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godihatethiswebsite · 4 days ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year.

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles.

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches.

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early.

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle.

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons.

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake.

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day.

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby.

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it.

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into.

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching.

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention.

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years.

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful.

That’s what they call you now.

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible.

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match.

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins.

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street.

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck.

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival.

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off.

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest.

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth.

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence.

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame.

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation.

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame.

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did.

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better.

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice.

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air?

At last you have your answer.

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths.

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses.

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to.

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment.

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence.

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault…

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t–

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

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inevitablemoment · 8 months ago

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Chapter 21: The Lake House

The last time that everyone was at the lake house before Egon and Cathleen left.

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wriheart · 5 days ago

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1. Eternal Sunshine by Ariana Grande

2. I’ve Loved You for So Long by The Aces

3. Epic the Musical Thunder Saga

4. Evergreen by PVRIS

Ever since Ariana released the live version of Eternal Sunshine I haven’t been able to listen to the original versions of the songs, I like the live ones too much!

@sam-starling @krbysstuff @thertt8

tag game: reblog with you four favorite albums of all time or just right now and tag a friend or more! i tag @unfriendlyamazon @yugimoto @alectoperdita @sisterlilith @luxielovesparkles @lubberz @transkingofgames @taichouu and @lostcryptids :3 my fave albums are: 1992 deluxe - princess nokia my agenda - dorian electra SOS - SZA oil of every pearl's un-insides - sophie

#eternal sunshine #I’ve loved you for so long #epic thunder saga #evergreen

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blueparadis · 1 year ago

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╰┈➤ MOVEMENT ✦ SATORU GOJO.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢ Satoru Gojo decides to make the last session of this contractual relationship memorable for you, by doing what he does best, that is, bending the limits and breaking the rules and in that process, he hurts more than one heart.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ non-sorcerer au + bdsm au, bdsm terminology, contractual sex, explicit sexual scenes, mutual pinning, hurt and angst with slight comfort, bondage ( shibari ), Gojo is domme here, sub!reader, mention of safeword and sex toys, slight age gap, gojo is in his pushing thirties reader is twenty-five, tattoo artist!reader, aftercare, angst and fluff; 5,6k word count. | blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. + cross posted to ao3. |

Perfection is a stage that every creature strives to achieve. A witch tries to devise an evergreen spell for immortality, a lion tries to hunt for an elephant, a bird tries to fly during rainstorms, and an alchemist tries to create a philosopher’s stone— there is no end to it. It is always the most impossible, the oddest feat to achieve.

So, Satoru Gojo believes that perfection is nothing but a state of mind; to think about achieving something impossible, but that is not where it ends.

Achieving the impossible is not the end of the road toward perfection, there is always a price that one has to pay. In most cases, it is either the slow painful death or death at an unexpected moment of life, if not death then the skill of achieving perfection is stripped off and now, the creature stands amongst others in shame and sadness, for instance, a witch might lose all her powers after receiving immortality left with eternal desolation and abandonment at the end, a lion might die while hunting for an elephant despite being at the top of the food chain, a bird might lose its feathers and an alchemist might lose their sanity in the pursuit of perfection. Despite such irrevocable loss at the end of such a bumpy and rocky road, people still pursue perfection. They are all chasing nothing but a mirage, how silly!

Satoru Gojo does not understand the idea of a perpetual flow of zeal to achieve such greatness. He never tries to do the impossible, he just does what he is capable of and that alone earns him every bow of a person that he has ever come across, and applause from people with puny ambitions. They think Satoru Gojo is perfect. The cacophony of such praises makes his head ache because, in the end, they are all for nothing but hollow, laced with some ultimate gain underneath. But at the same time, he can not deny the idea of the existence of such perfection either. If he were to deny this slightest possibility of such perfection, he would deny someone’s existence.

Satoru is lying on the bed with half of his body hanging outside the bed. His feet are on the ground while his cyan galactic eyes just stare at the starlight ceiling of this room. He is more than capable than most other men to make someone see stars yet you specifically moved into his house only on one condition, that is, to have a starlight ceiling. What a stinging mockery! His teeth find refuge in the inner flesh at one corner of his lower lip as a vision flashes in his mind. You, laying on your back on this same bed but hands tied together with just his tie and resting at the belly button while his deft fingers push a vibrator inside you. Fully dressed in a pearly white sundress, under the blue lighting, you look nothing less than some fairy god. If such a being were to exist he would say you looked perfect that night.

His phone chimes. Twice. Two different notifications. He jumps out of bed at the second walking towards the side table to check his phone. He is not supposed to be here, according to the rules of his contract with you, in your room. But Gojo has always been the breaker of rules; not all but the rules of which one is the most unaware. For instance, you would not even know that he has been in your room while you are not here, while you are busy with your day. But he is here for a reason not because he wanted to break some grey rules. He unplugs his phone from your charger.

‘One week before the contract terminates’

Satoru turns off the lights and saunters out of your room. One week. Seven days. One sixty-eight hours out of which he can only see you during nights, and play with you only at weekends. This arrangement has been going on for almost two months now; this is the last week he gets to spend with you and the last weekend for his play with you; after that, he will ask you to meet at some cafe to discuss the extension of this contract. Everything is going to be perfect. He does not want to admit how perfect you are in every way simply because he might end up doing something detrimental to this contractual relationship. It shocks him, sometimes terrifies him how you are exactly the person he concocted at one corner of his heart. That is what he liked most about you: you were fearlessly flexible.

Satoru’s jaw dropped when you said you were okay with him if he kept another sub or even a lover. At first, he thought you were bluffing but with a man like him tricks never run out of stock and not once he sensed jealousy in you. Talking with you was liberating be it on the phone or in person. You never invaded his space, his life yet asked the questions that you needed to know as his sub. Sometimes he would think about what it would take to make you feel uneasy, feel vulnerable, feel that everything was crashing down like a centuries-old castle as you desperately needed something to hold on to, someone to cling onto. It is too soon to let a sub like you go. So, he definitely wants to extend his contract with you: no second thoughts about that. Everything was perfect before, being with you, spending time with you, sending you surprise gifts, hearing your squeals of happiness— everything was perfect, what could possibly go wrong? And even if it does, he can handle it. There is nothing that is beyond the grasp of one of the richest bachelors of Tokyo.

It is half past eight and you will be here around ten o’clock. But before that, he needs to check his playroom, set everything right, and prepare dinner. Satoru makes himself busy in the kitchen. He revisits his memories of you, searching for what you like to eat and what you do not. For the past two months at weekends either you cooked along with him or ordered via takeout or had a chance for takeaway. So, he never got a chance to show how good he was with his hands in the kitchen. A low humming escapes his mouth as he starts to gather the ingredients; at first, he needs short-grain rice, vinegar, salt, sugar, and water. He sets the rice for it to cook and meanwhile, prepares the other set of ingredients for the filling. The clock strikes nine, the doorbell chimes and Satoru’s eyebrows grow closer. He walks towards the main door to check the screen and the line of confusion on his forehead vanishes. Both of your hands are full of bags and other accessories. He wonders how you even ring the doorbell before opening the door.

“You are early,” Satoru remarks as he holds the door letting you walk inside his house. You look around and steadily walk towards the kitchen. Satoru follows you a little bit offended from not getting any response from you. Keeping a packet on the counter you wash your hands. “What's this?” he asked standing near the counter.

“Food.” You supply making yourself comfortable on one corner of the counter. Satoru rolls his eyes.

“You are early,” He repeats. This time more emphasis on ‘early’ to hear the explanation you are to give, that is, if there is one. He has this habit of repeating his sentences, sometimes a word to assert dominance but he never says sorry twice; at least never with you.

“Ummm, thanks to your friend who cancelled the tattoo appointment at the last minute” You open the lid of the pot and smell the aroma of fresh cooking. “Otherwise I would have been quite late.”

