#and the prologue is done !!!

[exquisiteagony]

skydweller fic 3 is all plotted out!

[dontfindmeimscared]

Prologue 0.2

start / prev / next!

[monochrome-stars]

so are we just merging characters together now? anyway i may have done a thing

[bunnygirllover45]

Sprite work for vn "Something Rots"

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One: The Last Day] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: Years ago, you were the captive of a serial killer named Strade. And you weren't the only one he kept. After Strade was killed by one of his victims, you ran away--and now your past is finally catching up with you. Chapter one is set during Boyfriend to Death.

Word count: 6352

Chapter notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, past noncon, graphic violence, descriptions of blood, violence and gore, descriptions of death (not reader)

AO3 LINK

She was crying again. Well, no wonder. There were holes in her feet, dotting the top of her thighs. Blood had dribbled down from the gored holes in her flesh like little streams, then dried out. 

The thin, wavy dried out trickles made you think, abruptly, of unfettered period blood, then of Carrie by Stephen King. The scene in the shower, where she gets her period and freaks out. The other girls threw tampons and sticky pads at her and shrieked, chanting, bonded by a morbid commiseration of the entrance to so-called womanhood: Plug it up! Plug it up! Plug it up!

Plug it up, you thought.

But she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her hands were bound behind her. Did he tie them back like that so that she couldn’t try to hurt him, or because it gave him easier access to her flesh? Maybe a bit of both.

She looked uglier when she cried. Snot bubbled out of her nose and joined a dried streak of blood that went from her nose down to her chin. Her nose was probably broken, hence the blood; the flesh of it was black and blue and an awful shade of green.

One part of you longed to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer and hold it to the bruised, swollen flesh. Hush her cries. Give her an ounce of humanity that might carry her for another few hours, the way Ren once did to you. 

Another part of you, the new you forged under Strade’s knife (and boots and hammers and power drill) wished she’d just die already, so you wouldn’t have to hear her cry or be standing here obediently, waiting for Strade to come back down. You were probably going to have to participate in this next stream–why else would he call you down in the middle of one of his “projects”? 

Unless he was lonely. But even so, he could always kill two birds with one stone. You, here to give him company; and you, here to entertain his horrid audience. And himself, above all. Himself, always.

 The basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open and you heard his heavy bootsteps–thump, thump, thump–before he called out jovially.

“Are you still there, Liebling? You didn’t run off, did you?” 

As if you were stupid enough to do that. You were many things now. Stressed. Afraid. Desperate. Tired. More selfish. Maybe a little bit masochistic, a trick of your brain to keep you from totally losing your mind as you were tortured. All these things and more besides, but stupid was not one of them. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” You called back, lightening your tone. It was important not to sound too scared. Strade wanted you scared, yes, but he didn’t want you to be some obedient, squeaky little mouse. That was too boring. It was best to act as normally as you could, considering the circumstances. That seemed to please him more, at least on most days. Some days nothing you did was right and you went to bed with a swollen eye and broken fingers, eased by frozen peas that Ren snuck you from the kitchen before he went to sleep. 

You’re not the only one who noticed him coming down. The woman in front of you began to tremble and sob more violently, pulling at her bound wrists. It wouldn’t do any good. It never did. How long did she have to live? How long did any of you in this house have to live? 

By the time Strade made it down the stairs, her cries were practically at a fever-pitch. You didn’t want to look to see what he’d run off to fetch, but he didn’t give you a choice.

He called your name. “Come here, darling, I need your help with this.” And oh, you kept your eyes downcast until all you could see was his boots. But then it was time to look up, and you did, and no matter how many times you witnessed him preparing to torture another person, it still made your stomach roil.

He’d brought down a p[ot of boiling water, which he carefully held by the handle with both hands. Tucked underneath his armpit was the bag of frozen peas. The bag, you thought, because for as long as you’d been here, no one ever cooked them. They got passed around between you and Ren under cover of night.

Here they were, in the light of day. You suspect you wouldn’t want to re-use them after this. 

“Be my Lamm and take the peas, won’t you?” The sensible part of you eyed him warily; it wouldn’t be below him to toss the pot of boiling water at you while you reached for them, just to fuck with you. But you didn’t disobey him, either. You carefully leaned over and slid the bag from underneath his armpit, and held it in your hand.

He smiled. Grinned, really, which was a bad sign for the sobbing woman tied to the pole. His good moods and bad moods were both equally shitty, but in your unfortunately well-experienced opinion, it was his good moods that produced the most painful scenarios.

“Now!” He crouched down in front of the crying woman and grabbed her chin. She shrieked and tried to jerk her face away, but he held her tight. “I’m sure your wounds are sore, aren’t they?” She sobbed out something–meaningless pleading that you’d long since lost the ability to discern–and he tsked.

