug through the inside pockets of his robes, procuring a pen. “Aha! The next page has a simple contract. I just need a signature stating that you either accept me as your public defender, or would like to request someone else from the Ministry to handle your case.”

You nod, flipping the page to the contract he indicated. Mr. Foxglove smiled again and held the pen out to you.

As soon as your fingers made contact with the pen, you vanished.

~~~

You stumbled blindly, almost falling to the floor before a hand caught your elbow and steadied you.

“Easy, careful.”

You whirled around, surprised to see a different man in Mr. Foxglove’s clothes. He held his hands up in a non-threatening manner.

“Woah- slow down, kid. You’re fine.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m- was your lawyer,” he shrugged and smiled. “Augustus Rookwood, at your service.”

It dawned on you. “It was a portkey,” you breathed. “The pen. It was a portkey, wasn’t it?”

“Clever kid,” he sounded impressed. “Now c’mon. The boss wants to see you.”

You followed the man without complaint; half out of curiosity, half out of the knowledge that Augustus Rookwood was an Azkaban escapee charged with at least forty counts of first degree murder.

Pretty simple choice.

It looked like you were in a wealthy aristocrat’s house. Er, mansion, more accurately. The hallway you were walking down was old and stuffy and dusty, and the overall aura of Dark magic that permeated the very air of the house sent shivers down your spine.

Rookwood led you down a flight of rickety stairs to the first floor, and then down a narrow hallway and into a study, where he left you without another word.

The study itself was old. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust except for the pristine and polished bureau right in the center.

(Obviously, ‘the boss’ was sitting at this desk.)

((Villains tend to be predictable like that.))

However, you were surprised to see that ‘the boss’ was-

“Riddle?”

He looked up at the sound of your voice, a wide grin spreading across his face as he hurriedly got up from his desk.

“Y/n, darling, hello!” He gushed, practically skipping over towards you before pulling you into a very uncomfortable hug. “Sweetheart- oh, I’m so glad you’ve made it here safely! Rookwood really is my only competent assistant; I must be sure to give him a raise.”

You froze up at the unexpected hug, your arms remaining stiffly by your sides. He let go after a moment, but remained just a bit too close for comfort.

“Hopefully the Ministry didn’t give you too hard of a time,” he rubbed the back of his neck with a guilty grin. “I promise Ackerly’s a good man. When he’s, y’know, in control of his own body.”

Your eyes widen and you take a step back. “What?”

“Just a little Imperius, darling, no worries. Did you like your gift?”

You blinked, thrown off by his rapid changes in subjects. “Uh- gift?”

He smiled proudly. “McLaggen? He won’t bother you anymore, see?”

All the color drained from your face.

“You killed Cormac?”

He nods, grinning. “Uh-huh. I heard what McLaggen said to you last night in the hall, and I don’t like when other people look at what’s mine.”

“Yours?” You repeat, your lip curling in disgust. “You’d better not be referring to me.”

Mattheo paused, looking at you in confusion. “What else would I be talking about?”

You scoff in shock, shaking your head. “Yeah, nope, I’m out.”

You turned around without further preamble, marching out of the room and towards the front door that you’d passed earlier. Mattheo laughed and followed you out of the study at a leisurely pace, seemingly unworried.

“Where are you going to go, darling? As far as the general public is concerned, you’re on the run after brutally murdering a classmate. You’re Wanted with a capital W, sweetheart.”

“I’ll figure it out,” you snarled, storming towards the front door.

“Y/n…” He warned, drawing his wand and pointing it at you. “Get back here. Now.”

“Fuck off.” You spat over your shoulder, not sparing him another glance.

That was clearly not the thing to say. As if in slow motion, you heard a dreaded word fall from his lips.

“Crucio!”

You were struck with pain that was so overwhelming, so blinding, so agonizing, that you were sure you were going to die.

You were only half aware that you’d fallen to the floor at some point as wave after wave of unbearable pain crashed over you. You could feel your bones creaking and grinding together, your skin splitting apart only to knit itself back together just to be torn apart again, like you were some fucked up wixen version of fucking Prometheus.

You were only vaguely aware that you were speaking, pleading. Pleading not for the Unforgivable to be lifted, but for him to just end it, end you, entirely.

“K-kill me! Kill m-me…please!” You begged, blood trailing down from the corner of your mouth and smeared across your chin. You must’ve bit your tongue hard for it to bleed like that, and the sting from that wound while you speak is just too overwhelming when combined with the pain from the Cruciatus Curse.

Then all at once, it stops.

You gasp for air, your entire body trembling and numb as you lay sprawled across the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

Mattheo kneeled down by your side and cupped your face in his hands with a kind of tender gentleness that felt deeply wrong coming from him.

“See, I’m doing this because you’re not listening to me, sweetheart. How else am I supposed to show you that trying to leave me is what you shouldn’t do?” He cooed softly, gently wiping the blood from your chin with the sleeve of his shirt.

You flinched back at his touch. Your body—still wracked with uncontrollable quivers and trembles—tried in vain to crawl away from him.

“Oh no, honey- hey, honey- I promise it’s all over, okay? You were so so good for me. But you see now that you’ve got to stay with me, right?”

Your jaw quivered and your still-stinging tongue felt thick in your mouth, yet you managed to spit vicious hatred towards him.

“G-go to hell.”

A flurry of emotions crossed his face: surprise, anger, guilt, and disappointment; all of which were topped by the underlying aura of pure sadistic glee that exuded from him.

“Oh? Do you need another lesson or two before you learn?” He sighed and shook his head patronizingly. “Very well then, darling. Crucio!”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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vanilladove · 3 months

Text

~ get free (bonus)

based off of an anonymous request to see what would happen if reader tried to escape because trust was lost🫣 this is also the 'bad ending' reposted bc 'read more' wasn't working the first time.

pic creds luvpngs | gif creds akashi-tetsuki

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ pairing: asylum patient!nikolai x asylum attendant!fem!reader; slight fydor x fem!reader🤫

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre: angst + fluff? w/ dark elements; one suggestive scene with nikolai🙈read at your own discretion!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ content warnings: feelings of guilt, manipulation + violence, unhealthy relationships, slightly yandere nikolai, this is lowkey sad...😔

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ summary: you've become an accomplice to the doa. however, you've started to grow some doubts about your situation. are you really free or just in another man's cage? not to mention the demon lurking from a distance... ˚₊‧꒰ა read pt 1 & pt 2 & pt3 (good ending)໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ word count: 4.7k

"So, what's your husband like?" Your coworker Juliette asked, sitting in a circle with your other colleague Anaïs, passing around a box of assorted chocolates.

It had been three months. You and Nikolai had successfully infiltrated Mersault, getting more information about the space-creating ability and honing in on potential ability users. Now you were alone, working for the government's IT department--your goal was to create a breach in their database for Fyodor to get into, so he could narrow down the Decay of Angel's targets and get their information.

Anaïs scowled and gave you the chocolates, muttering a word about how she was "low-sugar" before she primped her hair, preparing to brag, "Well, y'know, Louis takes me shopping and buys me new jewelry whenever I want. He just got me a new puppy, too, and he's the cutest little pomeranian!" You giggled a bit as Juliet pouted in envy, "Oh--and he's taking this weekend off, so we can go to the islands together!" You popped a caramel-filled square in your mouth as Juliet rolled her eyes playfully.

"You spoiled princess...Antoine spends all his money on the kids--plus he only gets one weekend off a month and always brings them to our romantic date nights..." Your coworker sighed dramatically, pretending like she wasn't equally as doting over her children, whose pictures and handmade gifts were all around her cubicle.

Ah, children, families, frequent romantic dates, marriage...those were all traditional things you gave up after running away with Nikolai.

You were lost in your thoughts as you popped another rich candy into your mouth--this one being filled with a creamy pistachio ganache that tasted a bit too artificial and made you cringe. Juliette called your name to snap you out of your daze.

"Well, what about you? What's your husband like?" She leaned forward and stared curiously at you, waiting for you to share your little gossip. You chewed slowly, trying to process the question as Anaïs nudged her friend's side lightly.

"Juliette, are you blind?! The girl doesn't have a ring on her finger--certainly she must have a man though--I mean look at her--she's a stunner." Your eyes widened at that as you twirled your wig hair and fixed your fake disguise glasses.

"Oh, well, Anaïs is right, I do have a...lover." Lover...you and Nikolai had never really put an official label on your relationship. You described Nikolai--dubbed as "Nikolas"--to the two other women, trying to stay as true as possible while not revealing his true identity.

Juliet winked at you, "Do you guys have sex? Is he rough, soft, kinky?" She giggled as Anaïs side-eyed her for her childish behavior.

You blushed, well, at least you could answer this question in earnest, "Yeah...he's good...really good." You covered your face briefly, feeling heat in your cheeks when you remembered your little Mersault moments. "But we haven't done anything in a while since he's away on a...work trip." You smiled sadly at that, despite missions being the new norm, you couldn't deny feeling lonely and missing Nikolai constantly.

"Ohhhhh?" Juliette and Anaïs exchanged coy looks, "You need that man to marry you before he leaves you...trust me, darling, I would know." Anaïs said, touching up her lipstick, "You wouldn't want to get knocked up and left alone, would you? Men are too unfaithful these days..."

Yeah, you knew all about that first hand.

You were about to interject until you supervisor knocked on the wall of the space you three were having lunch in. "Lunch break's over. Get back to work, ladies." You all got up slowly, and you held onto the box of chocolates, offering some pieces to Juliette before taking it back to your work desk and putting your headset on.

"You shouldn't eat so many chocolates, ptichka, you'll get a sugar crash." You straightened your back suddenly upon hearing the sultry, russian man's voice in your headset. Fyodor. He usually gave you instructions privately to hack into the system, but he normally only talked to you for mission purposes.

Rolling your eyes, you popped a sweet milk chocolate heart into your mouth, "Hush, I'm stressed. And how did you know? Are you watching me or something?" You looked up by the ceilings to glare into the nearby security cameras.

Fyodor only laughed on the other side. "Oh, milaya, I'm always watching you." Shivers ran down your spine as his voice faded out and you were back to staring at your log-in screen.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You waved goodbye to your coworkers as greeted Ivan--your personal chauffeur--and stepped into the backseat of the car, staring out the tinted window. The car was stopped at a red light when you noticed an animated billboard broadcasting a clip of the news. It was your parents and your in-laws begging for any information about you or your husband's disappearances and the award for either of your safe returns. While that didn't bother you at first--after all, your parents just saw you as a pawn they could marry away for a sound investment, and your in-laws didn't treat you much better either--you couldn't help but feel some remorse from their desperate pleas.

You knew what had happened to your husband--you and Nikolai had killed him. As much as you didn't want to admit it, his death was starting to haunt you. The eerie silence after you'd pulled the trigger and the horrible state he was in before replayed in your dreams, and it didn't help that your lover wasn't there to comfort you anymore. Especially now that Sigma was busy managing the Sky Casino, and you had to work your 9-5 office job, you really had no one to talk to openly. No one...except for Fyodor.

"Welcome back, milashka." Fyodor greeted you as you slipped off your heels upon entering the base. You smiled awkwardly at him, freeing your hair from the wig and slipping your glasses back into your purse. "How was work today?"

"Good...as always...you would know that, though since you're always watching me." You teased, still a bit shaken by what he'd said.

Despite how cold and reluctant he was towards you at first, you'd somehow gotten closer since it was basically just you two at the base. He'd held up his promise and gave you plenty of books to read, so you often talked about literature, which usually lead to deeper conversations. Additionally, although he never addressed you by your name like Sigma, he started giving you russian pet names--some of which were uncannily similar to the ones Nikolai would call you. You tried not to pay it much mind--it was probably some weird power dynamic thing--but you couldn't help but notice how he hid the nicknames and subtle flirting around Nikolai.

Fyodor motioned towards the small table by the fireplace, "I made some tea. Would you care to join me, ptichka? He smirked as you sighed and sat down next to him--you swore the chairs were closer than usual. You pulled the box of chocolates out of your purse and set them down next to a blue and white porcelain tea cup. You poured yourself some black tea before taking another chocolate, this one being filled with strawberry cream. You sulked after seeing a drawing of a happy family on the box, drawing Fyodor's attention. "Is anything on your mind, milaya? You seem bothered."

You eyed him curiously, surprised that he cared to listen to you. You figured you needed to get it off your chest, though, so you opened up, "Well...it's just that I've been alone lately with Nikolai gone, and I've been feeling like maybe this life isn't exactly for me..." You trailed off, a bit panicked when you saw a blank, stoic look on Fyodor's face. You put your hands up defensively, "N-not like I don't want to be a part of the Decay of Angels anymore, but just that I want more out of my life in the future."

Fyodor crossed his legs and rested his chin on his hand, gazing down at you, intrigued, "Go on."

You gulped, "I get so jealous when my coworkers talk about their families and settling down, going on fun vacations, or having daily board game nights...How they can speak so freely about their lives, while I have to live a lie and walk past my missing posters every day...I-I don't have anyone to come home to anymore, either..." You could feel tears start to cloud your vision as you looked down, never speaking this passionately before. You were sure you looked pathetic.

Your eyes widened as you felt Fyodor's frail fingers come up to wipe away your tears and brush across your cheek before landing on top of your hands. They were cold, not as warm as Nikolai's but at least somewhat comforting.

"Perhaps it isn't a different lifestyle you crave, but a sense of belonging and security." Fyodor started, bringing his face a bit closer to yours. "Your heart desires a deeper connection with those around you. After all, you abandoned everyone you knew before and suddenly went into an entirely different life. It's only normal that you would feel distressed after a while. You need comfort--and I'm sure that some part of you wants to give your parents some closure about your disappearance."

Fyodor was being...sympathetic? It was almost scary how well he could describe what you were feeling, along with how surprisingly empathetic he acted. You had quickly learned that he had little regard for others or for defective subordinates.

You looked up at him, "It's not just that, though. Even though it's selfish, I want Nikolai to marry me--or at least make things more serious and clear between us..." You didn't notice Fyodor slightly frowning at that as you continued, "He's just been away for so long, and it's not like I don't trust him, but he really has no obligation to stay loyal to me, and I've already been cheated on before...There's no way I can fall in love with another man being a double agent, so I need to know if he plans on us being long-term or not..." Rambling out the rest of your feelings, Fyodor stroked your hand slowly, his smug smile returning on his face.

"You should tell him that, then. If you speak from your heart and tell him the truth, I'm sure he'll listen to you. After all, he'd fulfill your desires if he really loved you." You pouted.

"But it's Nikolai...at the end of the day, he lives by his own convictions and philosophy."

Fyodor clicked his tongue, "If he loved you, he'd compromise." You weren't quite convinced, but you flinched when he brought your hand up and placed a soft kiss to the back of your hand. "Good luck, milashka." As soon as it happened, he was gone as he dismissed himself and left you alone at the table. You didn't know how to think or process the conversation as you lightly slapped away the faint blush across your cheeks.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Another long day of work had concluded as you wished your coworkers a good weekend and walked out the door. It had been two weeks since your conversation with Fyodor, but it was all that was on your mind. You really needed to talk to Nikolai soon.

Wait. Was that Ivan...holding a bouquet of flowers? Not just any flowers either--they were the same lavender roses you'd been gifted by your ex-patient in the asylum courtyard.

Ivan only gave you his usual twisted smile and laughter before handing you the bouquet as you shot him a questioning look. You muttered a quiet "thank you" as you got into the backseat and stared out the window again, smelling the fragrant roses and replaying Fyodor's words in your head.

It didn't hit you that the road you were traveling on was unfamiliar until the car suddenly came to a stop, and you realized you were in an abandoned alleyway. Uneasiness started to settle in as your driver exited his seat, shutting the car door behind him. "Iv--"

You were interrupted when the door to the backseat flung open and closed as Ivan crawled on top of you, pushing the flowers out of your hands as he pushed his body against yours and cradled into your neck, hysterically giggling. "I-Ivan--" You struggled to shove him off you, but he was too strong, "W-what are you---"

A familiar scent stopped you from speaking as your heartbeat increased. Wait, was that--?

Ivan pulled away from your neck before tugging off his bandages, his whole appearance suddenly fading away before being replaced by...

"K-Kolya! I-It's you!" Relief washed over your face as you looked up to see your lover staring back at you, clearly satisfied from whatever prank he'd just played on you. He kissed away the tears that had formed instinctively from your fear while laughing maniacally.