“What friend?”

“The one and only, who told you about my tattoo parlour, what was his name again? Geto. Getou-san.”

“You forget the name of a guy like that?” He hands you a glass of water. It is half-chilled. A peal of laughter echoes in the kitchen.

Satoru’s jaw relaxes, half in confusion and half in worry. He does not know why. “What?” he asks. You compose yourself and answer him. “You keep scolding me about my bad habits yet never fail to keep up with those.” You take a few sips of water, finally locking eyes with him. His mouth is half-parted trying to form any sort of defense to deflect the grave accusation you just made, that is, he is paying attention to the tiniest details even though they are deadly to both of you.

He has always told you how having cold water is bad for your health, especially when you just come home. He is not a great fan of having meals at any time of the day ordered online, nor your habit of smoking but if you were to lit a cigarette now he would slide an ashtray from somewhere. Satoru drinks the rest of the water from your glass and keeps it in the sink. People generally love this kind of attention but it becomes a little bit hopeful in cases like these and for you, it is just tightening the knots of rope that Satoru has weaved around you these past two months. You are not here to get his attention nor guide his deep-rooted attachment tendencies towards you; you are here because of the contract.

“I need to talk to you about something.” You say holding a cigarette in between your teeth and searching your pockets for the lighter.

“Can’t it wait?” Satoru gives you a lighter, plucking it from one of the pockets of his loose boxers holding the fire for you. His upper body is naked. Even if you have seen him naked enough times to get used to it still you find it distracting. You inhale one full elongated stream of tobacco saying, “Oh sure it can.” He slides an ashtray taking it out from one of the cupboards magically. You scratch your temple out of frustration because the thing is, Satoru Gojo does not smoke. He hates that burning bitter aroma of tobacco yet every room in this house has an ashtray and a lighter.

“You know what? I’ll just say it right now. It has been bugging me since yesterday.” You start and Satoru effortlessly drags you closer to his body, spreading your legs apart to stand in between them. “What the hell?” You screamingly gasp at such a sudden vicinity.

“Can’t it wait?” This time softer, voice husky but a whisper, a prayer. His toned muscular arms are now wrapped around your waist. “If you are really not tired, shall we go to the playroom or — he trails his hands from the column of your throat to your belly button and then plays with the hem of your skirt. His eyes follow and then halt.

“Playroom.” You earn an enquiring glance from him. He hums. You jump off the counter and tactfully slip from his arms walking towards the playroom. “Would you prefer me naked, clothed or— you turn to see if he is following you or not only to find he is standing there like a statue gawking at you and drinking you in. “Umm. . .Satoru,” you call and then a flash of teeth sparks from his mouth. He walks towards you, grabbing you by your upper arm he leans towards you having his head in the nook of your shoulder. His lips move. You can feel it. It opens with a pop. You think he is going to say something, maybe something lewd but instead, the soft skin of his lips touches the base of your earlobe.

“No. You look perfect in that dress.” A rasp, a horse whisper, like casting a spell he gently kisses your neck and withdraws. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You can go and wait for me.” You nod unable to look at him. Sometimes Satoru invades your bones and veins through the gaps that you did not even know existed in you.

“Look at me,” He orders, voice nothing mellowed like before. He notices you swallow before you turn your face to look at him. “Don’t tell me you thought I was gonna kiss you — on your lips —” he tugs at your hair curling one of the strands around his index finger “— you know that is totally off limits.”

Your pupils slide down onto his lips. “Of course not. I know you hate smokey kisses and breaths. Besides, I’m not very fond of breaking rules like you.” And you look up again at him to check his eyes. “Sir” you quip. Mmmmm. He definitely thought of kissing on the lips just now.

You enter the playroom and as you turn on the lights you notice a vibrator, a blue rope kept on the bed, and a giant teddy bear with red ropes tangled all over its body. He has been practicing. You sit on the edge of the bed and wait. You wait since that is all you have to do now, no changing of clothes or stripping them off. You remember that before coming here you went in your room to keep your belongings and get a quick bathroom refresh but the fact that you found the charger head warm is bugging you more than it should. You would not have known if you did not have to put your phone on charge. Plus, you never keep the switch on when the charger is not in use.

The door opens with a ‘clank’ and you jolt as you turn.

“God. It's just me, Eve.” Right Eve. Eve and Adam. Adam and Eve. He never fails to remind you of the embarrassing story of how you two met every time he is in the playroom with you. You watch him keep a ball gag and a few free love balls. He is gathering toys, moving from one end to the other so fast that you have not had the proper chance to see him and why would you not? He is fully dressed. He looks inexplicably elegant when dressed this neatly. He drags the table towards the bed where you are seated at arm's length of his.

“Now,” He starts grabbing your hands and guiding you beneath a specific lighting. You look up to notice various extensions and slots for hanging bondage. “Today I will not be using a blindfold on you.” He says and turns towards you. You tilt your head in shock and fear while his hands tie yours in the hanging bondage. In all previous plays, you kept your eyes closed with a blindfold. It is not against the rule of your contract to play without the blindfold but to think he would do it like this was beyond your calculations. You have added this rule, “Blindfold on” against his “No kiss on the lips.” rule but omitting such clause for the sake of play is not your hard limit, the emotional turmoil that comes after is enough to make you feel suffocated.

“I want you to know everything I do to you today since this is our last session. I’ve tried on myself first but you must know that, by now I know how to just touch you, how tight to make your ropes, and how hard to make each hit.” He continues explaining. Your hands are now hanging tied by the wrist. He takes a step backward standing with his hands tucked over his waist. “And I’ll only do what you have agreed to.”

“Any questions?” You nod and exclaim with a firm tone, “No, Ser Adam.” He cocks a brow and turns around. You watch him put a black mask over his eyes. Grabbing the prussian blue rope he starts to tie it around your upper body. It does not take him long to have you under the tangled form of beautiful knots. Your breaths have already started to become heavy. He puts the ball gag around your mouth as he speaks about another crucial point. “For today's session, I want you to maintain eye contact. I know it might be difficult for you to keep up at first because in our previous sessions, you requested to keep the mask on your eyes but today we are doing something different,” He takes two free love balls from the table.

“The ball of your gag is edible. Since you can’t use your safe word in this session, not while having a gag on your mouth. Just bite it and I’ll immediately stop.” He walks towards you close enough to let his breath fan over you. You look up. Curiosity courses through your veins and you lick the ball. It tastes sweet. Of course. “ However, if you eat it just out of curiosity, then I’ll have to punish you. And we both know you are not very fond of those,”

You can't help but smile at how he can read your thoughts. “I was late to the playroom because I went to change the ball to an edible one.” Now he is giving you an explanation of something that you did not need to know. Seeing your eyebrows pinch, Satoru asks, “So, shall we start?”

You nod. He sits down and removes your underwear. Lacy and white in colour. His gaze finds you telling you to get out of your underwear. You have no idea how perfect your outfit is for today’s play. He had bought a set of crop tops and a skirt for this specific play that he had in mind but seeing you walking in a knee-length medium skirt and off-shoulder top made his heart flutter. The skirt is too long for his taste but it will do. Besides, he can take it off anytime he wants.He stands up and puts your panty in his pocket and your eyes dilate at his act. You have come across certain forms of the behavioural pattern of several dommes. But sometimes, Satoru fits in that and sometimes, he breaks it. As the contract is coming to an end, he is breaking more than fitting into them.

He encircles you one time running his hands over your clothed body making you twist and turn your head in shivers of pleasure. Standing behind you he holds your waist, quite firmly and places one of his shoe-covered feet aligned with yours. He slips his foot in between the gap of your feet and spreading them apart he cups your vagina. “Oh don’t be so wet already. I have not even started it.” He runs his fingers through your folds a few times before extending them in front of your face to show you how turned on you are. Then, he holds two metal small balls in between his fingers. It was like a magic trick when he flicked his hands and those turned up. So, that is why the outfit, the mask.