“Oh, poor thing. I know just what might help!” He snapped his fingers and looked back at you. “My lovely friend here will give you some ice to help you feel better. Won’t you?” He grinned wider and you nodded, feeling both scared and numb in a confusingly equal measure, as you crouched down next to him.

She yelped when you placed the frozen bag on a group of puncture wounds on her thigh, but you held it fast. It probably hurt more than it soothed. An icy bag right up against wounded skin didn’t sound pleasant. But maybe it would numb it a little. That might be better than nothing. 

“Perfect! Now…” He reached over and picked up the steaming pot of water, still bubbling from its boil on the stove. “Hold still, my Lamm… wouldn’t want to splash you.” 

It was so strange, the way that your time with Strade had made it possible for you to actually keep your hand there, despite the fact that you knew he was about to pour boiling water on the skin of this poor woman. Pour it right where it would surely splash on you a little, if not a lot. Probably a lot. Two birds, one stone, and all that.

It didn’t matter if it was strange. Your fingers flexed and your muscles tensed as you saw him turn the pot over slowly, and steaming water came flying down, pouring over the woman’s wounds.

She screamed. It was loud. It hurt your ears. The irritation of it distracted you from seeing Strade move the pot around so that the water trailed over the frozen peas–and your hand keeping it pressed against her–as he covered her thigh in the water.

“Fuck!” You said, biting your cheek hard. Your fingers danced on the bag but you didn’t dare pull away. You could see your own skin turning a shade of red. Her thighs had taken the brunt of it, though. There were even blisters forming on her skin already as she sobbed and cried and begged for someone, anyone, to help her.

You were someone.  You were anyone.

You couldn’t help her.

“Language, liebchen,” Strade said, teasingly. You mumbled out an apology, although you doubt he actually cared. 

He sighed when the pot was emptied, and tossed it on the floor.

“I don’t know… I just don’t think it’s enough. Do you?” He grasped your burned hand and you couldn’t stifle the sound of yelping pain as he gripped it hard. Your skin would blister too–it was already peeling a little. 

“What…whatever you think is best,” you stammered. 

“That’s right,” he said, grinning. He gave your hand a squeeze and you groaned. “I think I’ll work a little more on this project myself before dinner.” He let your fingers go, and you cradled your hand against your chest. “Have Ren take care of that. Come back down when it’s wrapped up.” his free hand grabbed the chin of the sobbing, bleeding, blistered woman again. “I think we’ll make a movie, and I need my prettiest co-star to help me out.”

“Of course.” You gave her one half-pitiful glance–the way her frightened, bloodshot eyes darted to you with a mixture of anger and pity made you want to hurl–and went up the stairs.

By the time you’d made it to the top, you already heard Strade pulling out his video equipment.

—

“It… doesn’t look too bad,” Ren said quietly. He held your hand underneath the sink, letting the cold water soothe your burn. But every time your hand trembled and the stream went just out of reach, it burned again, and you winced.

“Most of it hit her thigh,” you whispered. Though you didn’t need to, since both of you were well aware that Strade was busy in the basement. Old habits die hard, however. “She got it worse.”

Ren hummed. “They usually do.” He told you to keep your hand in place while he fumbled in the cabinet under the sink, looking for supplies. “I don’t know if he has–oh!” His ears twitched and perked up as he found what he’d been looking for.

It was a tube of burn relief ointment. He flipped it over and read the back, mumbling all the while. “It’s expired but…”

You smiled, just a little, and finished his sentence for him.

“Better than nothing, right?”

Ren smiled, and you caught sight of his tail curling behind him as he turned off the sink and told you to sit down on the toilet so she could wrap you up.

Was it wrong that some of the most pleasant moments in this house, if you could call them pleasant, were with Ren? Especially quiet moments like this, where he took care of you, or you took care of him. You were both well acquainted with fixing up the results of your time with Strade by now. 

He’d cleaned out deep cuts on your back, and you’d iced and splinted his broken toes. He let you curl up in his nest of a bed after a particularly awful night of torture, and you let him slide under your covers when he’d had an nightmare about the last time Strade made him kill someone.

It was transactional in some ways, you supposed. But when you saw his ears perk up or his tail swoosh or the way his eyes seemed to light with something genuine behind them while you talked with him, you realized it wasn’t all practical. It couldn’t be. Not when you were in this together.

Ren made quick work of bandaging your hand. The cream was smoothed over the reddened, flaking parts of your skin and he wrapped your hand up with a bandage. It hurt, still, but nothing to write home about. Hah! As if you’d ever be allowed to write home.

Hell, if by some miracle  you could write home, how would you even word the letter? 

“Dear mom and dad, last night my captor-who-also-fucks me made me keep my hand on a table while he hammered nails underneath my fingernails and asked me which one hurt the most. P.S. The milk in the fridge is expired and he’s threatening to make me or Ren drink it because of the waste.”

