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humaling · 1 month ago

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Two Victors, One Closet II

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: it's the 70th hunger games victor party and somehow, finnick manage to convince you with his stupid deal.

warnings: finnick being a lil shit, usual hunger games, mentions of death and blood

word count: 4.5k

author's note: ask and u shall receive! i'm thinking of making this into a mini series but idk

part one

It’s another Capitol party—loud, garish, and painfully predictable. The air is thick with artificial scents, laughter that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, and the clinking of glasses filled with glittering drinks. The people here are draped in some twisted imitation of District 4 fashion—ocean-inspired, but exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Flowing fabrics mimic the movement of waves, bodices are studded with pearls and seashells, and someone even had the audacity to wear a shimmering shark tail. You caught a glimpse of it earlier, just as you were picking through some poor excuse for District 4 delicacies. The sight was ridiculous enough to make you pause, but you chalked it up to a trick of the light and moved on.

The newest victor is Annie Cresta—you think that’s her name. You didn’t bother to check again after your tributes were slaughtered at the hands of her partner. As soon as the cannon sounded, sealing their fate, you turned off the screen and went home. Their screams had already burrowed deep into your skull, breaking through walls you thought were impenetrable.

You were sure they would make it. You had done everything right this time, every lesson tailored to the arena’s secrets. You got wind of the dam that would break midway through the Games and planned accordingly. You pulled strings, demanded swimming training, and drilled them relentlessly until they could navigate a flood with their eyes closed. How do you know that skill so well? That’s a secret you don’t share.

Finnick caught on quickly. He always does. He didn’t ask outright, just gave you that knowing look before offering his help. On one condition—his tributes got the same training. You agreed, of course. You even went a step further, teaching Marcus, his male tribute, a few hand-to-hand combat tricks.

And then he used those very tricks against your tributes. Killed them with techniques you had burned into their bones. The betrayal of it gnawed at you, but what ate you alive was the way Marcus died. Drowned, unable to swim through the flood. The very skill that should have saved him—would have saved him if he'd actually listened—became his downfall.

You should have felt guilty. You should have mourned him, the way you mourned your own tributes. But when you heard how he died, you felt nothing but relief.

You click your tongue the moment you spot the familiar Capitol couple—Cecilia and Felix, striding toward you with their usual air of forced familiarity. No matter how many times you've brushed them off, ignored their greetings, or given them the coldest of stares, they always come back. Like flies to a corpse.

At this point, you’ve stopped trying. You’re too drained to care, too weighed down by exhaustion to put up a fight. The sleepless nights have piled onto your shoulders, pressing down until even standing upright feels like an effort.

“It’s a shame none of your tributes made it,” Cecilia chirps, voice light as if discussing the weather. She’s smiling. Smiling. You learned her name recently, when your escort wouldn’t shut up about some designer and their latest collection. Two of the featured models were—of course—this couple.

Felix, her husband, nods in agreement. “I heard you went out of your way this time. I am very sorry for your loss,” he says smoothly, reaching out to pat your shoulder. His gloved hand lands gently, but the touch burns. It’s mocking.

Your body tenses instantly, throat tightening. The phantom sounds of your tributes’ screams claw at the back of your mind, but you push them down. Your hands ball into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

You force yourself to swallow, then clear your throat. A small, polite smile stretches across your lips—perfect, practiced, empty. “Thanks.”

The word is flat, dry, hollow. It doesn’t match the sweetness of your expression, but you don’t care. Let them figure it out. Let them stand there, picking apart the mismatch, trying to decide whether or not to pry further. You’re done with this conversation before it even begins.

Everything feels artificial. The lights, the music, the laughter, the meaningless conversations. You just want to go home and hope the sun never shines on you again.

Felix’s hand finally lifts from your shoulder, but his presence lingers like a stain. He and Cecilia don’t move on, don’t take the hint. Instead, they exchange a glance before launching into whatever pressing Capitol affair has them so invested tonight.

“I heard President Snow is hosting a private gathering next week,” Cecilia hums, taking a sip of her glittering drink. The liquid glows under the chandelier light, swirling like molten gold. “Very exclusive. Only the most influential guests are invited.”

Felix nods, feigning casual disinterest, but his chest is puffed slightly. “Naturally, we’ll be attending.”

Their voices blend into the background almost instantly. Muffled, meaningless, unimportant. The words reach your ears, but they don’t stick. They slide off, fading into the constant hum of Capitol chatter, the clinking of glasses, the laughter that isn’t real.

Because suddenly, everywhere you look, they’re there.

At the buffet table, a girl reaches for a platter of oysters, her sleeve sliding up to reveal a delicate wrist. Too thin. Too familiar. Your chest tightens. It’s the same kind of wrist your tribute had, small and bony, barely strong enough to hold a weapon but fast—so, so fast yet not fast enough to evade an attack from behind.

To your left, a young man throws his head back in laughter, his golden curls catching the light. The same golden curls that were matted with blood when the cannon fired.

Your breath hitches. Your grip tightens around your glass.

The marble floor beneath your feet tilts, just slightly, but enough to make you dizzy. It’s like the world is shifting, bending, pulling you somewhere you don’t want to go.

Cecilia keeps talking, oblivious. “And have you seen the latest trend? Surgical gills! The idea is simply revolutionary.”

A woman nearby brushes past, her perfume suffocating. The scent—saltwater and something sharp, metallic—copper?—hits you like a fist to the ribs. It drags you back, plunges you under.

You see your tribute’s face—eyes blown wide, mouth gasping for air that will never come. You remember the way she clawed at her throat, the way her hands, small and trembling, reached for help that wasn’t there.

You blink rapidly, forcing the image away. Your throat is too tight. Your vision is too blurry.

A gentle laugh flutters through the air. A girl passes by, no older than fifteen. The same age your tribute was. She smiles, bright and careless, utterly safe in the Capitol’s embrace. She will go home tonight, climb into bed, and wake up tomorrow alive.

Your tribute did not.

Something inside you cracks.

“—don’t you think?”

You snap back to reality. Cecilia is looking at you expectantly, waiting for a response. Felix raises an eyebrow, like he already knows you weren’t listening.

You swallow. Your drink sloshes in your glass from how hard you’re gripping it. “I… yeah.”

Whatever the question was, the answer doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

Cecilia beams, pleased. Felix chuckles, exchanging another glance with his wife before smoothly shifting the conversation forward. They don’t notice the way your hands tremble. The way your eyes dart around the room, bracing for the next ghost.

The party continues. The music plays. The Capitol sparkles. The world continues to rotate and you’re stuck in the middle of it, drowning.

“I’ve been looking for you, sweetheart.”

The words pull you out of your thoughts like a hook to the ribs. You don’t want to turn around. You already know who it is.

Slowly, you turn your head, and there he is. Finnick Odair.

Finnick stands just behind you, a glittering orange drink in hand, posture relaxed like he has all the time in the world. The party lights catch on his hair, styled in deliberate curls tonight, instead of its usual effortless mess. There’s a faint dusting of blue makeup on his eyelids, making his sea-green eyes stand out even more than they already do. He looks like something out of an old District 4 bedtime story—a prince of the sea, dressed in ocean treasures.

His outfit only adds to it. A white dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show his chest. Black sleek pants. Pearls and seashells strung across his wrists, around his throat. Designed to be looked at.

Your jaw tightens, fingers curling slightly at your sides. Out of all times to approach, he chooses now? Right here, in front of everyone?

Felix and Cecilia have already turned their attention to him, entertained by the sudden shift in the conversation. They’re Capitol-bred—meaning they thrive off tension, off the undercurrents of something unsaid. And there’s plenty of it between you and Finnick.

You haven’t spoken to him since that night in the common room. Since the Games ended. Since everything went to hell.

Finnick tried. He had stood there, hands on his hips, voice low and steady, trying to get through to you. He wanted to talk. Wanted to explain. As if there was anything to explain. As if any of it would bring your tributes back.

You didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t.

So you walked away. And Finnick, for once, let you.

But now he’s here again, standing in front of you like the past few weeks haven’t stretched between you like an open wound. His gaze flickers over your face, searching, reading, picking apart the things you don’t say.

Cecilia lets out a soft laugh, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “Oh, Finnick, what a sight you are tonight,” she purrs. “I do wonder, though—who exactly were you looking for?”

Finnick doesn’t blink. Doesn’t miss a beat when responding.

His gaze stays locked onto yours as he says, “You.”

“Now,” Finnick shifts his gaze to the couple, effortlessly slipping into the role they expect of him. He flashes a charming smile, the kind that makes Capitol hearts flutter, as his hand slides to the small of your back. His touch is light but firm, a silent warning.

“Mind if I sweep my sweetheart away tonight?”

Cecilia lets out a delighted laugh, waving a hand as if she’s granting permission. “Oh, of course! She's all yours!”

Felix nods beside her, grinning as if he’s in on some great secret. He gestures for you to go, ushering you away with Finnick, who wastes no time guiding you toward the dance floor. His hand stays steady against your back, his usual signature grin stretched across his face like this is all just a game to him.

Behind you, the couple is already whispering—giddy, thrilled, utterly convinced.

“Oh my god, did you see that?”

“They really are together!”

Finnick hears it too. You can tell by the way his grip tightens, just slightly, like he’s holding back a laugh.

“You really are trouble, Odair,” you hiss, tilting your head up to glare at him.

Finnick only grins, entirely unbothered as he spins you onto the dance floor, the motion forcing you closer. His hand stays firm at your waist, the other clasping yours with practiced ease, like he’s done this a thousand times before. And he probably has. The Capitol loves their golden boy. Their charming, untouchable Victor.

But you are not one of them and right now, you do not want to be in his arms.

“Trouble?” Finnick repeats, amused, swaying the both of you in time with the elegant Capitol music. “I just saved you from the worst conversation of the night. I’d say that makes me more of a hero, wouldn’t you?”

You scoff. “You are the last person I’d call a hero.”

He tsks, spinning you smoothly under his arm before pulling you back in, his voice dropping to something softer—something that feels too familiar. “That hurts, sweetheart. Really, I think I deserve at least a little gratitude.”

You want to snap at him. Want to pull away. But the room is watching, eyes glued to the spectacle of Finnick Odair and his supposed lover twirling across the dance floor. You can feel it—the weight of their attention, the whispers, the way the music almost seems to slow as if accommodating for you.

So you stay. You grit your teeth, keeping your steps in sync with Finnick’s, because the alternative—making a scene—is worse.

“Gratitude?” you echo bitterly, gripping his shoulder tighter than necessary. “For what, exactly? For making me the latest Capitol headline? For dragging me into whatever mess you’ve made this time?”

Finnick hums, tilting his head as if considering. His fingers press slightly against your back, guiding your next step. “Mm… no, I was thinking more along the lines of saving you from the couple of the year's horrible attempts at sympathy.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s not wrong, but that’s not the point.

His expression shifts slightly, the usual playfulness in his eyes dimming just enough for you to notice. “You looked like you needed an out,” he says, quieter this time. “So, I gave you one.”

You stiffen, and Finnick must feel it because he exhales softly, like he already knows what’s coming.

“You don’t get to act like you care,” you murmur, barely moving your lips as you step in time with him. “Not after what happened.”

Finnick’s grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make his frustration clear. “You really think I don’t care?” His voice is still light, still laced with that ever-present charm, but there’s something else beneath it now. Something sharp. “Come on. You know me better than that.”

You shake your head. “Do I?”

Finnick exhales through his nose, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really are determined to be mad at me forever, huh?”

You glare up at him. “My tributes are dead, Finnick. Killed by yours. And you think this is something I’ll just… get over?”

Something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You can’t tell. But then he smiles, because of course he does.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he says, twirling you again, his voice just as smooth as before, “mine didn’t make it either.”

You stumble slightly at his words, and Finnick, ever the performer, corrects it effortlessly, making it seem like nothing more than an intentional dip.

The music swells around you, but all you can hear is the memory of cannon fire. The screams. The sound of rushing water.

Finnick pulls you upright again, his hand still steady at your back. “See?” he murmurs. “Now we both have ghosts.”

Your brows furrow, his words throwing you off balance more than his stupid dance moves ever could. "What do you mean, 'yours didn’t make it either'?" You glance around the room pointedly. "Annie Cresta is right there, alive and… well."

Finnick laughs—not his usual, full-bodied, Capitol-winning laugh, but a quiet, disheartened chuckle, like he finds something deeply amusing and tragic all at once. "Oh, sweetheart," he muses, spinning you again just to keep up the illusion of a perfect dance. "You think Annie made it out of those Games?"

You frown, confused. "She won, didn’t she?"

Another dry chuckle. "Sure. She won." His voice is light, almost teasing, but there's something hollow underneath. "And when they pulled her out of that arena, they got… well. Something that looks like Annie. Something that breathes and blinks and smiles at the cameras when they tell her to. But the girl I mentored? She drowned in that flood just like yours did."

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. You've seen Annie since the Games ended—seen her standing beside Finnick, silent and distant, her expression always unreadable. But you'd assumed… well, you don't even know what you assumed.

Finnick must notice your expression, because he grins, the picture of effortless charm, even as his fingers tighten at your waist. "They really should’ve let her die, you know. Would’ve been a lot kinder."

"Finnick," you warn, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t stop. "Oh, don’t look at me like that," he says, tilting his head. "You think I don’t know what you were thinking when you saw Marcus' cannon? When you found out he couldn’t swim? I bet you were relieved."