“The same rules apply as before. I’ll put them inside your pussy and if you manage to keep them while I play with you, I reward you. If you do not, I — he pauses rolling the metal ball from up your nape down to your spine and then over your ass — “I get to fuck you.” he says pushing a ball into your hole. “I’ve four of them.” he whispered those words into your ear creating shivers down your spine. He changed the last part. In earlier sessions, he always said that he would punish you. Now, if you can not manage to hold up without dropping any of them he will fuck you, but if you can he will reward you, he said.

Satoru walks around you to face you. You look at him, at his eyes as he pushes the second ball into you. Taking out other love two balls out of his pocket, he sits down again and pushes them inside. He kisses your nipple while looking at you, retreats to gather saliva in his mouth, and then sucks off hard enough to leave a wet patch over your nipple. He repeats the same on the other nipple as you try to close your legs to keep those balls inside you.

“You are doing a great job. Impressive.” He praises as he ties another spreader bar to the ankle of your legs keeping them apart and making it hard for you to hold the balls inside you. “Oh do not look so displeased my Eve. . . The main trick is still up my sleeves.” He walks back toward the table and grabs the vibrator. Safeword was at the tip of your tongue and heart at the bottom of your throat. But you waited. The sound of vibration alone creates goosebumps on your skin but as he starts to touch it all over your body, you fail to keep up with your senses. Satoru watches your palms turn into fists, twist and curl as he places the vibrator over your belly and then onto your nipple again. He would love to see how you would keep up if he were to put the vibrator over your pussy. It would not hurt to try, would it now?

“Let me know if it's too much.” He whispers into your ear before dragging the vibrator over your spine and holding it onto your inner thighs. You whimper and squeal as your vision clouds. Squeezing your eyes shut, tears trickle down your cheeks. A smile spreads across Satoru’s face as you exceed his expectations. He increases the vibrating limit by one unit as he holds it over your wet pussy. Saliva has started to accumulate inside your mouth. It is so hard not to bite onto the ball and if you bite it too hard the shocks of pleasure will cease to flow. His mouth latches onto one of your nipples as he increases the vibrating limit again. Two more switches to go.

You arch your head backward, body squirms as he detaches his mouth. You can feel the metal balls slipping. They might drop if Satoru decides to remove the vibrator. He watches your lips, your eyes, your body, and all movements of pleasure that he is causing you right now. Dragging the vibrator up your vagina to your belly button he starts to suck against the column of your neck. His teeth sink into your skin at different spots giving birth to several bruises while he pushes the head of the vibrator inside your vagina. It is too much. You feel like you are going to explode or melt. Fuck, you do not even know which is it. The sound of the vibration fades, but the intensity does not rather it increases. Your eyes feel heavy, breaths irregular, and full of moans. You feel like you are going to faint but then you hear a voice, his voice.

“Bite the fruit.” You turn your head to meet his gaze. Blue crystal clear eyes meet your cloudy ones. You drop your head finding that your ankles are free from the spreader bar. “Bite it.” He demands as he pushes half of the vibrator inside you. All your senses are lithe, your teeth bite the ball into half and the other half is gobbled up by your dom. He pulls out the vibrator with a swing, throwing it on the ground making you cum. The balls fall one by one making noise as they hit the wooden floor but none of you seem to care as his lips wrap yours. His hands involuntarily find their way toward the hoops of the handcuffs so as to unbuckle them as his kiss intensifies. Tongue making its way, lips alternatively sucking and biting as he lets your arms fall. You curl them around his nape reciprocating his kiss with the same intensity. He takes you into his lap, your legs wrapping around his torso and that is when he realises what he has done.

“Y/N.” He pants vigorously, taking a seat on the bed with you on the lap. “I should not have done that.” He immediately starts to untie the knots of the shibari. You rest your head against his chest as he frees you from the knots. Satoru’s ears are warm, burning even. He kissed you. He fucking kissed you. The one rule that he should not have broken. You adjust your face at an angle to have your lips near his ears before you whisper, “Where is my reward?”

“What?”

“My reward?” you say backing up a bit to meet his gaze and laying your hand in front of him. “My reward.” He is so confused right now. Of course, he has every right to be.

When Satoru puts two plus two, he protests, “You dropped the balls. Technically, I have the right to fuck you. Like now.” Sure the idea of him being inside you is tempting but not as much as him realising he broke one crucial rule.

“That was after you asked me to bite the fruit, the ball, and then took the other half in your mouth and then started kissing me— he put his hand over your mouth seeing you speak in one breath.

“Okay. okay. I get it.” He notices your hands. They are bruised, and so is your neck. Shame kicks in his body. He pulls up your top a bit and sees the marks of the knot as well as the ropes. He thought it was too tight. “You need a nice bath.” He lets you stand on your feet. There is a theory going on in his head. If you choose to ignore the kiss, the violation of rules then you may have secretly violated some other rules and if you are bothered by it, you will retort the second time or maybe not. There is one way to find out. Satoru roughly holds your chin brushing his thumb over your lips. You close your eyes caving into his touch. The way you close your eyes, feel his touch, bloom like a lotus to absorb him like sunlight makes him wanna kiss you, absorb you whole, invade you so deeply, fill every corner with his scent that you find it hard to breathe.

“Can I kiss you now?”

You open your eyes, bite his thumb, suck at it, and then pull out with a pop, “No” exhaling a heavy breath. You turn on your feet and start to walk towards the exit feeling your heart crack at such sincere fruitless attraction. But Gojo Satoru is not someone who will let anyone walk out on him, even if it is you, his eve. He quickly catches up to you and takes you onto his lap so as to carry you toward the bathroom.

“Oh, good god. What gives? I can walk by myself.” You retort yet your hand curls around his nape. Your nails scratch his undercut as he carries you to the bathroom with a stoic expression. As you two reach the bathroom, you notice everything is already prepared. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

You discard your clothes as his footsteps fade away. He is not acting strange per se ignoring his act of affection was not a good idea after all. He created his own set of rules and broke one of them. He has every right to be the expectation of the rule he creates. After all, a priest who preaches purity is never pure; a god who gets punished is no god, either an abandoned god or the devil; Things always take the form of a cycle like a snake eating its tail. You do not get what was the reason behind his unacceptance of such an act. So, what if he kissed you? So, what if he likes you? It is not the end of the world. You are not going to punish him. Moreover, it will eventually pass. You hear Satoru humming on the other side of the curtain. He turns on the jazz music making you highly regret what you are going to say. It was a bad idea not to let him know beforehand via a text and you are neck-deep in trouble. You have never violated his terms or his personal space and so you have no idea how he would react if you were to do something to threaten his ideals, play with them.

Little did you know that you already did the day he walked into your tattoo parlour.

“I need to talk to you,” Your voice gets buried under the jazz music along with the low hum of Satoru. He was standing near the sink washing his face, and hands. There is a set of clothes on the rack, perhaps for him. You are neck-deep in the bathtub. He has prepared everything for you, just the way you like it. Everything is as usual like any other weekend except your dom is not sitting by the bathtub, sparing an ear to your moonshine talks like he does. He is definitely avoiding you. The partition of curtains that separates the bathing area from the rest of the giant bathroom only permits you to see a hazy figure of your dom. You sit upright to lean against the bathtub. Clearing your throat you suggest the same idea again, louder this time. “Satoru, I need to talk to you.”

From the hazy figure, you could conjecture that he was brushing his teeth. You waited until his response came trying to muster up courage and gather your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m listening,” Satoru responds from the other side of the veil.

“Can’t you just come here and sit with me? Like you usually do. . .” Even with the jazz music and the sound of running tap water, you could hear the click of his tongue, perhaps out of annoyance or perhaps out of repentance. Both are dangerous. Satoru feeling either of them is dangerous because a man like him ends up in a spiral of anger when those primal emotions leave the body, and stain the heart.