The thought made you snort. Ren looked up from his spot on the floor, where he’d taken to impromptu digging through the cabinet to look for some undisclosed item. 

“What’s funny?”

You mulled it over. Sometimes, you didn’t like to tell Ren what you were thinking. You trusted him, to an extent. You liked him, to an extent. You were friends, to an extent. How far did that extent go? It depended. 

He was here first, and sometimes, the tension between the two of you was too taut and fraught to ignore. There was always that underlying worry, an electric buzz you couldn’t turn off all the way: what if Strade decided he didn’t want two captives? Or what if he felt two was his limit, and he wanted to bring someone new in?

Which one of you would get the ax–literally?

But this was maybe not the type of thing that Ren might murmur to Strade in a moment of weakness. It was harmless, wasn’t it, to make a joke about writing home?

“I was just imagining what I might write home in a letter to my parents.” You flexed your bandaged hand. “I mean, if we were allowed to write home.”

“Like from a summer camp?” Ren asked. He pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them. 

“I guess,” you replied, smiling a little. “Although this would be one…” Fucked up, disgusting, hellish– “Specialty summer camp.”

Ren snorted a little. “Definitely not like the ones in movies.”

“Maybe horror movies,” you added with a grin. One of your front teeth–not from the center two, thank hell–was missing now, so you rarely grinned. But it felt different when it was just you and Ren alone. It was okay to let him see those imperfections, because he had them too. Maybe not missing teeth, but…

“Sleepaway Camp!” He blurted. “Or Friday the 13th…” 

You started to open your mouth, ready to tell him that you once saw a screening of the first Friday the 13th at a summer camp, when an all-too-familiar sound came wafting up from the cracked open basement door.

“Liebling! It doesn’t take that long to bandage a little burn! I hope I don't have to come get you.”

Ren’s tail went straight up at the sound of Strade’s voice. The sing-song nature of his words did not hide the danger in them. If you had a tail, yours would be standing stock straight too. But your body had to make do with your muscles tensing and your bowels clenching hard.

“I have to go,” you murmured, hopping off the toilet seat. 

You paused in the doorway. Ren had his knees hugged to his chest, his ears flat against his head. No doubt he was wondering if Strade would call him down, too. Or if he’d be pissed off about something and take it out on Ren later.

“Thanks for patching me up, Ren.” His ears twitched, and he glanced up at you. “Really, I mean it.” You smiled–grinned, showing off one of your missing teeth. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His tail relaxed a little and he smiled back, an almost puppy-like grin crossing his expression for a moment, and it was enough to give you some vague emotional relief as you left the bathroom before Strade was forced to come up the stairs and retrieve you. 

–

She wouldn’t last another day. That much was clear. Her blood was everywhere now. On the floor. Smeared on her skin. On Strade’s hands–on yours.

Of course he’d made you participate. You were his lovely assistant, after all. Although he always said Ren was better at the work, when it came down to it. You were too prone to trembling and hesitation. To say nothing of your occasional habit of vomiting at the sight of anything more than blood–guts, in particular, were your weakness. 

Hers, too, by the way she quivered at the sight of the large hunting knife Strade twirled in his hands.

“I think this has gone on long enough. Don’t you, Schatz?” He looked back at you with a thoughtful smile. “Shall we end it?”

Without thinking much, you nodded. Yes, it had gone on long enough. Yes, you wanted her to just die already. Yes, you wanted to go over to the sink and scrub your hands until they were pruney and wrinkled and there was no trace of her visceral fluids on your skin.

“Go on,” he told you, gesturing at the trembling woman. Covered in cuts and gouges and burns. Where there had been dried blood earlier today, there were now smears of fresh gore. From Strade’s boots and the knife. Strade had even taken a blow torch to the burns caused by the boiling water, making them go from peeling and red to a series of gouged, pus-like craters in her flesh.

Cold seeped into your socks from the floor as you walked over to her. She regarded you with dull, dying eyes. She opened her mouth, maybe to say something, but whatever word she might have come up with wouldn’t come. Her swollen, bruised lip trembled as blood dribbled out of it. 

One of the handcuff keys was taped to the back of the poll. Strade always liked to keep extras around, in case he lost the original but still wanted to uncuff someone. He usually didn’t uncuff people unless they were being bound in some other way (usually not a good sign) or he was just about finished with them (definitely a bad sign); and in this case, you knew she was being released only to make killing her a little more fun.

Her hands flopped forward as soon as the cuffs were undone. There was a brief moment where you saw her regard her wrists, all reddened and cut from where the metal handcuffs dug into them. 

But the moment was over as soon as Strade stepped forward and pulled her close with a decisive yank of her hair. She yelped–you were surprised she had the yelp in her, her voice should have been shot from all the screaming–and he twisted her hair tight to keep her still.