You tense, throat tightening, but Finnick only smirks, dragging you effortlessly through another step. "Come on, you can admit it. Just between us."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm right."

You hate him. You hate how he always knows.

"Why are you telling me this?" you murmur, voice tight.

Finnick exhales, his smile dropping just a fraction. "Because you think I'm the villain here," he says, dipping you slightly, the movement forcing you closer to his face. "And I think it's only fair you know—I'm just another casualty, same as you."

His lips quirk, just slightly. "Only difference is, I make this look good.”

You grimace. "I don’t think of you as a villain, Finnick," you retort, your voice softer around the edges now.

"Then what?"

"I just…" You hesitate, eyes dropping to his exposed neck, the way his pulse flickers beneath his skin. "I welcomed you and your tributes in. My tributes didn’t deserve that."

Finnick lets out a small scoff, the sound barely audible over the music. "Honey, no one deserves any of this," he corrects, his grip firm as he sways you through the rhythm, leading with an effortless grace that makes the whole room believe this is nothing more than a dance. "Not even you. But we don’t really have a choice here, do we?"

The lump in your throat grows tighter. The burn behind your eyes intensifies, and you can feel a sob creeping up, threatening to spill past your quivering lips. You bite down on it, hard, forcing your expression into something blank, something indifferent—but Finnick sees through it.

He always does.

For a second, his mask slips, and there's no teasing smirk, no playful glint in his sea-green eyes. Just quiet understanding.

Without another word, he pulls you in.

Your body stiffens at first, caught off guard, but then your forehead presses against his chest, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath grounds you, his arms solid around you as the music continues to play.

“Don’t cry. Not in front of everyone,” Finnick whispers, his lips barely moving as his eyes scan the room. A few pairs are watching, their gazes hungry, dissecting your every move. The Capitol lives for this—the spectacle of it all.

You nod against him, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing, matching it with your own. No way in hell are you going to let them see the cracks in your wall. The dam threatening to break.

Finnick lets you have that moment, just long enough for you to collect yourself. And then—because he’s Finnick, and he can never let a moment sit without ruining it—he exhales dramatically, as if burdened by the weight of your existence.

"Well," he muses, voice tinged with amusement, "as much as I enjoy holding you like this, sweetheart, I have to admit—you're a terrible dance partner."

Your eyes snap open, brow furrowing as you pull back slightly to glare up at him. "Excuse me?"

Finnick grins, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Don’t get me wrong," he continues, voice dropping into that signature, lazy drawl. "I love a good dramatic moment. The tragic lovers, the tears, the emotional tension—very poetic. But you’re clinging to me like a barnacle, and it’s kind of killing my vibe."

Your face heats. Oh, you want to slap him.

"You absolute—"

"Ah, ah," Finnick interrupts, smoothly spinning you away before pulling you back in, his hand pressing lightly against the small of your back. "Careful, sweetheart. You wouldn’t want to ruin our perfect little romance in front of our adoring audience, would you?"

Your fingers dig into his shoulder hard enough to bruise. "I hate you."

Finnick's smirk deepens. "See, now that’s just hurtful."

You resist the urge to stomp on his foot. Barely.

"Oh, come on," he drawls, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Admit it. I’m making you feel something. Would you rather go back to being sad, or do you want to be mad at me instead? I know which one I’d pick."

You grit your teeth, but you don’t argue, because damn him, he’s right.*

Finnick Odair, with all his ridiculous antics and unbearable smugness, has successfully pissed you off just enough to push the grief aside, if only for now.

You know why Finnick is here. Dancing with you, holding you close, spinning you around like you’re both part of some grand performance. There’s an edge to the way people are watching—something sharper than usual. Their eyes track your every move, lips curving in whispers, anticipation practically humming in the air.

Something’s up. And Finnick knows exactly what it is.

Like he can read your mind, he leans in, voice dropping low enough that only you can hear. “Word got out about the closet.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “No, it didn’t.” The words come out flat, a firm rejection of the very idea. Because there’s no way.

Finnick grins, the picture of smug amusement. “You can keep denying it,” he says, as if he finds your resistance adorable. His arm stretches above him, effortlessly twirling you around before pulling you back in. His lips brush your ear as he speaks again, voice firm this time.

“But the second Snow asks you about it, you tell him it’s true.”

And then, before you can protest, he dips you.

Your breath catches, body tensing as Finnick pauses mid-movement, holding you suspended in the air, his grip steady at your back. Your arms instinctively tighten around his neck, anchoring yourself.

He doesn’t pull you back up. He just waits.

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not, Finnick.”

Finnick rolls his eyes like he was expecting that answer, like you’re being difficult on purpose. “Honey, it’s a do-or-die. So, you either date me—” His grin widens. “—or die.”

You deadpan. “Dying sounds better than dating you.”

Finnick sighs dramatically, as if you’ve just wounded him in the most tragic, irreversible way. "You really know how to hurt a man, don’t you, sweetheart?"

His voice is teasing, but you don’t miss the undercurrent beneath it—the way his fingers press just a little tighter against your back, the way his eyes flicker with something unreadable.

You swallow hard. “This is a terrible plan.”

Finnick tilts his head. “Yeah? Well, you got a better one?”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, grip firm against his shoulders as he finally pulls you upright. You barely have time to regain your balance before Finnick is leading you through another slow turn, his hand pressing just a little too smugly against your back.

“You know,” he muses, voice low and smooth, “if you stopped fighting this so hard, we might actually be kind of convincing.”

You scoff, leveling him with a glare. “Convincing? Finnick, the only thing you’re convincing people of is that you have terrible taste.”

Finnick grins, unfazed. “That’s rich coming from the person who got caught in a closet with me. Sounds like you’re the one with terrible taste.”

Your nostrils flare. “That was an accident.”

“Sure it was.”

You swear you could kill him. He’s enjoying this way too much, the smug glint in his eyes practically daring you to lose your temper.

You step in a little closer, just enough to make it look intentional, enough to make it seem like you’re leaning into whatever ridiculous act he’s trying to sell to the Capitol. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he welcomes it, smirk deepening as he raises a brow.

“If we have to sell this, Odair, let’s make one thing clear,” you whisper, voice sharp despite the fake sweetness laced into it. “You’re the one chasing me, not the other way around.”

Finnick chuckles, tilting his head like he finds that adorable. “Sweetheart, if that helps you sleep at night, I’ll let you believe it.”

Your fingers twitch at his hold, itching to punch him, but you force yourself to keep up the act. You roll your shoulders back, composing yourself as you take a slow step back—just enough to put some distance between you.

Finnick watches you, amusement still dancing in his eyes, before leaning in one last time.

“Just remember,” he murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear, “if Snow asks, you’ve been hopelessly in love with me for months.”

You don’t even hesitate. You stomp on his foot.

Finnick hisses, the grin finally slipping from his face as you yank yourself free from his hold. “I hate you.”

Finnick laughs through the pain, barely even phased as he takes a step back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like nothing happened. “Yeah, yeah. Keep saying that, sweetheart. It only makes the act more believable.”

You don’t just storm off. You march across the dance floor, teeth clenched, pulse hammering at your temples. The absolute audacity of Finnick Odair. You can still hear his laugh trailing behind you, light and amused, like he’s delighted that he’s gotten under your skin.

He’s insufferable.

You barely make it three steps before Finnick’s voice chases after you. “Come on, don’t walk away so soon. You didn’t even let me dip you dramatically a second time.”

You whip around so fast he nearly collides into you. “Finnick, I swear to—”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, expression gleaming with pure mischief. “Relax, sweetheart, you’re making this way too easy for them.” He tilts his head ever so slightly toward the crowd.

You don’t want to look. You really don’t, but you know exactly what he’s talking about. The Capitol’s eyes are still on you, their expressions ranging from intrigue to outright glee. Some of them are whispering to each other, exchanging looks like they’ve figured something out.

Finnick sees the realization flicker across your face and smirks.

He leans in, voice dropping to that annoyingly smooth, lazy drawl. “That’s right. We sell this, or we’re both dead.” His grin widens. “So, if you want me to stop annoying you, then act in love.”

You inhale sharply, resisting the urge to wring his neck. Instead, you plaster on the most sickeningly sweet smile you can muster.

“You’re right, Finnick.” Your voice is sugary and poisonous all at once, dripping with an exaggerated affection that makes his eyebrows twitch. “How could I possibly resist you? You’re just so—so—”

You grab his collar, yanking him forward, just enough for your lips to hover dangerously close to his. Finnick’s breath hitches for just half a second.

Then, in the smuggest voice imaginable, he says, “Speechless? Happens all the time.”

Your roll your eyes. “I was going to say infuriating.”

Finnick laughs. Loud, genuine, eyes gleaming with absolute delight. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing a hand over yours, effortlessly prying your fingers from his collar, “if you think this is infuriating, just wait until I start courting you properly.”

Your stomach drops. Not because you’re flustered, obviously. Just dread. Absolute dread.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper, already regretting this entire night.

Finnick grins, the kind that sends a chill up your spine. “Try me.”

You might actually have to kill him.

part three

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #the hunger games

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inhumanliquid · 1 year ago

Text

Typical "reblog for larger reach" here, I guess.

#tumblr polls

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vandme12 · 2 months ago

Note

I barely see Ronin as a mechanic! Headcanons/Oneshots!

This was in my drafts for days..

You're not exactly sure how it happened. One minute, you’re flopped on Ronin's couch, droning on about how bored you are—how you could die of it, actually, right here, right now. The next, he's dragging you out to the garage like a wolf with a chew toy, all sharp teeth and brighter eyes, muttering something about “if you’re gonna whine, might as well make yourself useful.”

Useful, apparently, means learning how to fix cars. Because that’s what he does when he’s not busy tearing people apart. A little hands-on therapy. Take something broken, make it purr again. You guess it fits—devils need hobbies, too.

“I still think you should just let me die of boredom,” you grumble, arms folded as you watch him prop the hood open. It groans like a corpse stretching in its grave, metal rasping against metal.

Ronin snorts. "Dramatic much? C'mon, darlin', ain't gonna kill ya to learn how an engine works. Might even save your pretty ass one day."

You give him a look that could peel paint. "Or you could just fix it for me. That's what boyfriends are for."

That earns you a low, wicked laugh. The kind that slides under your skin and stays there. "Oh, sweet thing, you're in for it now. Open up those pretty hands—time to get 'em dirty."

He hands you a wrench, and you hold it like it's a foreign object. Ronin leans over the engine block, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing forearms streaked in grease and little healing scrapes. He’s beautiful in the most ridiculous way: all messy burgundy hair, shark-teeth grin, and a nicotine burn low on his wrist. A devil working the bones of a machine.

And, lucky you—you get to be his little apprentice.

“So, what are we doing?” you ask, mostly to fill the silence. Ronin's in his element, already half-lost to the work. Fingers curling around bolts like he could coax the car to life with touch alone.

“Changing the spark plugs,” he says. Then, when you give him your best bewildered expression, he chuckles. “They help make the magic happen, baby. No spark, no fire, no joyride. Same as people, really.”

“Poetic,” you deadpan. “So, where do I start?”

Ronin tilts his head toward the engine. "Get in here, darlin. I ain't gonna hold your hand the whole way."

That is a lie, by the way. He absolutely will.

You squeeze next to him, shoulder brushing his. The garage smells like old oil, sweat, and something sweetly metallic underneath—not quite blood, but close enough that your stomach flips. His heat soaks into your skin when he leans in, hands guiding yours over the metal innards.

He explains things in that lazy drawl of his, a little smug every time you mess up. And you mess up a lot. Your fingers slip, your grip's too weak, you curse when you almost drop a spark plug into the engine. Ronin just watches, like he's enjoying the spectacle of you struggling.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck, “you’re real cute when you’re useless.”

“Fuck you,” you snap back, except it comes out a little too breathy. Which, of course, he catches. His smile goes sharp enough to cut.

"Careful, darlin'. Keep talkin' like that, I might start thinkin' you like it when I'm mean."

Your hands falter, and you feel his gaze crawl over you. Heavy, hot. You don't answer, because what would you even say? He's not wrong.

“Alright,” he says, voice softer but no less dangerous. “Tighten that one, yeah? Let’s see if you can follow basic fuckin' instructions.”

You try. You really do. But the angle's weird, and your fingers keep slipping, and why the hell is everything in a car so awkward? Your knee bumps against the wheel well when you lean in deeper, and suddenly you're halfway sprawled over the engine like a sacrificial offering.

Perfect. Exactly what Ronin wanted.

He catches you before you can slide further, one grease-slick hand curling around your waist. His other hand plucks the wrench from your grip with infuriating ease.

“Clumsy thing,” he drawls. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“You could start by letting me go,” you say, but you don’t mean it. Not even a little. And Ronin’s the last person alive to fall for your lies.

His fingers press harder against your waist. "Nah," he says, low and rough, “I like you right where you are.”

He kisses you before you can fire back. Messy, claiming, dragging the breath from your lungs. His teeth catch your lower lip and tug, pulling a noise from your throat you weren’t planning to make. The taste of him is familiar—smoke and something darker beneath it, something that’s always felt a little like danger. Like sin in the shape of a man.

When he pulls back, you’re half-dizzy. Your hands are still braced against the edge of the car, and you can feel how tightly he’s holding you, like you might slip away if he isn’t careful.