“I’d love to do that,” Satoru starts, closing the tap water, and putting the brush and toothpaste in their respective place. “But it's quite late and I’m hungry, so how about we talk while we eat? Plus, tomorrow I have an early morning.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow.” You get out of the bathtub and stand just behind the partition. Satoru runs his middle finger upon his forehead from one temple to the other biting his bottom lip. He can not face you, not like this. He has violated the terms. He has violated himself, violated you — he has violated so many things. “It is. I know,” he mutters, voice full of haste. You see him walking towards the exit and something tells you it is now or never. So, you are really not bothered about the kiss at all.

“Satoru, I’m leaving.” You gulp as you watch the tall man turn around. So, you try to clarify your thoughts more and give them a voice. “I’m leaving Tokyo in two days. I got the scholarship for my Phd so . . .” There was a pin-drop silence between you and him. The edge of the curtain is now wet and wrinkled from your grip. You have faced many tense situations before but this one hit all the open, raw, unprotected parts of you. There was a sudden draw of curtains and when you looked up Satoru was standing holding the metal bar of the curtains, hovering above you. The lipstick marks along with the hickeys on the column of his throat are still there. He did not wash them. His eyes were assessing you, checking if you were playing some sort of prank to see if he gets worried about you. You have done it before, why not now? Many who came before tried some nasty tricks, broke some important rules, or found a loophole in certain rules that in turn violated others or used a safeword as an offensive one rather than a defensive measure. So, Satoru Gojo is used to this tactic.

Nah, you are not lying. You have never lied to him, always been so honest to him that it made him uneasy at times. “And here I was thinking, where is the catch? After all, all perfect things come to an end.”

“Okay, do you want me to help with that? Like packing or . . .” His voice trailed off, so did his eyes. You wrapped the curtain around yourself doing a spin and nodded. He bit his inner lip holding his smile. “Okay. I’ll prepare dinner. Get dressed and dry yourself properly otherwise, you’ll catch a cold. ” He exclaimed, rubbing his thumb over your cheeks, eyes lingering over your lips momentarily. He leaves the bathroom as you watch him go.

You have always been afraid of him. Maybe because he was older than you or maybe it was because of his political connections, historical background, and the power that he holds at his fingertips. For instance, if he wanted he could cancel the scholarship, but he would not go that far would he? You were aware that you should have informed him earlier, at least a week ago but back then the results were not out. . . who are you consoling? What has already been done can never be undone, what has already been said can never be taken back— like an arrow shot in the forest. It is lost forever.

note: special thanks to my dearest cele aka Celestia ( @dearestgojo ) for constantly listening to my ideas, talking me through them, and beta-reading this when I finished it. I was so confused and worried about Satoru’s characterization here. She helped me a lot with that. I wouldn't have been able to write this fic without her help actually.

Whether this will turn into a series or stay like this alone depends on ya’ll. If I get a positive response I’ll consider posting the other parts after writing it. I don't have a very healthy experience of posting series works in Tumblr. Most of them are posted on my ao3. So, let's see what I have in the store.

also tagging @orchid3a @akiniku @semisgroupie @gojoest @lalunanymph

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lesinquietes · 1 month ago

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Summary: Alucard thinks the dreams he crafts for you are delicious. And they feel so real, don’t they? Maybe they are. Maybe all of this is. In the end, only you and him will know.

Pairing: Yandere!Alucard x AFAB!Reader

Warning: 18+ (minors, don’t interact), angst, horror, mentioning of noncon, sexual themes

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ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

really love the idea of alucard messing with reader in her dreams 🥰 and the power of friendship — even tho its not enough to stop the horrors that await them all

The Basement’s Monster II

“Find me, trandafir… or I'll find you.”

You wake up in a foreign land. It’s dark. There’s a nip in the air. Alert and frightened, you glance down. You're standing upright. Your bare feet are encased by snow and ice. The frosty dust travels all the way up to your ankles, scratching your raw skin. Around you are tall evergreens, their skirts hiding more than ice beneath them; you learn this almost immediately.

As you guide your gaze down their branches, you catch a glimpse of something in motion between them. You take a step back. Suddenly, growling is heard to the left of you. With a gasp, you whirl to face the threat. It leaves no trace. You hear the same noise again, closer this time. You can’t catch the culprit, regardless of your wit.

Unmoving, you listen to the ambiance of the eerie site. You want to freak out. It takes every fibre of self-restraint to not. But inwardly, part of you does. Part of you spends several seconds attuned to your heartbeat, believing that cardiac arrest will kill you before the monster does. Inside, you claw your hair out in chunks and howl like a werewolf into the cloudless sky. You close your eyes and beseech for a swift end, because giving up is easier than the prospect of failing, or running into the abyss, of getting lost in this Carpathian forest.

A soft growl emerges from behind you once more. Hauntingly, the beast’s breath dances across your bare shoulders. Your hair hovers on end. Jesus Christ; this thing is close enough to touch you.

Your survival instincts kick in. Thoughtlessly, you bolt forward. A sitting duck certainly doesn’t stand a chance; a running duck might.

The snow crunches under your toes as you dash. The crescent moon poorly illuminates your path while you clumsily dodge trees, dead shrubs, and pitfalls, panting feverishly. No one has treaded this section of the woods yet. There’s no indication of where to go, or where you could be headed. All you know is that you're being hunted.

You stumble to a halt when your lungs burn, begging for reprieve. Collapsing to your knees, the powder beneath you cuts into your skin. You barely feel the slices; you’re too cold to notice.

You swallow laboured pants and kneel in silence, attending to the earth. You count to sixty three times. In that span, you don’t hear anything.

It’s odd. There are no animals in this area, prowling about in the guise of night. You seem to be the only living creature out here. A cryptic realization strikes you. Animals and insects can detect predators more effectively than humans.

Climbing to your feet, you survey the circumference around you. The shadows remain in place this time. Still, there’s an unrest in the pit of your stomach that prompts you to move on. Staying here will do you little good.

You trek forward, rubbing your arms to keep warm. The walk feels like it lasts for an eternity. Maybe it does. But even eternities die hereafter.

There's a wooden post pitched awkwardly near a hulking tree. At the top is a carved arrow pointing to the right. You can’t read the words that are scratched into the jaded wood. You reach up to wipe off the snow. Unnerved, you discover that the characters are in a different language.

Nu intrați.

You look in the direction it’s signifying. You squint through the blowing snow, straining your eyes to scan the visible distance. There’s no path in sight. You don't know what you were expecting. You do notice something else, though. Through the thick trunks and thorny bushes, the small hills and frosty terrain, you see a light. It’s dim and foreboding. It’s also the only lead you’ve got. Reluctantly, you embark.

At your rear, the darkness is steadily closing in over your shoulder. Is it you, or is the void getting closer? You can no longer conceive the larger details of the woods behind you. It's inky and devastating. You get the sense that you'll be consumed if you don't pick up your pace. Right then, your stride transforms into a brisk jog.

Utterly disoriented, you reach the light source. Your icy fingers coil around the post. This one has a lantern dangling from its upper axis, swaying ominously in the arctic gusts; that must be what you saw. You shift to get a glimpse of what was pursuing you. Nothing. It cowers from sight, skirting along the hem of light, as though fearing what will be revealed.

Next to you, on the opposite side of the post, there are items dangling from a hook. They appear to have been planted, given their relatively clean state. Strange, based on the lack of footprints. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine that this is bait from the predator chasing you. Upon further inspection, it's a cloak and a pair of boots. Gear to survive this landscape — a grim confirmation that he doesn't want this charade the quest to finish prematurely. Mournfully, you may have no choice but to adorn them if it means getting out of this polar nightmare alive.

You snatch the cloak and toss it over your figure. It’s made of a white silky fur, instantly enveloping you in a toasty hug. There’s a thicker pelt lining the garment, barring the wind from gaining access to your nudity. The length of the fabric lands below your knees, guarding most of your body. Surprisingly, it's weighted.