"Hehe~ Did you miss me, dove? I wanted to surprise you since I just came back. Your reactions were a nice little treat~" You pouted as you looked away, embarrassed that you'd lost yet another one of Nikolai's mini games. His features softened, "I'm afraid I may have gone a bit too far though. I really missed you, myla." His warm, gloved fingers traced over your bottom lip slowly.

"M-missed you too, Kolya. So much..." You sniffled as you pulled his head down to yours, tangling your fingers into his fluffy white hair and capturing his lips in a deep kiss. Your back pushed into the car cushions as Nikolai's hands roamed your body, needy to touch you again after so long--especially since he couldn't contact you. He fumbled with the buttons on your thick coat, hands working fast to get you out of all of your layers.

He groaned into the kiss as you tugged on his locks and wrapped your legs around his waist to press him further against you. By now, he had unbuttoned your light blue blouse to reveal your pretty skin. Nikolai pulled away from the kiss gently to take you in--the sight of you all flustered in just a thin lacy bra was turning him on, evident from his growing arousal that was pushing against your tights.

"Fuck, dove, you're so beautiful..." He dipped back to leave messy hickeys on your neck, whispering in your ear before slowly working his way down, "Your skin's so soft...were you touching yourself while I was away, pryntsesa?" You moaned at that, whining when his hand starting rubbing circles from your hips to your inner thigh, getting dangerously close. The trail of wet kisses traveled down your collarbone and your breasts to your stomach and eventually stopping where the waistband of your black skirt and tights laid. He was panting lightly at this point, devoid of air from worshipping your body. "It wasn't enough, though, was it? You need me to feel good, myla~" He heaved, his face pink and strands of hair falling over his eyes. His fingers hooked around your clothes and he resumed his trail of kisses, about to strip you.

"If he loved you, he'd compromise."

Fyodor's words hit you as you stopped Nikolai, lightly pushing yourself up again. "W-wait, Nikolai, I want to talk to you about something." He grunted, annoyed like a little kid, his bulge still pressing against you.

"Can it wait? I didn't bring you to this abandoned, sketchy alley for nothing, ptashka." You pulled away further, to his disappointment, and pulled your knees up against your body, pouting sadly.

"I know, but it's something that's been on my mind since you've been gone", Nikolai only sighed impatiently as you pleaded, "I promise it won't take too long..." You put your hand over Nikolai's, and he obliged reluctantly, sitting up a small distance away from you.

"Cockblocker...make it quick." He muttered, and you tried not to be immature and giggle. This was supposed to be a serious conversation.

You cleared your throat, "Well, I was just wondering about us...and our relationship..." You flinched when you saw Nikolai's eyes bore into you, "I-It's not what you think---I love you and want to stay with you, but, are we..." You trailed off, suddenly feeling embarrassed and unsure about what to say next. You looked down, mind a muddled mess, but you tried to remember Fyodor's advice.

"A-are we ever going to get married? Settle down and maybe start a family? Move somewhere nice and peaceful, where we can just enjoy each other's company?" Your mind went back to Anaïs and her husband, as you slowly started to look back up, "Go on a vacation together to the islands? Or your home coun--"

"No." Nikolai's dark gaze cut into you, stopping you from speaking any further. "Why would you want that, dove?"

You could feel your heart shattering. This wasn't how you thought he would respond. He was supposed to understand you, to listen to you, to compromise.

"I want a future with you, Kolya, that's why..." You started sadly, throat feeling constricted.

"But we're already together right now, myla. Isn't that enough for you?" Nikolai replied apathetically, his expression stoic and unreadable.

"It's--but my husband cheated on me, so I have to know if you're serious about us. I don't want to be in an unstable relationship anymore." Tears pricked your eyes, threatening to spill out as you could feel your heart breaking, "Anyways, you could just cheat on me, too. You're barely even around anymore, and I'm sure that you're always surrounded by beautiful women...All my coworkers are already married and in a happy relationship, so I feel so behind..."

"Oh, so that's why? Because society's telling you to live that way? Because you want to be accepted and imitate everyone else? That's the exact life I was trying to escape from, dove." Nikolai butted back, smiling cruelly.

"N-no! That's not--" You cried out, not being able to hold in the tears. Nikolai frowned and looked up from your face, reaching up towards your head.

"That hat? When did you get that?" He glared up at the white ushanka on your head. It resembled a certain someone's too closely.

You sniffled, "T-this? It's a gift from Fyodor. 'Cause it's getting cold out." Nikolai furrowed his brows in jealously upon hearing that name.

"From Dos...he's the one who planted those ideas in your head, didn't he?" His fists tightened at the thought of Fyodor wrapping you around his finger; it was his specialty, after all.

You wiped your tears sadly as you lowly shook your head no. At this point, Fyodor seemed to be the only one who understood you. He was the one who'd told you that Nikolai would compromise if he loved you. But he didn't. Did that mean...?

"Tch. Look, myla, stay away from that man. Dos may be my friend, but I don't trust him." Seeing your sad face and lack of response angered him more and he raised his voice a bit, "Stop talking to him, dove. I'm warning you--don't you dare even look in his direction."

Your sobbing resumed as you pulled your head back into your knees, hearing the backdoor shut as Nikolai left and started driving back to the base. You heard the sound of rain in the background as you clutched the white ushanka in your arms, the fluffy hat offering you some comfort.

The ride back was silent.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Fyodor awaited you both when you finally arrived back at the base, the same sly smile on his face. "Welcome back, you two." Nikolai only glared back, holding your hand tightly. He let go suddenly and walked past Fyodor into his stone room, implying for him to follow suit.

Once Nikolai's back was turned away, Fyodor gave you a soft, concerned glance. Your nose and eyes were swollen and red from all the crying. "I'm guessing it didn't go well, milashka?" You shook your head softly, and he whispered about leaving some cookies and tea in your room. He tried to approach you, but a strong voice cut him off.

"Dos, let's talk." Nikolai menacingly called out, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. You'd never seen him this stern or angry before. He never took anything seriously, certainly you weren't an exception, right?

Fyodor shot you one last empathetic look and went into his room. You shuddered as the sound of Nikolai slamming the door and immediately yelling loudly bounced off the walls. As much as you wanted to eavesdrop, you were worn out and tired.

You retreated to your and Nikolai's shared room slowly, too exhausted to even try the tea and cookies Fyodor had thoughtfully left for you. You barely stripped off your disguise before crashing onto the bed, just wanting the day to be over.

Things with Nikolai could never go back to normal again. You wished you'd just kept your mouth shut, but you also wished Nikolai had been more open to your desires. What were you to him, anyways? And you didn't understand why he was so mad at Fyodor. He'd kept you company while Nikolai was gone, and he'd been nothing but respectful and attentive.

You groaned and tried to shut your eyes to drown out the conflicting thoughts in your head. Everything was way too complicated now. You wished things could be peaceful again. You wished you could escape.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"You want to go back home, ptichka?" Fyodor asked. You nodded in response. The next day, Nikolai was gone on another mission, never coming to your shared bed the night before or saying goodbye to you before leaving.

The russian man sighed, "That's a bad idea. You'll get caught before you know it, and once the press gets a hold of you, it'll be hard to rescue you. Plus you still have your job that could arouse suspicion."

"I know..." You started. "I just...have some amends to make...and I'll only be gone for a day or two...and stay in disguise." Liar. You didn't know why you wanted to go back, and if you were homesick or just trying to self-sabotage yourself. Either way, you knew you couldn't stay here and look at Fyodor or Nikolai any longer. Things were too tense, and you didn't know who was genuinely there for you or just manipulating you.

You couldn't trust either of them. Your plan was to either go back and get caught for your crimes or retreat to the Sky Casino for as long as possible. You bet that Sigma didn't like or trust the two men either.

Not to mention, you'd already left Nikolai a parting text, writing,

"I'm sorry. I'll always love you, Kolya. Thank you."

Not that you even knew if he'd see it, but you still wanted to say something.

"I'll help you." Fyodor finally said, making your eyes widen in surprise. "But I want to tell you something first." He took your hands and held them, running his thumb over your fingers. His touch was cold. "I admire you for wanting to confront your feelings and follow your heart. The rest of us have forgotten such feelings of humanity." He continued, "To see such a lovely, well-read woman like you leave pains me. I'll truly miss you and our intellectual conversations, milaya. So much so that I'll be awaiting your safe return."

You blushed as he kissed your gentle hands, "T-thank you, Fyodor, I'm flattered." Lying again, but you figured you would have to use your 'feminine charm' a bit to fully convince him.

He smirked subtly, "Escaping from another man's cage of lofty ideals and freedom into the outside world...Would you care to do me one last favor, milashka?" You nodded with doe eyes as he leaned into your ear.

"Give me a goodbye kiss." Shocked and flustered, you pulled away and broke contact.

Fyodor only stepped forward and held your face, his soft smile seeming more sinister now, "What's wrong, dove, you just have to kiss me, and I'll help you escape. Not a bad deal, no?" He got dangerously close to you, his hot breath fanning over your glossy lips.

You froze for a second, "I-I can't--" Fyodor only traced your lips ominously, like he was taunting you and asking you why.

"I'm still in love with Niko--"

"Dove? Dos?" Your heartbeat stopped when you heard your lover's voice behind you. Why was he here, and how'd he get here so fast?

You turned around, hoping he would save you, until you saw him holding a gun--the same one he used on your husband.

"Kolya, w-wait, this isn't..." You stopped talking when you heard the gun cock. There was no way you could explain your way out of this. You and Fyodor were just about to kiss, and you were trying to escape indefinitely.

Nikolai narrowed his eyes and pointed the gun at Fyodor, "This was your doing, wasn't it?" Fyodor only remained calm, however, and twirled a strand of your hair while smirking.

"No, quite the opposite actually. Our little dove here was just about to escape and go back home to 'make amends'. It seems like she may still be grieving over her husband and their traditional life together..." Nikolai's grip on his gun tightened, still pointed at his friend. "Actually, she was just seducing me to help her escape. A goodbye kiss, that's what you wanted, right, ptichka?" Your ex-patient's eyes narrowed after hearing the similar pet name.

He turned to you, "Is he telling the truth, dove?" You were shaking, still trying to process the situation in front of you.

"N-no! I was trying to escape with Fyodor's help, but that's it! I swear, I still love you--please believe me, Kolya!" You pleaded, practically begging for your life. Nikolai looked at you regrettably before removing the card over his right eye and laughing bitterly.

"And here I was, rushing back to see you once I saw your text because I was worried about you and wanted to talk things out properly. I'm quite the fool aren't I, dove?" He started laughing maniacally, scaring you. He then stopped suddenly and pointed the gun at you, "But I guess this decision was from your own free will. I was wrong for thinking you were the same as me..."

Anxiety settling in, you couldn't react. What was Nikolai going on about? Had Fyodor said something to or manipulated him, too?

"We got rid of your husband, but now you want Dos, too? You're aren't really mine, are you, dove?" He walked closer to you and pressed the cold metal barrel to your hip. "I'll be nice and let you play one last game, though~" He had a crazy look in his eyes--one dark and emotionless, and the other streaming tears; you were sure every feeling was spiraling through his brain.

Nikolai giggled as he pushed you out of the door onto the floor. You were about to get up in fear when you heard a shot in the background. Did he shoot Fyodor?

Deranged laughter was heard behind you as Nikolai peeked his head out the door, "Better start running, dove. Otherwise the next shot might hit you~" You backed up in terror, standing up and stumbling over to Nikolai, wrapping your arms around him and crying hysterically.

"K-Kolya, you're s-scaring me. I-I love you, s-so let's go back t-to n-normal." Nikolai paused against your shaky body and lifted your face up to his. Tears were falling out both of his eyes now, contrasting the wicked grin contorting his lips. You gasped as he wiped your eyes and licked away your tears.

"You look so pretty when you cry, angel. I'll give you an extra ten seconds for that. Ten...nine...eight..." Realizing you had no way to convince Nikolai to spare your life, you ran, not daring to look back behind you. The man you loved was gone, driven mad by his obsession over you. Your skin crawled as you heard his voice reverberating through the hallways.

"I thought you loved me, dove, but it seems I wasn't what you wanted. I got too attached to you, though, and you know too much, so it seems I can't just let you go or give you to another man. You won't escape my cage."

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yanderecrazysie · 4 months

Note

yandere bakugo! purge au? it’s time for the purge and its the perfect time to get his darling

I’ve been watching the Purge show with my little sister and we occasionally just text each other “The Giving is near, the Invisible awaits”. I love the purge movies so much, except the Forever Purge, I just didn’t like that one.

Title: 12 Hours

Pairings: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, Bakugou’s scary lol

Summary: 12 hours when every crime is legal but with a twist- if you kidnap someone, they’re yours forever.

“You’re sure everything is locked down?” You asked, biting your lip nervously.

Your boyfriend smiled at you, “State of the art system. There’s nothing to worry about.”

You gave him a smile, but you followed it up with a sigh. You had a lot to worry about. You had gotten a note in the mail, two days before the purge, that read:

Dear (Y/n),

This is a notice that a Level 5 person(s) has been given permission to hold you indefinitely if you are captured during purge hours. We recommend staying inside and taking precautions to protect yourself.

Blessed be our New Founding Fathers,

NFFA Personnel.

Someone had requested permission to kidnap you forever, as long as they captured you on purge night. Who it was, you couldn’t even imagine.

Your house’s defense system was practically a joke. You didn’t have the money to get fancy equipment like everyone else had. That’s why your boyfriend, John, had offered to let you stay with him during purge night.

The thought had crossed your mind that John could be the crazy kidnapper, but you knew that he could have you any time he wanted to, so there wasn’t any point in kidnapping you.

John had an amazing security system. Not as good as, say, the NFFA members had, but still very good. You felt mostly safe to stay with him, but there was still an ounce of fear that wouldn’t go away.

You had looked up what “Level 5” meant and had discovered there were five levels of dangerous people classified for the purge. Level 1 was the lowest and, well, Level 5 was the most dangerous.

You had an extremely dangerous person after you. Who knew what they would do to you after kidnapping you? Maybe they would torture you all year long.

Your boyfriend turned on the TV and, a few moments later, the announcement played.

“This is not a test, this is your Emergency Broadcast System announcing the commencement of the annual purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government. Weapons of class four and lower have been authorized for use during the purge. All other weapons are restricted.

“Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime (including murder) will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and Emergency Medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. when the purge concludes.

“Blessed be our new founding fathers and America... A nation reborn. May God be with you all.”

Even through the metal shutters, you could hear the sirens start. Your breath hitched in your throat.

“We’re in for a quiet evening, don’t worry,” John said, putting a comforting arm around your shoulder, “Should we get the wine out?”

“Yes, please,” you said shakily.

Your boyfriend walked over to the cabinets and pulled out a bottle of wine and a couple cups. He poured a generous amount of liquid into both cups and handed you one. You drank all of it in one go.

John laughed and refilled your cup, “It’s only 12 hours. That’s it.”

“12 hours is a long time,” you muttered, “A lot can happen in half a day.”

Ten hours passed uneventfully, the two of you watching the only channel that wasn’t showing highlights of the purge from cameras set up around the country or talking about the history of purging.

On the eleventh hour, someone knocked on the door. You froze in your seat, breath hitching in your throat from horror. Your boyfriend stood up, “It’s okay, no one can get in. I’ll check the front door camera.”

He checked the camera and smiled, “See, they moved o-”

The power went out.

A beeping sound filled the house and then the scraping of metal as the shutters began to rise. The security system had been disabled and was reversing itself.

Even in the dim light, you could see that your boyfriend had gone pale, messing with the system frantically to try to reset it.

Finally, he turned to you and said, “Get in the closet. I’ve got a gun and I’ll deal with anyone that comes inside.”

You were crying at that point, but you managed to nod. You ran to the closet and hurriedly closed it behind you. You pulled some clothes down from the rack and tried to use them to cover yourself. There was no lock, so you were absolutely toast if anyone looked inside.

You could hear the door open loudly, as though someone had kicked it open. Your ears strained, listening for any hint that your boyfriend would be okay.

A gunshot rang through the house and you hoped it was from your boyfriend’s gun and not the intruder’s. A loud, husky laugh followed the sound, “Nice try, extra.”