“See?” he purrs. “Told ya fixin' cars could be fun.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but you press closer anyway.

He grins, blood-red and wicked. "Nah. You love me. Now, quit slacking and hand me that wrench, sweetheart. We got work to do."

Head canons!

"Bored, darling?" If you so much as hint that you’ve got nothing to do, Ronin’s dragging you to the garage. He’s already got his coveralls half-unzipped, grease smeared across his jaw like a smudged halo—saint of the scrapyard, king of the underworld. He’ll plop you in front of some busted hunk of metal and call it a “bonding experience.” (Translation: watching you struggle is his favorite form of entertainment.)

Zero discounts, actually. If anything, Ronin charges you extra. Call it the “boyfriend tax.” He’ll fix your ride, sure—but only after making you bribe him with a kiss (or several). You’re not getting off easy. If you try to sweet-talk your way to a lower price? He just leans in, smirks against your ear, and murmurs, “Ya know, darling, I could break it worse if you wanted somethin’ new. Keep me busy.”

His garage is your second home. He doesn’t just let anyone hang around while he works—this is sacred ground, baby. But you? You get to sit on the workbench, legs swinging while he’s half-buried under an engine. He’ll toss you snacks from his stash (suspiciously all junk food) and occasionally drag you over just to “hold something.” (Spoiler: he just wants you close.)

Oh, sweetheart, you thought you were getting a discount? Cute. Ronin charges extra for you—calls it the “Tax.” Every time you ask, he tuts like you're breaking his poor, mechanical heart. But let your car actually break down? Suddenly, it’s "Nah, baby, I got this." He’ll fix it before you even notice, no charge—he just likes making you owe him. (And oh, you owe him plenty.) "Ain’t about the money, darlin’. It’s about makin’ sure you need me. And you do, don’tcha?"

Every. Single. Time. You visit the garage, he’s sweaty, just to make sure you suffer. Bonus points if you’re there in the summer—he’ll stretch, flex, and wink while holding a wrench like he’s posing for a calendar shoot. Loves to call you his “little assistant”—but gives you the most pointless tasks. "Hold this bolt. No, not like that. With love, babe. Jeez, where’s your passion?" If you complain? You’re getting pinned against the nearest surface with grease-smudged fingers trailing down your jaw. "Maybe if you were good, I’d give ya the easy jobs. But nah, you like it rough, don’tcha?"

He makes you “help” with repairs. Even though you suck. But he’s patient—weirdly patient for someone with blood on his hands. He’ll guide your fingers over the engine, teach you the difference between spark plugs and fuel injectors like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. And if you mess up? He just laughs, leans over you, and drawls, “Cute try, baby. Maybe leave the hard stuff to me.”

Car rides are a whole other game. After fixing your vehicle, he insists on a “test drive” with you in the passenger seat. He drives one-handed, the other resting heavy on your thigh—like he’s claiming both the road and you. “Gotta make sure it’s runnin’ smooth,” he says, voice thick with innuendo.

Grease-streaked kisses. You always leave his garage marked—fingers on your waist, motor oil smudged along your neck from when he drags you close. And if you complain? He just grins. “Looks better on ya than it does on me, darling.”

Your vehicle has an unofficial VIP pass. No matter how busy he is, if it’s your car in trouble, everything else can wait. Doesn’t matter if it’s a busted tire or the whole engine blowing out—he’ll fix it, grinning like he lives for the chaos you bring. Just don’t expect him to let you off easy: “You keep breakin’ shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you just wanna see me sweaty.”

His garage playlist is insane. Half industrial metal, half bluesy rock—loud enough to shake the walls. You pretend to hate it, but there’s something weirdly attractive about watching Ronin, sleeves rolled up, half-cursing along to the music while elbow-deep in some Frankenstein engine. (And if you’re lucky? He’ll pull you into a grease-streaked dance right there on the oil-stained floor.)

#killer chat #kc #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x #ronin killer chat #ronin #killer chat vn

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lunebulous · 4 months ago

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How would Xavier react to seeing you dressed as a bride? - Bonus Chapter

C.w: fluff, non-established relationship, silly, xavier x reader, sfw, corpse bride mentions, not proofread.

Stirring a purple juice that seems to be thicker than it should, Xavier is startled by his own doorbell. He’s not waiting for anyone - didn’t ask for any takeout today - so he knows it’s you. He tries not to smile to himself as he dries his own hands in a dish towel nearby, only then realizing the mess he made in the kitchen. He starts desperately trying to tidy up before you ring again - so this will have to make do. He turns off the oven and rushes to the door.

“Coming.” He says in a soft and happy voice. And as if you didn’t hear, you start repeatedly ringing it again just to annoy him.

He opens it. “What’s all this for? Is someone chewing your arm off?” He smiles, just genuinely content in seeing you smiling at him, even if there is a hint of suspiciousness in your eyes. “No, but with the time it took you to answer me, I already could have started decomposing!” You retort, making him softly roll his eyes before taking a look at you. You are so adorable. There is what seems to be a pink photo album in your hands. He furrowed his eyebrows before letting you in. “It’s from the photoshoot my friends and I did, the pictures are ready and Anne just delivered it to me!” You say, taking your shoes off. Xavier giggles to himself when he sees your shark socks, but decides to not tease you about it - for now. “Since you were very kind and brought me food, I wanted to have my first look with you!” You walk towards his sofa, and he follows soon after, gazing at the top of your head. He wishes he could kiss it. “First look, huh. Did you have fun?” He asks, taking the photo album from your hands. It’s a baby pink hard leather cover, his fingers grazing against the texture. There is embroidery in the middle of it: a heart with an arrow through it. First look… Now he could say he had this experience once. “A lot. It was very funny, none of our costumes blended with each other so we were laughing the whole time.” You scoot closer, signaling for him to open it already.

“What were you again..? Dead bride..?” He places his arm on the back of the couch behind you, giving some space for you to move freely. “Corpse Bride, Xavier! I thought you knew who she was!” You stare at him, slapping his knee playfully.

“I do!” - He doesn’t. - “I just.. don’t remember the names, that’s all.” He shakes his head, looking down. “And you didn’t look like a corpse.. You looked like a cute-” “I know I didn’t! I wasn’t ready yet. You’ll see! Open it! Hurry!” Xavier sighs softly, his heart beating out of his chest. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed he didn’t get to compliment you. But he opens the album anyway. The first few pictures are you and your friends arriving, holding lots of bags. The photos are mostly made of ‘backstage’ moments, just as you and your friends requested. Throughout the pictures you can see the process of you guys taking out the makeup, some of you suddenly in costumes, Sam opening a package of a bald cap while Lexy laughed in disbelief. You haven't appeared in a lot of pictures yet. “Here Lexy is laughing because Sam chose to be Pitbull. It’s an old singer known as Mr. Worldwide. He’s bald, so she had to be too.” you’re grinning from ear to ear. “Pit. Bull..? Why did she choose.. a bald man? Out of so many..” He takes a look at you, meeting your ‘why-not’ gaze. “You girls...” Xavier is smiling too. He’s happy you’re happy with your weird little friends. “It’s the only time she’d have the opportunity to be photographed professionally as a bald man. That’s enough reason, I think. I get her.” You simply say, as he turns one more page. Finally, his pretty girl. You’re still in your normal clothes, painting one of your friend’s face orange. The picture is - in its own way - beautiful. It captures you both smiling to each other, even if your friend is half-orange in it. You’re not wearing that hairpin yet though. “Where did you get that hairpin..? It was pretty.” He stares at you in the photo. “Oh, Anne, the short-haired lady that photographed us gave it to me. First she just wanted to try making a hairstyle on my hair but she decided I should keep it after all.” You answer, mindlessly getting closer to him and turning another page, against his will. He wished he could look at you longer but he’s happy you’re leaning on him now.

“I understand.” Now he’s facing a picture of you, just the way you were when he saw you in-person there. In a bride dress, hairpin in place holding your bun up, with a smile so bright and beautiful it makes his heart clench. You’re leaning against the window, looking to your side and probably laughing at something one of your friends did. The natural light casts an ethereal glow around you. He can’t help but place a hand on his chest, disguising it as an itch. He quickly glances at you as you’re concentrating on the picture beside it. You are so precious to him and you have no idea. But someday he'll show you, by having you wear a white dress again, accompanied by a beautiful blue sapphire ring on your left hand. And you turn the page again. He frowns imperceptibly, letting you have your own special experience. After some chuckles and curious questions, you guys are almost at the end of the photo album, where lies a group picture. Xavier suddenly snorts at the scene. Getting startled by it, you look down to see what made him get that reaction, and your hands immediately press on your mouth, shoulders starting to shake from how much you’re holding back a loud laugh.

It’s you - Corpse Bride - along with Lord Farquaad, Morticia, Lorax, Gojo and Pitbull. There is no possible way this photoshoot made sense and you started thinking that this was the most irresponsible financial decision you have ever made - but worth the laugh. At the same time, all Xavier can see is you, almost melting on his lap over the album - laughing so hard it’s silent. It doesn’t take long before you sit up correctly again and he takes another look at the picture, now chuckling. You try to say something but there’s tears in your eyes and everytime you look at the picture you find something new to laugh at.

Finally getting to the end, he closes the album and you let out a heavy sigh, two tears streaming down your face. Xavier looks at you, and carefully dries them with his thumbs, using a light touch as to not ruin your makeup - just the way you taught him.

He himself sighs a bit too, feeling a mixture of love and pure admiration for your laugh and your own kind of weirdness. He cradles your face in his hands, the moment suddenly intimate between both of you. Calming down, you look at his eyes, searching for a feeling’s name you don’t even know.

He is not drying up your tears anymore, just.. holding you with adoring eyes. It makes you blush and panic a little, suddenly getting up. “Xavier, I-!” He looks at you with parted lips and wide eyes, before quickly going back to his smirking face. You try to not feel like there’s a lingering desire to hold each other close as you look down at him in silence for some seconds. “Uhm..Oh!” You start patting your pockets. “Anne said you paid her a sandwich before you came to the studio! She told me how she forgot her money and all, and how lucky she felt when you appeared and offered to pay for her!” You take out an envelope out of the inside pocket of your jacket, as Xavier stares at you with the most confusing expression you have ever seen etched on his face. It's obviously something that didn't happen - but you believed it naively, and kept going. “So she.. wanted to pay you back. Here it is.” You give him the envelope. Xavier takes it hesitantly, immediately noticing that the envelope feels firmer than it should. He has an idea of what it might be in mind, but he’s not so sure of it. You quickly take the photo album from his lap, breathing deeply as your heart starts calming itself down. You take a last glance at him - he’s staring at the envelope.

“Tell her I said thank you.” Xavier softly analyzes the envelope, not opening it. “I will. Then.. I should get going.” you point to his door behind you. “I left my windows open and I don't want all of my reports flying down the window.” You blurt out, making things up just to leave. Xavier can tell you’re nervous, so he doesn’t insist. He gets up and accompanies you to the door, waving bye. Slowly walking back to his living room, he opens the envelope. He knew it. It's two pictures of you, his beautiful pretend-bride. Both of them are identical - taken moments apart. You are sitting on a low stool, legs close to your body and a bottle of orange juice at your feet. In one of them you are taking a full bite of the sandwich he brought you, and in the other one your eyes are squinting in pure joy as you chew with round cheeks. There’s a soft blush on your face and he can tell how happy you were. Xavier caresses the picture as if you could feel it. As if you could feel how much he wants you by his side. He’s just waiting for the right moment. For the right moment to hold you close, to kiss your soft lips, to claim you as his. To ask you if he can be your boyfriend, just to wait some more before asking if you’d like to be his wife. But right now, something takes him out of it. He sniffs something. He startles like a cat, running to the kitchen. Shitshitshitshitshit! Instead of turning off the oven, he turned it all the way on. He sighs. “Not again…!” Turning off the oven - correctly, this time -, he takes a look at your pictures again. Turning them, he found out Anne had written “Your future bride looks cute enough to make a grown man cry, indeed.” And he blushes immediately. She still has no idea Xavier isn’t even her boyfriend yet, but it’s not like he’ll correct her anytime soon. He looks at the overheated oven, smelling like burnt iron.

First, he must learn how to cook to be a good husband, after all.

I hope you guys enjoyed this little series - and if it's of interest for anyone, Xavier kept these photos under a pile of clothes in his wardrobe - but he took some pictures of it with his cellphone so he could gaze at his bride anytime he felt like it - which is constantly.

#lads #love and deepspace #xavier #fanfiction #fanfic #lads xavier #xavier lads #xavier love and deepspace #fluff #xavier x mc #lnds #love and deepspace xavier #reader x xavier #xavier x reader

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aemsgirl · 4 months ago

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In Spite Of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader. PT2

Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.

The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.

Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.

Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.

But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.

It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.

Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.

Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.

He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.

Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.

His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.

His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.

His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.

"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.

He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.

Like a fucking feast, like you are now.

His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.

And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.

His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?

"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.

He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.

"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.

His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.

His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.

"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.

Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.

It's too good, too fucking good.

So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.

Aemond freezes.

Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.

You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.

His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.

"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.

You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.

You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.

He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'

"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.

And you didn't hesitate.

Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.

You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.

"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.

But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.

You need to do something.

With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.

With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.

He's coming for you, so you come for him too.

Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.

Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.

"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.

Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.

He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.