You put the boots on next. They’re precisely your size. Creamy white fur lines the collar, cushioning your glacial feet. They stretch a few inches above your ankles. You're better equipped for the expedition ahead. The relief that hits you is instant. It offers the physical security you required to commence.

Leaving the light is petrifying. You don't know if the creature is going to pounce on you the moment you're out of safety. Graciously, it doesn't. That's how you know there's more for you to see.

Your destination remains unclear. You're aiming for the direction the arrow suggested, but you haven't seen a sign post since. You wonder if you missed the path somewhere. You suppose you'll never know; it's more likely you'll perish out here.

Minutes turn to hours. You're relentless. Exhaustion perches on your shoulder like a dreadful gargoyle, slowing you down. In your perspective, stopping would mean giving up. You won't do that. And thus, your aching soles hike further than they ever have.

A deviation in the scenery finally gathers your attention. Weaving through the trunks and canopies, you notice grey rock. At last, a clue as to where you might be, and how you can reach civilization. You rush, fast approaching what you seek.

The moon shines just right. Your jaw drops. It's a towering cliff face. The trees thin out, and you capture a set stage fresh out of a sinister fairy tale. Evacuating from the forest, you lay witness to a castle at the edge of the massive stone mountain. A shallow layer of snow decorates the path leading to its gigantic archway, unlike the mounds you treaded through on your trek. This place is distinctly habitated.

The gates are several metres taller than you, made from a ferocious oak. There are twin knockers on either door. You can't make out what shape they are. You feel drawn to enter.

A wave of anxiety chokes you. Intuitively, you believe it would be a grave error to trespass further. The beast has other plans for you, however; he didn't bring you all this way to have you turn back.

He slithers up behind you — where he's been hovering for your entire odyssey — and digs his feral nails into your bicep. The sharp tips puncture your flesh, extracting blood. You open your mouth to scream. Everything settles into a muted chaos. The last thing you witness is the vampire running his tongue along his finger, tasting your life force.

You jerk into an upright position. Sweat pours down your face, dripping from your wrinkled forehead. Eyes watering and lips trembling, your gaze darts to and fro. Soon, your vision stabilizes.

There’s no forest. There’s no snow. There’s no castle. You’re in your bedroom. Panic becomes background noise as you hash out the questions in your mind.

When did you fall asleep? You didn’t want to pass out, but you must have lost the battle. You can’t blame yourself; it was late. The last thing you recall being conscious for was reading about Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Must have been a little dry.

How long have you been asleep? Afternoon sunlight beams through your curtains. It’s definitely past noon. Then, what happened during your slumber? Your memory is fading upon awakening. You’re already forgetting several key portions of your dream, such as the event which caused you to run further into the unpredictable woods. The final details are fuzzy, as well. You know something must have startled you into consciousness — but what?

You throw off the sheets and scrutinize your form. There are no scratches. Bruises aren’t decorating the skin of your ankles, nor are there markings from the cuffs of your boots. The threat of frostbite didn’t directly affect you, either, sparing your flesh from decay.

Perplexed, you get out of bed. What was that land you were in? And that language. You wish you could remember what the sign said. There’s no hope of deciphering lost words.

You tug your robe off its hanger and slide your arms through the wide sleeves. You’re going to shower and brush your teeth. Then, you’ll go downstairs to have a meal. There’s much research to be done. You need to feel fresh and energized if you want to keep up.

You leave your bedroom. Peeking around the corner, you notice there’s more life than usual in the house. Everyone seems to be home. Nelly is in her bedroom, talking to a friend. Cree is listening to music at a moderate volume, singing along occasionally. Downstairs, Ericson is likely in her chamber or lounging in the living room. It’s a nice change.

Quietly, you move down the corridor. The bathroom still bears uncomfortable memories for you, but you can’t avoid it. Hygiene is too important. You dip inside and close the door.

Washing up goes immaculately. You’re able to groom yourself for the day without qualm. The vampire doesn’t show himself. In fact, you’re safe until you’ve stopped expecting the worst.

Robe tied firmly at your waist, you open the bathroom door and release the steam that’s been built up. The cool air is refreshing as you step outside of the humid space. A soft sigh escapes your lips. It’s silent. Mournfully, your peace doesn’t last.

You pass Nelly’s room. Strangely, her door is open. Filled with natural curiosity, you glance inside. She’s not talking on the phone anymore. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, head hung low. Her short red box braids dangle in front of her face, shielding her features. Instead of chocolate skin, you see something else. Dark tendrils are crawling along her exposed flesh.

What the fuck?

You grind to a halt. You’re inches away from your door. You want to pretend you never saw that. Unfortunately, you can’t. If Nelly’s in trouble — if the monster has enough gall to lay claim to her — you have to do something.

You clamp your eyes shut. Your breathing is dysregulated and chaotic. It’s impossible to soothe your grieving heart. You really don’t want to do this… but Nelly has shown up for you countless times in the past. It would be a disservice if you abandoned her.

With sheer motivation, you veer in the direction you came. You adjust your robe and creep closer to your comrade’s door. You purse your lips. Now, it’s closed halfway.

“Oh, god.” You whisper, practically frozen with fear. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

You open the door prudently, using your whole arm. The scent of cinnamon and almonds — her favourite body spray — warms your spirit temporarily. Nelly’s no longer on the bed, though. In fact, there’s no trace of her at all.

“Uh… hey!” You call out. “You okay?”

Not a sound. Worry grows thicker in your chest. You wander into the room. The window is closed and none of her usual electronics are on. It’s as though she was never present to begin with. But you know you heard her before showering. And who was that on her mattress?

Your earlobes tingle. You pick up on a gentle noise. Initially, you think it’s movement.

“Nel?”

But it’s not shuffling; it’s sobbing. And it’s coming from her closed closet.

The twin wicker doors are menacing. There’s darkness in their confines, meaning if Nelly’s in there, she’s sitting on the floor in pitch black, crying. That’s not like her.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You shake your head, stepping away from the source. There’s no goddamn way you’re searching in the closet for your friend — not alone. You have to get out of here and find someone to help you, now.

The crying ceases abruptly. You don’t stick around to find out why. Barrelling towards the ajar door, you throw it open. The knob flies into the wall, breaking its stopper and lodging the ball into plaster. You’ll apologize later.

You whirl into the hallway and cut to the right, smashing into someone in the process. You trip backwards and catch yourself on the wall. Holding your head, the person is blurry for a short eternity, until he reacts.

“Woah!”

A friendly male voice penetrates through your tunnel vision. Amiable hands grasping your upper arms crush your apprehensiveness. You unravel, breathless.

“Cree!” You gasp, seizing his shirt with quivering fists. “We gotta— we need t—“

You can’t summon the words. There’s embarrassment as much as there is urgency. Although you don’t have the ability to prove what you experienced, you need him to believe that you’re telling the truth.

“Hey!” He cooes. “Calm down, girl.”

He folds you into an embrace, large arms boxing you against his firm chest in an expression of care. He recognizes how frazzled you are. And his efforts aren’t lost on you, despite the influx of anxiety that’s pumping through your veins. You spend a few moments huffing and puffing and wailing. There’s no time for hugging, and yet, it’s what your nervous system craves. You lean into him.

Cree has been your friend for a while. He’s only let you down once. It was when he was smudging his grandmother’s home. He accidentally lit your hair on fire with the white sage. You didn’t talk to him for days after that. This is different, though. Would he scorn you for being spooked?

“There’s something in this house.” You croak, going all in. “I keep seeing it, and hearing it, and it’s trying to hurt our friends.”

His hold tightens. He strokes your back and shushes you gingerly. The gesture ought to be comforting; instead, it disheartens you. He doesn’t seem to grasp your admission. Maybe you were wrong; maybe there’s no one you can trust with this horrible secret.

He shuffles so that his arms are outstretched and his hands are clasping your shoulders. There’s confusion carved into his face. He explains himself.