You covered your mouth as the sound of an automatic gun’s famous ratatata followed. You knew John only had a pistol. No doubt your boyfriend had just died.

“Y/n”, I know you’re in here,” the voice said loudly, almost playfully, “Might as well come out now, so I don’t waste time trying to find you.”

You had less than an hour left. If you could just stall him until the 12 hours were up, maybe you’d make it out alive.

Your breath hitched again as he came into the bedroom and you closed your eyes.

“Not under the bed. What about the closet?” You could hear the smirk in the intruder’s voice.

The closet door flew open and the clothes were pulled off of you. You looked up helplessly at the wild-haired blonde with blood red eyes as he crouched in front of you. He took your wrist in a crushing grip, grinning at you with victory, and hauled you up off the floor.

“C’mon, we only have one hour to get you home. Had to deal with a lot of shit tonight. But I’m sure your boy toy’s car will help us out, won’t it, baby?”

You hadn’t made it the whole 12 hours.

Your life was in his hands.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere one shot #one shot #yandere my hero academia #my hero academia #yandere bakugou #bakugou katsuki

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seijorhi · 1 year

Text

Undertow

A tokrev purge AU, as a treat :))

Kakucho x female reader, Kurokawa Izana x female reader

w.c 6.4k

tw: murder, blood & slight gore, implied non/dub-con, yandere themes

This is not a test, this is your Emergency Broadcast System announcing the commencement of the annual Purge sanctioned by the Japanese Government. Weapons of class four and lower have been authorised for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking ten have been granted immunity and shall not be harmed.

Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for twelve continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m, when the Purge concludes.

Blessed be our new founding fathers and Japan; a nation reborn.

As the polite, female voice falls silent, klaxons ring out, blaring through the night.

Seven years now.

Five, since your brother decided to join the would be Purgers and never made it home. It never becomes normal, you never lose that fear. You do, however, learn the rules.

Stay home. Lock yourself away behind the reinforced shutters and doors, pretend that everything’s fine, that you can’t hear the screaming and gunshots, the violent chaos being gleefully wreaked outside. You put on some movies, music maybe, sit on your couch, swaddled in blankets with the volume too loud and pray that tonight won’t be the night that someone decides to test just how impenetrable the defences around your home truly are.

Arms encircle your waist, pulling you back against a firm chest. A kiss is pressed against your hair. “Babe, don’t look so worried. We’ll be fine. We always are.”

–Only this time, you’re not waiting out the Purge by yourself.

You exhale, Natsuya’s hold easing to allow you to turn and face him. He smiles at the pinched expression on your face, “We’re gonna be fine,” he repeats. “Now will you please come have a drink with me? The others are starting to wonder why my beautiful,” his lips meet your forehead, “smart,” the tip of your nose, “incredible girlfriend’s hiding herself away.”

He kisses your lips last of all, a sweet, gentle thing. Brushes your hair back from your face.

“No one’s getting through the security system, and even if they did, no one’s gonna hurt you, I’ll make sure of it.”

Yes, you’d caught an eyeful of the shotgun he’d been cleaning when you’d arrived. His friends undoubtedly have their own weapons stashed away, too. After all – there’s no such thing as a pacifist on Purge night.

It doesn’t ease your worry any, but you smile and nod for him, letting him tug you back to the lounge room where his friends and sister await.

Because what else does Purge night call for, if not a party?

Miyano – charming and roguish, long dark hair swept up into a bun – the first to greet you, passing you a shot of amber liquor with an easy wink. “Purge classic,” he tells you, referring to the drink, “it’s tradition – and a secret.”

You knock the shot back, wincing at the burn in your throat as it goes down. “Why does it taste like toothpaste?!”

“Disgusting, isn’t it,” Tomori, Natsuya’s sister and the only other girl present, says with a grimace.

Miyano looks mightily pleased with himself, Ayumu and Suwabe both snickering good naturedly. The two of them couldn’t be more different from each other. Suwabe’s short and stocky, Ayumu willowy-tall, blond and bespectacled, and yet one’s never far from the other.

Your boyfriend sneaks an arm around your waist, dutifully accepting his own with a rueful sigh.

“So you guys do this every Purge?”

Suwabe nods, “Yeah, for the past four or five years. It’s a shit night, we figured we might as well make the most of it together instead of stressing out about it alone.”

“And you’ve never been tempted to…?”

The three of them share a look, Suwabe shrugging, “What, to Purge? Ayumu and I went one year. Not to kill anyone or nothing,” he hastens to clarify at your wide eyed expression, “we wanted to rob his boss’s place.”

“The guy was an asshole. Rich as hell, too. We knew he wasn’t gonna be there, it seemed as good a time as any to try our luck,” the blond elaborates.

“And how’d that go for you?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, “Yeah, we didn’t even make it onto the property. And it was fucked out there, not something I want a repeat of anytime soon.”

Your brother’s face flashes to mind, a pang striking deep in your chest. He’d made his choice, though, with intentions far less justifiable, and so you shove those feelings aside, tilting your face to meet Natsuya’s, “And no Purging for you?”

Intended as a joke, his fingers, resting comfortably above your hip, inexplicably twitch. “‘Course not.”

“The whole thing’s messed up. Who wants to go out and hunt people for fun?” Tomori snorts, passing you a glass of wine and pouring one for herself.

“Kind of a necessary evil, though, right?”

She meets her brother’s gaze with one raised, unimpressed eyebrow, “Oh c’mon, Nats, you can’t honestly tell me that you believe the Purge is in any way a good thing. Those who can afford it lock themselves away, and the poor pay the price. It’s chaos for the sake of chaos, the only difference between now and before is that alongside all the criminals who would’ve gone out looting and murdering anyway, the government’s convinced stupid, entitled dumbasses like those two,” she jerks her chin towards Ayumu and Suwabe, both suddenly fascinated with their drinks, “that killing and stealing and hurting other people is morally upstanding, and worse; fun.”

And so the conversation goes, as it always does. You nod and hum idly along with the others every now and then, nestled comfortably into Natsuya’s side while they argue back and forth, until– “Look, all I’m saying is that anyone who’s dumb enough to get themselves killed on Purge night probably isn’t a great loss to society anyway.”

The change in the air is palpable. Natsuya stiffens behind you, Tomori’s breath catching, her eyes immediately finding yours.

Figures that Natsuya told her.

And to Miyano’s credit, he seems to realise he’s misstepped even before your boyfriend’s growled, “Dude, shut the hell up.”

“Shit, that’s not what I– Fuck, I didn’t–” You raise a placating hand, and his mouth closes with an audible click.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, I’m not gonna bite your head off,” you chuckle awkwardly, pretending that you don’t see Suwabe’s wince.

Still, his expression looks almost stricken, eyes darting between you and a disapproving Nats, and you feel a slight twinge of… something.

Miyano hadn’t said it to be spiteful.

What happened to your brother happens to hundreds every Purge – they leave the safety of their houses with the belief that because they’ve got a weapon and a free pass for twelve hours, they’re invincible.

Usually, they’re wrong.

“It’s fine,” you repeat with a tight smile, pointedly ignoring Natsuya’s scoff.

“No, I shouldn’t’ve–”

Whatever he’s about to say falls by the wayside as a loud, pounding suddenly reverberates through the house.

The front door.

For a long beat, nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Six pairs of eyes shift to the entry-way, towards the unknown figure waiting on the other side of the door.

Silence settles over the six of you, thick and uncomfortable, and undercurrent of tension pressing down on your body. Every door and window’s locked and reinforced behind steel shutters, they’re not impenetrable, though. Nothing is.

Abruptly, the banging resumes, so sudden that you jerk, flinching back against Natsuya’s frame.

“Pull up the security feed,” Suwabe suggests.

There’s a panel with a keypad on the wall by the kitchen, a few clicks of the buttons and the screen comes to life. Split across six sections, the cameras show a near 360 degree view of the exterior of the house. Natsuya taps on the upper left, bringing the view from the front of the house – the man battering down the door – full screen, the audio filtering through.

“–gonna kill me! You have to let me in! I promise I’m not armed, I swear it, just– help me, please!”

Your stomach flips.

“I–” you swallow, drawing in an unsteady breath.

The shock of black hair, the jagged scar cut like a bolt of lightning across his forehead, his eyes, one red, the other a milky white, wide and frantic now as he risks another look behind him – they’re not features you’re likely to forget any time soon. “I know him.”

You feel more than see the way that Natsuya tenses, pulling back to study you, a note of questioning in his eyes.

“He catches the same train home, we talk sometimes.” There’s more to it than that; a creep that tried to feel you up and Kakucho’s intervention, but you don’t feel like getting into that now.

Not when he’s hoarse and begging on Nats’ doorstep.

He hammers his fist against the shutters, strong enough that you swear you can feel the vibrations rattling in your chest. “He’s coming– fucking hell, please!”

Nobody says anything, uncomfortable glances shared between all six of you.

It’s an exercise in futility begging anyone for help on Purge night. He has to know that – everyone knows that.

And yet your heart’s lodged firmly in your throat, because it’s not just anyone at the door. It’s not a stranger begging for mercy, for sanctuary, it’s Kakucho.

Kakucho, who stood up for you.

Kakucho, who took the seat next to yours for weeks before he so much as said a word to you.

Kakucho, who looks half crazed – terrified – pleading for his life.

You barely know him, a kind act and a few conversations on your nighttime commute doesn’t make him a saint, doesn’t mean you have any sort of deeper relationship or trust built between you, but…

“Nats,” you breathe, your hand seeking his. His palm’s warm, engulfing yours, and you squeeze it, “I know him.”

It isn’t a plea, not quite.

“Dude, are you crazy? You can’t let him in!” Suwabe hisses, smacking his shoulder. “It sucks, but that’s what happens–”

Tomori‘s eyes flash. She folds her arms over her chest, shooting daggers his way, “So we throw him to the wolves? Just leave him to die?”

“Yeah; that’s the fucking Purge, Mori! He’s banging on your door ‘cause no one else’s stupid enough to let him in!”

“And if it was your friend and not some random stranger, you’re telling me you‘d leave him to the wolves rather than risk opening your door?”

Miyano, up until now silent, exhales, “She’s kind of got a point.”

“He’s not a friend though, she said it herself!” Suwabe snaps back, jabbing his finger in your direction. He turns to Ayumu, watching the argument unfold with a small frown. “Back me up here, dude, you know I’m right.”

The blond shifts on his feet, fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm against his drink as his gaze flickers between you and Natsuya. And all the while, the pounding outside continues, furious and desperate, layered beneath Kakucho’s shouts. You’re half convinced that any second now, that door’s gonna give way, and your stomach churns. You feel sick.

He’s a mere step above a stranger; an acquaintance at best. Suwabe isn’t wrong, either. This is Purge, this is what happens. Those who don’t have the means to protect themselves either learn to fight back or pay the price. There’s no helping that and it’s naive to think otherwise.

Right now you’re safe. Barring an all out assault, you’ll remain that way for the rest of the night.

The smart thing to do would be to hunker down and pretend the world outside the front door doesn’t exist for the next however many hours. That was the plan. That’s always the plan for the Purge.

Even the harmless looking ones pose a threat tonight. Kakucho, with his stature and scowl, the scar and those frighteningly intense eyes, never struck you as all that harmless.

So you don’t blame Suwabe for his reticence. You can’t. The smart, rational choice here is as cold and brutal as it is simple; you keep the door locked.

Yet your hand tightens around Natsuya’s, anchoring yourself in the touch as Ayumu’s eyes flit across yours, considering.

You won’t beg, you won’t, but–

“It’s your house,” he eventually says, more to Natusya than you. A shrugs then, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “There’s six of us, we’ve got guns if he tries anything.”

Something looses inside of you, a shuddering breath filling your lungs.

Natsuya doesn’t look particularly thrilled judging from the clenched muscle in his jaw, the crease between his brows. One glance at Tomori, though, her lovely face set is a mask of determination and that resolve of his weakens.

And shatters entirely.

“Fine. Fucking– fine. Let him in; 4869.”

He snatches the shotgun off the table as he says it, drawing you back into his side whilst Miyano – the closest to the door – punches in the code. Suwabe, meanwhile, disappears from the room, reappearing a moment later with a gun in hand.

Sliding himself into position between Tomori and the door, he cocks the slide with a grim expression. He locks eyes with you – only for a heartbeat – and you find yourself wanting to blurt out that the guns aren’t necessary, that Kakucho isn’t a threat.

You don’t, though, tongue leaden in your mouth, and he nudges her back as his attention shifts to the door.

In your ear, low enough that the others won’t hear, Natsuya murmurs, “You don’t leave my side, understand?”

You nod.

With a heavy clank, the shutters begin to lift.

Your fingers dance by your side, your insides in knots. Inch by inch it goes until finally, Miyano unlocks the door, pulls it open and Kakucho barrels in.

No one breathes. No one moves as he rights himself, bleeding, panting.

“Shut the fucking door,” he rasps, and like that, whatever spell everyone’s under is broken and both Suwabe and Miyano snap into action to close off the house once more.

And all the while you simply stare, blinking, unsure of what you’re supposed to say or do right now. Kakucho’s eyes shift around the room, slowly considering each of your friends, tasking them in one after the other, Suwabe’s gun, Natsuya’s, until at last, his eyes fall on you.

Recognition glints. Surprise. His head tilts, almost puppy-ish, brows drawing together. He murmurs your name in that deep, gravelly rumble, and Natsuya goes rigid.

It’s an instinctual response, you think, because a breath later his thumb rubs soothingly at your hip, slow and gentle, a quiet apology for brutish behaviour. Everyone’s on edge tonight.

And once again, it falls to Tomori to break the tension.

“Are you hurt? You look like hell.”

Kakucho doesn’t answer her immediately, his attention lingering on you for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Long enough that you have to fight the urge to fidget. Eventually, though, he grunts and shakes his head, turning his head to face her. “It’s nothing. I‘m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” she presses, as gently as she can.

Dazedly, he lifts his hand to his face, fingers finding the gash on his cheek. They come away wet and shining, glistening with his own blood – he stares at it, almost confused. “It’s… nothing,” he repeats, slower this time.

Tomori rolls her eyes, huffs in a way that’s so similar to Natsuya that under other circumstances you might have laughed. “What is it with men and their bullshit need to act tough all the time?”

None of them, not even Miyano has anything to say to that, and despite the heavy tension still hanging in the air, a wry grin pulls at your lips.

It only lasts a moment.

“You guys have a first aid kit, yeah?” Ayumu asks, to which both Tomori and your boyfriend nod.

“In the kitchen, the shelf above the fridge.”

And like that, the boys begin to disperse. Ayumu to fetch the kit, Miyano water and alcohol. Suwabe sticks by Tomori’s side, and when she mentions something about towels for the blood, he follows her out into the hallway. You suspect it’s more to give you a moment with Kakucho – or to escape the thick, awkward atmosphere – but you’re grateful all the same.

With the others gone, Kakucho’s attention turns back to you. Says nothing as you approach, Natsuya trailing right behind you, watching the two of you carefully.

Tomori hadn’t been wrong. Tough act or not, he has to be in pain. Split lip, knuckles grazed and reddened. The gash on his cheek, and blood seeping from a cut on his brow. Mottled bruises darkening his skin. Even his gait is off, his left leg supporting the majority of his weight. You’ve never seen the aftermath of a beating like this before. They hadn’t even let you see your own brother after they’d found him.

It twists at something inside of you, sends a pang right through your heart. He has to be hurting, yet Kakucho wears the damage like it’s nothing.

There’s a strange urge – one you steadfastly ignore – to reach out and take his ruined cheek in hand. To see someone in pain, hiding it… you might not be friends exactly, but a lump forms in your throat, your chest tightening. You’ve never felt so uselessly inadequate.

You sigh, eyes searching his, “What happened to you?”

“Let him sit down first, babe,” your boyfriend mutters.

Kakucho regards him warily. He’s still holding the shotgun, admittedly by his side, his other hand moving to your shoulder.

A clear message, and you don’t know how you feel about that.

In any case, your cheeks warm, a sheepish laugh – one without much humour – leaving your lips. You’re doing this all wrong. Stupid, stupid. “Of course, it’s probably better if we do this at the table, right?” you ask no one in particular. “Can you walk over or do you need somebody to lean on?”