"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.

Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.

Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.

Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.

Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.

Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.

“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.

He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.

And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.

“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.

The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.

The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.

When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.

Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.

Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.

You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.

Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.

You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.

“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”

Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.

“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.

The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.

Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.

It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.

“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.

Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.

You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.

Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.

"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.

You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.

"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.

Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.

"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.

You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.

"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.

He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.

"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.

You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.

Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.

"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.

He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.

"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.

Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.

"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”

A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.

"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.

The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.

"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.

His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.

You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.

"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.

Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.

"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.

With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.

"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.

Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.

You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.

You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.

Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.

"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."

He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.

"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.

You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.

But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.

#modern aemond x reader #modern aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond #x reader #ewan mitchell #fanfic #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #martin in the modern world #dead dove fic

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lirational · 11 months ago

Note

What about yandere angell, obsessed with reader being her housewife?

Angell x Chief!Reader

Warnings: Blood Allusions, Obsessive Behavior, Dubiously Consensual (Slight?) Marking, Violence and Implied Murder.

A/N: of course, slight event spoilers below~

Short dark content drabble (no explicit content) under the cut~

—

After so long, so long, only barely taking care of herself enough to keep her Sinner-power fueled body going for the next job, next thing on an endless to-do list that just kept going, all to survive in a carved safety, it would be no wonder that she fell hard for your ability to make her feel at home, a semblance of calm within a sanctuary that once used to be just another place to drift into a restless sleep for her.

It is hard to let go of such a comfort, and as much as she dreaded to admit it, as much as she fancied herself a shark in the dark, untamed sea, the idea of having a safe, warm nest, along with the company of such a gentle, bright soul was nothing short of tantalizing. There was no way she did not notice that you were just biding your time for a chance to escape, but such a small detail is far too easy to be wilfully ignored, and the way you hide how you try to shy away at her touch, faintly smelling of blood, was downright adorable.

The more she thought of it, the more her heart sunk at the thought of you leaving.

An assassin was not supposed to leave tracks, or hold affection to someone that belongs in the light, yet she couldn’t help but indulge, marking you with faint red scratches as her fingernails glide on your body. You would yelp and almost jump away, and she would simply smile.

It was your last day here, was it not? She just wanted to commit you to memory, before she has to return you to the world you belong to—

That night, as you slept, her arms wrap around your waist and chest. Your calm, rhythmic breaths fill the room, all too unaware of the corpses of your rescuer, piled into the trash chute at the corner of the room.

#path to nowhere #path to nowhere x reader #ptn x reader #angell x reader #ptn angell x reader

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no-nic · 2 months ago

Text

epic suicide no jutsu: a list

shinigami vore

literally sends you to the shadow realm

an uzumaki original... but the first time you hear about it hiruzen calls it "fourth hokage's jutsu". kushina was good for something

the user and victim fight in the shinigami's belly forever. but also yin!kurama got sealed into minato?

you have to grab the victim? but only when your name is hiruzen. cool minato doesn't have to hug the fox!

inflatable deidara goes boom

very predictable; the explosion guy can make a bigger explosion? (gasp)

doesn't make it any less scary

sasuke ran away to the snake dimension

pinocchio

was supposed to breathe life into puppets???

some kind of equivalent exchange? without limb loss?

snuicide (snake suicide)

orochimaru substituted for an earth clone or something, so we didn't see it in action

apparently in the games it 1) is an explosion, and 2) leaves anko alive due to gameplay reasons; which sucks very much

eight gates

no joke here

a cool magic trick

"just use more chakra"

makes for cool scenes (rock lee vs gaara, gai vs juubidara), eats the animation budget for several episodes

kakashi can open one gate

there has to be something wrong with you to even be able to use the gates. like a specific sacrificial mindset thing

literal boiling blood:

new kind of zombie

tobirama's edo tensei bullshit wasn't enough

the original plan was making the corpses explosive

technically anyone can generate five bombs (from their own flesh???) and blow them up, the trick is being a self-healing corpse so you can repeat this magnificent feat

big "every mushroom is edible. once" vibes

dead man's nintendo switch, sorry, playstation 4

why does danzo get all the cool fuinjutsu... (<- not actually disappointed)

please don't activate this on your deathbed surrounded by your loved ones

shinigami vore 2: electric boogaloo

there is a king of hell who sucks out souls and you can use him as a lie detector and i guess it eats every dying soul in the vicinity and can return them into fixed bodies sdjlfsdnlf

i can't

everything is probably a reference to japanese culture. but

i hate this

"me and my lvl 90 legendary pokémon when i backtrack to my home town and realize i missed an optional trainer battle":

honorable mentions:

kisame summoning sharks to eat him

sakumo's amazing sword techniques

hidan! he just cheats and doesn't die

#naruto #naruto meta #minato namikaze #hiruzen sarutobi #anko mitarashi #deidara #gai maito #dai maito #senju tobirama #edo tensei #nagato uzumaki #orochimaru #chiyo #shinigami #i started writing a post that was basically a video script #unfortunately i couldn't keep the balance between the youtubersona and my actual opinions

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locustonlioden-blog · 1 year ago

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The Princess of Hell, everybody! Inspiration to all

But its ok, hes defending the hotel! Those loan sharks (mortal hellborns mind you) are just trying to get the 50k someone hiding out here stole and avenge someone she ran over. She was selfish, she stole, but she stuck it to the man I guess, and thats a start!

*spongebob narrator voice* A few episodes later...

Adam: Prepare to slaughter everyone in that shit hotel!

Lute: Rip Vaggies $%$% mouth out her $%$%!

Husk: Talking while fighting doesn't help...

Charlie: *yapping*

Everyone struggling for their lives:

Apologizing for deflecting them with her shield, as everyone around her litters the ground with their corpses...easily the most powerful one there-she knows it, she isn't scared...everyone else is though...as Alastors blood seeps into her roof, she shoots off some fireworks with a cute lil sowwy!

Oh, geeze what a day! Shes like that person in the grocery store who keeps apologizing for getting bumped into. Is this supposed to be cute? Guess Charlie takes shit now, in big heaping portions no less.

Then she...

oops, wrong universe, hold on...

yea thats it

AW NAW Alastor was sposed to handle him!

Pentious manages to confess his love, get in his ship, charge the death ray and get zapped into oblivion in about the time it takes Charlie to emerge from her hiding place. Ok, he works fast. Fair enough. Oh wow, shes finally getting mad! Yes the one who causes hellquakes when shes stressed, its about time to unleash some of that!

Watch out, shes got her pets and has donned her spirit halloween sexy devil costume. Your ass is toast sir.

Oh shit, Razzle went faster than Rhaegal did approaching Dragonstone. I remember Viv saying Charlie has wings. Why didn't they fly themselves up there? Did she risk her pets lives for the spectacle? "Oh, look who thinks they're badass now" Yea Adam, kind of my thoughts too

I have to say the VaggiexLute beatdown that interrupted this mess unlocked my clenched jaw somewhat so that was nice DING DING

Her pet just being murdered, Charlie turns her back on the assailant long enough for him to braid her hair while she wails in dismay

She gets plastered into the sign which might have been funny if it were set up properly, but its not so Im back to cringing. I cant help but think it would have been better if she had been gun ho to fight but just clumsy and unable to hit her target. Getting tossed into the sign really does a number on her for some reason.

She finally gets a hit in thank God

Thats PRINCESS of HELL to YOU, PIG

Yea ok simba.

Then Mufasa *ahem* Lucifer salvages her mess. Guess this one hasn't taught her how not to take shit from other demons.

Poor thing doesn't like to get her hands dirty. Not directly, anyway...

Anyway, the takeaway is

I feel ripped off where is my girl who beat Killjoys ass on live TV over a pen

#hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel #vivziepop #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel thoughts #hazbin hotel criticism #vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel critical #charlie morningstar

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demelzathemer · 7 months ago

Text

My Heart Is a Haunted House

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘗𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 + 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛

@dbdpromptober Day 7: Blood (words: 1600)

First Previous Next

(We All End Up Remains of the Day)

“Now that’s a story,” said a disembodied, purring voice.

There was a burst of violet flames on the counter and then, there was a cat. Charles let out a startled laugh. The Cat’s yellow eyes pierced him, before it sauntered past him to Edwin.

“A story of the ages,” it said with flair and ignored Charles’ bewildered staring.

“Of love, trust and betrayal most vile.”

The way the Cat sat back on its hindlegs to emphasize with its paws made Charles suppress another laugh.

“We don’t need to do all that,” Edwin said bitterly, like this conversation had been over with many times.

“Oh, but we do,” the Cat gasped theatrically, “how else is the fiancée here supposed to know anything about you, dove?”

Edwin sulked, rolling his eyes. Charles was far too amused watching the enigmatic Talking Cat that swayed its way across the counter like it was its personal catwalk. Jenny leaned back on the shelves, completely unbothered by anything that was happening.

The Cat twisted its sleek body in a way that probably wasn’t possible, the candlelight hitting ink black fur and making it shine. Then it leapt into the air and before it hit the ground, the violet flames had swallowed it again.

The flash of fire reappeared on top of the piano. But instead of a cat, it was a man with slicked black hair in finger waves. He was wearing a luscious satin robe with a fur trim, loosely tied around his waist.

He snapped his fingers in the air.

“Hit it, boys,” he smirked, lounging on the piano, eyes fixed on Charles and Edwin.

The skeleton sitting there jerked into action, hitting a rhythmic tune on the piano.

“Please, pay him no mind,” Edwin leaned over to Charles. “He does this every time someone asks.”

“Hey!” The Cat yowled, getting everyone’s attention.

He leapt on to his feet between the band, summoning a spotlight on him with another snap of his fingers. The bass, the sax and the xylophone made out of bones came alive around him, the skeletons reanimated by their love of music.

“Give me a listen, you corpses of cheer

Least those of you who still got an ear”

There was a mischievous grin on the Cat’s lips when he sauntered over, the crowd parting before him. He approached Edwin, standing eye to eye with him when the other was sitting down. Charles saw his gaze flash yellow, with slit feline pupils.

“I’ll tell you a story, put you out of your gloom

Of our own tenaciously gentle corpse groom”

His hand brushed a caress on Edwin’s cheek, before reluctantly pulling back. Edwin’s expression was steely, without betraying any emotion.

Charles wasn’t sure what was going on but he was stoked they had a song about Edwin. The tune was plenty dramatic, like something from a soap opera, performed with the same fervor.

The Cat turned with a flash, reappearing on his spot on the raised stage. Multicolored spotlights danced around him, breaking off and stretching the shadows.

“Well

Our son is a sweetheart and a real catch, too

Dreaming of a boy he could call his boo”

Behind him on the wall, a silhouette of a young man appeared, moving like a puppet, representing Edwin.

Charles moved to take a sip of his drink while keeping his eyes on the show, when Edwin put his fingers on the rim of his glass. When he gave him a puzzled look, Edwin’s eyes were serious.

“You must know about the rule of eating or drinking anything while visiting,” he leaned in with a low murmur, close to Charles’ ear.

Charles put down the glass discreetly. He wasn’t sure what Edwin was referencing, but he had a feeling it was better to listen.

“Then here’s a new guy, an older lad

Who could've guessed his heart was bad”

The Cat summoned another shadow figure on the wall. The taller man circled Edwin’s puppet like a shark.

“He fell for a man with grace and tact!

With violence and greed, now that’s a fact

For he was a fake, his plan’s so foul

Told him to pack, now where art thou?”

The Cat’s voice roared, his tale enrapturing the audience. Everyone except Charles probably knew this already, but every soul inside the bar was holding in their shocked gasps.

“Down to the basement he took our son”

The Cat lowered his voice, the lights going down. A shiver traveled up Charles’ spine, making him shift uncomfortably.

“For he knew already that he had won”

Yellow eyes shone in the darkness. Not once had Charles been scared here, but looking at those eyes, he grasped a hint of a much scarier, much more powerful nature. He was suddenly aware that he was the only person here who was alive.

Everyone else had already met their demise. And some of those fates were unfair, violent or sudden. Anyone could die, at any time, without a warning. It only took a moment of bad luck, one misstep or an ill-advised decision. Sometimes it was as simple as trusting the wrong person.

“And then?” Came a breathy question from the dark, urging the Cat to reveal the twist.

“The shadow looms”, the Cat whispered. Edwin’s silhouette flickered on the wall, looking around, confused.

“And then?” Another one demanded.

“There’s nothing there.” The basement is empty. Behind Edwin’s back, the man’s shadow grows larger and more beast-like.

“And then?!”

The Cat’s eyes are somber. Charles wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but he could swear that gaze was fixed on Edwin.

“Then, baby… it was all over.”

It was a mere husky whisper. Even though Charles had known it was coming, he could still feel his heart seizing with a cold, painful squeeze. On the wall, the large shadow jumps on Edwin, swallowing him whole. A choked sound got caught in Charles’ throat.

A life, ripped away just like that. Edwin, dead before reaching even twenty years of age, without any fault of his own.

The lights turned back on all at the same time. The Cat had ripped the satin robe off his body, revealing tight leather pants and black mesh shirt covered in glitter. He was a sparkling, glimmering sight, when he strutted on the edge of the stage.

“A strike to the head, it was quick as a flash

Now the body’s disappeared with all the cash”

He shook his head and closed his eyes in an act of pity. He had a tantalizing way of moving, light on his feet, making it impossible to look away. He sat down on the ledge, one leg up, to tell the story.