“I heard scratching on my wall. If I wasn’t lying in my bed, I wouldn’t have heard it. It was steady, like nails on drywall.”

Your watery eyes widen. The head of his mattress rests against the wall corresponding to Nelly’s closet. A shiver scrambles up your form, causing you to cringe. What would have happened if you’d opened the wicker doors? You dread considering the gruesome outcomes.

“It stopped, and shit was quiet for a while. Then, someone was crying.”

You tremble. It was the monster luring you into its clutches. Cree nearly overheard your demise.

“I-I-I thought I s-saw Nel.” You stammer, rattled. “S-she—“

“She left for work this morning.”

You whine. You’re grateful she’s alive; nevertheless, this news has you questioning your reality. You might be losing it from the level of psychological warfare this bastard is inflicting upon you. Regardless, you know that whatever you heard talking on the phone wasn’t your friend. Whatever you observed sitting on the bed, with tentacles for legs, wasn’t your friend, either. The monster has been hunting you from the second your eyes opened.

"I thought I saw her when I walked by her room." You gesture to your robe. “As you can see, I just finished showering. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking kinda sick. I went in the find her, but—“

You can’t stop thinking about what was in that closet. It was luring you, like a scumbag uses candy to snatch kids. He tempted you in the realms of curiosity and goodwill, effectively poking at your moral code. You have to admit, scurrying out of the bedroom didn’t feel great when you thought Nelly could’ve been in there.

Your exhale is noticeably strong.

“—but I heard someone crying in the closet.”

“And you ran.”

You nod, failing to restrain a waterfall bursting at the gates. You bawl into Cree’s shirt. He lets you, all while stroking your back and rocking you in place. He knows there’s nothing to say to a grieving soul, and so, he simply holds space for your pain. Your break down lasts for a good five minutes.

Alucard stands by the doorway of Nelly's room, observing the scene with envious eyes. If you turned around, you wouldn't catch him savouring your misery. He's undetectable to the human gaze.

It was him in the closet, luring you into his clutches. He shapeshifted into one of his various forms and embellished his usual theatrics. You took the bait flawlessly. If you were an idiot, he would have captured you there. He isn't certain what he would have done with you, so perhaps it's better for your health — and the longevity of his game — that he didn't fall for his trickery. Still, he doesn't care for the result augmenting before him.

The one you call Cree has his hands on you. He may prove to be an obstacle if he's not removed. You could be driven closer to the boy as you grow more frightened. If that’s the case, he'll have to speed up the process of isolating you from the others. They have you to blame for the cruel measures he’ll engage with to enact total control over his future queen.

He refrained from caressing you last night, in the dream he fabricated. He could have tackled you into the snow and taken you if he wanted. He’s more of a gentleman than that, though; tactics such as animalistic, dehumanizing rape is a method most commonly employed by the Catholic church. He, on the other hand, will lay claim to your body when you give him permission; he won’t have you until then.

In your sleep, he permitted you to venture closer to his castle, to work for the life he’s ready to give you — albeit unknowingly. He was impressed by your perseverance. He’s witnessed mortals give up after being chased by Baskerville. You chose to push on. You are proving to be very worthy. This was accentuated by the taste of your blood. He was fortunate to relish in a few drops.

When there's fresh, delectable blood available, a part of him — one who's incredibly juvenile — tends to coax him into indulging. In his younger years, he would have. He's learned since then, however. Watching his greedy counterparts drain humans dry and suffer the brutal consequences, it cemented the idea that feeding carelessly results in an untimely demise. He wouldn't be the apex predator he is today if he didn't heed his cryptid instincts.

The others died; he’ll live forever. Hopefully with you by his side.

Cree doesn’t explicitly indicate whether he believes you or not. What he does do is offer his support. He tells you to call him when you’re nervous. If he’s at work, and the cafe is dead, he’ll be able to chat with you for a bit. It’s an incredibly sweet gesture. Part of you wishes he volunteered himself to help you battle the monster in this house. Doesn’t he comprehend the gravity of letting this creature roam free?

He invites you into his room. You listen to music until Nelly comes home. He tells you that all of you are going to sit down and have dinner with each other this evening. Before leaving for work, the redhead told him and Ericson — both of who were already awake for the day, themselves — that she's going to bring home a few pizzas. After that, he's going to search the basement.

You don't know how he does it, but Cree manages to take your mind off the situation at hand. By the time Nelly arrives, you're laughing together about misheard lyrics from a song he showed you. Her advent is a reminder of sinister activities. Your mood is sapped the second you hear her keys jingle.

By six-thirty you're in the dining room, seated at the table. It's massive and made of a solid mahogany. Around it are six chairs. Two more sit off to the side. You recollect how adamant Nelly was about purchasing the set.

“We can’t have a house without a dining table. Might as well not have a damn house at all.”

This is the first place she's ever called home; you don't blame her for wanting it to be perfect. She's invested. You wish you could follow her lead.

You reach for a slice of your favourite pizza. Once everyone has food on their plate, the devouring commences. You didn't understand how hungry you were. You skipped breakfast and lunch today, but Cree gave you small candies to tide you over. Right now, this meal feels like the best thing you've eaten in your whole life.

You munch in silence. Cree pipes up between chewing.

"Yo, I heard some shit in the basement today."

You swallow, staring at him intently. He didn't tell you he was going to do this. Is he sparing you the embarrassment of having to bring up what occurred earlier?

“Oh yeah?” Nelly drones, biting into her food.

“Yeah. I thought it was someone crying.”

“What is it with everyone getting creeped out by the basement?” Ericson asks genuinely.

"Dunno." Cree shrugs. "Anyone wanna come check it out with me?"

Nelly hums, curiosity evident in her tone. She mulls the idea over in her head. You notice the rings beneath her eyes which resemble cattails in their colour. She tried to cover them with makeup, but it must have faded after a full day of working. Your friend seems exhausted.

"Sure." She concedes with a shrug, focusing on her food. "But give me time to eat and digest before this little—" She pauses to gesture at Cree, who's visibly animated in his seat. "—adventure."

"Sweet!"

Something you've come to realize about your comrades during this ordeal is that they're exponentially compassionate towards one another, yourself included. Your collective dedication to friendship is admirable. Each of you have different personalities, and yet, you mesh well on a united front.

"I'll come, but I won't go down." Ericson chimes in. "It's too cold."

"You sure that's why?" You lift a teasing brow. "Or are you scared?"

She head rolls around the back of her neck. She faces you with an exasperated expression. You crack a simper.

"Girl." She scoffs. "You're asking me if I'm scared when I busted in the washroom to save your ass from a peeping tom?"

"Nah, that's a human!" Cree interjects, grinning. "What about if (f/n) said she saw a ghost tryna get at her?"

Nelly snorts, almost choking on her food.

"You're acting like the ghost is tryna fuck."

"Maybe it is!" Cree snickers.

"Hey, if I was dead for decades, I'd be pretty horny." Ericson asserts.

As funny as it is, once removed from the reality of the circumstance at hand, you barely giggle. It stirs anxiety in your chest. The threat to you is tremendous. And what if the vampire is trying to fuck? That's an outrageous demand you don't want to give into.

Later that evening, Cree and Nelly disengage the locks and open the door to the basement. You and Ericson gather around to watch. You can tell Nelly has some reservations about the impending endeavour.

“I’m telling you right now: if there’s a demon down there, I’m getting terminating the damn lease.”

While you nod in agreement, pleased by her willingness not to trifle with the supernatural realm, Ericson rolls her eyes.

“Chill.” The brunette groans. “I swear, you guys are freaked out by the house shifting and the pipes rattling.”

“Darkness, too.” Cree adds with a coy smile. "Don't forget that."

He flicks on the light switch. Abruptly, the bulb blows. Its deafening snap has you covering your face in terror. Ericson shrieks.

“What the fuck!” The man cries. “Shit, dude! That could not have happened at a worse time!”