A faint frown mars his face, “I said I’m fine.” Again, there’s no heat in the statement, the words are dull, robotic almost.

The others are returning now, Ayumu blowing his blond locks away from his face as he sets the first aid kit down on the table and pops it open. Yet surprisingly it’s Suwabe who pipes up, “Stop being an asshole, she’s just trying to help.”

Well, maybe not that surprising.

You repress another sigh, shaking off Natsuya’s grip to go and help him, Ayumu clearly having the same thought, when the doorbell rings.

You freeze.

No one dares to breathe, each of you slowly turning to face the door, still locked behind those steel shutters.

The doorbell rings again, twice in quick succession.

You hear someone quietly whisper, “Fuck.”

Cold dread sluices through your system, every pound of your heart echoing in your ear as Natsuya chokes on his spit, glances to Miyano.

And all eyes shift to the security screen. Tomori’s closest this time, Suwabe’s quick to grab her, pull her back as he instead brings the feed to life. Another tap, and the exterior front door once again fills the screen.

Your heart, pounding so violently in your chest that it feels like you’re going to be sick, constricts.

A blond man with striking – deeply unsettling – violet eyes stands at the doorstep, smiling directly into the camera. He’s not much older than you, less than five or so years you’d guess, dressed in an elegant, brocaded red coat.

“I’m assuming I have your attention,” he begins. His voice is pleasant and smooth, it sends shivers down your spine, the warmth leaching from your blood.

He waits a beat, still smiling that chilling, awful smile. “Good. Excellent. As I have no intention of wasting my time on this precious Purge night, I’ll make this brief. Nice and simple for you; it’s come to my attention that you’re harbouring something that belongs to me.” You hear Tomori’s breath catch, and hers aren’t the only pair of eyes that shift to Kakucho. “The man – the dog – you’ve inexplicably given sanctuary to tonight is nothing but filth. A defiler. A killer. A menace to our just society, and like all dogs, he must be brought to heel.”

His teeth, straight and white, glint as his grin widens. You can’t breathe, Natsuya’s hand finding yours, tightening wordlessly. You can feel the tension shift in the room, the fear that descends like a blanket at his words. But you know Kakucho, he’s wouldn’t– he’s not–

“By offering him sanctuary, by standing between me and what is rightfully mine, you’ve aligned yourself with those to be Purged. So, again, I’ll make this clear. You may think that behind this security system of yours, you’re safe. That the locks on your doors and steel shutters will keep me out – that is a lie you’ve been sold. I am coming in, it might take five minutes, maybe twenty, but these defences will fall. And if the dog inside hasn’t ripped you all to pieces, rest assured that I will. I suggest you good folks run. Hide. You cannot keep me from what I want.”

Abruptly the screen goes black, and no less than a split second later, the power in the house cuts out, plunging you into an eerie green-lit dimness as the sole emergency light flickers on.

The sound of your shaking breath feels too loud in the dead stillness. You swallow, and slowly turn to face Kakucho.

A defiler and a killer, the smiling man had said.

Those things can’t be true, because the Kakucho you know…

He meets your stare. Cold and empty, and that racing, trembling heart of your sinks into the very pit of your stomach. “K-kakucho?”

Two guns lift, Natsuya yanking you back, and in the space of a breath, everything goes to hell. Ayumu’s closest, had gone over to help, and quicker than your eyes can follow, Kakucho lunges forward, a knife appearing in his hand.

One moment, your friend, with that quiet, dry humour and a heart of absolute gold, is standing, the next – Kakucho’s knife is at his throat, and he’s being yanked backwards. “Put the guns down,” he says.

Like his expression, his voice is cold and flat.

Neither Natsuya nor Suwabe make a move to lower their weapons, Suwabe teeth bared in a silent snarl.

“Just do what he says, for fuck’s sake!” Miyano hisses, and you’re not imagining the panic lacing his tone.

The corner of Kakucho’s lips curl, “However fast you think you can shoot, I can guarantee you it won’t be quick enough. Put them down. On the floor.”

“Kakucho, please…”

He doesn’t so much as spare you a glance. Natsuya’s hand tightens, a silent plea for you to keep quiet, and not draw his attention.

“Do what he says.” It’s Ayumu, his voice a hoarse whisper. Wide eyed, shaking, the knife at his throat pressed so tightly that the movement of his vocal chords causes skin to break, a thin line of blood beading across his neck. “Please.”

“I am not–”

“Do what he fucking says, Suwabe!”

A long silence settles, neither making a move, unwilling to give an inch despite their friend’s desperate plea. And perhaps the terror in the blond’s voice finally breaks through to them, or the cool, detached ruthlessness of Kakucho’s demeanour, but with a heavy reluctance, the two lower their weapons.

“On the floor,” Kakucho repeats, pressing the blade tighter against Ayumu’s throat. “I’m not asking.”

Suwabe snarls, dropping the pistol. A moment later Natsuya follows suit, the both of them glaring at the larger man.

Kakucho smirks. Glances at you.

A defiler, the smiling man had called him. A killer.

And too quickly for anyone to stop him, he yanks the knife across Ayumu’s throat and shoves him aside. There’s a ringing in your ears as Tomori screams, Suwabe falling to his knees, scrambling for his discarded gun. Too slow. Kakucho’s sprinting – unhindered by his supposed ‘injured’ foot – disappearing into the darkness of the house, and Ayumu’s bleeding out on the floor.

Gaping and gasping, twitching like a fish out of water.

You can’t move, can’t hear a thing but the pounding of your pulse in your ears as you stare into his eyes. There’s so much blood, more and more spraying with every dying beat of his heart, pooling beneath his body, splattering the walls, the furniture, everything. And you can’t move.

Ayumu, glasses knocked askew, pretty blond locks falling into his eyes, chokes and gurgles, a trembling, bloody hand stretching out for help – and you can’t do a thing.

No one can.

And just as Miyano jolts out of his stupor and lunges for him, Ayumu’s body falls slack.

The light in his eyes fading away into nothingness.

Dead.

Suwabe screams, fires two shots blindly down the hallway, howling in rage and agony. Natsuya grips you so tight that it cuts off your circulation, his own eyes wide and horrified, taking in the carnage before him. Tomori lets out a keening sob, and the shutters on the front door screech ominously, as if to remind you all that there are bigger problems at hand.

There’s no time for grief. There’s a killer in the house, another forcing his way inside. Five of you left, two guns, and another ten or so hours until all of this can be over.

And suddenly Natsuya’s in front of you, grabbing your face in both hands and forcing you to look at him. You blink dazedly, trying in vain to focus as he speaks to you.

“–bathroom, lock the fucking door and do not open it until I come back, you understand?”

You blink again, eyes sliding back at Ayumu. His eyes are open, gazing at nothing, empty, empty, empty–

Your fault.

He’d told them it was okay. They had guns so it’d be okay, but you were the one–

“Listen to me!” Natsuya hisses, yanking your attention back to him. “I need you safe, so take Tomori and lock yourself in the bathroom right now. You don’t open that door no matter what, not ‘til I come back and tell you it’s safe, do you understand me?”

You find yourself nodding, a short jerking movement.

It’s enough for Natsuya, who presses a quick, desperate kiss to the crown of your head and takes you to Tomori. She grips your hand tight and the two of you disappear into the bathroom, one last glance at the three of them, grim faced and vengeful, gathering their weapons under the green glow before the doors shut, and you click the lock into place.

The two of you sit in the darkness, Tomori’s arm around your shoulders, sniffling into your shoulder as you wait.

You hold her, a hand running up and down her spine, tears of your own spilling down your cheeks.

Your fault, your fault, your fault. All of this is your fault.

Tomori flinches with every noise, every muffled thump. There’s a deafening bang somewhere on the floor above you – a gunshot maybe, or something falling, it’s hard to tell.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, clutching her closer as she whimpers – the only reassurance you can bring yourself to give her. “It’s okay.”

How could this happen, you think numbly. For months now, you’ve sat next to a murderer, talked with him. Laughed with him.

You thought him a protector. A friend, even.

And you all but begged them to let him inside.

Ayumu’s blood’s on your hands. You might all die here tonight and it’s entirely your fault.

‘I know him,’ you’d told them. ‘I know him, and it’s okay.’

The look he’d given you, that smirk. Like he knew every thought that was running through your head. Like none of this was accidental, but the pieces of a puzzle falling slowly into place.

A defiler.

Bile creeps up your throat, and it occurs to you that death might not be the only thing waiting for you and Tomori if Kakucho finds you.

The tears fall quicker, and you close your eyes and bite down on your quivering bottom lip.

Locked away in the darkness, time crawls by. Minutes, maybe, or hours – there’s no way of knowing how much time has passed when you hear the tell tale sound of metal groaning, the splintering of wood. Tomori moans in despair, sobbing uncontrollably now as the front door gives way.

“It’s fine,” you soothe, “It’s okay.”

It’s a lie, because while the others – if they’re still alive (they have to be alive, they have to be) – are distracted with Kakucho, all that’s between you and the smiling intruder is a locked door.

Far less indestructible than the one he just broke through.

And soft as they may be, you hear the footsteps echoing off the wooden floorboards as the intruder leisurely makes his way down the hall. Closer and closer. Desperately, you try to quiet Tomori, but it makes no difference. He comes to a stop on the other side of the door.

Bringing a hand to your mouth, you bite down on the back of your palm in an effort to stifle your breathing. Tomori cringes.

When the door opens, you’ll attack, you decide. Go for the eyes, or knee him in the crotch – anything to give Mori a chance to run.

A heavy, pregnant pause, and then–

“I know you’re in there. Hiding away while your friends are getting hacked to pieces.” You can’t see it, but you know he’s smiling, grinning on the other side of the door. You can hear it in his voice. And you hate him, hate him even as paralysing fear claws its way through you, keeping you rooted in place. “That’s fine, I don’t mind. You can stay there for a little while longer, I still have one last thing to take care of, and then we can have some fun, no?”

He laughs then, light and boyish, as if this is nothing more than a game. To him, perhaps it isn’t.

“I’ll see you soon.”

In any case, his footsteps recede, and you’re left sitting in the darkness alone with your fear once more.

The thumping upstairs grows louder. There’s a crash and more yelling, a series of gunshots.

And then the screaming starts. Awful, bloodcurdling howls that have every hair on your body standing on end. Your stomach roils, what little you’d eaten earlier forcing its way back up your throat as you retch into the toilet, shaking and pale.

“We’re gonna die here, aren’t we?” Tomori whispers, and you can’t find the strength within yourself to try and convince her otherwise. If you survive this, those screams won’t ever leave you. You’ll wake in the middle of the night, gasping for air, unable to shake them.

“I don’t know.”

Silence, when it falls, feels like a death knell.

And then come the footsteps. You wait with bated breath, praying that it’s Natsuya. Miyano. Even Suwabe. Any of your friends.

A knock; the sound ricocheting through you. “Love, are you gonna open the door for me?”

Tomori wails like a banshee, broken and agonised, and you feel that little, tiny spark of hope you’d kept deep within your chest wink out.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, kissing her hair as you hold her close. “I’m so sorry, Mori.”

And as the door shudders under the force of a kick, you hold her close and pray for a quick end. Another kick, and the wood splinters.

A third, and it breaks open entirely.

That eerie, green light floods the bathroom, the blond man stepping inside. He smiles at you, blood flecked across his face. The blood of your friends. Natsuya’s maybe.

“Ah, I thought there was one missing. She’s in here,” he calls out, glancing over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat, confusion flickers beneath the terror. Did he bring others with him? Maybe that’s how he broke in so quickly, maybe there’s a whole gang of them.

Your unspoken question, however, is answered when another figure steps into the bathroom behind him.

“She won’t be a problem.”

Your blood turns to ice.

Kakucho. Tall, broad and looming, he surveys the two of you with interest, his gaze lingering on you. “Are you gonna come quietly or am I gonna have to drag you out?” he asks, a single eyebrow raised.

To your credit, you try to stand. You might not be brave, but you’re not suicidal either. If there’s any chance that compliance gets you or Tomori out of here, even if these monsters killed Natsuya and the others, you’ll do what they ask.

Yet your legs are shaking so bad that you barely make it to your feet before they give out beneath you. Kakucho tuts, sighing heavily – and sweeps in to lift you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing at all, paying no mind to the way that you flinch and shudder.

The blond pads out behind you as Kakucho carries you back into the living room.

You’re half expecting to be shoved to your knees, the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of your head, but Kakucho sets you down gently on the couch, pats the top of your head twice before retreating back to the bathroom.

The blond stays behind, those violet eyes a sickly colour under the green glow fixated curiously on you. Your hands are shaking in your lap as he draws closer.

“I bought you something,” he says.

You frown, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you mumble, “W-what?”

From the pocket he pulls out a velvet box, pressing into your hands as he settles down beside you. “Open it.”

Swallowing tightly, you fumble with the lid for a moment – until he sighs and takes it back from you, popping it open and handing it right back to you.

And you don’t understand when you take it back, because nestled into the white pillow is a necklace with a pendant, a hanafuda design, matching the earrings dangling from his lobes.

“Well? Are you going to put it on?” he asks, just as Kakucho returns with a squirming Tomori. Yet rather than setting her down the couch as he had with you, he drops her carelessly onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and retreats again – this time back towards the stairs.

You start to rise with the intention of helping her, only to be stopped by an iron grip around your wrist. “If you get up from this couch, I’ll put a bullet through her brain right here and now, do you understand?”

He says it so mildly, the threat takes a second to register.

When it does, though, you nod shakily and fall back to your seat. He smiles again, a mirthful twinkle in his eyes. “Good girl.” He pats your knee, “Now, put it on for me.”

Casting a quick glance to Tomori, prone and near catatonic on the floor, you do as he bids, lifting the thing chain from the box. It’s long enough for you to slip it over your head without having to fiddle with the clasp – a good thing, seeing as your fine motor skills seem to have abandoned you in your terror. The pendant falls between your breasts, which the blond man takes a good, long moment to admire.

“Suits you,” is all he says as Kakucho returns once more.

And drops another body on the floor.

Your heart seizes in your chest as it moves. Groans and lifts his head, blinking to adjust to the dim light.

“Nats–” you cry, and forgetting the blond at your side you go to rise once more. This time he snarls, quiet and vicious, seizing your shoulder and forcing you back down.

“Don’t. Be. Rude.”

You draw in a shallow breath, hope and despair warring inside of you as you glance from Natsuya to Kakucho, who manhandles him onto his knees. His face is bruised and bloody, a dark, wet-looking patch you can only assume to be blood seeping from one of his thighs.

He’s alive, though. Put through the wringer but alive.

You almost sob.

Beside him, Tomori’s also being raised to her knees, the dead look in her eyes fading somewhat as she takes in the sight of her brother.

Your gut clenches.

Both of them are facing you, Kakucho looming threateningly behind them. Despite the momentary joy, this isn’t a happy reunion.

The blond at your side hums, leaning in close. With a delicate touch, he sweeps back a lock of hair, tucking it behind your ear. The hand on your knee drifts higher, grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“You get a choice, think of it as… a going away present,” he says. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin, his hand now slipping beneath your skirt. You shudder, trying to blink back the hot tears that well up in your eyes. You refuse to cry in front of him, you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Amusement and something like glee dances across his face, “One of them dies now; quick and relatively painless. The other…” his fingers brush the seat of your underwear, his tongue darting out to lick at the stray tear that slips from your lashes. His voice dips, “The other gets to watch while the three of us have our fun tonight.”

Natsuya snarls, only for Kakucho to kick him back to the ground and keep him there with a foot on his back.

“And a-afterwards?” you force the words out.

“Afterwards, Kakucho’s going to beat the other one to death with his bare fucking fists. I wasn’t lying when I told you he was violent,” his lips brush your cheek, featherlight and gentle, “I wasn’t lying about any of it.”

You look to Kakucho then, his eyes bearing down on you with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide. An obsession.

All those nights, sitting on the train next to him. All the stupid, meaningless conversations you’d had, the night he’d damn near knocked the lights out of that creep. The way he’d begged on the doorstep, and the smirk when his ruse was discovered.

Lies, all of it lies.

You draw in a shaky breath and close your eyes, hands tightening into fists by your lap.

“So tell me, love,” he continues, fingers once again teasing at your panties. “Which one goes first?”

