#Arrow: The Longbow Hunters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

Pairing: Yandere!Vil x Reader x Yandere!Rook (TWST).

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Loose Tangled AU, Prolonged Captivity, Violence (Magic and Physical) and Blood, Dehumanization, Imbalanced Power Dynamics, Vil and Rook Are Making Out In The Corner While Reader's Having The Worst Day Of Their Life, and Manipulation.

The arrows hurt more than the fall.

The fall, you’d been expecting. Rook might’ve been able to scale the tower with little more than a dagger, a few footholds chipped into the weathered stone, and a burning curiosity, but you weren’t so graceful, didn't have the luxury of the physique you might've, had you not spent the last eighteen months restrained to a handful of rooms. You knew that you wouldn’t have the time to be as careful as you needed to be, that you’d be fortunate to make it off of your windowsill before losing your grip, and when the time came to let go and pray you broke an arm rather than a leg, you were ready. You could brace yourself. You could see the threat looming ahead of you, and as Vil called your name in the distance, you were able to fall into its open arms of your own volition.

The arrows weren’t something you’d thought to ready yourself for. Vil’s poison, maybe, the weight of his newest curses being etched into the fabric of your being, but not a weapon, not the sting of piercing metal burrowing into the back of your shoulder, then the plush of your side. Even then, you did what you could to keep running, to move forward through the dense forest despite the jagged rocks and winding brambles cutting through the flesh of your bare feet. You didn’t know where you were going, let alone what to do when you reached your nebulous destination, but you didn’t have to. You needed to get away from Vil’s tower – that was it. You could figure out what to do next after you’d escaped him.

With that in mind, you pushed yourself to run faster, to ignore the pain racing through your upper body as you put a few more steps between yourself and the ever-shrinking tower that sat above the treetops, but even that was an effort cut short. There was a bolt of searing pain, a white flash playing across your vision. Your left leg was buckled underneath you, leaving you crumbling to the ground with a broken, ragged scream. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to swallow the sound back before it could force its way out of your chest, but whether or not someone heard you didn’t really matter. You’d seen him shoot hawks out of the sky mid-flight, thread darts through the eye of needles sitting yards away. Rook wouldn’t fire unless he had his target in sight. He’d known exactly where you were the moment drew his bow. This was just his way of letting you believe you’d ever stood a chance.

This was just his way of letting you believe he’d ever been on your side.

You pulled your injured leg into your chest, fighting to hold back the pained tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You were tempted to stop restraining yourself altogether and cry until the agony subsided, but your hunter emerged from the foliage before you could start to truly wallow if your self-pity. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve approached you silently, been on top of your fallen body before you so much as noticed he was within arm’s length, but Rook made no effort to conceal his presence. If anything, he seemed to want you to know exactly where he was. There was a deep laugh, the muffled sound of a longbow being swung over his shoulder, the feeling of his body blocking out what little light the setting sun still hard to offer, and then, he was crouching in front of you. A gloved hand cupped your chin as he looked down on you with the same adoring, love-stricken expression he always seemed to wear. You’d always done what you could to return it, in the past, to think of it as a glimpse of sunlight in the darkness that was your life with Vil, but now, it was all you could do to glare and look away.

“Merveilleux.” He wasn’t out of breath, but his voice was airy – barely more than a whisper. His leather-wrapped knuckles ran over your cheek, just as slowly and just as adoring as they had on the day you met – the day you’d woken up to the first stranger you’d seen in weeks kneeling at your bedside, idly stroking your hair and complimenting your lovely (albeit, quite difficult to reach) home. You’d tried to warn him away, to tell him what Vil had done to all the other adventurers and heroes who’d so much as approached his tower, but he refused to listen. If Vil hadn’t taken such a liking to him, he’d be little more than a pile of ash you’d have to sweep up the next day, or better yet – another withering rose left in your windowsill to warn away the next intruder. Vil always did have a flair for the romantic, but he and Rook seemed to have that in common.

He'd changed, since that day. When you first met him, he’d been rough around the edges, his hair uncombed and his skin as calloused as it was burnt. His clothes had been nothing short of a travesty – threadbare and ill-fitting, repaired a thousand times over by someone clearly not used to mending. Now, he was just as much of an embodiment of Vil’s ideals as you were: his hair grown out long and restrained by a violet ribbon, his freckles faded and framed by neatly cut bangs, his clothes of all the same dark silks and pristine furs as Vil would’ve chosen for himself. He was as much of a pet as you were, really. The only difference was how enthusiastically Rook embraced his role and how desperately you tried to escape yours.

“In fact,” he went on, his eyes drifting to the arrows still lodged in your back, your thigh. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful. A damsel pulled from the pages of the most wonderful sort of fairytale, truly.”

“Go fuck yourself.” And then, with a half-choked snarl, “You were supposed to— I thought you were trying to help me—”

“Ah, the searing heat of rage! It shades the color of your eyes with such life.” Rook clicked his tongue, his grin taking on a wry lull. His hand fell from your chin to the collar of your blouse, toying with the mangled fabric as he spoke. “A poor dove, fallen from its nest. Don’t worry, petit oiseau – I’ll make sure you get home before the wolves find you.”