“It’s been fun, but it’s time to go now. Don’t take this personally, hm? Or do, actually, it might make you feel better.”

She didn’t have time to respond. He rarely wanted them to say anything, you thought. It was just part of his internal script, a set of syllables that gave him extra pleasure as he snuffed out someone’s internal light. 

He stuck the hunting knife into her gut and twisted. She didn’t scream. She barely shouted. The sound, instead, was one of strangled horror. Like she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. He twisted again, and she grunted and gasped, a sound that was almost like a deep, gaping hiccup.

“Shh,” he murmured, a sick grin splitting his face. His eyes darted over her face, and you got a front-row view of how his expression was gleefully illuminated by the sight of her own life fading away. He enjoyed it so much, he even let go of the knife handle so that he could grasp her face with both hands and keep her dying gaze in his sights.

Who was she? What had she been, before the basement? Was she thinking about her friends, her family? Did she have children that were going to be left behind? Maybe she was in college, maybe she’d been studying for exams that would never happen. There would be uneaten prepared lunches in her fridge, a bookmark that would never move past a certain page. 

Her hands went tremblingly to the handle of the knife sticking out of her. She held the handle tenderly with bruised, bloody hands. Didn’t Strade see it? No, he was too focused on her face. But he didn’t even see the way her expression shifted. 

No, he saw it. But maybe he didn’t know what it meant, because he’d never been on the other end. The way she went from looking confused and horrified to determined. 

She didn’t act right away. 

You could have said something. You could have called out a warning. 

But instead you watched as the dying woman yanked the knife out of her gut, viscera and blood coming out with it, and stabbed it right into Strade’s neck.

He gasped now. A gaping, strangled sound. His hands went instinctively to his neck and it took him a few slow, trembling tries to pull it out. You saw the blood arch and spurt–an artery–and he fell to his knees.

The woman stepped away with what must have been her last ounce of energy. She had only enough life left in her to turn to you and smile–she was missing teeth, too–before she collapsed on the ground. She was still alive, but her shock would come soon after.

It wasn’t her you were watching, anyway. It was Strade.

His eyes darted to and fro until they landed on you. He had his hand pressed against the wound now, but it wasn’t doing much good. He would need a proper compress… an ambulance… surgery of some kind. 

You don’t know why you called him. To help Strade? To help you? 

“Ren.”

Not loud enough.

“Ren.”

Still not loud enough.

“Ren!” 

Before you knew it,  you were simply screaming his name, filling the basement with a different pitch of scream than it was used to. Your own voice was barely recognizable.

The basement door slammed open and you heard frantic footsteps pounding down the stairs. You saw Ren, only a blur of orange in your shock, take in the scene. His own mouth slowly gaped open, but unlike Strade and the unfortunate woman on the floor and your own panting lips, no sound came out.

Ren said your name. You think it was Ren, because Strade was surely in no position to talk. It shook you out of your stupor and you ran to him, clinging to his arm, crying fitfully. He wrapped one arm around you and the two of you stood, together, watching Strade bleed.

“What do we do?” The inside of your elbow pressed hard against Ren’s back as you held him. You wanted to snuggle, like the way you did on good nights. You wanted him to make it all go away. 

Maybe he sensed this. Because while the two of you had clung together in so many occasions, this time, he stood up taller. He held you tighter. And then he assessed the situation.

Ren watched Strade quietly for a long moment. Strade gazed up at him–at you, too, but mostly Ren–with wide-eyed helplessness. The look didn’t suit him at all. He seemed to know it. 

“Help me,” Strade managed. It almost didn’t feel like speech. Maybe the knife had grazed his vocal chords. 

Neither of you moved at first. There was a long moment in which either of you could have sprung into action; could have ran to the supply cabinet and grabbed thick gauze to press against the wound, while the other could have bounded up the stairs to call an ambulance.

But you didn’t. And Ren didn’t. 

And then Ren looked at you, and took a step backward. He pulled you with him, and you went willingly, taking another step, and another, until the two of you were standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“You…” Strade gurgled out the word, and blood came bubbling out in between the fingers pressed against his neck with it. “You…”

He didn’t get to finish. His eyes widened and you saw the light leave them before he collapsed on the floor. 

For the first time since you’d been brought here, the basement was truly silent. 

Strade was dead.

Neither of you moved for a while. And then you felt a hoarse sob coming on. Relief, terror, and shock coursed through you, fighting for the surface in a way that could only result in tears. 

Ren regarded you with an unreadable expression and slowly removed his arm from your shoulder. You whimpered–don’t leave me, you wanted to say–and he smiled, a soft, little thing. 

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to make sure he’s dead.”

Oh. That was a good idea. But what if he wasn’t? What if Strade got to his feet and oh, the two of you would be in for it. He’d probably kill both of you–or at least you–and it would be slow and awful and you’d beg, beg, for death.