“Now our son’s gone missing in an “act of God”

A verdict so twisted that’ll make you sob”

The music swelled, reflecting the growing anger towards the injustice of Edwin’s death. The Cat’s voice was but a snarl when he hissed out the following verses.

“Yet God had no part in it nor a hand

It all comes down to the cruelty of man”

Charles felt the hair on the nape of his neck standing up. He tried to ignore the full-body chills that were way too familiar, the slight quivering of his hands when fear tightened its grip on him.

He was intimately acquainted with what that cruelty entailed. He wished Edwin would’ve been spared from that.

Charles stole a glance at Edwin, whose face stayed neutral. From the side, you couldn’t see the blood covering the other half. His skin was smooth and unblemished. So young. So soft.

Trailing his gaze on the grooves of that striking profile, Charles landed on his lips, staring at the jagged line where a piece was missing. He had an urge to reach out and touch it.

The Cat’s song turned softer, a ballad-like lament. In one swift spell he was back in front of Edwin, a smile spreading on his lips.

“Left without love, he settles in to wait”

The Cat pulled Edwin up and stole him away, one hand on his waist, the other clasped with Edwin’s.

“For the groom of his own, swagger to his gait”

The way they waltzed was so smooth and seamless, like they were gliding across the floor, weightless and graceful. Charles couldn’t stop looking, even if the other man’s possessive hold awakened something ugly inside his chest.

Edwin was mesmerizing to watch. His movement was elegant, almost alluring, the white of his suit glowing in the lights.

Charles wondered, how had an angel ended up here, amidst regular mortals?

He yelped when he was shoved from behind and stumbled forward, barely keeping his footing.

“Confesses his love, whips out a ring”

Charles was pushed by the enthusiastic crowd and suddenly he found himself chest to chest with Edwin.

“One living, one dead, now they’re a thing”

Without more than a nod, Edwin picked up Charles’ hand. He put it on his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around Charles’ waist. Their fingers intertwined naturally, slotting perfectly together.

“A match for the ages, their love in a bloom”

Edwin took Charles along, leading him with confident steps. Charles picked it up quickly and was rewarded with a satisfied smile, something so endearing it made his heart leap in his chest. He’d do anything to please Edwin, if he could just see him smile again.

The colorful lights washed over Edwin’s shoulders, reflecting from the bottomless depths of his eyes. They were looking at Charles, now, full of pure contentment and love.

“And that’s the happy end for our corpse groom!”

#dead boy detectives #corpse bride au #dbdpromptober2024 #day 7: blood #payneland #charles rowland #edwin payne #the cat king #cat king #i havent written poetry in a secondary language before this was fun #particularly proud of the act of god- cruelty of man lines #remains of the day

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the-golden-comet · 8 months ago

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✨⛵️Story/WIP Tour Tag ⛵️✨

Oh, what a fun concept! Thank you for tagging me, @theink-stainedfolk !!

I’m not sure I can convince you about the lovely landmarks in Peter Hart , but— there’s a rope around me. Oh. We don’t have a choice in this adventure, do we?

Peter: Clever. You catch on quick~!

Ahoy, mates. Captain Hart at the helm now. I’ll be your tour guide for the voyage. Please keep your arms on the deck at all times. Do not lean on the railing; if you go overboard we’re not coming to fish you out….unless you’re Benjamin.

Benjamin: HEY!! 😡

Right, let’s get started:

✨🇬🇧Port Mayor🇬🇧✨

On your left, you will notice we are passing by Port Mayor, Great Britain. A lovely fishing port run by an absolute bastard of a person. Make sure on your stop you steal a hearty handful from the Royal’s pockets, and try their regional specialty: Port Plum Pudding. Great for the season.

🌋Isle of Talon Rock🌋

Oh, this one’s a lovely sightseeing adventure! Talon Rock is an inactive volcano in the center of thick jungle. Do watch your feet for snakes; they are quite venomous here. The igneous walls of the lava tubes are home to a variety of rich gems, but make sure you vacate before high tide if you don’t want to get your clothes wet.

✨🇬🇧Portsmouth🇬🇧✨

We arrive at another port. Excellent tailor at this location; this is where I picked out most of Benjamin’s fashion.

Benjamin: I didn’t ASK for—

—You’re welcome. If you get a chance, make sure to piss in the rose garden of the sovereign that governs this port.

✨🪨Echoing Cove🪨✨

This one looks deceptive at first glance, but a trove of valuables rests deep enough inside the many underwater cave systems. You’ll have to do a little spelunking, but if you reach deep enough the treasures are ripe for the taking~

Benjamin: Peter…why do I hear voices?

—AAAAAAAND we are getting the fuck out of here~🏴‍☠️✨

✨🇬🇧Port Florence🇬🇧✨

Aye, Florence. Another posh port with a castle loaded in riches. A very prosperous port town with a king that is all too eager to throw lavish parties and get drunk off of centuries aged wine.

Benjamin: You’re one to talk, captain…

They hold a Regal Ball every year, with a dance competition. The winners take home 50 grand. Ah, a great memory indeed~

Benji: (blushing furiously)

😏

☠️🩸Bloodwater Bay🩸☠️

….Oh shite. This place. Right, well…..some more dense jungle, a thin strip of beach, the waters are red, but don’t be too alarmed…Davey tells us that’s the iron deposits that give more of that rusty hue. There’s a tall waterfall in the center……

Benjamin: …..Peter? Peeeeeeeter?

O-Oh! Well, moving right along…don’t want to linger in this wretched bay….

✨🇮🇪Gregory’s Point🇮🇪✨

Another lovely island between the mainland and Ireland. This is a developed hotspot, turned into a small port town where all are welcome. Pirates, naval officers, merchants, the like. Between the two main countries, this place has its own governance. So, you better have a good reputation if you don’t want to be murdered in your sleep ✨

Benjamin: you say that so nonchalantly, Captain

Mmmmhm. Also home to one of the best doctors this side of the equator. So, if you get wounded, make sure it happens close to Gregory’s Point.

✨🐋Giverny Gulch🐋✨

Another island made of basalt, home to a naval shipwreck. Do watch your step for broken glass, sharp rocks, reanimated corpses—

Benjamin: —I beg your pardon?

—fish and shark carcasses….oh right. Lots of sharks. Be careful of those.

Benjamin: ….Do I hear a whale?

✨🇫🇷Lorraine🇫🇷✨

We’re arriving near France! Jacques: lead us in the singing of the French National Anthem

Jacques: Oui, oui, Capitaine~! ✨

✨🎵 Allons enfant de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé! 🎵✨

Benjamin: 😑

✨🎵….Contre nous de la tyrannie,

L'étendard sanglant est levé

Entendez-vous dans les campagnes

Mugir ces féroces soldats?

Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras

Égorger vos fils et vos compagnes!

Aux armes, citoyens! (Formez)

Vos bataillons!

Marchons! Oui, marchons!

Qu'un sang impur

Abreuve nos sillons! 🎵✨

🏔️Arctic Archipelago🏔️

……

Benjamin: …..Peter?

…..Let’s be off…..I wish not to be here too long.

✨🏝️The Caribbean🏝️✨

Ah, much better~! A nice, warm climate. Benji, love, remind me to acquire a bottle of Ron de Barbados 🇧🇧✨

Benjamin: Trust me, Captain; you won’t forget.

We’ve reached our final stop, but we have a whole tied-up tour group of witnesses. Mmmm…Right, I got it! Men, start hauling them over the rail—

Benjamin: —PETER!!

I’m joooooking~. Start untying them and drop ‘em off at the next port. Thank you for….“choosing”….The Golden Phoenix as your cruise. I’ve been your captain, and have a magnificent stay in Barbados. Jones knows I will~

Benjamin: P-PETER!! 😣

Leaving this open because man I had a lot of fun here ✨

✨👇Tag list for writing snippets below DM me if you want to be added 👇✨

Tag List for writing tidbits (lmk if you want + or -)

@clevah-girlboss , @glasshouses-and-stones , @tragedycoded , @deanwax , @honeybewrites , @drchenquill , @paeliae-occasionally , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @katenewmanwrites , @fantasy-things-and-such , @billybatsonmylove , @madi-konrad , @houseplantblank , @far-cry-from-finality , @froggy-pposto , @fractured-shield , @avaseofpeonies , @topazadine , @thecoolerlucky , @willtheweaver , @somethingclevermahogony , @noxxytocin , @addicted2coke-theothercoke , @ominous-feychild , @yourpenpaldee , @moltenwrites , @pixies-love-envy , @davycoquette , @writeahurricane , @nczaversnick , @greenfinchwriter , @oliolioxenfreewrites , @aintgonnatakethis , @pluppsauthor , @michellekarnold , @flurrysahin , @authorcoledipalo , @jadeglas , @spookyceph , @48lexr , @agirlandherquill , @saebasanart , @leatafandom , @pippinoftheshire , @badscientist , @dearunreliablenarrator , @worlds-tallest-fairy , @rhikasa , @swordslord

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waffliesinyoface · 1 year ago

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Akatsuki Ranked: which is the worst to just have randomly show up on your doorstep

As in, you may or may not be someone they are looking for, but this is worse than running into them in public because they are at your house and paying attention to you.

Itachi: He is. Well. He claims to be a pacifist, he's just bad at it. If he's there to kill you it will be quick and painless. If he is there to kidnap you you'll just get genjutsu'd. If he's there because he like. Needs to borrow your phone, or a cup of milk or something, he will be polite-ish. You could do worse. It will probably be uncomfortable because he is a tremendously awkward individual, but not that bad. He might even make you forget he was even there. How nice and definitely not slightly horrifying.

Kisame: as a large blue shark man with a giant sword he is very upsetting to come across unexpectedly. You... really don't want him to be there for you, specifically. His gameplan for preventing naruto escaping was "what if we cut off his legs". He's probably fine if he just needs a favor and you happened to be the closest person!

Konan: if Konan has personally come to your door it is because she is here to collect you, and disagreeing is really not an option. She's too important to need a favor from a random civilian so she MUST be here for you. If she was here to kill you she wouldn't have knocked. Presumably, the fact that she came herself and didn't delegate is because she wanted you alive. Come quietly and you might not die horribly. Hopefully.

Deidara: the best version of deidara to have show up on your doorstep is one that is missing both arms and dripping blood all over the carpet. It is perhaps the one version of Deidara who won't cause you to die in an explosion, and he needs you alive to dial the phone for him. The bad news is that he might call someone ELSE to come pick him up, and then just flop down on your couch, getting blood on that, too. And then you have to deal with whoever he called.

Pein: You open the door. There is an terrifying corpse with bright purple eyes staring at you unblinkingly. You hear a sound behind you of the back door, or perhaps several windows breaking. If you could manage to turn around you would see several other very similar corpses. This is all horribly dramatic, you think. No matter what he's there for, it is not going to be good.

Sasori: Him showing up with the goal of capturing or killing you is, uh, bad. Very painful death, and you'll probably be turned into a puppet. Or spare parts. If he's just there for a favor from a random civilian, he might just hit you with a paralyzing poison and take whatever he needs without asking. You know. If he's feeling nice. There is a non zero chance he might just puppetize you anyways, if you look interesting enough. There's a small chance he might hit you with a sleeper agent seal and that is one of the better outcomes.

Obito: He's not going to kill you. But he will do his level best to make you have a mental breakdown. He will raid your fridge. He will "accidentally" break things. He might "accidentally" set himself on fire and then flail around and break more things. If he is kidnapping you he will not drop the act the entire time, and it will be awful, because despite the fact that he acts like an immature idiot child, he is terrifyingly skilled, and there is no way of escaping, even though it really seems like there should be.

Kakuzu: he's not going to knock, he is simply going to break the door. One of the most likely to show up specifically to kill you, because someone else paid him to do it. If he isn't, he will still just blatantly take things that he wants/look valuable and you will be helpless to stop him, because he is a man composed of solid muscle and slightly less solid tentacles.

Hidan: Repent, sinner, for you shall know the name of the god of suffering. (You will die. Badly.)

Zetsu: He doesn't really have any needs, and he doesn't get sent on regular missions, so if he's there... yeah, he'll just show up through the floor and eat you. Why are you like this, Zetsu.

#naruto #akatsuki #akatsuki ranked

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theelderhazelnut · 3 months ago

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Rise of The Villains: The Advocate

Warnings: mentions of death

Words count: 1.5k

Pairing(s): None

Characters: Quan Chi, Raiden, Sonya Blade, Johnny Cage, Cassie Cage

Summary: Quan Chi is back from the dead, but his punishment is far from over. The Special Forces have captured him to use for their own purposes.

Author’s Note: Here it is! This series is best described as an AU of Rise Of The Villains (An au of an au lol). This takes place somewhere between MKX and MK11, and is not canon compliant. ALSO, writing from his pov is the medicine I didn’t know I needed.

Writing Taglist: @cassietrn @raresvtm @cloudofbutterflies92 @mids-stupid-shit @thedragonholder @tommyarashikage @malicedragoness @afraidofrabbits @ash-shark @darialovesstuff @bloody-arty-myths @vivilovespink @starneko123 @inafieldofdaisies @chaosrealm @voidika @aceghosts @euryalex @elderglocks @averytiredbitch @strangefable

Returning from the dead wasn’t really a good idea; at least not when it was about me. The silence among the corpses and, as they say, damned souls was where I felt most comfortable in.