“What a coincidence.” Ericson mutters, weary.

“Yeah.” Nelly grumbles, face twisted in disapproval. “But I feel like that was too much of a coincidence. I say we keep that door locked tight. Like, I’ll wait at the top of the stairs while you guys investigate, kinda thing.”

You get why she doesn’t want to put herself at risk. She’s smarter than most. A bad omen is a bad omen.

“I mean… I don’t want Cree going by himself, so I’ll go, too.” Ericson volunteers.

She’s genuinely concerned for his safety. You are, too, but you can’t set foot down there. Guilt rises. You punch it down so it’s mere background noise.

Cree scoops his phone out of his pocket. He turns on the flashlight app and regards Ericson. He flickers the beam beneath his chin.

“‘Kay. You ready?”

The young woman replicates his moves.

“Sure am.”

Ericson trots down the stairs after Cree. You stand on the stoop and gaze into the abyss. It’s haunting to remember when you were here on the viewing day, tempted to meet the monster. You believe he blew the bulb. Does he plan to screw with your friends while they’re in his domain?

Suddenly, nausea bubbles in your gut. You shouldn’t have let them go. He doesn’t seem capable of harming you on the other floors of the house, but what if he’s more powerful in the basement?

A hand drops onto your shoulder. You yelp at the impetuous contact. Thankfully, it’s Nelly.

“Are you okay, hun?” She inquires, perturbed. “You’ve been hella jumpy lately.”

She hasn’t been noticing the noises. She hasn’t been privy to his growing vitality. The closest she got to him was today, when the lightbulb blew. If she knew, she would be frightened, too.

“Cree isn’t the only one hearing noises.” You admit. “It feels like there’s something else here with us.”

She bobs her head slowly, digesting your confession.

"You're saying you heard noises?"

"Yeah."

"In the basement?"

"That's right."

"And we sent those two down there?"

You bite your tongue until you taste iron. That's precisely what you were pondering when she confronted you. In a sick way, you're content that's you're not the sole one concerned about their trek into foreign territory.

The clock in the kitchen cycles two and half times. Just then, footsteps echo from the stairwell. Unknowingly, you and Nelly hold your breath. They’re gradual and intentional. It could be your friends or the beast. Graciously, Cree’s head appears. Ericson is there, as well.

"Nothing at all is down there, guys." He announces, securing the door behind Ericson. "Just dust."

"Yup." His counterpart corroborates. "We split up and didn't see anything weird."

Relieved, you huff. It doesn't mean that he's a figment of your imagination, or that he's not surveilling you; it means that your friends made it back up alive. He didn't trifle with them.

"Whew!" Nelly bellows. "Y'all had me worried there for a sec, I'm not gonna lie."

"Like when the light went out?"

Ericson rags on her in jest. She laughs.

"Yes, exactly!"

The brunette turns to Cree.

"Are you satisfied?"

He stares at you. It's in indication that he wants to know your answer to Ericson's probe. With the smallest of smiles, you nod discreetly. You can't rely on them to take down a vampire. It's enough that no one got hurt. Cree mimics you.

"Totally, dude. Thanks."

With that, everyone disperses. You decide to retire to your bedroom for the evening. You have a lot of work to do. Cree turns in, too. He’ll probably stay up and play games with his friends. Nelly heads for the bathroom to shower and hit the hay. In her words, seven in the morning comes fast. You think this is a positive ending to the night.

Ericson moves towards her chamber. She's the last to go. Once she's inside her room, she locks the door. Then, she removes an amulet from her back pocket. The jewel is crimson, as though filled with blood. It's encrusted with gold. She found it down there, when her and Cree were searching for any sign of life. It was tucked away on a ledge in the cold room, at the furthest corner of the house. She spotted it because she thought she saw something when she scanned her flashlight over the small space. Upon further examination, she discovered this mysterious treasure.

She grins. This will be her little secret. She can’t explain why she doesn’t want to tell you or the others about the jewel. Does she think you'll steal it from her? She has no reason to. Years have dictated that none of you are thieves.

It's peculiar...

...but a voice in her head — distant, yet demanding — implores her to keep this to herself.

#18+ minors dni #the basement’s monster #alucard hellsing #yandere alucard x reader #hellsing x reader #alucard x reader #yandere vampire x reader #afab reader

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ycungmagick · 2 months ago

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How the forest howls and hungers.

...And yet, each step she took was slow and graceful. The violent plant life and soil was quickly tamed by the spreading of spores and fungi radiating off the young witch.

A living biogazard.

Her once unassuming broomstick now a scythe to reap the plant life that dare threaten her. It is harvesting season after all.

Plants, Mortals, Gods, all would know the sting of the reapers scythe eventually.

But for Ophelia...?

"You cannot kill me in a way that matters...."

#the evergreen witch: ic post #v: mushroom witch (pizza tower au)#event: eternal spring #[I've been waiting to use that quoute.]

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hanafubukki · 10 months ago

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I was reading a manhwa that also has a “sleeping curse” by a fairy. The character gradually looses their five senses and then finally succumbs to an eternal sleep. But the male lead slowly recovers because of the care the fairy gives him. (Title: I became the sister in law of the villain)

So this of course made me think of Silver and his curse.

As time went on, Silver slowly lost three of his five senses.

He couldn’t feel cold nor warmth.

He couldn’t smell anything including the flowers, the forest evergreen, food, etc.

He couldn’t taste anything, whether be it the toxic food his father made or the food at the cafeteria.

His family worked hard researching and looking for ways to breaks this curse.

Silver sees all this. He sees his father trying to find anyone who would know how to break curses.

He sees Malleus trying spell after spell to break it, endlessly researching on his behalf.

He sees how Sebek tries to keep him distracted and positive. Surely, Master Lilia and Lord Malleus will find a way.

Silver sees and observes. Yes, this is enough.

He is so loved, being with them for however long he has is more than enough.

Then one day, Silver realizes there’s a change.

He can smell; the smell of the hairgel Sebek tends to use.

He can feel the warm of his father’s hug.

He can taste the potions prepared by Malleus, the addition of sweetness to combat any bitterness in the mixture.

The curse is breaking because of his family.

Their love for each other was the answer all along.

#lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #twst headcanons #diasomnia #twisted wonderland #twst #twst platonic

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insomniac-dot-ink · 2 years ago

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Wolves at the Door

In a tidy well-built home on the outskirts of a village on the outskirts of the world, lives a doe in homespun skirts. MaryAnne lives in her ancestral home with antlers nailed to the mantle. Aged enough to be an old maid but not old enough for it to be charming, a howling comes for her.

Oh, the Beast Folk of the north know better than to live alone. Lighting candles in the darkest months. Hanging Evil Eye charms in their windows to ward off wickedness. MaryAnne, all the same, cuts her own firewood and pickles her own vegetables. She survives the winter.

That is until that howling comes. Wolves are at her door.

Claws scratch at the wood. A long snout snuffles at the windowsill. A voice croons, as they always do, in a plaintive song. In those long months, the villagers and MaryAnne bury their faces in their arms. Stuff their ears with wax. Cluster together if they can. That is how you made it through a winter in the north.

Yet, a howling comes.

That year, MaryAnne forgot to restock her wax. Too late to go out, she curls into a ball on the hard floor, buries her face, and refuses to look up. A voice floats through the cracks.

“Little doe.” A growl. “Why do you hide inside your nest?”

Mustn’t answer. A female wolf casts a long shadow through the window. Backlit by a yellow moon. She has a voice for turning wine to honey. MaryAnne squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

“You’ll turn to dust within these walls. Nothing left but bones.” The voice laughs, guttural and wind-rough. Heavy steps sound from outside, crunching in the snow. “The breeze is fresh. The snow is young. A night for running.”

Mustn't answer to the night.

“They have marked your door with Juniper. Tell me, what makes you so unlucky?”