“Ren,” you said, almost stammering, swallowing a thick lump in your throat.

He turned back towards you, curious.

You pointed to the table of tools at Strade’s disposal. “Take something. Just in case.”

Ren stared at the weapons that had been used to kill countless people. At the blades and torches and nails that had been used to hurt him, and you. Then he grabbed a heavy hammer and slowly approached the bleeding corpse (please let it be a corpse) of Strade.

Strade didn’t move as Ren approached him. Or when Ren knelt down, hammer at the ready. Or when Ren’s fingers slowly reached out and pressed against his neck, his wrist. 

“No pulse,” said Ren.

Ren set the hammer down and used both hands to shove Strade’s body until it was fully on his back. His eyes, dull and dead, stared up at the ceiling without seeing anything.

He was dead. Truly dead. 

Really most sincerely dead, your thoughts echoed in a half-mimic of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz.

You barely registered Ren digging around in Strade’s pocket before he returned to you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he began to lead you upstairs.

“Let’s not stay down here,” he said. He gave Strade’s corpse one last look before staring ahead at the basement door. How many times had the two of you gone up and down these stairs at Strade’s whim? It always meant you would get hurt, or you would help Strade hurt others. It was never willing, going up these stairs. Never a choice.

And now the two of you were going up them together, Ren leading you, of your own free will.

Free will! What a concept. One you thought you’d lost forever. And yet here it is, given by the hands of a woman whose last days were filled with unnecessary, unfair agony. You wish you knew her name, so you could thank her properly.

Ren shut the basement door. It sounded louder than it ever had before. Or was it because the house was so quiet now? 

“Come here,” Ren said. And you didn’t know why he said it–shock, confusion, uncertainty still reigned–until you saw what was in his hand. 

His collar. It was… off. But how and–

Ren held up the key he’d taken from Strade’s pocket and shook it back and forth, like a well-earned prize. That’s what it was, in some ways. 

You stepped towards Ren and turned around, breathing heavily at the thought of being truly free from the collar. Strade only took them off the pair of you when you were showering and, once you had learned to behave well enough, when you slept. But they always went back on first thing in the morning, and their threat was an ever-constant presence in your mind, just like the metal was ever-constant around your neck.

Ren’s fingers brushed the back of your shoulder. You heard him breathing just as heavily. For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Wasn’t he going to…?

“Ren?” You asked, voice quivering. The air felt suddenly too heavy, your collar weighing you down more than normal. There was an awful thought, then: What if he doesn’t take your collar off? What if Ren is… what if, what if…

But then you felt the pressure from him sticking the key into the back of the metal contraption, heard it twist, and felt cool relief on your neck as Ren lifted the collar away from your neck and set it down on the coffee table. 

Both hands went to your neck. The skin was sensitive, bruised. A few days ago, Strade had come into your room at night for a session of “fun,” which ended with you being choked into unconsciousness. You’d woken up to Ren splashing cold water on your face. “Thought I’d lost you,” he’d said. 

The bruises Strade gave you would fade away in time. At least the ones on the outside.

And Ren…

You turned around and gave him a fractured smile. You leaned in, and Ren leaned in, and you hugged each other tenderly. Not just because it was the nicest way to hug, but because Ren’s rib fracture was still healing, and your back hurt, and both of you were littered with scars and cuts and bumps and bruises.

After a while, Ren pulled away. “Let’s… sit down.” 

He sat down on the sofa, which was dotted with sprinkles of Ren’s orange fur; no matter how much you lint-rolled the furniture, you could never quite get all of it out. 

Well, that didn’t matter now. You’d never have to clean up this living room, or the kitchen, or the brain matter and blood stains in the basement, again. You could go home.

And Ren could go home. 

And the nightmare would be over.

For now, you sat, side by side, on a sofa that had never seemed more ordinary. The house had never seemed more ordinary. Its secrets were primarily down in the basement. The rest of the house was bland and boring by comparison. Unless you counted upstairs, as it was not unheard of for Strade to take his particular brand of “fun” into your respective rooms. 

And now? It was quiet. Still. There was no chance that Strade would come walking up the stairs. No chance that you’d be called down them to torture someone.

Certainly no chance that he’d call both of you down, which never ended well. He liked to see Ren hurt you, because it seemed to hurt Ren. But sometimes, sometimes, you thought… there was a glimmer of something in Ren’s eyes in those moments. 

Something that reminded you too much of pleasure to ignore. Just a spark of it, but that was enough, when you were bound to a table and he was clawing open your thighs at Strade’s behest.

“Ren?” You forced yourself to stop thinking like that. That was the past. This was now. No, more than that: this was the future. A future without Strade, without this house, without pain. 