#yandere tokyo revengers #yandere izana #yandere izana x reader #yandere kakucho #yandere kakucho x reader #yandere kurokawa izana x reader #yandere kurokawa izana #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon #more implied than anything else but #to be on the safe side

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after-witch · 2 years

Text

Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Title: Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Synopsis: You're assigned to guard Soldier Boy at a secluded house. The assignment turns into something much more.

Word Count: 3651

Notes: Yandere/yandere behavior, abusive relationship, physical and emotional abuse, misogyny

Soldier Boy was dead. That was the official line that Vought, the media--and most importantly of all, the government--was sticking to; and it was the line you were sworn to uphold, even under pain of torture and imminent death.

But he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even asleep, anymore; or whatever counted as “asleep” in the semi-frozen state they’d put him in after the incident at Vought Tower. No, he was alive and as well as could be. If “being kept in an isolated cabin away from civilization, implanted with exploding trackers in case he tried something, and kept company by a rotating team of agents” could be considered well, anyway.

Being part of the rotating live-in guard watching over the defrosted Soldier Boy wasn’t exactly the type of job you thought you’d be assigned, especially given your light track record with the Secret Service. You were meant for reconnaissance, light missions, in-and-out actions that kept you moving.

This mission was static. One place, the same length of time, and the same essential experience: Soldier Boy wanting to know if you’d brought him his snacks (you had); Soldier Boy staring at the TV for hours, or attempting to use the kid-protected tablet the agency gave him for entertainment; Soldier Boy getting bored, demanding to be let go, and you reminding him of the deal he made with the government in exchange for being taken out of stasis.

He remains here, incognito, away from everyone else--and in return, if the government ever needs him to quash a Supe in the name of American safety, he’ll step up to the plate. You weren’t there to see his expression when they told him “It’s the least you can do to serve your country.” But based on the months of interactions you’ve had with him, you imagine that expression was somewhere between indignity, prideful acceptance, and are-you-fucking-kidding-me-with-this-shit.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Soldier Boy, it’s that he still clings to that past as an American Hero. Like a security blanket. You’re not sure how much of it he actually believes. You were briefed on his real actions--some legit, many of it staged--and you think it helped you gain a deeper understanding into his worldview.

He’s not a nice person, exactly. He’s killed people. But there were worse Supes to be stuck in a cabin with for 2 weeks on end, weren’t there? And you know that a lot of what is being put out on the TV is bullshit, Homelander-approved Vought propaganda designed to inflame the masses.

So you pick and choose what you believe and after a few weeks, you don’t give him the cold shoulder, like the others say they do. You talk to him. Why not? He’s not going anywhere, you’re not going anywhere. It would be inhumane to keep him socially isolated. And you’re not inhumane.

He even has--you would never admit this to anyone else--something charming about him. You can see why he had so many women falling at his feet back in his multi-generational heyday, though you’re sometimes reminded of when those generations fell when he makes low-voiced, teasing comments about you cooking his food or cleaning up after him.

Today, you’re not thinking about any of that. Today, you’re actually not thinking about Soldier Boy much at all. That’s because a new book in your favorite series came out, and you’re currently curled up on the lounge chair in the living room, lost in the pages while some inane game show Soldier Boy turned on drones in the background.

“You gonna answer me, sweetheart?”

His voice finally pierces through your book-induced haze, and you blink slowly, pulling yourself out of an engrossing story to find him staring at you from the other side of the room.

“Sorry,” you say, reflectively. “What did you say?”

He regards you with something of a half-smirk, and you can’t deny that understanding of what made him so appealing at the sight. He’s really damn handsome.

“I said, what’s a pretty gal like you doing with her nose in a book all day?”

It’s cheesy. It sounds like something from an older Hollywood movie. But it makes your cheeks heat up to be called pretty, anyway.

“I like books,” is all you come up with, holding the cover almost protectively.

“Yeah?” He seems interested, almost. “So what’re you reading?”

You hold up the cover. It’s a fantasy series.

“Why don’t you read it to me?”

You search his face for signs of teasing, but find none.

“Why?” You ask.

He shrugs and crosses the room, plopping himself down on the couch closest to your chair.

He gestures towards the TV. “Why? Because I’m bored and I like the sound of your voice, and there’s only so much of this shit I can watch every day. TV used to be a hell of a lot better, I’ll tell you that.” He pauses. “Pardon my French.”

You shouldn’t. You were briefed on how to avoid getting too close with the subject under you care. That’s one of the reasons why everyone was rotated out every 2 weeks.

But… he does look bored. And he asked politely. What’s the harm in it?

You open to the page you just finished and begin to read as he leans back on the sofa, kicking up his feet.

Your first kiss with Soldier Boy is a mixture of sweat and heat and shame and fear; fear that he’s doing for ulterior motives, fear that the agency will find out and you’ll be fired---or worse; and fear that you’re just a fling, just something he’s doing because he’s bored. Like flipping through TV channels. Like listening to you read a book.

When you pull away, his mouth is still close, his scent--some generic aftershave the agency picked up--overwhelmingly intimate. You stare at his lips to avoid looking him in the eye.

“Soldier Boy…” you begin. “This isn’t…”

“Ben,” he says. “Call me Ben.”

You look up at him. His gaze has softened from its earlier hunger, and there’s something gentler and anxious in them. Something that makes you think about how he sometimes cries out at night (he denies it; you stopped bringing it up); about him bitterly telling you about the Crimson Countess, about his disappointment in the fact that his only son was a shitbird like Homelander.

Something that makes you forget about your fears about your job and his motivations entirely.

“Ben,” you whisper.

His name is sweet on your lips, and your first kiss with Soldier boy is not your last.

The relationship has to come to light eventually. All things do. You sit in your superior’s climate controlled office, your hands tucked under your thighs, like a nervous child brought to the principal’s office. There’s a solid pit in your stomach that has only grown since you received the phone call to report in.

You could be fired. You could be arrested. Those are the good options, truth be told.

But instead of reprimanding you, they tell you that your intimacy with Soldier Boy is actually an asset for the agency. He’ll be easier to control, if he’s connected to someone. They’re going to pull the other guards now, and it’ll just be you. Your apartment is already being packed up.

You swallow thickly and thank them for their decision. The pit in your stomach doesn’t go away when you get back to the cabin, where Ben is waiting, pacing around the living room, a beer in one hand.

He looks up when you enter and scans you over with his gaze. Checking for bruises, maybe; he’d prepped you on what to do if they started interrogating you, and you reminded him that you were a trained agent, after all. But you tell him that they didn’t hurt you. They’re letting you stay, in fact. Your stuff is coming soon.

His smile is full of disbelief and relief, and he pulls you into a jovial hug and spins you around in a silly motion, making you feel giddy and ridiculous. And that pit in your stomach finally dissolves away, leaving you light and breathless in his arms.

It’s not a great day.

He’s irritated. It happens, you remind yourself. He’s cooped up here in this modest cabin, unable to interact with anyone but you. There’s only so much entertainment to be had, especially when he’s never gotten the hang of the newer technology installed here, and even when he does, it usually leads to him getting aggravated about something in the news. Reversals in politics. Articles about toxic masculinity. He has no shortage of barbed words “for that dumb shit,” and it’s almost better when he’d rather do something that doesn’t involve his minor connections to the outside world.

Still. He’s bound to get irritated. You know this. It’s understandable, it’s okay, he’ll tire himself out.

That’s what you tell yourself as he paces around the living room, a light scowl on his face.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” You ask, trying to keep your tone soft and amiable.

He stops in his pacing and you can see his face scrunch in annoyance.

“It’s that fucking pill thing they gave me. It’s not working right.”

Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Pill? What pill did they give you?” If they’re drugging him, it’s news to you. Well. Aside from the bennies that they supply him now and then for good behavior.

“The--you know.” He gestures broadly to the coffee table, where the solidly built children’s tablet is sitting. “The fucking pill… tablet thing.”

“Oh,” you say, and you can’t help your smile at his mix-up or the teasing tone in your response.

But it was the wrong thing to do today, when he’s so wound up, so agitated. You recognize that in a flash when you see his nostrils flare as he huffs a hard breath out his nose, just before he yanks the tablet up from the coffee table and chucks it at the wall.

You hear the glass screen crack, splintering--so does the drywall.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting himself down on the couch. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry. Got a little too pissed there.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, rabbit-like. He’s never gotten aggressive in front of you like this before. Maybe a little too heated when he’s ranting about all the restrictions or annoyed with changes in the world, but…

You glance at the gaping hole in the wall and make a mental note to call someone to get it fixed.

“It’s… okay,” you say, voice placating. It’s not okay, and you know that. But you can’t blame him, exactly, for getting agitated. You shouldn’t have made fun of him, you reason to yourself. You know better than that.

“I’m just going to run a few errands. I’ll be back in a few hours at most.”

He can’t go into town. He can’t go into town and he hates it. He doesn’t hate you. No. But he hates his situation. You can’t blame him, but that doesn’t change the fact that you need to get groceries, you need to get supplies and--truthfully? You need a break from his constant presence, always demanding attention from you. Affection and otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” he says, and his voice has taken on such a matter-of-fact tone that it takes you aback for a moment. “I don’t want you going today. You can scrape together dinner with what we have in the kitchen.”

You press your lips together.

“Ben. Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!”

You don’t expect the outburst and you flinch back, just a little. The drywall is patched up, but you’ll always notice where the hole was. Your mind flashes back to that, yes, and other incidents as well. The way he got annoyed when you brought up an old boyfriend, but he was allowed to bring up his past lovers all he wanted. The way he hated it when you played on your phone, or if the shows he watched used too much modern technology. Most of the time, you watched reruns of shows he liked before he was taken or movies set in those eras--he likes to point out the inaccuracies.

He steps closer to you. Your hand is on the doorknob, the other at your waist, resting loosely on your post.

“You are not leaving me today.”

You smile, and try to make it warm.

“I’m just going to get groceries,” you say, softly. “C’mon. I’ll bring back takeout. What do you want?”

You don’t expect it when he grabs your upper arm, gripping with enough force for soreness to radiate immediately. You don’t expect it, and you don’t know how to respond, other than the instinctive way your body jerks and your mouth inhales a short gasping breath.

“I want you to stay home today.”

“Let go.” Your voice wavers. But you remember who you are, and your training. You’re not some helpless lamb, are you? You tilt your chin up and say with more confidence: “I’m going to run errands today, and that’s final. Let go.”

He regards you for a moment. And you think he might do what he’s done before, when he goes too far. You think he’ll let go and apologize and make it up to you by being extra sweet the rest of the day.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you’re slammed against the side of the wall, breath knocked out of you.

His finger is in your face and he talks down to you, keeping you in place with a tight grip that makes you remember in a single gesture who he is, what he is, what he can do.

“I. said. no.”

He holds you there for a few more moments. Until your body is shaking from the shock and you’re looking submissively down at the floor, your courage stuck in your shoes.

“You gonna listen?” He says.

You nod, feeling numb.

He lets go.

You wipe your nose and keep your arms clutched tight around you as he puts his arm around your shoulder, anger drained from his body, acting like he didn’t just slam you into the wall.

“C’mon, sweetheart, I bet you can whip up a great dinner with what we have. You can go… Goggle it or whatever the hell it’s called.”

You nod, feeling the phantom pain of his grip on your arm.

He’s been through a lot. That’s what you tell yourself for a few weeks afterward. He’s been through torture. Real torture, torture that should have killed him a thousand times over. He never told you all the gritty details--”That’s not stuff for a lady to hear,” he said, when you got bold enough to ask--but you’d read about it from the agency’s files.

So when he tells you to stop talking about guys’ you’ve been with in the past, because he doesn’t want to even think about you being with anyone but him, you do.

When he gets rough and tells you to stay in every time you run to do errands or God forbid, enjoy a day outside the cabin, you start to go out less and less. You have the agency delivery groceries and supplies instead. You watch movies with him, and not at the theater. It makes him happier to have you here, and when he’s happier, he’s less prone to pushing you around.

Sometimes he holds you and you think he might cry, but he never does. It’s unmanly in his eyes, probably. He has a lot of hang-ups about stuff like that. It’s the moments when you’re holding him that it’s easiest to remind yourself that there’s a reason he acts the way he does, and you should be patient.

That’s what you tell yourself for a while.

And then he slaps you across the face, hard enough to send your head smacking into the wall. Your jaw aches for two days.

And you stop telling yourself all those things.

You tell yourself, instead, that you want to leave.

“You’re not leaving.”

You have a large purse in your hand--just the essentials and the sentimental things that fit inside. Your plan was to head into town under the guise of running errands, call the agency, explain the situation, and get the hell out.

The plan didn’t get as far as the front door.

He knew. You don’t know how, but as soon as you announced you were running to town to grab some steaks for dinner while they were on sale, he just knew.

So you admitted it, because you weren’t dumb enough to lie to his face when he’d figured you out.

“Ben,” you say, because you don’t want to hate him, and you don’t want him angry. You just don’t want to be hurt anymore, either. “I’m sorry. I--this just isn’t healthy for either of us.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that psycho-babble bullshit. It’s not me, it’s you,” he mocks. “I’m not stupid. You think I’m stupid?”

You meet his gaze.

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

He makes a grab for your purse, and you let him, because you don’t want to start a fight.

“Then why the fuck did you think I’d believe that you were running to get some steaks with a purse stuffed with all this?” He opens it up and begins pulling out everything you’d carefully tucked inside. A change of clothes, your phone--it falls on the floor with an unceremonious thump, thankfully protected by your case--and some trinkets and a necklace that belonged to your mother.

“Ben,” you say again, trying to keep him calm, ignoring the own stressful beat of your heart. “I just didn’t want to start a fight, okay?”

“What?” He raises his eyebrows, looking defiant, targeted. “You think I’m a psychopath? You think I’m gonna--what, hit you? Kill you?”

Your expression must shift when he mentions hitting you--but you have hit me, your face says--and he shakes his head. There’s an almost pleading look on his face and you hate it.

“C’mon. It was one time. One time. And I apologized after.” It wasn’t just one time, and he didn’t always apologize, but you don’t correct him. “But I warned you. You got too sass-mouthed, okay? I don’t know why women today think they can just--”

Something in you bursts and you clench your fists tight as you snatch your emptied purse from his hands. The patience and care has fallen from you, replaced by a hot ball in your stomach, something built over the past few weeks every time he yelled and gripped and hurt.

“This isn’t the fucking 1940s or the 1950s or the 1960s or--whatever the fuck decade made you think you have a right to boss me around. I’m not going to stay here and be treated like this. You can complain about it if you want, have a tantrum, I don’t care. But I’m leaving.”

“The hell you are!”

He grabs your upper arm and squeezes, and this is where you would normally cave in, but you can’t. Not today. Not if you want to really leave. So you grit your teeth and keep his gaze, defiant on the surface and terrified underneath.

“You’re not leaving me,” he says, almost a murmur, as he releases your arm.

He keeps on talking as you crouch down on the floor and begin to replace all the items he pulled from your empty purse.

“Everyone else left me. I fought with those guys, fucking tried to take them under my wing, fucking loved them.” There’s a pause. “Well, some of them. And you know what I got for it?” You don’t answer, because you just want to get packed and get out. “Years of torture is what I got. And now, when I’ve found someone that I care about, that I want to stay with me, you’re just going to leave?”

You want to dissect the disbelief in his voice, the hurt and anger and entitlement all wrapped into one horribly complex package. But then you look up, muscles tense and chest tight, and your body flinches in horror. You see it--a sight you’ve only seen one other time, surprisingly early in your relationship, and which you managed to soothe. It made you prideful at the time.

The sight is an unmistakable warm, golden, deadly glow in his chest. His breath coming in deep, painful bursts. His face scrunched in pain and anger, torture in his eyes. His voice comes out ragged and pained and terrifying.

“You’re. Not. Leaving.”

He’s going to explode.

In an instant, you drop your purse, contents forgotten. Your arms wrap around him and you pet his back, his cheeks, pressing kisses feather-light to his skin.

“Hey, hey, hey,” you say, soothing, stroking his shoulders, trying to get him calm. “It’s okay, you’re okay…” You take his face in your hands and make him look at you, talking like you would to a feral animal, voice soft and comfortable. “I’m here, Ben. Look at me, Ben.”