Death was never an issue for me. I knew the rules of this board game. I knew which pawns to move and exactly which houses to move them to. And I would always stand up with a proud smile, and shake hands with death with pure confidence.

But this time was different. This time, the game was new. I didn’t know the rules. This time, Raiden slammed my fist down onto the table.

The path to the main headquarters was more crowded than I would usually prefer. Living eons in the Netherrealm had forged my mind to fit well with that incomparable isolation among jagged cliffs and eroded souls, so now it was doomed to endure the endless, lively chatter of humans everywhere. Every single one of them minded their own particular business. They blended together; out of my control.

I leaned my temple against the car’s window while my handcuffed hands subconsciously stroked the fabric of my uniform pants, silently getting accustomed to them.

“No longer allowed to open portals to your destination?” The Special Forces agent asked, his raspy voice was nearly unreadable.

My chest clenched. “But, still, I will survive a car accident.”

His green eyes lingered on me through the rear view mirror. My lips slowly stretched into a smirk. That was the fear I knew with my flesh and blood. At least something from home accompanied me this morning.

After about half an hour, a dark vast border of a fortified wall emerged from the horizon. I shifted to the middle seat to take a better look through the front window. As far as the eye could see, the wall stood persistently, stoically protecting what was behind. As we drove closer, I noticed that it wasn’t actually a wall. It consisted of angular observation decks, and tiny dots of light leaked through the concrete.

The winding road lead us towards an enormous gate. And soon, we were among armored vehicles and hurried soldiers. I got out of the van. The cold wind whipped my face. Immediately, the trigger of another round of headache came forward.

“This new face is in the biggest spotlight today! I’m envious.” Jonathan Cage nearly shouted, grinning from ear to ear while he wheeled a wheelchair.

“As you should.” I replied. The last thing I needed was him rubbing his hatred for me all over me with an unnatural cheerful tone.

“You even ordered first-class?” He whistled, and tapped the back of the chair. I sat down, and immediately, two soldiers tied my wrists, chestand ankles to the chair.

Mr. Cage wheeled me on a wheelchair through the hallways which were mostly constructed by metal, I presumed. The pale fluorescent lights leaking through the stiff folds of the ceiling and the floor were bright enough to bring any creature back to their senses immediately.

As we reached the very end of one of the many hallways, a metal gate slid open, and we entered a much darker room. It took my eyes a whole several minutes to adjust to the abrupt change of lighting.

“Here he is!” Mr. Cage announced.

Raiden’s white robe quickly caught my attention once he stepped into the dim light. His straw hat shadowed half of his face, per usual. The source of all of my miseries was a few meters away from me, but I was forced to sit on a wheelchair and just watch.

“After eons, you will make considerable use for the realms.” He began firmly. “Even though you are meamt to suffer the consequences of the long list of your crimes.”

“What makes you so certain of that?” The words came out without my knowledge. I let out a sigh and shrugged. “You couldn’t possibly think of a more easier punishment?”

“You are in the Special Forces’ grasp, Quan Chi.” Raiden raised his voice slightly as he repeated his words.

“And as your punishment, you will be working as a secret agent.” A female voice continued. General Sonya Blade stepped forward into the light, shoulders square and hands behind her back.

I would never predict this moment in million years. I held a hysterical laugh behind a sudden burst of a smirk. “You truly are so desperate, lord Raiden. Have you finally succeeded to kill your champions one after another?”

His nostrils flared, his lips creasing in a pout. “In fact, I have always been anticipating this moment to have your cooperation. And it has finally arrived, but not in a situation you certainly desired.” He spoke nonchalantly.

“And if I refused?”

“Your soul will forever be banished to the in-between.”

The blood in my veins froze. Raiden had never made such an existential threat to me, so now this was a sign of a gigantic dog on a leash, ready to be released.

“And how this current moment differs from being banished? Granted with the chance to live among humans is supposed to be…nurturing? Rewarding?” Fortunately, my voice remained tamed and neutral.

General blade dodged my teasing question firmly. “After a medical checkup, you will receive a set of essential gears. And you are also obligated to pass the shooting, and driving training.”

+++

The walk through the hallways wasn’t strange at all, having all eyes on me and all the necks craned up to take a look at the necromancer was quite a familiar sight.

In the inventory, a female voice parroted Mr. Cage’s words.

“They’re being too kind to you, baldy.” Cassie Cage stood up from her seat, sauntering to the circular table at the center. “Guns? That’s too much for you.”

“I am already too much for you soldiers.” I pronounced the last word slightly more emphasized, as though it was a rude insult.

“Talk after you survived a gunfight.”

I rolled my eyes and neared the table. My gaze roamed around the various weapons - which were mostly guns - arranged neatly under the intense fluorescent light. I had to squint a little.

“Have you ever touched a gun before?” She probably had guessed the answer, yet she seemed annoyed by the obligation to ask it aloud.

“After eons of studying, there still remains many fields I haven’t even peeped into.” I picked up a black pistol. “Do I have freedom in my choice?”

Ms. Cage shrugged. “You gotta learn how to handle all of these sooner or later. Most of them at least.” She crossed her arms. “Pick a pistol and a rifle for now. And let’s just get over with this training crap.”

+++

The training session was more of an issue than I had thought. That was the moment I learned aiming with a pistol is considerably more difficult than shooting a large green skull from your bare hands.

One more cylindrical obstacle hitting my shin was enough for my rage to flare. I tripped over and fell onto my elbows. My fist clenched around the pistol. It was all its fault, distracting me from numerous moving obstacles. My chest vibrated from the low growl that escaped my throat.

I turned onto my side, and opened my palms. The heat of rage coursed through my arms, morphing into several shooting skulls. The massive twirling cylinder staggered backwards, the background now visible through the burnt hole in it. The long shafts attached to it went flying in the air. A few of them struck the monkey bars. Targets on the wall collapsed, slamming against the floor with a thunderous clash.

Commander Cage slurped her drink. “Wow.”

I took a deep breath before sitting up on my knees.

“Where’ja wanna get the money from?” She vaguely gestured to the mess before her. “Come on, you’ll perform better on the streets. Like a dog chasing cars.”

“At least I don’t have a golden leash given by my mother.” I forced a smirk on my bitter expression. My chest heaved with my heavy breaths.

She shot me a glare before leaving the training room.

I stood on my feet, and adjusted my uniform. A part of me admitted that she was right; I was now going to chase cars and people like a dog. But since when did they collected the courage to spit facts in my face?

I gripped the fabric of my pants and stared at nothing on the floor. I was only one step away from tangibly tasting this new life. Everything was going smoothly around me and against me. Instead of wrapping it all around my finger, I could just sit there and have a young soldier order me here and there.

I stood up and walked up to the metal gate. At least I could show them why they made a wrong move by making me their secret agent.

#my writing #rise of the villains: the advocate #quan chi #lord raiden #mk raiden #sonya blade #johnny cade #cassie cage #mk oc #mortal kombat oc

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macabr3-barbi3 · 1 year ago

Note

if this isn’t your thing i totally get it… but could you do a fic where alastor finds and adopts a stray cat? i just really want to see him interact with animals; i think he’d treat them like the egg boys lol 😂

literally took me a month I'm so sorry but HERE'S ALASTOR WITH A LITTLE GUY 💕🐈 short and sweet!

Alastor brushes his hands off on his trousers, stepping away from the remains of the demon that lay bleeding on the floor of the alley. When would the denizens learn that he was not to be trifled with on a whim? He toes the body with a distasteful glance- another of those gaudy shark demons, hardly even worth a nibble. A waste, truly, but perhaps he could take some of the flesh home, throw it into a stew with some proper venison like a ‘surf and turf’ of sorts-

A tiny pathetic noise distracts him, and he looks over to see what almost looks like a kitten emerge from behind a dumpster, brown and orange fur patchy and ruined, a clip in its ear. It mewls at him, eyes earnest, and glances over to the body of the demon like it was asking for permission.

“Oh, by all means, little one!” He gestures to the fresh corpse and the creature seems to understand, trotting across the alley and lapping at the pool of blood before digging into the arm of the demon. Alastor watches silently for a moment until the little thing seems to almost be choking itself with its fervor, and he reaches a hand out to wrap about the kitten’s middle and pull it away, to at least swallow before resuming. Honestly, it felt like he was the only person in Pentagram City with manners anymore.

It resists, sinking its teeth further into the flesh. Alastor gives a firm tug, pulls the creature away from its meal, and the blasted thing turns on him, tiny needle sharp claws digging into his wrist and teeth clamping down on his thumb.

Despite the vague anger at being bitten- he had been trying to help the little bastard, after all- he can’t help but admire the tenacity. He releases the thing, lets it drop atop the body of the shark demon, and with the shock of the fall it transforms, body shifting into a strangely colored cardboard box reminiscent of one nearby in the alley, tumbling off the body to the asphalt.

Alastor is fascinated as the creature shifts back, once more becoming cat-esque and clambering back onto the body, mouth again reattaching to the meat of it. He waits until it has eaten its fill and it approaches him, rubbing against the fabric of his trousers and vibrating with something almost like a purr- a little deeper, more of a shake than a vibration. He reaches down and grabs it, brings it up to inspect. He can see now that the features of a true feline are not correct- there are no whiskers, the mouth is a tad too wide, the ears situated a little lower than they would be on Husk, for example. Like it had tried to imitate a true cat but couldn’t quite make the cut. The thing watches him closely, seems to understand that it’s being inspected.

“What a curious creature you are!” He crouches low and sets the beast down on the asphalt. It seems to understand him so he addresses it directly. “What else can you do?” He spends a few minutes conjuring items for the animal to recreate- it’s always just a tad off from what it should be, but Alastor is delighted to see that the items still function as they should for the most part. He ends the test with a small radio, cathedral style, and the teeth of the creature reflect in the patterning on the wood, nose elongating into the display and eyes becoming the dials. It puts up a minor bit of resistance to Alastor fiddling with the latter, but when music emerges it acquiesces, the not-quite-purr adding a nice reverb to the tone of the song.

It shifts back into a cat-like being and watches him with dark eyes as he scoops it up off the ground and deposits it into his pocket.

He fades into the shadows and reemerges in the hotel, dropping the kitten thing on the bar to stare at Husk while he grabs himself a glass of whiskey.

“The fuck is this?” Husk stares aghast at the thing, which lets out a hiss like an eldritch horror and spits at the bartender, fur raising like it means to strike.

Alastor is delighted. “This is Duke,” he says, having decided on the name in the moment after one of his favorite musicians of his own time. “If Angel Dust is allowed to keep that filthy pig creature in his room I, as the Hotelier, should be permitted to keep my own little pet.”

“That mean you’ll finally leave me the fuck alone if ya got another cat?”

He reaches out to tousle Husk’s fur, the cat scowling and batting him away. “No need to be jealous, dear Husker! I’m happy to find you more tasks around the hotel if you find my attention on you to be lacking. Duke here is merely for entertainment!”

“Right. Charlie know about this thing yet?”

“They’re a new addition to my inner circle,” Alastor says. “I’m sure Charlotte will have no issues with my keeping of a companion, and they will not stray from the Hotel.”

Husk sneers at the tiny creature, which in turn hisses at him again and puffs up, headbutting a nearby glass and sending it hurtling to the floor where it shatters. “Goddamn- keep that fuckin’ thing away from the bar!” Husk shouts, and Alastor scoops Duke up with a tentacle to deposit him back into his arms, making his way to his own bedroom before setting the cat creature down on the floor.

“You’re free to use this space as your own,” he tells it, gesturing to the room at large as well as the bayou dimension. Duke hops up onto the armchair by the fire, climbing onto the back of it to stare at him. “There are creatures that can be chased in the woods, but I warn you; they don’t taste quite as soon as the real thing! Perhaps I’ll take you out hunting with me on occasion, how does that sound?”

Duke lets out the almost-purr noise again, grating and vibrational, and allows Alastor to sit in the seat below him, curling up in his lap. Unexpected, but Alastor will permit it- he will need to get used to the usual behaviors of being a ‘pet-owner’ if the Princess is to let him keep the tiny creature. He pets a hand down the feline and it stretches, rolls onto its back, and stills, the Radio Demon watching with a content smile.

#hazbin hotel #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #alastor #alastor the radio demon #alastor fluff #hazbin fluff #requests <3 #my stuff <3 #cursed cat alastor #sort of lol

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 11 months ago

Text

Halloween chapter 12

Note: this is a direct follow up to chapter 11 and nods back to all the previous chapters. the timing of this release is probably awful, but here goes nothing.

previous chapters: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8 - part 9 - part 10 - part 11.

Warnings: 18+! angst and some fluff, mention of blood, death, medication use, brief mention of self harm(not suicidal). Please proceed with caution if you have been triggered by earlier chapters of this fic.

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: you formed a bond with Sihtric as he was your patient.

wordcount: 6662 (I laughed at the 666 so I had to put the exact number, what are the odds)

Masterlist

The Willow Asylum was cold and the lights reflected painfully bright on the blank white walls, making for a downhearted and inhospitable atmosphere.

White.