A whine escapes from deep within MaryAnne’s chest. There is no escaping rumors it seems– even among wolves. A gentle sun-tanned face flashes through her mind’s eye. He is smiling there. The memory frays at the edges in an instant, like crumpling paper by the fire. He is frozen in that eternal melancholy look. Like he knew what was coming.

MaryAnne lets out a second hiccup of sound.

“There you are.” The voice laughs long and harrowed. A scratch drags down her door, rattling the hinges. “Why don’t you come out?”

“Leave me alone!” Her voice is hoarse from disuse. “Leave before I, before I. . . Leave!"

Oh no. She had answered. What a silly girl she was. The beast outside throws her head back and howls. And howls still.

—--------

Days pass in which MaryAnne doesn't hear the howling. She sweeps and mends and peels peas. Sometimes, the doe wakes in the predawn hours, half-frozen and shivering. She stokes the dead embers and looks out. Faded stars and quilted black look back at her. The night is quiet then, peeled to its barest layers and forgiving. An exhale.

But those aren’t most days. A howling comes at her door. MaryAnne's ears begin to ring with it. She dreams of fangs and rust-colored waters. In the light of day, MaryAnne rubs at her eyes until she sees spots and some curling grin remains. I won’t survive the winter, she thinks. My time has come.

MaryAnne goes to the village Wise Woman.

She trudges through the glittering snow and ducks behind trees when strangers pass. Mother Grace lived near the outskirts of town too. Though unlike MaryAnne, footprints ring her squat home– deep grooves of movement. MaryAnne follows the grooves and creeps forward like she might fade into her own shadow.

The house is dark evergreen and churns enormous plumes of smoke. Charms for luck hang in the window and MaryAnne averts her gaze. Some of them look like pawed feet. She hunches her shoulders, tugs at her sleeves, and lifts a hand to the entrance. A door thick as slabs of good brown bread swings open at her touch.

“Hello?” she calls into the gloom. “I am MaryAnne. Daughter of . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. If there was one thing to know of Mother Grace, it is that she hates tedious things. “Mother Grace, I have come to ask you of the world. I’ve come to ask you what wolves fear.”

“Questions, questions.” A grumbling answers her. “For yourself, child? Or some grand cougar king. Conquering their enemies.”

“For me. Yes. Myself. I am, I’m a doe.” MaryAnne stumbles forward and eyes adjust to the dimness.

“I can smell that.”

An old woman sits before a stone shelf, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by books. An iron stove dominates the living space and the air shimmers with heat. Mother Grace rocks back and forth in her chair. She is entombed in pillows, waiting to remind the young that the winter is long. And bound to grow longer.

MaryAnne repeats her question. “Do you know how to rid yourself of wolves?” How to escape being hunted? She dare not speak those words into existence though. Hunted. Cursed anew.

The woman grumbles under her breath once more. Grey-haired and petite, her rabbit ears hang long and limp down her shoulders. Her milky eyes were unseeing and body bent forward. Yet, her bearing is steady and unflinching. MaryAnne wishes in some distant way she could embody the same self-assured air. A knowledge of herself, good or bad.

Unable to bear it any longer, she repeats herself. “Please. Wolves are at my door. You are the most learned Folk. What do they fear?”

Mother Grace doesn't look at MaryAnne as she speaks. Her voice creaks. “I cannot say. Fear is a shifting thing. Wolves, too, shifting creatures." The Wise Woman grunts a dry laugh. “Hard to separate the two.”

"Ah,” MaryAnne says like she understands, heart sinking to the bottom of her shoes.

Mother Grace sets her jaw and looks past her. "Go to the mulberry tree at sunset and bow your head. Speak true and earnestly.” The Wise Woman gnashed her gums. “It will show you how to greet a wolf.”

MaryAnne swallows. “Will that save me?”

The wisewoman does not answer.

—-------

The sun sets in in a purpling line, sending the towns folk scurrying behind their locked doors. The Beast Folk know better than to linger alone after dark. But MaryAnne is Juniper-marked and given a task. She approaches the Mulberry tree in the shadow of a hill. Red ribbons tied in its bare branches and framed by twilight.

MaryAnne bows her head and kneels on the snowy earth, her cheeks pinched with cold. The knees of her pants soaking through.

“How do you escape a wolf?”

The Mulberry bush sways in the wind. The ribbons turn a dull navy in the light and MaryAnne shivers.

Two knotted eyes blink and the nymph bows back. Her hair sticks straight in the air– naked branches reaching for sky. She considers MaryAnne for a long moment.

“Your father came to me once. Asking questions.” A pause follows that could suck the marrow out of bones. “He could not deter his fate. You may not be able to either."

“Please.” MaryAnne swallows over and over, suppressing the stinging in her eyes. “There is a wolf at my door. She will not leave. She has my scent.”

“Ah,” the Nymph says, pity trapped in her wispy vowels. “A Stray perhaps of their terrible rituals. The Bone Cities are far and often cruel. Come closer, girl. I may teach you to greet a wolf and thus defer her task a while longer.”

—-------

The wind whips against MaryAnne’s walls, battering the sides of her home. The dark wood was tightly joined and held. A syrupy silver light bathed the snow outside and MaryAnne’s eyelids grew heavy. She had been watching her door since she returned from the Mulberry tree.

And it had not ceased since the moon arose. A long cry mixed with the violent gusts of wind. A howling. MaryAnne’s shoulders set in a hard line, back aching and mood even more dour. Let it be over, she prays to the Great Mother Doe. Though, who knew if the starry mother listened. Let the wolf go home empty-handed.

MaryAnne’s head nods to her chest, jerking upright at the first sound. A scratch peels down her front door. Claws against wood.

“Little doe, why do you hide?” the wolf sings in that beseeching tone.

MaryAnne does not bother to curl into a ball. She straightens to her full height, nubby horns facing the door as if she might charge. Fangs flash in her mind’s eye and she takes deep breaths. MaryAnne forces her legs to work.

"Good evening," she booms. An imitation of how she imagines governesses speak to future kings. MaryAnne bows before the door, taking her time falling to her knees. Her chest tightens-- a thrum of terrible life. “I am pleased to meet you."

“Pleased?” The wolf sounds amused. Perhaps wolves can always afford that.

“Yes.” In slow increments, MaryAnne brings her wrists near the crack under the door. Bile rises in her throat and she pushes closer. “I see you've come to call on me. Perhaps I may have you over for tea. Do you take it with cream or sugar?”

The laugh is thunderous. A long snuffling follows and MaryAnne thinks she imagines whiskers under the crack.

“You smell like fear. Are you afraid?”

“Always,” MaryAnne says bitterly. “Is that not our nature? You, at our doors. Me inside my home. But you could knock.”

“I have a home too, you know,” the voice purrs. “Many leagues away and by the sea. Perhaps you might enjoy running to it.”

“You may have me over for tea,” she keeps her tone even. “Come back in the morning to exchange invitations. I have stationary you might borrow.”

Hot air blows against her wrist. The wolf audibly inhales. “You think yourself clever. Juniper-marked and clever.”

“What else could I be?” Her voice trembled and she didn’t like the way it broke on the last words.

“I can make a few suggestions.” The crunch of heavy paws against the snow. “Open up the door and I will show you.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” MaryAnne grits out despite herself. Run, run, run. her mind says. Her feet say. But the Mother Doe isn’t there to light her way. “My name is MaryAnne. I would like to invite you to tea.”

The door gives a violent shake, a weight thrown against it. Dust rains from the rafters. The hinges shrieks and the wolf lets out a howl to match. The door holds– as it was meant to.

Life spikes in her chest this time and fills her belly with warmth. MaryAnne holds herself perfectly still, wrists shoved to the crack in the door.

“I am Shier of the Northern Pack,” the wolf spit out the words. “You may keep your twice-damned tea.”

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Part 1 of 3

#fantasy fiction #fairy tales #sapphic #short story #part 1 of 3 #my work #anthro

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