It takes a while, but the glow eventually fades, sapping out of him like thick water.

He collapses on the ground and you go with him, holding him still. His arms cling around you, tight and unforgiving, but not in anger this time.

“You can’t leave,” he says, voice muffled into your shoulder. You can’t tell if he’s commanding or asking or pleading, and you’re not sure you want to know.

Instead you think, right now, if he would let himself, he might cry into your shoulders.

“I won’t,” you whisper, and your plans drop at the doorway as they’ve done every time. “I promise.”

Maybe if he cried, it would be easier to pretend that this is okay.

#yandere soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #yandere the boys #yandere #afterwitch writes #fab five freddy told me everybody's fly

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swaqcenix · 9 months

Text

༻ It comes and goes | Natasha Romanoff ༺

Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

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Summary: You've spent a chunk of your life battling the emotional thoughts of bipolar and have no concept on dealing with your emotions. Sitting in the rain does feel like drowning but it's comforting, until a hand from Romanoff drags you out of the depths of water.

Warnings: reader has bipolar, mentions of low thoughts, a shit ton of hurt/comfort, natasha just allowing reader to understand it's okay to not be okay!

Word Count: 1.8K

AN: This is just a small comfort fic while I work on my peggy!yandere fic and of course the strip club natasha one. (I haven't forgotten them!)

Wrote this a while back just to cope with my own diagnosis and anyone is welcome to gain comfort from it. Be my happy flowers guys! <3

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There's one thing people never quite clarify with you, that the older you get just becomes more hard to swim. Kids always jump for growing up and throwing away their innocence not knowing of the tidal wave coming slowly along the sea, prepared to drown out your every thought of contentment.

Aged 10 was the last time you could ever remember not suffering with the constant feeling of a pit of anxiety, suffering and longing to allow the waters of the sea to suck you in. The way you used to place fictional games with your friends, always being petty shit's on the concept of, "Ask... it's not my game," or the fighting of being first in the lunch line.

You'd kept the diagnosis quiet when joining the Avengers, not wanting any of your fellow teammates to think any less of you. You'd felt less of yourself the moment the words of the diagnosis slipped from the nurses tongue 5 years prior. 5 years officially diagnosed but you didn't feel any lighter, instead you felt heavier.

"Sometimes we like to do CBT," the woman stated and your head tilted to the side.

"What's CBT?" Your hands bounced on your knees.

Slipping out the compound wasn't the easiest job. You'd all had meetings back to back with Ross and the damn government. An excuse slipped past your lips faster than it should have done. You'd stated only that you couldn't attend the final one as you'd had to go pick up your little sister.

Sure it would have been a valid excuse. If you actually had a sister. Yet, you didn't so you knew you'd be caught out eventually especially if Fury found out already knowing your background including family members. Still, you'd deal with that when the moment occurred for it.

"It's called cognitive behavioural therapy. It's commonly used for depression or anxiety but we do tend to use it on other patients like in your case to help you to cope with living with bipolar."

Your brain tried to stay focused but all you heard was the words 'your bipolar,' then began to shut off. After that the session was a blur. No thoughts passed your mind, no feelings ran through your veins nor emotions. Just the concept of numbness. Nothing to feel.

Heading back to the compound was a stressful moment. As soon as you walked through the doors you'd have to put on a whole front again pretending you were and felt something you didn't.

In all honesty it was comforting to sometimes be able to do that. Around your therapist, the outside world even your family they treaded lightly, afraid one word would break you like shattering glass hitting the floor or a porcelain doll. With the Avengers they didn't know, so you weren't a doll and you weren't glass. You were yourself and that alone.

However, sometimes it would be nice to just let yourself go. Your feet padded up the stairs of the compound entering the main room, the lounge where they sat watching TV and discussing.

"Hey, Y/N.. you okay?" Sam's voice was the first to speak but it sounded.. concerned?

"Yeah, fine thanks Sam," you responded allowing your eyes to meet his own.

Trying to act as casually as you always did, you went to grab a glass of water turning on the tap watching it run down the sink hole. You often wished you could be flushed away like that.

Shaking your head away from deeper thoughts you grabbed your glass sipping at the water looking up to see everyone examining you. A familiar feeling of dread, the emotional tidal waves flushing through your skin wanting out came crashing to the surface.

They surely couldn't know, right?

Vision spoke up first, possibly to ease up the tension though you can hardly imagine toaster man knowing much about emotions. No offence to the guy.

"We were told you.. you're an only child," his voice seemed one not of judgment but of confusion.

"Oh.. right," was the only response your brain could conjure up in that moment.

Tony let out a half-sided smile and you were grateful he wasn't digging too much. Surprisingly none of them were. He did speak up after a beat or two and while it wasn't their fault you did wish they wouldn't at all.

"Whatever is going on, we.. we're here," His tone was the best of sentiment you'd get out of him.

You truly were grateful but you hadn't a moments thought on how to even tell them. Fear of being kicked off the team, living half a life amongst them simply for suffering with some health issues was silly to other's minds, but not to your own.

Shaking your head you grabbed your jacket you'd left on the chair offering them all a tight lipped smile. Your eyes connected with Natasha's and your eyes felt like watering. She wasn't looking at you like you were damaged, nor was it in a concerned only look.

Nat was looking at you like she knew, like she understood what you felt and the pain gnawing away at you only grew. Her emerald green eyes looking one of connecting with nature swimming with the look of understanding was a pain you couldn't bare.

You mumbled that you needed air, heading towards the patio you'd become familiar with at night. It had become a comfort location, you'd seen Natasha out there a few times although, come to think of it lately she seemed to not be heading there anymore.

The mumbling and mainly muffled voices of the Avengers informed you that it was raining, but your brain scarcely paid attention. You just needed out, besides who gives a fuck if the rain touched your skin.

Your brain danced with thoughts of how to calm yourself down and you knew instantly, as your reached into your back pocket slipping in your airpods and connected them to your phone. Sliding open the patio door, you ungracefully sat down on the bench looking down as the rain hit your skin.

Hair becoming drenched you focused on your chosen song, trying to drown out any invading thoughts that would cluster your mindset, instead focusing on how you felt utterly at home.

The chosen song had been Waves by Dean Lewis. It reminded you so much of how your brain's concept of emotions and how your life seemed to go in waves of the ocean.

Sometimes you saw yourself standing next to the ocean as it pulled you out. The freedom of falling, allowing yourself to no longer panic over bipolar or how the world saw you.

The rain splashed down heavily on your skin and you felt wet through but you didn't mind, or frankly didn't care. Nor were you sure how long you had been listening to songs in the rain, it felt late but it felt like seconds.

A gentle hand on your shoulder pulled you from your thoughts. Your mind had been dancing to Paris, Texas by Lana until your body almost jolted forward from the contact. The sudden shelter from the rain made your head tilt up to come in contact with emerald eyes.

Natasha stood tall, almost protecting you- sheltering you from the rain, a beacon of hope. You offered the best smile you could give, despite the fact it looked like you were in pain more than smiling before indicating to her to sit down.

Her red hair cascaded down her shoulders, pulled half back into a plait that was elegant but moved with ease. It suited her just as most things did. You'd noticed that about her, for a woman who'd been through so much Natasha did everything with elegance and ease.

"You know, when I was a child I used to run out into the rain, the firefly's came out at night," She confessed causing you to stiffen up.

Natasha wasn't one for opening up, let alone talking of her childhood past, so why you? You let her express her thoughts almost curious to see where she was going to take this.

"My mom she'd come out to find me afterwards and I was always helping my little sister who also danced away with the firefly's. It wasn't real though. Not truly," She proceeded and your heart melted and cracked for the older woman.

"Nat I.."

You weren't even sure what to respond with. Hearing her open up around her past made your own pain seem tiny, insignificant despite the fact she wasn't attempting to do that.

"You don't need to say anything, I understand. Perhaps not what you're going through. The feeling of masking right, I see it," she continued tilting her head towards you.

She proceeded her train of thought.

"It comes and goes in waves. The feeling of this family. I had no one after the family I grew up with, no one but myself. Don't drown your thoughts out in the rain, drag yourself up out of the ocean, trust me Y/N."

You finally looked up making eye contact with the Russian, smiling softly at her nodding. You took off your glove reaching sighing looking down at your hands.

"Sometimes, my therapist gets it to a certain extent but sometimes she doesn't. When it feels like all you can do it float out to sea and drown in a pit of your own emotions. The masking isn't something I want to do, but simply so people don't see my problems.. they just see me."

A tear slipped down your cheek without even realising it and you closed your eyes. Nothing was spoken amongst the pouring of the rain, nothing was needed to be said. All that was needed was the words you let echo. It felt like you were drowning in a sea of hell, with no way out.

Through the mist and fog engulfing your brain, taking you out to the sea you felt a touch upon your hand. Eyes opening wide, you saw it. Her hand clasped tightly in your own trying to drag you out of the suffering, reach to you through the ocean like a beacon of a ship, rising up it's anchor.

Her eyes looked into your own, reflecting what she wanted to say but had no thoughts on how to express it. Her touch was all you needed, the words slipping past your mouth before you could think.

"Your family.. It might not have been directly real, but they pulled you out of the waves while it lasted, it was real to you Natasha," You explained watching it pull at her heart strings.

She offered you a watery smile, her eyes dancing with sea of hope just as your own while you were perhaps an an anchor in the waves you steadied each other out in a balance.

"This family is real to you too. We are real and we see you. I see you Y/N," Her voice bringing comfort and warmth.

You grabbed her hand tightly because while your bipolar had an anchor on you, you had a ship lifting you through the sea's Natasha and your little family. They were there to guide you.

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#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff x gender neutral reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff fic #mcu fanfiction #mcu fic #marvel fic #marvel #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x gn!reader

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fancyfeathers · 6 months

Text

Society of Protection (Yandere Bungo Stray Dogs x reader x original characters) (normalized yandere au)

Chapter Eight

A Doll’s House

Prologue and oc intro

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven, part one

Chapter seven, part two

Tw: this chapter has mentioned of implied r*pe/noncon, please do NOT ask me to write that scene because I don’t feel comfortable doing it, it is mentioned purely to show the severity of a toxic relationship

Everyone sat in a stunned silence, it was like if static filled all your ears. All you can do is watch as Fitzgerald holds Miss Jane’s chin in his hand, staring at her. Then he retracts his hand, tucking them into his pockets, leaving Jane with a horrified look on her face. He walked around the room, looking it all over. “Beautiful place you have made for yourself, Zelda. How much did it cost? Ten million I would guess.” Miss Jane didn’t respond, to terrified to say a word. He gave a whistle before walking behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders, rubbing out the tense muscles like they were still married. “Have to hand it to you, it was nearly impossible to find you all here, records wise you have completely covered up your tracks.”

“H-how… how did you find us?” Miss Jane asked, her gaze fixed on the floor where the tea cup she dropped lays, broken in pieces. Fitzgerald chuckled as he pressed his fingers into her shoulder rather hard making her suck in a sharp breath.

“It wasn’t easy, but your biggest mistake was scheduling that meeting with whoever that government official was, those are in public records you know.” He gestured to a young man who had come in with him. “Luckily Mark’s shots never miss, even with tracking bullets.”

Both you, Gaston, and Dr. Stevenson had a shocked expression come across your faces. the red head who Fitzgerald had introduced as Mark comes up to your side and squatted down to your level, a smile on his face like absolutely nothing was wrong. “Sorry about that, I was aiming at your friend, I mean he has caused quite a few problems for us.” He laughed to himself before reaching up and pinching your cheek. “But hey don’t worry, I get to take care of you once we get y’all back to base.”

Your eyes widened in horror as Mark said that, and you looked over and so did Miss Jane’s. Almost on instinct she stood up, breaking free from Fitzgerald’s grip on her shoulders. She spun around, raising her hand and striking her ex husband across the face. Now a scowl had formed on her face, she was raging. “I don’t care what you do to me, but you will not touch them!”

The room sat in silence once more. Fitzgerald’s head was turned to one side from the force of the slap, a red hand print forming on his cheek. He turned his head back at Jane, his face no longer a smile. He reached a hand and grabbed the hand that rested on her chest, the same hand that slapped him. He yanked her over, almost pulling her over the chair she once sat in. So she was pulled up onto the chair so that she was on her knees in it, her chest against the back of it, and her face not to far below his and he bent down and grabbed her face again with his free hand. If looked could kill Jane would be dead. “I want you to listen to me, Zelda. After that stunt you pulled three years ago, I don’t care much for your opinion. I offered you a safe choice, but you refused so now we do this the hard way. John, if you’d please.”

The blond young man, the same from your shop stepped forward, he gave you a wink, which disgusted you. He took out a few seed from his pocket, seeds he bought from your old shop, then he took a hunting knife, stabbed himself in the neck and tucked the seeds in his neck. While he was doing this, Victor and Alexandre who knew his ability, went to reach for their guns, but right when they got them vines extended from his neck, reaching out and wrapping around their hands and guns, preventing them from doing anything. The vines reached out and also wrapped around Dr. Stevenson, and Gaston, leaving you and Jane the only ones untouched by them, you because you couldn’t run even if you tried and Jane because well… she’s Fitzgerald’s to deal with.

Everyone struggled but no one was able to break free, Dr. Stevenson couldn’t even activate her ability because she was already vulnerable and Alexandre couldn’t either because that would cause a bloodbath in here of both friend and foe alike. Jane’s eyes made contact with Gaston and she nodded and spoke not one word but they knew what each other were saying. With tears in his eyes Gaston took a breath and his body disappeared into the floor beneath him, like a ghost. The Guild and yourself were in shock and Miss Jane’s eyes went back to Fitzgerald. “Gaston’s ability, you’ll never catch him.”

Fitzgerald scowled and bit back. “Would you place money on that?”

“You know I hate gambling.”

—————————

Gaston was able to use his gift to go through the solid walls and ceiling of the building, down into the sewer system below Yokohama, it wasn’t hard to navigate, just like the catacombs under Paris, where he grew up. Paris, not the catacombs, but they were just a package deal. Gaston contacted the only two members of the Society that weren’t in the apartment at the time of the break in, Lewis Carroll and Henrik Ibsen, both of which were out on a mission together. Gaston told them of the harm that befell everyone and told him to meet them at the safe house. In true showmen fashion this safe house was a theater that Gaston purchased under the pen name, Erik. Now it was the three of them in private box five of the theater, discussing while rehearsals went on. Henrik looked absolutely terrified out of his mind while Lewis and Gaston discussed strategies for getting everyone out.

“I could activate my ability and whoever drank the potion would be effected.”

“Yes but we don’t know who has drank it or if it has been taken from their person. We also don’t know exactly where they are so we would have no idea where to get them.”

“We could use that government agent friend of yours, the one in the ministry of justice.”

“Mr. Tonan is a politician, not a fighter I’m afraid.”

“What about-“

“Um… excuse me…” Henrik spoke up in his timid little voice, hands folder on his lap, looking down, and trembling. “What if we use my ability?”

“…hm…” Lewis stared at his co worker with calculating eyes before tilting his head. “What’s your ability again?”

“You mean you forgot?! Lewis we’re on practically every mission together, we’re partners!” Henrik yelled at his co worker, embarrassed that he forgot about his ability. He sighs and leans in his chair. “It’s called Doll’s House. I can make a doll, and who ever I make it look like I can control, puppeteer. I can’t exactly control what they say or think but their limbs I can.”

“Wonderful! Where are you dolls?” Lewis asked with a grin. An awkward expression came across Henrik’s face and he sunk back into his chair and he nervously chuckled.

“My doll house is back in my apartment…”

“So we’re fucked.” Lewis groaned and leaned back as well. Gaston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a calculating look on his face, he looked at Henrik dead in the eye.

“Maybe you don’t need your doll house. I’ll make a call…” Gaston stood up and took out his phone, flipping it open and dialing up a number. “Let’s pray the Armed Detective Agency is willing to help.”

—————————

You all were taken up town, all in separate vehicles to keep all of you from getting ideas, you were being taken to a nice hotel where the Guild had set up a stationary base at, or that’s at least what Mark told you as he talked you ear off endlessly in order for you to try and warm up to him. You only saw Guild officers in the hall as Mark pushed your wheelchair down the hall of the penthouse the Guild had gotten. Behind the doors you could hear the frustrated yells of both Alexandre and Dr. Stevenson who were probably as you could imagine, doing what they could to make their capture’s life a living hell. You could then hear quiet crying from behind another door, Victor who was probably scared out of his mind. Then there was the door at the end of the hall where you didn’t hear anything from, but from earlier when you arrived on this floor you saw wisps of brown hair and long blue flows fabric get pulled in there, Miss Jane most likely.