White was the colour that surrounded you everywhere. Not only were all the lights and walls white, but so were the floors, ceilings, tables, chairs, doors, couches, desks, bathrooms, beds, cabinets and the window sills were white to, which were barred on the outside with thick white metal. Everything was white. Even the patients were dressed in all white; laceless white shoes with white socks and white pants, white shirts, white sweaters and white underwear too. And all the patients looked an odd shade of white too, regardless of their skin colour, which was what had alarmed you immediately on your first day at the place. Everything was so white that you and your colleagues stood out by wearing a light shade of blue, which was supposed to be a comforting and calming colour but it made you feel like you were a great blue shark amongst blood and colour deprived corpses that were the patients. But the patients weren't dead, they were still very much alive in one way or another.

You were already an experienced doctor when you were transferred to the Willow Asylum, which most people called the Willow House to make it sound less harsh, but what happened behind the locked doors of the building was harsh to say the least. You had never before seen patients in the state which they were in at the Willow House, with their eyes all empty and walking around as if they had no soul anymore. You had so many questions and concerns, but seeing the stern faces of your colleagues already gave you your answer: you had to suck it up if you wanted to help these people who so desperately needed help, but you wondered if they were getting the right kind of help, if any.

It was your first day at the Willow House when you met Sihtric a few hours into your shift. And it was Sihtric who confirmed your suspicion about the quality of treatment everyone received; the nurses weren't helping the patients at the Willow House, they were slowly driving them insane and eventually even killing some.

It was Halloween and the patients were restless, constantly roaming the hallways and screaming at the top of their lungs, seemingly for no reason at all. But you believed they probably felt the ghostly past of the building they were kept in, as the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Every patient got drugged up that afternoon as they were all going out of their minds, banging their fists on the tables and against the windows, when they weren't rattling the doorknobs in the hopes to find a way out. The alarm howled through the cold and big corridors of the asylum every hour, to which a handful of guards responded by brutally forcing obviously terrified patients into their rooms and locking them up. Their frightened screams sounded muffled through the walls all day, as if something was locked inside with them in their room, but no one ever saw anything out of the ordinary.

Sihtric was one of the few who was calm as he sat in one of the white chairs in the communal living room, staring out the window, next to the old and no longer in use fireplace. You had looked into the records of each patient before your first shift, and Sihtric was the one that stuck with you the most. He had been committed by his now ex-wife a few years ago, and his past as a black ops soldier seemed to be the reason he was brought in. His ex-wife claimed he heard and saw things, which doctors said was part of the PTSD symptoms which he was treated for now. You read that Sihtric was usually calm but also notorious for sudden outbursts of violence and erratic behaviour.

Patient has a history with violence, against himself and others. Patient is known to inflict pain to himself i.e. cutting himself to draw blood which he has used to draw unholy symbols on his floor, window and walls. Patient is under no circumstance allowed to keep sharp objects. Patient shows no sign of suicidal tendencies; self-harm is only done for the sake of a religious and ritualistic form. Patient will not elaborate when asked.

Violent fits happen at random, medication has been increased and proven successful: patient is evidently calmer when medicated.

You remembered his file as you looked at him while you sat in your office, almost spying on him as you lurked carefully between the closed blinds, and he didn't seem violent at all. You felt yourself smirk when you thought how he looked even more handsome in real life than on his photo that was attached to his files. But you quickly shook off that thought when you remembered he was a patient, your patient, and that unfortunately something was off about him or else he wouldn't be there.

You again glanced at the list of medication he was on, and it still shocked you the same as it had done when you had first seen it. The list was huge and it struck you as odd that Sihtric was capable of even walking around on his own by the amount of sedatives in his blood at all times. But that was also what made you so curious. That and his hauntingly beautiful face.

And when the alarm blared through the asylum again and guards ran past your window, followed by some nurses, you took the opportunity to approach Sihtric as the communal room was almost empty, apart from a few other patients who sat at their tables and either slept or sat there drooling and staring at nothing in particular. You calmly made your way over and sat at a safe distance as you shared the table with the handsome man, whose tired and empty eyes were fixated on the heavy rain outside as it smashed with thick drops against the window. Sihtric didn't even look up at you at first, as if you weren't there, or more so; as if he wasn't really there. You struggled to find a way to start a conversation, but the topic was quickly found once you saw the DVD case he had in his lap.

'Halloween,' you said quietly with a faint smile, 'a classic.'

Sihtric suddenly blinked and slowly turned his face to meet your eyes, and he gave you an empty yet puzzled look.

'The DVD,' you explained, 'is it your pick for movie night today?'

Sihtric nodded slowly.

'I hope they pick your choice,' you smiled, 'it's my favourite.'

You had found out earlier that day that on Halloween each patient got to pick a movie for the movie night, and eventually one would be picked by the nurses to be shown on the tv in the communal room.

'They won't pick it,' Sihtric half whispered and looked out the window again.

'Why not?'

Sihtric scoffed lightly at your question, then looked at you again with his soulless mismatched eyes.

'Because they never show a movie on movie night.'

'I don't understand,' you said, confused.

'They lie,' Sihtric whispered and leaned in closer.

'Who?'

'Everyone.'

'Do you mean the nurses don't pick a movie from the ones you all picked?'

Sihtric shook his head.

'They don't pick any movie,' he said sadly as he looked down at the case in his lap, 'they never show a movie. They lie. They always lie,' Sihtric suddenly leaned in closer, 'do you want to know a secret?'

Without thinking you leaned in too, as he spoke softer with each word that followed. And after you had looked around to make sure no one was there, you nodded cautiously at this question.

'Yes,' you whispered.

'I shouldn't be here,' he said with a sudden twisted grin on his face.

His words made your mouth dry and your hair stand on end, but before you could speak you were rudely interrupted by the alarm again as it echoed through the building and the heavy boots of guards stomped down the hall again. You waited until everything became quiet again, but once you returned your attention back to Sihtric, he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation and was staring outside again. You sighed softly, having to accept he was just as lost as everyone else in there, and you moved to get up. But Sihtric then suddenly grabbed your wrist and looked up at you.

'I've been waiting for you,' he said, his eyes suddenly vivid and his voice confident and alive, as if he had gotten clear headed out of nowhere.

'What?' you asked as you felt a cold shiver down your spine at his warm touch.

'You found me this time, little bat,' Sihtric smiled as if in love, 'I've been waiting for you all my life,' he breathed.

You stared at him, speechless, his grip on your wrist firm yet not painful or malicious. And you watched his smile fade as the alarm sounded again, and this time the heavy boots stormed your way. Sihtric was quick to grab your face and he kissed your lips almost bruisingly before you were shoved aside by one of the guards. And within a split second you witnessed how Sihtric was pushed harshly down on the table, causing his nose to bleed while they dragged him away from you before they locked and chained him up in an isolation cell for the night.

And Sihtric was right, you found out that evening, for the nurses never showed a movie for the patients. In fact, they were all locked in their rooms after dinner.

You observed Sihtric the following days after the incident in the communal area, and you found out that one nurse in particular was rather interested in him as well. The blonde caregiver was called Skade, and she gave you a terrible feeling from the moment you met her. Her smile was always insincere and you noticed Sihtric was always tense when she was around. But you figured that was because she was in charge of the medication he needed to take, and nobody likes to have multiple pills forced down their throats several times a day.

Day and night your mind reeled about how aware Sihtric had looked when he took your wrist that first day and suddenly kissed you. His words still made no sense to you, but you would swear they were spoken by a man who wasn't on any of the medication he was on, because it seemed as if the drugs had left his blood within a matter of seconds and his previously soulless eyes were full of hope in that very moment. You were also still horrified by how violently the guards had treated him, and you found yourself worrying about him at night when you couldn't fall asleep, even when he wasn't locked in isolation anymore.

Days later you snuck Sihtric's files with you out of the asylum so you could go over them at home, and you did so for hours on end, trying to understand him and his behaviour but it seemed to be a puzzle with many missing pieces. What didn't help either was that, despite his sudden behaviour, you had never been afraid in his presence or afraid of him in general. And his words had been almost soothing that first day you spoke to him, for you felt at ease when you sat next to him as if you had known him all your life for some reason. And his kiss… his kiss still made your head spin and your heart skip a few beats whenever you thought of it.

The days after the incident you noticed Sihtric became more and more unaware of his surroundings as Skade was shoving more medication his way than you knew was actually prescribed, and it concerned you. If Sihtric had been violent towards you then you could understand they were doing everything they could to keep him calm and quiet, even though you were very much against that kind of treatment, but what worried you more was that he hadn't been violent with you at all. So the treatment they gave him could not be condoned in any way, even if he had crossed a line and kissed you, but you seemed to be the only one aware of how cruel the nurses were.

After a few weeks you decided to approach him again and you found Sihtric alone in his room, with his door open. You knocked but Sihtric didn't respond, so you carefully entered his room and the first thing you noticed in the all white coloured nightmare was the unbreakable mirror, which hung in every room, but his was painted black. Sihtric sat on his bed with knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and he looked up when he suddenly noticed you had wandered in his room and were seemingly inspecting the darkened mirror.

'It's a portal,' Sihtric suddenly said, which startled you lightly.

'A portal?' you frowned at the mirror and then remembered reading in his files that he had been fixated on all kinds of paranormal theories, which you knew a lot about yourself too. 'Yes, I've heard of that theory,' you said, glad he started the conversation, 'why did you paint it black?'

Sihtric opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again, and then almost violently shook his head.

'No, no you will drug me,' he said with a trembling voice.

'I am not the one who brings medication, Sihtric,' you said compassionately, 'I will never drug you. I am here to understand you better and to see if you are receiving the right treatment. Why do you assume you will be medicated if you tell me about the mirror?'

'Because you all think I'm crazy.'

'I don't think you are crazy,' you said and sat down on the bed next to him, at a comfortable distance, 'try me.'

Sihtric hesitated while he looked at you, as if he was trying to read your mind and you noticed how full of life his eyes were again, just like that brief moment before the guards had taken him away.

'Scrying,' he then said and looked away, 'I sometimes use it to… look,' he paused and waited for you to make a mocking comment, but it never happened.

'I know what scrying is,' you smiled softly, 'and I believe it is a real thing.'

'It is real,' Sihtric said quickly, 'it is real, I promise.'

'I know,' you reassured him, 'and I promise I don't think you are crazy.'

You stopped talking when Skade suddenly walked in, holding a tray with multiple cups of medication to which Sihtric immediately tensed up and backed himself into the corner while still on his bed. Your heart sank when you saw the sheer panic in his eyes, eyes that were convincingly aware of what was happening instead of being the numbed zombie that those pills are supposed to make him 24/7.

'No,' you said and held your hand up as Skade attempted to come closer, 'I… I am doing a study,' you lied, 'I am studying his behaviour, and I would like to see how he changes when the medication is out of his system in order to determine the treatment he receives. There is no need to give him his pills right now, because he is calm.'

Skade scoffed and asked if you had permission to do whatever you were doing, and you were somehow convincing enough after you promised she could leave the medication on the table and you would later make sure he would take them. Relief washed over Sihtric once Skade left his room after you had talked into her, but his trembling hands told you that his fear for the blonde nurse was deeply rooted within him, and even stronger was the feeling of hatred he felt towards her.

You began to spend a lot of time with Sihtric in the weeks that followed. A bond formed rather quickly when you often discussed all things spooky as it was a shared interest, and Sihtric always seemed to have that spark of joy in his eyes when he got to be around you, which warmed your heart. You told Sihtric you wanted to go to a Halloween fair one day, but you never had anyone to join you and you also confessed you had never been to a proper Halloween party in your life. Sihtric was shocked at your confession and promised that once he'd get out of the asylum he would take you to the Halloween fair and to a good Halloween party, even though he knew chances of getting out were slim. You also discussed classic horror movies and even found out you both enjoyed the same sort of music, and you loved sharing scary stories as you roamed the depressing white hallways together as a part of his daily activity.

Sihtric slowly opened up to you about his time in the asylum, specifically about how he didn't trust Skade and he claimed she was a witch. And even though you believed such things were possible, you had to remind yourself that Sihtric was a patient and you had to downplay your own thoughts about her so you wouldn't feed his possible delusional thoughts. You were shocked to hear how she had treated him overtime, making fun of him and degrading him and even going as far as spitting in his face for no reason at all other than that she felt she had all the power and control over him. Her behaviour angered you, and you believe Sihtric entirely, but you couldn't confront her about her behaviour because there was no solid proof for her actions towards him.

You grew very fond of Sihtric as time passed by, something which Skade noticed too as you were always present in his room when she came to give Sihtric his medication several times a day. And she learned soon enough that Sihtric would not take pills from her anymore, but if she left them on the table with you, he would take them later when you reminded him to. He was still reluctant about the medication and it was clear he only took them to please you, which you appreciated but also didn't help the spark of feelings you began to feel for him as you felt so at ease and safe around him.

However, you quickly noticed that Sihtric was affected negatively by his medication, becoming drowsy and confused instead of being his lively and sharp self when he was not medicated. It pained you to see him like that and you did not understand why he was prescribed all the pills he was forced to take, as they didn't help him in any way. But maybe even more peculiar was how fast the medication seemed to vanish from his blood. He sobered up about two hours after taking his medication, something which should not be humanly possible, but that explained why the amount of pills he was forced to take had increased so often; they simply stopped working too soon and they kept upping the dosage to keep him drugged out of his mind.