He moved to take you in his arms, but you did what you could to shamble away from him despite your limited mobility. It was difficult to speak, your ribs having taken the brunt of your initial fall and endured further abuse during his first volley of arrows. It was difficult to meet his eyes, knowing what he’d taken away from you, but you forced yourself to do both. You tried to remind yourself that it was still Rook, that you were still facing down the man who’d held you in his arms as you cried, who told you stories of heroes and villains and happy endings when you began to think you might die in captivity, but fond memories were difficult to recall when his arrows were still embedded in your flesh. “You said that— You said that the prince would distract the witch as her captive escaped,” you spat, already aware of how juvenile you sounded, trying your best to stumble through the same story he’d told you a thousand times. You’d taken it as a code, treated it as if you were both colluders in the same scheme, but an ever-growing part of you was starting to think that his stories had only ever been that – stories. “Why didn’t you distract him?” When Rook failed to answer, you bared your teeth. “Were you ever trying to help me escape?”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. A rabbit rustled somewhere in the underbrush, a robin called out to its mate, and Rook sighed, shaking his head with the kind of humored exasperation a parent might show to a child who just asked about something very, very silly.

He didn’t just toy with your ragged collar, now, but caught it – taking it in his fist and pulling you upright. With his free hand, he took the shaft of the arrow embedded in your shoulder and pulled it free, the head catching under your skin and rendering everything it touched a bloody mess of gore and viscera. The same process was carried out with the arrow embedded in your side, this one accompanied by a searing burn, another second taken to twist the arrowhead free of your skin. You weren’t able to hold back your tears by the end of it, no matter how tightly you clenched your eyes shut, no matter how much it hurt to dig your teeth into the side of your cheek and will yourself not to break down in front of him, not to lose the last semblance of control you had, under Vil’s care.

“I never lied to you,” he said, as he took up the shaft of the third arrow – the one plungest deepest into your thigh. “You know what Vil would do if you didn’t return. I promised you a happy ending, and this is how I intend to give you one.”

With no hesitation, no effort to clot the blood flowing in thick streams from your gaping wounds, he pulled the last arrow free. You let out a fractured wail, doubling over and attempting to curl into yourself, but Rook was already there, already pulling you into his chest as you sobbed openly, freely. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him pull a hunting knife from his belt, the silver of the blade tinted a deep, shimmering violet. You went stiff, but there was little you could do. There was a flash of light caught on steel, a nick of pain in the side of your neck, and then, you were limp in Rook’s arms, quickly losing consciousness as he pulled you against his chest and started towards the tower.

You felt velvet against your cheek, first.

Crushed, cool, deceptively soothing – you recognized it immediately, an image of one of Vil’s favored robes surfacing in your mind against your will. Next were the bandages wrapped around your shoulder, your waist, your thigh, then the fur rug underneath you, that of some great beast a would-be hero had once brought to try and rescue you. Vil had wanted to mount the prince’s head on a pike at the base of the tower, but you’d begged him not to, and he’d taken the monstrous stead’s pelt as a trophy, instead.

You took a long, quiet moment to collect yourself, to bask in the last peaceful moment you were likely to have, but your tranquility was quickly interrupted by the feeling of a wooden comb raking through your hair and over your scalp, the teeth dulled by use and the shape familiar enough to make you shudder involuntarily. Vil’s airy laugh played in response, paired with the last traces of Rook’s muttering voice. A new addition, one that left the taste of bile rising up from the back of your throat. One you never wanted to acknowledge again. “I know you’re awake, little one. Might as well face the light now.”

He said that, but when you finally forced yourself to open your eyes, you found that was no light to face aside from the flame of a low-burning candle sitting on a nearby table and the silver-tinted glow emanating from your hair. Clearly, your unconsciousness hadn’t been a good enough reason for Vil not to refresh his eternal youth, tonight.

He’d positioned you as he always did – at his feet, on your knees, with your head resting in his lap. Despite how close you’d come to getting away from him, his expression betrayed no panic, only confident serenity and the slightest trace of smugness. As was to be expected of him. Vil found joy in very little, but somehow, he always seemed to take a certain amount of pride in your defeat.

Your defeat, and your horror. He’d calmed over the course of your captivity, but you could still remember how he’d lorded over you during your first days in his tower, how open he’d been about just how long he’d spent peering your lonely little life in your lonely little cottage, content in the knowledge that no company meant there’d be no one to exploit your magic. Vil hadn’t just ruined that, he’d done it with zeal.