Ren looked over at you, slowly. The realization of what had just happened, and what it meant, seemed to be catching up to him, too. “... Yeah?”

Your fingers scratched at some of Ren’s stray fur on the couch. Some of the orange fur had already started clinging to your bandage. 

“What do we do now?” A simple question for you to ask. Several plans rushed through your head but it was hard to make sense of them. What was the best course to take; which authorities did you appeal to, when there was a dead serial killer and one of his victims in the basement, but your hands were on the torture tools, yet the same tools had been used to hurt you? 

You swallowed hard, shaking your head, willing the dizzying thoughts to quiet down.  “Do we call the police first? Or… an ambulance? Or–or–” 

Ren gripped the hand that idly scratched the couch. He intertwined his fingers in yours, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were wide. And just a bit wild.

“We could stay here.”

Your heart thudded. Once, twice. A third time.

“What?” You shifted on the couch, facing Ren more clearly. “We… we can’t, it’s–”

Ren squeezed your hand, a little too hard–the burn–and you winced. He didn’t let up, but he didn’t know you were hurting, did he? It was all just a rush right now, confusing, scary.

“We can,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. His mouth broke into an almost childish grin as he continued. “Strade’s got a lot of money, we can use that to keep up the bills. Buy whatever we want. We won’t have to worry about anything!” His tail swished behind him, thumping into your side. 

When you didn’t respond–words weren’t coming–his grin deflated a little. “I’m… I’m a good roommate,” he said, ears flattening. “I’ll take care of you.” He squeezed even tighter now. “We’ll do everything together, and we don’t have to worry about Strade getting mad about it. We’ll watch movies or-or play games or whatever you want.” He swallowed and you watched his throat bob. “And I promise I won’t leave fur everywhere.”

“Ren–” It was your turn to give his hand a squeeze, and you took his other in your free hand and clasped them both. “I’m not worried about your fur.”

His ears perked up and his smile came back.

“It’s… we can’t stay here,” you said, voice wobbling but gaining more firmness as you went on. “We need to leave. We need to call the police.”

Ren’s ears twitched. He looked thoughtful, opening his mouth, and shutting it. He was just confused, that’s all. Like you were. He needed to be reminded that if Strade was gone, the both of you were free. You’d go home, and he’d go home, and you could call or text or email or something but…

“Don’t be stupid.” 

The firmness in Ren’s voice shook you a little. More than that, it made you worry. He frowned at the sight of your tense shoulders, the quirk in your mouth. “Think about it,” he said, gently saying your name. “Remember all the people who watch his videos? Don’t you know who’s in those chats?”

The reminder of the chatrooms came hurtling straight into your guts. The chat… the people there paid money to watch people suffer. Watch them die. How many times had they encouraged Strade to indulge in some fucked up torture? Hell, they’d asked him countless times to string you up, cut you open, pull out your guts while you were still alive. Strade had danced away the requests with a teasing lilt, but the threat was never gone.

Ren let go of your bandaged hand and gently cupped your cheek. He spoke slowly, almost sweetly. “They’re rich. Important. Mayors. Politicians. Doctors. Police.” 

The anguish your stomach began to stretch. Ren didn’t stop talking.

“They know both our faces. Do you know what they’ll do to us, if they find us?” 

Tears pricked, unwanted and unbidden, at your eyes. He was right. You couldn’t go to the police. You couldn’t go to the media. This could never get out. But that didn’t mean you had to stay here. More than that: you couldn’t stay here. 

It would be another type of collar, to find yourself stuck here with Ren. And the collar might not be electric, but it would be just as dangerous. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “No police.”

Ren grinned hopefully.

“But,” you continued. “We can’t stay here. I want to go home. And you–you get to go home now, too.” Ren had never talked much about his life before Strade, but surely he had friends. A family. An apartment or a house. A life. Just like you. 

“You want to leave–” His voice was thin and there was a fissure in it, ready to crack.

The hand on your cheek pressed harder, and you felt the thin press of his claws against your skin. Your eyes must have widened or perhaps you flinched, you don’t know, but Ren saw–and yanked away.

“S-Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He was upset, he was scared, hell, you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry or start belting out show tunes right now. 

Freedom was confusing as hell. 

“I know,” you said, slowly. “It’s okay.”

Ren stared down at the ground. Then he stood up and fished Strade’s keyring out of his pocket and set it down on the coffee table with a jingling rattle. 

“I’m going to get us some water. And maybe a snack. We’ll… we’ll talk about this more. We can talk about it, and not make a decision right away. Okay?” He fumbled with both his hands in front of him, looking like the meek young man you’d met that first night, when he cleaned your wounds and gave you water to drink. 

You stared at him, perhaps for too long.

“Okay, Ren, we’ll talk about it,” you lied. 