Over time you witnessed several of his violent outbursts. He'd attack the guards and anyone who tried to force him to take his medication at times, and you started to notice there was a pattern in his behaviour. Sihtric became violent towards everyone, except for you, when the medication was seemingly completely out of his system as it made him aware and clear headed, and he kept claiming he did not belong in the asylum, which you started to agree on. It also seemed he became more violent and erratic during the full Moon, and that was something you still couldn't explain. But every violent fit always started when someone tried to push the pills in his mouth and he'd fight them, and it always ended with the guards knocking him out and Skade injecting some kind of tranquilliser until his body weakened and he was dragged away and chained to his bed. And you always watched it in horror, as your gut told you something was so terribly wrong with the way he was treated, and that Sihtric truly did not belong there.

While you continued to observe Sihtric, you also began to observe every nurse who treated him, as it wasn't just Skade. And while you did that you also continued to strengthen your bond with Sihtric, which had grown into something that simply shouldn't be. The way your heart fluttered when you sat close to him and how your cheeks warmed up whenever you caught his bright mismatched eyes gazing at you gave you an alarmingly intense rush of butterflies each time, and you found yourself thinking of him every night before you fell asleep.

'What are those tattoos?' you asked Sihtric as you sat next to him on his bed.

Sihtric smiled, completely off medication again, and he told you about his black ops past. He told you what you had read in his files already, that he had a paranormal encounter while on a mission once and had lost a friend to it. It was a sad story but Sihtric said he had made his peace with everything, and he was very much aware that that whole ordeal was the reason he was committed. It broke your heart because you believed Sihtric didn't belong there and you somehow felt connected to him, but most of all it broke your heart because you wished you could make him leave this place of horrors and keep him safe. Keep him safe from whatever they were doing to him here and to keep him safe from himself too, because everytime he was medicated you didn't recognise him anymore.

You looked at him with a soft smile after he had told his story, and he shyly looked down at his feet as he swayed them lightly while sitting on the edge of his bed.

'I just want this to end,' he murmured as if talking to himself, 'living here, I mean. I want it to be over.'

'I wish I could take you home with me,' you whispered without thinking and took his hand.

'I wouldn't say no to that,' Sihtric blushed and looked at you while softly rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

His eyes were so clear and alive. They were so vivid and enchanting and his piercing gaze pulled you closer to him so naturally. And you didn't even try to stop him when he suddenly kissed you. Instead of pushing him away, you reached for his neck and pulled him even closer, to which Sihtric immediately pulled you in his lap and placed his hands on your waist. This was the second time he kissed you, but it was nothing like that first time, which had been hard and rushed as had happened in the spur of the moment. This time his kiss was tender and slow and passionate, as if he was taking his time.

The kiss deepened as you moved one hand up to the back of his head, feeling the warmth of the shaved side of his head touching your palm while your fingers tangled in his dark curls. You would never deny that Sihtric had been on your mind ever since that first kiss that had caused him to be restrained and locked up, and you had been secretly longing to feel his lips touch yours again.

You drowned in his kiss, tasting the apple juice on his tongue which he had sipped through a straw while you were talking moments before, and he squeezed your waist almost bruisingly as he moaned softly in your mouth with each stroke of your tongue he felt against his. He then picked you up, so easily with his strong arms hooked under your knees, and he pushed you up against the wall while you made out passionately. You enveloped your legs around his waist and wrapped your arms around his neck, breathing hard while you were pressed between his warm body and the cold wall. You kissed each other roughly and with a hunger that could not to be stilled, no matter how deep the kiss was, but you were rudely disturbed and pulled back to reality when the alarm sounded through the Willow House again, and you both broke the kiss before the guards ran past his room.

You had managed to keep your steamy encounter with Sihtric a secret, and it eventually turned out to only be the first of many times you would be pushed up against the wall in his room, with his hands roaming your body while his tongue was deep inside your mouth. And numerous times he would sit you up on the desk in your office, kissing you just as passionately while the door was locked and the blinds were closed. You had fallen in love with him and Sihtric didn't have to use his words to tell you he was in love with you all the same, it was written all over him.

You truly believed he wasn't crazy, he just couldn't be. You had read his files over and over again in your office, day after day, trying to figure out what was going on with him. But just like before, you couldn't figure out why he received the treatment he was given. It almost broke your brain trying to wrap your head around it, because nothing about it made sense. The only conclusion you kept coming to was that Sihtric did not need to be medicated, that he truly did not belong at the asylum and that he was simply being mentally tortured and completely silenced for no reason at all. And that all made everything so much more painful.

Every time you met Sihtric one on one he greeted you with a tight hug and a kiss, making it clear that you were his rock in all this madness and that he only really felt safe with you. And Sihtric didn't hide the fact he desperately longed to be with you. He craved to feel you every second he was awake, and it was simply another form of torture but a more pleasant one, or so he believed. And it is not that you didn't have an aching desire for him all the same, but you already told him several times that you and him needed to keep a professional distance, no matter how hard it was. You knew that if you would ever be caught you would get fired, and then there would be no way to help him ever again. But you weren't always strong either, and you often gave in to the temptation of kissing him and allowing yourself to love him without saying the words, by holding him tightly wrapped in your arms as you sat on his bed together. And he'd always tell you how soothing it was to him to hear your heartbeat, and how he had dreamed about you every night since he met you and he called you the most endearing names you had ever heard.

Sihtric's passion for all things dark and macabre were also part of his love language, as he often gifted you the skulls of small dead animals he had found outside while strolling through the secluded asylum's garden. And he gifted you one again the last time you spoke, when you wanted to hear more about his dreams as he was being vague about those and couldn't quite come to the point of what he felt those dreams meant, but before you could ask him more about it, your private time with him was over again.

You only had several hours a day with him, and you covered your alone time together by stating it was a form of therapy, which wasn't a complete lie since Sihtric was improving greatly when you managed to decrease his medication for the time being. But it all went wrong again on the night of the full Moon, when Sihtric seemingly lost his mind in the communal room and began to claim something was haunting him. You noticed his pupils were huge when you approached him and his skin was incredibly pale. He scared you for the first time since you met him. He wasn't violent, but you knew something was definitely wrong once he began to shout in Latin towards the centre of the room, where the old fireplace was located.

The alarm soon rang when Sihtric started to shout louder while he was seemingly getting crazier too, and before you could interfere he was already shoved against the wall and pushed down on the floor by several guards. You covered your ears while Sihtric desperately shouted your name for help when he saw Skade approach with a syringe, knowing he was going to be medicated again, and you knew it would be to the point where he mixed up reality and his dreams again. You felt sick when you heard the witch of a nurse order the guards to lock Sihtric into the isolation cell for the night, because you knew that holding cell was just a torture room; you could only stand or sit on the small bench, as there was no place to lay down or get comfortable in any way. And sitting down was painful too, as the space was so small that his knees would press painfully against the metal door. But no one listened to you when you tried to stop him from being tortured once again.

And you cried yourself to sleep that night in your own bed, knowing Sihtric was locked in a tiny dark and cold room, with his hands chained behind his back. And all Sihtric could do was sit painfully squished between the walls and lean his forehead against the cool door, while the medication they kept giving him over night kept him in a delusional state. And the only consolation he had was that he dreamed of you for hours on end while being half awake at all times.

He wept silently in the dark as he smiled while his mind played tricks on him, because everything felt so real, it was pure bliss to him. The way he met you at a Halloween fair and how he had fallen for you right away. The way you discovered the horror maze together and kissed after you had both tumbled over between the haystacks. How you went ghost hunting together and how he finally took you to that Halloween party, just like he had promised. A soft moan escaped his lips when his mind made him believe he made love to you countless times, and a maniacal laughter echoed through the quiet halls at night as he envisioned the way he killed Skade with an axe, and so broke the curse he believed she had put on him.

He dreamt of a domestic life with you, cooking dinner for you and being cuddled up on the couch while watching a horror flick late at night. And he desperately murmured your name in the dead of night when he imagined how you pleased him with your mouth, and he drooled with the need to have his head between your thighs to taste your juices in return. And at last he dreamed again of all the lives he lived with you before this one, and he thought of the Vampire of Bebbanburg and how he felt the presence of his ancestor running through his veins at all times.

'Devil,' Sihtric slurred after another dose of medication had been shoved down his throat at three in the morning, 'I got the… devil,' he whispered, exhaustedly, 'devil in my… blood.'

The next morning Sihtric woke up in his bed, confused and disorientated while his wrists ached. His hands searched for you under the sheets, but you weren't there, and he grabbed onto his pillow instead.

You had caught a glimpse of Sihtric when he was being dragged back to his room after spending the night in isolation, his head hanging down while two guards held his arms and left his feet to drag over the floor behind him. You had lost your mind upon seeing the awful state he was in and had argued heatedly with Skade about the medication he was given overnight and his overall treatment.

'You could've killed him!' you shouted, not in control of your emotions anymore.

'And yet he lived!' Skade shrugged, 'something is wrong with him!'

'Have you considered that you are giving him everything that makes it so there is something wrong with him!? Whatever you have been giving him overnight was sure as hell not allowed!'

'The medication leaves his body too fast!' Skade argued, 'it's like his blood fights it within only a few hours! It shouldn't be possible!'

'Then why is no one looking into that!? Has anyone ever brought this up to him-'

'Sihtric claims vampire blood runs through his veins,' Skade scoffed, 'that man is a lunatic! You should've figured that out while you studied him,' she sneered, 'or were you too busy fucking him?'

You froze and swallowed hard. You and Sihtric had never given in to the sexual desires you both had for each other, but you felt that Skade knew there was more going on between the two of you. You shut the conversation down by storming out of the room, and after a few hours of demanding that you wanted to speak with Sihtric in private, you finally were allowed to visit him in his room.

Sihtric immediately lit up upon seeing you as you sat at his table, and you asked him how he was doing. He told you his wrists were aching and you soon found out that Sihtric had no memory of what had happened to him during the night, as he was still stuck in his head and could not separate reality from his dreams anymore, even though he seemed clear headed. You managed to ask him again about the dreams he had, which he had told you about before he got locked away. And he then finally told you his dreams felt like past lives you've had together, and he described several lives in which you supposedly had met and fallen in love, only for it to end in a terrible and heartbreaking way over and over again. Your blood ran cold as you listened to him describe his dreams, because Sihtric wasn't just describing his own dreams in detail, he was also describing the dreams you've been having for years. You have had the same dreams and nightmares long before you met him in the asylum, but the man you dreamt about was always faceless and wild haired, yet now suddenly he seemed to have a face, and it was Sihtric.

It had always been Sihtric.

You jumped up and left his room without saying a word, and back home you panicked as you tried to come to your own senses again. Because Sihtric wasn't crazy, and you were always meant to be, but it scared you because how were you supposed to be together in this life?

You met Sihtric again a few days later, after you had taken some time to let everything soak in. He took your breath away when you saw him, as always, and he wanted to hug you and kiss you immediately. It pained you to deny him, so you gave in briefly before you had to make the horrible choice of trying to snap him out of his delusional state. Sihtric quickly became confused and agitated when you kept asking him questions that made no sense to him. He didn't understand why you couldn't remember how you had met him, at the Halloween fair, or all the dates he had taken you on ever since. And Sihtric felt like the ground had opened up beneath his feet, causing him to fall into a black hole like an angel who had lost his wings, once he realised where he was and that all of it had only happened in his head. You tried to calm him down, but his panic had already alarmed the guards.

And before he was dragged away from you, you confessed your feelings for him and promised him that he wasn't crazy, to which Sihtric begged you to get him out of the asylum. And then you had to watch how he was being taken away from you, again, and this time he would be locked in the asylum's basement, because he had crossed too many lines in only a few days, but he then suddenly began to aggressively resist the punishment. Sihtric's state scared you because of his violent fits that you had witnessed, but the violence you had seen before was nothing compared to what you were to witness next.

You ran after him while Sihtric was being dragged through the gloomy hallway, away from his room and towards the door that led to the basement. But Sihtric managed to break out of the grip that the guards had on him, and it seemed he was stronger than he had ever been before. You watched the horrors unfold as you stood with your back pressed against the wall, only a few paces away, and then Skade appeared with a syringe in her hands to sedate Sihtric once again. But he wasn't going to allow her anymore and he ran past you with blind fury after he had managed to take down the guards. Sihtric made way to the protective glass case mounted on the wall which held a fire axe, meant for emergencies only, but he figured now was a good time for an emergency. He somehow shattered the thick glass with his elbow, causing blood to drip gush out as he tore the axe out of the box, and he stalked towards Skade before she could even understand what was happening.

Everything happened so fast and it was all so chaotic. The alarm blared through the asylum, guards screamed in agony after Sihtric had broken several of their bones, and then the only sound you heard was Sihtric's loud grunts each time he slammed the axe down into Skade's body while she shrieked. You wanted to scream, but no sound left your mouth as you watched her blood splatter everywhere, painting the white walls red, while you felt numb and couldn't seem to stop the massacre that was happening. And deep down you didn't want to stop Sihtric, because you knew what she had done to him all these years, and you also knew that he was completely clear headed now and knew exactly what he was doing. For the first time in a very long time he had managed to take control of his life again, and you would not take that away from him.

More guards and nurses came running when the slaughter was already over, and they found Sihtric covered in blood as he knelt down next to the butchered body. He dropped the axe with a psychotic and satisfied grin on his face before he was beaten unconscious and then thrown into the dark, damp and cold basement, where they chained him to the wall with rusty metal chains.

And now you had to figure out a way to break him out of the asylum.

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