“Raise your head.” It was a command, because Vil didn’t make requests. Reluctantly, you obeyed, and Vil took you by the jaw with one hand, brushing your hair away from your face with the other. Your hair was damp, your ruined clothes exchanged for a black nightdress, simple in design but impeccably crafted. You couldn’t bring yourself to be surprised. Vil’s standards for you were only second to only those he held for himself. It was more than likely that you hadn’t made it more than a step into the tower’s walls before Vil deemed you in need of one of his ice-cold baths and something more presentable to wear. “No cuts,” he went on, turning your head to either side. “But more bruises than I care for. Couldn’t you have been more gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but Rook answered on your behalf. You could remember, only days ago, being thankful beyond words to have a buffer between yourself and Vil, but now, you couldn’t say you felt anything beyond resentment. “The lasting evidence of a struggle can add a rugged undertone to one’s charm. And oh, if only you could’ve seen the way they struggled!” He was behind you, holding you up, on arm wrapped around your waist and his legs spread around you. He leaned forward as he spoke, his chest slotting loosely against your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “It was fantastic, like watching a songbird with a broken wing struggle to fly. The relentlessness of desperation paired with the inevitability of its downfall - truly magnifique!”

That earned another laugh, a row of jewel-tipped fingers raked through Rook’s hair. “I’d prefer to keep my songbird in one piece.” And then, after a slight pause, “In spite of that songbird’s best efforts to snap its own neck, of course.”

You shrunk into yourself. You’d tried to escape before, to pick the lock on your bedroom or poison his tea or, on one memorable occasion, to steal the spell book he always seemed to keep at his waist, and there’d always been a punishment to accompany your misbehavior – a crop taken to your back or one of your few privileges revoked. You couldn’t imagine what he’d do to you, this time. You couldn’t imagine that anything could’ve been worse than finally getting out of his tower only to be dragged back and deposited into his arms. “I’m sorry,” you managed, eventually, with only the intent of lessening whatever rage he must’ve held for you. “I… Rook is right. It was futile. I shouldn’t have tried to run.”

“And?”

And? There’d never been an and, before. When you could bring yourself to offer an apology, he’d always either accepted it ouright, ignored you completely, or clicked his tongue and promised that hollow words wouldn’t be enough to prove your remorse. You pursed your lips, but made yourself force something out. Silence would be seen as disobedience, and further disobedience would only make things worse for you. “And, it was short-sighted. I wouldn’t have gotten very far, and even if Rook hadn’t found me, I don’t know where we are. I wouldn’t know how to fend for myself. I—” Your voice cracked, your vision starting to blur once more. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away by stories and fairy tales. I’m sorry.”

Vil let out a labored, languid sigh. There was one more squeeze to your cheeks, and finally, he let you go, setting down his comb in the same fluid movement. There was a small smile, a tap to his thigh, and Rook drew back just far enough to let you push yourself to your feet. Your legs immediately gave out, but Rook was fast enough to catch you, close enough to lower you into Vil’s lap himself and drink in the appreciative hum Vil offered, by way of reward.

“That’s very sweet,” he started, once you’d settled against him. Rook continued to hover above you, but you did your best to ignore him. “But I want you to apologize to our dear hunter, too.”

Something bitter leeched up from the back of your throat. You opened your mouth as you turned to face Rook, but closed it as soon as you saw him, as soon as you caught a glimpse of that careless grin, those half-lidded eyes. For as hesitant as you were to approach him, you snapped toward Vil reflexively, unable to stifle your reactions. “But, he doesn’t use my—”

“He went through so much to bring you home.” He’d shot three arrows. He’d tracked you like a wild animal. He’d brought you back to Vil after promising that he’d help you get away from Vil – after promising that he’d make sure you got your happy ending. “And he’s been so patient with you, since he joined us. Not just anyone can bear your sulking.”

You tried to protest, but your voice caught in your throat. It was more disbelief, than anything – another variable you hadn’t thought would hurt quite as much as it did. Vil scoffed, and Rook gave you a sympathetic smile, and you sat there, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“He lied to me,” you managed, finally. “He said he would help me escape.”

Vil’s lips quirked downward. You saw his fingers twitch, his spell book pulse with a sickly emerald light, but rather than summon a poison-coated dagger or turn you into some chirping, cage-bound bird for the next day or so, he looked towards Rook, more trust in his eyes than he’d ever afforded you.

You felt sick.

“I said that our ending would be a happy one. The poor dove must’ve misinterpreted what I meant by that.” It would’ve been a mercy if the affection dripping from his tone turned out to be ingenuine. It would’ve been a mercy, to find out he was only ever trying to hurt you. “I hoped that I might be to stay with the two of you – at least for a time. If you think I might be a bad influence,” A flash of a grin, a length of blonde hair allowed to fall over one of his eyes, “Then I only ask that you allow me the time I’ll need to savor a death by your hands properly.”

There was a bark of a laugh, a sharp snap of Vil’s fingers. Your eyes dropped to the floor as Vil caught Rook’s tunic in his chest and pulled him closer, as he’d done with you a thousand times. Fabric rustled against fabric, mouths crashed into mouths, but you willed yourself to ignore it, to just bite your tongue and be thankful that Vil’s attention wasn’t centered on you. To be grateful that you weren’t the only one stuck in this cage, anymore. You tried to be grateful. You wanted to be grateful.

And yet, you couldn’t seem to convince yourself that Rook was a prisoner, rather than yet another lock hanging from the bars of your cage.

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twst #twst imagines #yandere twst #twst x reader #vil x reader #yandere vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #rook x reader #yandere rook hunt #yanderecore #yancore

1K notes · View notes