So now you were laid down in bed, pillows behind your back so you could sit up and blankets drawn up on you. Your wheelchair was beside your bedside and Mark sat at your side, he had finally stopped talking once he had finally noticed your stubbornness not to do so. You two sort of just sat in silence for a long time before he sighed. “You know the boss is pretty upset at your friend right now, Mrs. Fitzger-“

“Her name is Jane Austen.” You cut him off, finally saying something.

“Whatever her name is, she really pissed him off. I’m advising you to stay out of the line of fire and just keep a cool head if he talks to you.” Mark said standing up, reaching over to adjust your pillows so you can lay down more comfortably since he noticed your yawns ad eyelids getting heavy.

“Easy for you to say when you and your friends weren’t kidnapped.”

Mark only sighed as he lowered your head back onto the pillows. “Look I’m trying to help you. Look just try to get some rest, I don’t know how long you all will be staying here, you’ll probably be taken somewhere soon seems like your friends are clawing like cats.”

Mark walked over the lights and dimmed them down for you. “I’ll leave you alone for now just… get some sleep.”

He opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him, but not locking it, probably because he doesn’t think you could get to the door, taunting you almost.

—————————

Gaston’s phone call was answered by a rather annoying young man, a high pitched voice, but when Gaston told the young man his name he knew who he was, researched him most likely. When Gaston asked to speak to Dazai he was only told that Dazai was meeting with a government agent, but that the president himself would be happy to meet with them personally on what they need the only thing that they asked were files on the society’s members and answer questions they asked. They were given an address, a suspicious location, they would need to walk down a long rail line, they would be completely isolated any easy to pick off but at this point it was their only hope.

Gaston took the lead to keep Lewis and Henrik behind him, safe from immediate trouble. They walked down the rail line, looking long abandoned. Along the path they spotted cameras, or Gaston did at least. The long walk was silent and then at end of the hall, in front of a door, three men stood, one of them were familiar to Gaston, he was at that cafe with Dazai that day, Kunikida. The other two were strange to them, if you or Victor were there, you would recognize them as Ranpo and Fukuzawa, the president of the Armed Detective Agency.

“Are you armed?” Kunikida asked, his eyes narrowed at them. Gaston reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his revolver, an old gun, he took the six rounds out and held it in his other hand. Kunikida looks over to the president and he nods his head. Kunikida walks forward and takes the revolver Gaston gave him, along with a gun from Lewis and then a knife from Henrik. “I apologize but this is a safety precaution.”

“I understand, but I would like that back when this is over, that was my grandfather’s.” Gaston said as Kunikida tucked their weapons away.

“We will see Mr. Leroux, if you do good by us, we will do good by you. You have my word.” The president said, still no emotion on his face. Fukuzawa turned from them and opened the door behind him. “We’ll talk inside.”

They followed behind the president, it was almost like a college lecture hall they stepped into, wooden mostly. There were also three other figures there, a young man, teenager maybe, blond, overalls and a straw hat, another a woman, dark hair, and butterfly clip were her most prominent features, and the last s red head but he didn’t have many defining features about him, but they seemed busy in their own conversation, but kept an ear open on the conversation that was about to happen. They were lead to the front of the hall and sat down, all except the president, he stood in front of them. He looked down at the three society members, all that is left now. Gaston reached into his bag, a leather satchel, and pulled out a stack of files, each labeled with a different name, Jane Austen, Dr. R.L. Stevenson, Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Gaston Leroux, William Shakespeare, Emma Orczy, Lewis Carroll, Henrik Ibsen, and one on you. “Straight from one of the Society’s archives. You’ll find almost everything on everyone in the society.”

“Almost everything?” Fukuzawa asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Well sometimes we each have our own dark secrets that we make sure never surface. Secrets that are best left forgotten, even by ourselves.” Gaston answered. Fukuzawa’s eyes narrowed at this statement but brushed it aside, for now anyway, he would come back to it later.

“Now what is it you exactly want? I doubt it is anything small considering how easily you all handed over your weapons.” Fukuzawa asked.

“You sure are sharp Mr. Fukuzawa.” Gaston chuckled and nodded before his expression became completely serious suddenly. “Members of our society have been captured by the Guild, because we refused a deal with them. We want to get them back.”

“You want us to break in to a Guild base?” Fukuzawa asked, showing shock on his face for the first time in this conversation.

“No, we simply need to borrow one of yours’ ability because we cannot go back to our home base to get what we need.” Gaston shook his head to the president’s question and pointed a finger right at a slightly surprised Kunikida. “We just need to borrow his ability.”

—————————

You were able to get somewhat of a nap in, the pain in your leg was quite a lot to deal with. When you awoke you didn’t see Mark at your bedside like before, now it was a much more familiar and more unwelcome face of John. He smelled at you when he noticed you were awake. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

You scowled and wanted to roll onto your side if it wasn’t for your damned leg. He saw this and sighed. “Don’t like me anymore huh?”

“Not in the slightest.” You said, speaking through gritted teeth.

He drugged and stood up. “Well I suppose you see us as the bad guys, you wouldn’t be the first but honestly you aren’t suited for society work, you should have just stayed in your flower shop. You were quite adorable there. Your old boss is quite worried about you, I stopped by there while you were sleeping and she was worried to but about you.”

Your eyes widened in hour as you heard those words and you honestly thought the worst happened. “What did you do to her?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Nothing, she’ll be quiet alright. For now anyway, she’s probably closing up shop and heading home now anyway.” You sighed in relief as you heard this but that was quickly replaced by pain once again as John went to pick you up and place you in your wheelchair. “Now, your boss has somehow convinced Mr. Fitzgerald to let her speak to you.”

When he said this your heart skipped a beat in either joy of fear as he pushed your wheelchair down the hall towards what must be Fitzgerald’s room that Jane was dragged into. As you were fist rolled inside it was giant, like a whole other house, it was probably double the size of Miss Jane’s already huge apartment. On the couch was Miss Jane, hair down, a white silk robe and a blue silk night gown, she held a cup of tea in her hands and her blindly stared down at the hot liquid as behind her Fitzgerald stood, leaning against the couch, one hand playing with Miss Jane’s hair the other holding a stack of written papers. Fitzgerald and Jane both heard the door open and they both looked up to you the two of you entering. Fitzgerald smiled and tucked his arm with the papers at his side. “Ah you must be Miss (Name), John has been telling me and other Guild members all about you. You worked at a flower shop before working for my Zelda, must have taken such a risk, hm?”

“I like working for Miss Jane, it gives me purpose again.” You said, completely disregarding the name he used for her, this made Miss Jane smile and Fitzgerald sigh.

“I see, I suppose she must have been paying you well then, wouldn’t surprise me that my wife would.” He spoke as he walked over to a nearby chair and grabbed a jacket that rested on it and began to put it one.

“Respectfully sir, I don’t give a damn about the money, I could be paid nothing and I would still do this,because the society was made to do the right thing.” You spoke as you were rolled up right next to Miss Jane. Fitzgerald looked over his shoulder at the two of you, right at the smirk on your face and the smile on Miss Jane’s.

“I see…” something about his look seemed dangerous and he turned and walked over to Jane, leaning down and kissing her on the head. “I have to go run an errand, I love you, I’ll be back soon.”

With a look to John the other blond man followed behind leaving the two of you alone in the room. The moment the door shit, Miss Jane looked at you with her best smile. You looked over her body and you came to a quick realization due to the bruises forming on her collarbone, neck, and most prominently on her wrists… did Fitzgerald… oh god…

She noticed your realization and she looked away, almost in shame. She spoke, a single tear falling down her cheek. “I-It only hurt when I fought back… when I relaxed… he was gentle, like when we were still married.”

A look of horror came across your face when you said this, somehow this was a million times more painful than your bullet wound. “Miss Jane… I-I’m sorry… is there anything I can do?”

She sat in silence for a long minute, maybe almost five judging by the ticking on a nearby clock before nodding. “No matter what happens, don’t call me by my old name, my name is the only dignity I have left.”

You nodded in understanding and then the door swung open once more, this time it was definitely more welcome faces, Dr. Stevenson, Alexandre, and Victor, along with the even more welcome faces of Emma and William who must have also been moved here from the luxury liner. They all looked out of breath and there was yelling in the hall and then Miss Jane came to a realization. “Is it Henrik’s ability?”

Dr. Stevenson nodded and Alexandre rushed over to you, the strongest member here, and picked you up like bride in his arms. You all rushed back into the hall and saw all the guards pinned to the ground almost by and invisible force. The unconscious bodies of Margaret Mitchell and Nathaniel Hawthorne were also there, those two specifically looked like they have been tossed around like a chew toy. Miss Jane chuckled at this and looked at Emma and William who were hand in hand as they ran like lovers running off from their wedding. “Seems like Henrik found he least favorite doll to play with.”

—————————

You all found yourself here soon at the safe house of the Armed Detective Agency. You were all able to get changed who needed it, Miss Jane, Emma, and William, back into their usual attire and in Emma’s words, “When I get back to my apartment I am burning that dress Nathaniel put me in, it belongs in hell.” You on the other hand got to pay a visit to the doctor of the agency… best if we just skip past that bit.

So now here you all are sitting in the underground hide out of the Armed Detective Agency, some of you made small talk with who knew each other. Yo saw Alexandre talking to two men, you learned their names as Kunikida and Junichiro, apparently they met on their last missions. You rested your head on Victor’s shoulder as he talked to Ranpo and young blond boy named, Kenji, seemed like a sweet kid. Dr. Stevenson was talking to the agency doctor who was able to heal your leg completely, Dr. Yosano, those two seemed to get along splendidly based on their laughter and chatter with one another. Emma and William were off somewhere doing their own thing, you don’t blame them, they were separated after all and may just need sometime to sit and be. Lewis and Henrik were napping in a corner, Lewis’s large sweater draped over the both of them like a huge blanket, honestly you wondered if they were just friends. Gaston stood in the corner, all alone, it seemed like he had some weight on his mind at the moment that he needed to process right now. As for the leaders of your organization, Miss Jane was at least wearing a mask of her happy self and she talked to President Fukuzawa, thanking him for the agency’s assistance, you couldn’t hear most of their conversations, but you could tell that by the sound of their voices that they got along well enough.

You closed your eyes as you began to drift off on Victor’s shoulder and thought, maybe things are taking a turn for the best now, but only time could tell what horrors lay ahead of you, but at least now you were all together to deal with what came next.

#yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere bsd #original character x reader #bungou stray dogs oc #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #yandere dazai #yandere chuuya #yandere mark twain #yandere mori ougai #yandere Fukuzawa #Yandere Edgar Allan Poe #Yandere John Steinbeck #yandere fyodor

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suiana · 2 months

Note

I need government official to have another child PLEASE I AM BEGGING

(yandere! government official x afab! reader)

"You are still as beautiful as the day I met you."

"What do you want this time?"

You mumble bitterly, staring at him through the bars of the holding cell you were currently in. As expected, he had caught you yet again. Only this time, his way of getting you back was much more intense.

You had been married to this crazy psycho for five years, becoming the object of his crazed obsessions as he kept you hidden away from everyone else.

Though, you had managed to escape on multiple attempts, he had always found you and brought you back to the place you had unwillingly come to call home. Though, he had never made a return entrance as big as this one.

Framing you of a crime, labelling you a wanted criminal, getting the cops to come to the place you were staying after escaping... You had to give it to him, this was a big feat. You hadn't realized he was that desperate to have you back.

So here you were, sitting on the floor of the luxurious holding cell he had you placed in, waiting for him to bail you out and give some bullshit excuse. Along with some promise you had to give him. Last time it was to act like you were obsessed with him for a week. You wonder what request he'll have you make this time?

"Well? What do you want me to promise this time?"

The attractive man hums, placing a finger under his chin as he pretends to think. You merely scoff, looking away as you pray that it won't be something too obscene. You still had some pride after all.

"Promise me you won't run away."

"Okay, done. Promised. Now let me out-"

"And..."

You narrow your eyes at him. This was the first time he had demanded you to promise a second thing. Just what was he thinking?

"And I want you to bear me another child."

You freeze on the spot, looking up to see his sinister smile as you shiver. What? Did you hear him correctly? He couldn't have... said that, right?

"What are you looking at me like that for? You know how much I adore children."

He chuckles, taking off his half rimmed glasses as he wipes the lenses. You grit your teeth, fists clenching as you glare daggers at the man who forced you to marry him. Fuck... Why would he ask you this now?!

You couldn't bring yourself to wilingly agree to this demand of his. No way! You already gave him one kid! Isn't that supposed to be more than enough?

But...

What other choice do you have?

It's either that or the prison. You know he won't be against sending you to a private prison, sending you to solitary confinement until you eventually give into him and come back.

You glare at him, looking up as you swallow your pride. There's no other choice. This is the only option. And you know that he knows this. That's why you can feel the smug aura around him in this very moment.

"Fine."

You hear him hum in contentment, dress shoes clacking against the tiled floor as he comes closer to you.

"Excellent. Now let's get you home. Our son is waiting for you."

Man, the gods really must hate you to subject you to such a fate, huh?

#suiana's sinners #yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere concept #yandere scenarios #yandere government official #yandere government official x reader #afab reader #suiana rambling #suiana brainrotting

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astolfofo · 1 year

Text

i have gotten out of my slumber (merry 2 days late christmas by the way!) and I wanted to share this concept bc i just finished the Sumeru Quests

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this was inspired by @yandere-romanticaa and this post

side note: i’ve been trying to make this idea into a serveral part fic for a long time, but I just didn’t know where to start and nothing I wrote seemed good enough, So i gave up. (i wrote a little bit of it here, but I didn’t know where to continue it after that so... lmao)

also im sorry if this isn’t exactly a reader x scaramouche, there’s a little bit of self-inserting in here This was keeping me up at night kek. Sorry if any of you guys don’t like how characterized it actually is. I had to get it out of my system.

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I’m thinking about Scaramouche with a reader just like him. An artificial god, made to hold a gnosis, except in this case, they actually succesfully hold the gnosis.

You were sworn to keep it a secret. You swore to your creator, the hydro archon, that you would keep it a secret.

Yet you were no god. You were simply a tool of the god- to fill her own wishes. To funfill her own goal: to build a tower to Celestia. That was the entire purpose of your life.

Time and time again, the storms in the sky would destroy the tower, burnt it down the the ground. Yet, if you didn’t finish this project, you were sure the hydro archon would destroy your body herself.

Justice would be served to those who did not serve purpose.

Those were her words from the start. There was no reason to live, unless you were useful. You were told this from the first moment you ever set foot into this world.

You are an engineer. You are a doctor. You are the highest ranking government official. You needed to make sure the reign of justice would be carried out. With grace and precision. As per she ordered.

Yet, your life was meaningless. An endless cycle of sleepless nights, stress, and fear. You needed an escape. A person who not only needed you, bu loved you.

You remebered your first days as a human. You were made with the forbidden Alchemy from Khaenri'ah. Therefore, you must be kept a secret. Your body was the same as a engineer from Khaenri'ah- the same one who built the city of Fountaine. The person who designed the court.

The whole city depended on her. She allowed the city to thrive, she healed everyone of their sickness. It was as if she was from another world.

Until one day, she disappeared.

The Hydro archon sent people out to find her. To Khaenri'ah. Most of the people died in the process- only one person came back after the Archon war.

She was dead. She had died in the Archon war. Yet, the searcher managed to gather all her belongings- including the notes she had. The exact same knowledge that had saved all the people in Fountaine.

And in that knowledge, were detailed notes on how to make a human out of pure elemental energy.

You were made based on those very instructions. You were made to make sure Fountaine was under control. You went to Tevyat’s ends to make sure that justice would be served to those who deserved it.

Kunikuzushi was any passerby. As ordinary as the next. According to the rumors, he was simply just a wanderer from Inazuma. Fair enough, you thought. After all, Fountaine was the most technologically advanced nation, even more so than Snezhnaya and Sumeru.