You watched him walk into the kitchen, where Strade would never saunter in for a case of beer again. You heard him open the cabinet for an empty glass, none of which would ever again find themselves dashed into tiny shards that could be ground into your skin for fun. 

And then you leaned forward, grabbed the keyring off the countertop, pulled out the key to the front door, and softly padded your way to the threshold that neither of you had been able to cross in ages.

Your heart thudded. Your stomach heaved. But you unlocked the door and bolted, socked feet aching on the concrete sidewalk.

Ren said your name after the third step you took beyond the door of Strade’s house of horrors.

You could have kept running. Maybe you should have.

But instead, you turned around, to look at Ren standing in the doorway. There were no glasses of water in his hand–you don’t remember registering the sound of the sink at all, in fact. It was just Ren, with his hands at his sides, looking at you with an expression that was equally pitiful, agonizing, and worrying.

He said your name again.

You felt hot tears squeeze out of your eyes as you shook your head, turned around, and ran for your life.

[quintessential-candles]

Hi I ranked mystic messenger characters based off of how likely they are to stab you

[clanborn]

sadantwithbindle.jpg

[northern-passage]

a little update.. what i'm working on/prologue changes so far:

no prologue! it’s chapter 1 now

removed the option to leave clementine behind. you have to take them with you :3c

removed height options (sorry!)

in general, edited the cc to flow better

combat preferences have been adjusted-- all still the same but i've made it more obvious how each specialty works mechanically which will hopefully make fights more intuitive to win (or lose, if you want)

genderlocked the sibling. officially a Sister

edited a LOT of dialogue; hopefully it's an improvement and feels more natural

restructured the wraith fight so that it's consistent with the fight in blackwater. with the changes made to the combat preferences this should make the combat system overall cohesive now <- i'm still working on this currently but i am HOPING to finish it by the end of this month.

i have pretty much rewritten the entire prologue. wasn't my plan at the start but here we are... so things are quite different. but also the same. i also streamlined a lot of the choices & branches and cut/combined ones that i felt were just excessive.

i plan to update once i've finished making & importing these changes, and i will probably limit the demo to chapter 1 (previously the prologue) until i get through and edit chapter 2 (previously chapter 1) because i really don't want to have the demo be inconsistent for however long it takes me to get through the next edits. hopefully this will not take that long, and then i'll put chapter 2 & and part 1/what's already been published of chapter 3 back up. and then!!! i will move on to finishing chapter 3.

i know this probably isn't the update you all were hoping for but i'm excited for the next steps with tnp :-)

[mellybabbles]

“Uh, sorry sparky, but heh. You’re stuck with me.”

Some sendoff art for the end of the Stone Cold Fate arc for my Bill Cipher x reader. I'm excited for the upcoming chapters, as I have big things planned! Things Change - Chapter 1 - Mellybabbles - Gravity Falls [Archive of Our Own]

[susartwork]

[PROLOGUE - Part 19] Next Previous Start

Author note: We're back! And I put TOO much effort into this page... (reblogs are appreciated lol)

[god-syndicate-if]

Oh, Hey. That's a lot of you.

So just a general update since this is a milestone. The only scenes I need to finish up are the hang-out scenes. Which for a prologue I know they're not really needed but I wanted to add them. I've mostly been editing though, so word count is still about 80k. All of the hang out scenes, aside from Rebel's, are practically done. I'm going to assume with how things are going the entire prologue is going to be abbbooouuuttt 90k, but that could change, don't believe anything I'm saying until you all actually have it. I'm not one to really care about word count so it's whatever.

I'm going to try and finish everything very soon and give you all a date for it to be released. The stuff I gave my friends really made me feel good about the demo, and I hope you all will like it when it comes out!

And thank you so much for following!

[gotogull]

*smokes a pencil* guh. done.

[ Chapter 2:    Story Book ] —>

[cenpede]

My favorite horse girl 🥰 I love him so much I’d treat him soooo so right Arthur Morgan call m-

[lucabyte]

siffrin doodles to.... capture some excess emotion??? Man. If Start Again got its hooks in me this bad I'm frankly terrified as to what ISAT will do

[lee-hakhyun]

working on the revised side story prologue... sns removed some parts i liked, but overall the new prologue is a lot more fun imo (and has a nice star writer reference if you've read that)

[justpeaxchy]

The Hunt.

Hiccup x reader

Prologue: Being a kidnapped dragon hunter isn't fun. You are a living testament to that. Things seem to turn around for your good, though, much to your luck.

Warnings: descriptions of a few wounds, mentions of blood, being cuffed with a rope, and feeling overwhelmed.

A/n: oh yeah, it's all coming together. (If you know where that's from, ilysm.) New fic..I think. Extra notes: Reader is female in this one and will have a fake name throughout the story... you'll still be able to pick whatever name you wish for the real one, though.