So, one day, you were shocked when he walked in on you. You were isolated in a field, playing a violin. Playing violin was a method of escapism for you. A method to relieve stress.

How did he even find you here?

He looks at you in awe. Had he never seen this instrument? It felt like he was looking at you when you were undressed, it felt he was looking at you bare.

“What?”

And that’s how you met him.

He revealed that he was the same as you. Created by a god, but discarded. He admired you. And you had grown a fondness towards him. Almost like a brother-sister realtionship. Someone who could understand you.

Yet, in all your time together, he never told you his name.

And after staying in Fountaine for a while, he left.

You never saw him again.

Not that you minded. If your “mother” found out, she would be enraged that you developed feelings towards a being from another nation. Your friendship with him was your own secret. And it was better if you didn’t get too attached anyways; it might cause you trouble later on.

Little did you know, he had always been with you. He could never leave you. So, you never saw the small electro mark on your forearm. You never noticed the small purple streak in your hair. You never realized the purple hue in your eyes.

Maybe you had began to miss a bit too much. Life was still dull and boring as ever. But it was supposed to be like that. Day after day, papers pilled up at your desk, demanding to be finished. Yet, you couldn’t be bothered.

You thought about your last moments with the wanderer from Inazuma. You and him were in the national hospital. He had dressed up in Fountaine Attire, hoping not to get caught with you. Seemingly, it must have worked because no one spared a second look at you.

“Hey. Why do you do this for the people?”

You didn’t respond. Part of it might have been because you were too busy checking the vials of the paitent. But you didn’t know why you did this. It was simply an instruction.

“It’s because I have to.”

“And why is that?”

You paused again, clenching your jaw in thought, “Well... it’s because it’s an instruction, right? And like you, I don’t want to lose my heart either. I’ll be dead if I disobey my mom. I have to be as perfect as my predecessor. If not better.”

He didn’t respond. He held your hand tightly.

After a few moments of slience, Scaramouche looked at you again. “I guess our creators are equally cruel.”

“Yeah. Probably. Wouldn’t put it past me that I might be dead by tommorow.” You laugh, “It’s a sad life I lead, despite all these people depending on me.”

You didn’t see his expression back then. You didn’t want to.

He never came back again.

Kunikuzushi had found his parallel. Someone so opposite to him, yet so similar.

Yet, his heart had a painful throbbing feeling. His heart rang with jealousy, while his mind could not let go of you.

Oh, how he desired to be in the same situation as you. To be a god. To be needed, to be wanted. To be respected as divinty.

It’s not fair.

He decides to leave the next day. He wants you to think about him all the time. He wants you to miss him. He wants to be worshipped. Oh, how he wishes he could get you to depend on him.

He starts thinking about ways to destroy you. Ways to make you feel the same way he did back then. Ways to make you inferior to him.

He wants you to grovel and beg for his mercy. He wants to chain you to him forever.

He knows that’s not possible though, so he decides to disappear before he hurts you. Before he goes though, he’ll mark you from afar.

He’s greatful he never told you his name. He’ll let you make his name, once he turns into your god.

He was a Fatui Harbinger. He looked different. His aura was almost suffocating. Sadistic, arrogant. He was a criminal from an enemy nation. You could’ve arrested him right there.

You should have arrested him right there.

But you chose not to. He deserved his own life. His own freedom. You pitied him. And maybe that was a mistake.

He was not the same.

When you asked him for his name, he simply laughed.

“Why don’t you give me a name?” He asked, “I’ve never had a proper name. A name is the first gift one recieves in their life.”

“I’ve already disassociated with my life. I want to start a new one.” His face was an inch away from yours. He smirked at your face, which was bright red.

“So what’s my name gonna be (Y/N)?”

#yandere wanderer x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin impact #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #fountaine

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lonedarling · 1 year

Text

scenario - reader x "monster" (not actual monster lol) yanderes (male and female brother and sister).

when i was little, i was afraid of the monsters in my closet or under my bed

my parents said, "there's nothing! go to sleep."

now i cry myself to sleep, bad thoughts accumulating in my head, brought on by harsh words that seem meaningless.

so the monster comes out and wipes my tears and whispers

"don't be sad, little one. it's not your fault."

i say "i'm not little anymore!"

the monster laughs. "you stopped maturing at the age of ten. though you matured fast, do you really think that's normal?"

i don't say a word.

the monster gives off a small smile. "go to sleep and let the dreams take the pain away."

-full delusion under the cut-

it's been weeks since i've reunited with the monster. It helps me out with daily chores, reminds me of things i need to do, all sorts of things that I would be too forgetful to do.

today, i saw the monster. well, monsters.

a man came to the door, selling something. i think it was carpet. i refused and pointed to the "no solicting" sign. but he was persistent, and pushed his way into the house. i shouted at him to stop, walked with him as he pretended to look at my kitchen. he said he needed to explain my carpeting issues more thoroughly. i called him out on his bullsh!t. he tried to put a hand on me.

the knife was quick and precise.

he fell to the ground, clutching at his bleeding neck.

the bullet ended it.

i stumbled back, unable to comprehend what was going on.

i fell into a girl's arms. she held me. not like a trap, but like a seatbelt, holding me so i don't fall.

a boy came and picked the man's body up, like it was weightless. the boy spoke softly, like one does with a stray cat,

"don't worry, little one."

i didn't move. how would he know that name?

hihi if you wants part 2 please vote in the poll for it thank kyu thank kyu! also if you want to request i'm cool with that too. bye bye!

part 2 we get appearances and background plus consensual kidnapping (+government official older brother?)

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blughxreader · 1 year

Text

Platonic Yan!Damian Wayne x Reader

Dearest [Name],

What obnoxious drudgery this whole Purge ordeal is! At first, I adamantly protested this process because of its unnecessarily long path in lieu of a simple solution.

Problem: You’re not home.

Solution: We bring you home.

Child’s play, yes? We could have met MONTHS ago, but Father and [REDACTED] wanted to do this the traditional way.

I will say, however, that this administrative route is not without its merits. I suppose it acts as a “closing of a chapter” for you to transition into your new life. At least, that’s what [REDACTED] said. Like pruning flowers, you must cut away the old to make way for the new.

However, I am confident that this arduous process will ultimately be unnecessary. Our family is superior in every conceivable way. I can’t go into specifics, but you will see the contrast immediately. You’ve been wasting away in that lackluster residence with your dull relatives, utterly unaware of your true destiny as part of OUR family.

All that said, I wish to extend to you all the patience needed for you to feel comfortable. If you want to spend these last 24 hours with your progenitors, then so be it. I don’t consider them a threat in the slightest because I know you’ll eventually see how lacking they were. After living with us, you’ll perceive them as the shoddy imitation of a family—one you were never destined for to begin with!!

I can’t wait to meet you. Life will be so much better once you’re here. Everyone has been so angsty and alight with nerves in the weeks prior to your arrival, so it will be such a relief when we can finally fall into our new normal.

I’ve been telling [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] the Cat all about you. [REDACTED] is my Great Dane. He’s a majestic behemoth of a canine—a most regal and befitting companion for us. I’ve told him everything there is to know about you, and since he already knows your scent, [REDACTED] and I will be your first true companions. [REDACTED] the Cat is a slick and temperamental creature who does as he pleases. I’m sure you’ll love them as much as I do.

We also have a cow, a turkey, and a dragon bat.

Do you like gardens? We have an ever-expanding garden on our estate, complete with a greenhouse, gazebo, and sand garden for meditation. We also have several libraries that you’re more than welcome to. Maybe we can paint together in the mornings?

I’ve always imagined that we could spend every afternoon together. You can entertain yourself however you wish while I complete my schooling, then we will dine and have tea together. After which, we can spend the afternoon

Father said my letter is nearing the word limit, so I will tell my parting thoughts:

Do not let your fear keep you from a better future. Do not fight back.

Until tomorrow,

Your little brother

Notes... Damian threw the biggest tantrum when he found out that the government censors any identifiable names in yandere letters. The first Redacted was Dick, followed later by Titus and Alfred the Cat. Damian's letter was so fun because he's still a little kid. He has endless confidence and minimal empathy, and has a tendency to go on tangents about his pets and hobbies. Nothing can go wrong in his daydreams. My boy <3

#yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere damian wayne #yandere x reader #purge au #yandere purge #yandere letter

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quinloki · 1 year

Text

Quicksand

Fem Reader x Sir Crocodile

CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations, yandere, angst with a happy ending, a referenced instance of physical abuse. 18+ only

Chapter 1 - Table of Consent -

Chapter 17: Dream Me a Dream

The biggest positive about your current situation was that Donquixote Doflamingo, as CEO of SMILE and a Warlord was so busy as a general rule, you didn't have to go on your "dates" very often. In the last two months you had seen him twice.

On the downside that meant that you weren't going to be able to become boring to him quickly, but on the upside, it meant that you didn't have to suffer his company much at all. Your life was, the impending weight of a text with date information in it aside, relatively normal. More importantly, it was quiet.

Aside from the couple of times that Doflamingo dragged you out of your apartment, you were in it. Reading, binge-watching shows you missed in the last year due to drowning yourself in work, taking up language lessons, and sometimes you'd stare at the Cult of Personality dating website and consider it.

But mostly, you read about devil fruits. Really dry, academically focused books on devil fruits were easily accessible at the library. Any literature that put the fruits in a good light was generally banned faster than it could be written, but objectively neutral texts from academic sources often survived. Including a few encyclopedias that simply listed out Devil Fruit names and known capacities.

After sixty days you were becoming quite the expert. You knew that Doflamingo's fruit was the Ito Ito No Mi, or string-fruit, and there were several applications aside from what he had done to you. You had also learned about Haki – but the more you learned about it the more you realized it wasn't going to do you any good. You had no fighting skills in the first place, and Haki required a teacher unless you were extremely talented or lucky.

You were an Internal Coordinator, not a brawler or sword master.

Another option was a material known as Sea Prism Stone, but you weren't even sure how you would go about looking for something like that. Forget trying to buy it. You had a decent amount of money saved up, but you weren't versed in purchasing things outside official channels, so you were quite certain you'd end up being taken advantage of.

Monetarily, and maybe physically, given the kinds of people who usually dealt with such things as Government Regulated Contraband.

The research did give you some perspective. Suddenly, being the girlfriend to, essentially a Mafia Boss, seemed almost normal compared to the information surrounding Devil Fruits. There were over a hundred kinds of fruits, and maybe even more than that. Cataloging was, by one account, impossible to complete, since that author's theory was that new fruits were coming into existence even today.

Knowing gave you an odd comfort, but not being able to do anything with what you knew was frustrating.

After the third month, you moved away from it, and not because you suddenly weren't interested, but because you had come across a fruit know as the Suna Suna no Mi.

"If you're not comfortable saying my name in public, you can call me Sunawani." He offered, picking up a menu and looking it over.

"Sunawani?"

"Mmhm. It's just a different language from what's used in the Metro." He clarifies, looking up from the menu to glance at you. "What do you think?"

The memory had come to the surface once you'd read the name of the fruit, and you ended up replaying almost the entire day in your head. After that you just couldn't bring yourself to pick the book up and dig into it.

One Year.

Three Months.

4 Days.

You weren't moving on; you were sinking deeper. You were stuck in the mire of memory, and a big enough part of you didn't want to be free of it.

The sweet, warm memory of Crocodile was far more comforting than the sharp lines of Doflamingo. The ghost of his embrace was still more real than the shuffling fabric sounds of the sheets when you woke up in the morning.

Just like his namesake, once he had sunk his teeth into you, you couldn't get free.

You opened the drawer of the desk in your bedroom and shuffled papers around until your fingers found what you were looking for. Sitting down on your bed heavily, you powered on the broken phone and typed in the passcode.

Your thumb shuffled through the photos until you stopped on the video.

The view of the video moves up from your carpet to the door leading into the bathroom. The door is already cracked open and steam pours out from the brighter room. Crocodile opens the door, one towel around his waist, another in his hair. He's drying his hair idly with his good hand, his prosthetic coming up to assist before he realizes that you're recording him.

His weight shifts, and he tilts his head.

"You're not keeping that." He says in a voice that's relaxed and certain.

"I swear on my very soul, no one else will ever see it." Your voice grins as much as you were at the time.

"You don't need to see it either, little desert flower," he says tossing the towel from his hair at you, trying to cover up your phone. The blur of white covers the phone for a moment, and by the time the video resumes he's looming over you. His damp hair is falling into his face. Small rivulets of water sliding down the lines of his abs.

"You can see me any time you please."

"Mm. But we do have to work eventually."

He leans down as the camera view is turned away. "You are not watching it at work."

"Haa—nnngh, S-suwani! W-wait, l-lemme stop the-Aahhnngmmmm." The camera's view is slipped from your hands as you moan and squirm, and the view is turned mostly on your blushing body, your pajamas having gone awry. Crocodile's waist and towel were barely visible at the bottom of the frame.

"Mm, maybe you can keep it after all. I wouldn't mind hearing that sound again." He muses, his rumbling voice seeming to make the picture shiver along with you.

"Haa... you can do that any time you please, too." You reply with a breathless smile as the video ends.

The silence gripped your heart even worse than the twinge of pain that had hit you when the video first started. So, you hit play again.

And again.

You're not keeping that.

Again.

You can see me any time you please.

Again.

"Suwani... please..." Tears burned your eyes as your heart twisted in your chest.

Again.

. . .

Warmth envelopes you. It's airy and tender, almost beyond your sight. It's citrus and sand, heavy smoke and heat that's dry and soft.

The smoke should bother you. What if something's on fire? You're alone and you've been distracted, maybe one of the smoke alarms needs a battery.

It feels like your footing shifts, and a swirl of warm air turns you around in the vast desert of your dream. There's no heavy smoke, no fear of fire. The sands take your hands and the light of the sun kisses along your knuckles before drying the endless tears stained upon your cheeks.

The shifting winds soothe you, and bid you sleep, apologizing that they must be on their way.

The dream is brief, and almost entirely forgotten by the time you wake. . . .

At some point during the night, you had cried yourself to sleep. Despite the sting in your eyes and the ache in your dehydrated body, you felt better.

Maybe not good, but better.

One Year, three months, five days.

You let out a sigh and began to get ready for the day. You idly dusted grit off your hand and grabbed a shower before getting dressed for work.

You made it into the office and a couple hours into your shift before your personal phone vibrated with a notification. You made a face before you even pulled it out to look at it – there was only really one person who contacted you on your personal phone at this point.

Dingo: Thursday, 6pm.

You: Home by 11, I hope?

Dingo: If I keep you out past your bedtime, do you turn into something?

You: A demon. I have work Friday, and I'd rather not turn my coworkers into pillars of salt.

Dingo: Take Friday off.

You: I'm not sleeping over.

Dingo: Even if you did, my promise stands. I won't lay a finger or thread on you.

You: Very well.

You resist the urge to throw the phone across the office. The satisfaction of seeing it shatter into a dozen tiny pieces wouldn't outweigh the energy needed to replace it. Since replacing it would require going out into the world, and you had been doing as little of that as possible lately.

When Buggy got in for the day you let him know that you needed Friday off and that it was an Investor Request, which had become your way of letting him know you didn't have a choice.

When he realized that you had been effectively trapped into a relationship with Doflamingo, he had practically thrown himself onto the floor in apology. The sentiment was appreciated, but you assured him that even if it hadn't happened the way that it had, it was something that was going to happen no matter what. The pretense of investor was used, but if it hadn't worked out for him to go that route he would've made things go his way another way.

Alternatives might not have necessarily been better, so there was nothing for Buggy to apologize for.

You did let him buy you lunch, though. You weren't a fool. If people wanted to buy you food, you weren't going to complain. Your capacity to keep your fridge organized was getting better, but you were still spending too much on take out.

One year, three months, six days.

Seven days.

Eight.

You got home Thursday evening and got cleaned up. You changed into something middle of the road. A light blue dress, and white tights with shiny black shoes. You twisted your hair and clipped it into a lazy sort of bun.

If you had known how the evening was going to go, you would've just worn sweats and a t-shirt.

#Quicksand #Sir Crocodile #Crocodile x reader #crocodile x y/n #one piece smut #one piece fanfiction #modern au #reader insert #yandere

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