Winter wasn't here yet, it was only clearing its throat - for the most part. Yet, the cold that pierced against your skin would've said otherwise. It felt as though millions of icicles were endlessly stabbing on your body, leaving you to helplessly attempt to wrap your bruised arms around your quivering figure, desperately clinging to the non-existent warmth you earnestly craved for.

The distant sound of waves from the outside crashed against your ears, making a repetitive movement to the begrimed box you were in. That's what you called it, a box. In actuality, that's all it really was. A gigantic box with metal bars, meant for animals. Or, more specifically, dragons; the one species that actually deserved to be in that cage you were forced in. It also smelled rancid in there.

Probably because of the enormous reptiles that were stuck in the same room as you were.

One of them groaned out in discomfort, the the chains that held them down being the only thing that restrained them from blowing the ship up into smithereens. Your eyes warily flickered over its struggling form, the iron muzzle on its mouth being brought together by a measly buckle on the back of its head. Dragons could be so intimidating, and yet, all it took was a few shackles to restrict their confidence.

Your wrists silently cried out in pain as you took your gaze off the beast that was a cage in front of you, wincing at the rope that pricked your besmirched skin. You were used to being the one that tied things up, not the other way around. It brought massive pangs of aching, that's for certain. If only you put some extra effort into getting those ropes on the dragons you were meant to hunt, you figured you wouldn't be in this predicament.

You wondered if they noticed you were gone. They've had to. It's been three days so far, from what little information you gathered by the nuisances that forced you into this box. Your tribe wasn't the biggest, but it was enough to earn the title of a 'tribe.' Your father would have to come sooner or later anyways. It would only be a matter of time before he came crashing into this ship with one of his own, saving you from this monstrous place. That's what you've been telling yourself since you were unwillingly put in a cage, meant for the very thing that brought you here.

It was painfully ironic.

The nuisances that tied your hands hadn't even glanced at the wounds they caused you. They'd taken your only two weapons: your bow and arrow, as well as your dagger, leaving you defenseless - something you despised. Thankfully, they didn't put a muzzle over your own mouth, allowing you to pester them whenever you had the opportunity. That, however, did not make the stinging soreness leave your body; cuts littered across your fingers and your arms, one charming scratch located on your cheek, and weakened legs that refused to cooperate much. You were living the perfect dream.

If that dream ended up being a nightmare you visualized as a child.

Men's voices were heard from above you, coming out as muffled utterances to one another. You brushed it off as normal, not wanting to increase the aggravating headache that clung onto you, attempting to push away the hunger that yelled its complaints from within your stomach. Shifting uncomfortably in your spot, you glimpsed at your tattered clothes, noticing a few blemishes of dried blood in a few places. You grimaced at the sight, miserably wanting to clean off your cuts and bruises and find a new pair of clothing. You hated being unclean, despite the job you were set out to do.

The dreadful thoughts of worrying whether or not the cuts you bore would get infected abruptly came to an end when you heard the same men's voices - although this time, it seemed to be more frantic, much more louder than it had been previously. You narrowed your eyes in suspicion, feeling a spark of hope that your father had come back as you tried to get a glimpse of what might be happening above, the cracks of the hatch door not providing you any evidence as to why they were suddenly shouting warnings to one another.

Before you could try and vainly investigate any further, the echoing sound of swords colliding against one another made you flinch, the familiar yells of war cry being one of the loudest things you heard. The other commotion was despicably familiar. Threatening roars were heard, impossible to ignore, but it wasn't from the dragons that were trapped in the cages with you. "That's definitely not good.." You muttered, your voice raspy from not drinking enough water over the course of three long days.

The ship seemed to rattle at a larger rate, causing you to stumble as you tried to stand up with your feeble legs; your body was doused in inadequate strength, weakly being able to lean against the gelid bars of the cage. The tumult above never came to a pause as you felt your heart pound from within your chest, desperate to know who came to invade the ship. You thought your questions would be answered as the hatch door quickly opened, allowing you to see a man frantically running down the creaky wooden steps with panicked features.

You smacked your lips at the realization that it was just another one of the hunters, blowing a stranded piece of your hair out of your face as you watched him briefly scan each of the cages, double-checking them all to make sure all of the dragons were still in their original spots. He didn't even glimpse over at your direction, his focus strictly remaining on guarding the dragons as they began to roar, trying to escape from the chains that blocked their way to freedom. You were peeved by the man's actions, furrowing your brows at him as you mentally scolded him for coming by himself.

Leaving the atrocious ship was your only priority, but it was hard to ignore the very obvious mistake he made. It proved itself not to be the most intelligent plan as another figure appeared at the entrance of the hatch, swiftly running down the steps with a weapon that glowed with a threatening amount of flames, wasting no time in making the foolish man fall to the ground. The other stranger kicked his weapon in a distance where he wouldn't be able to grab it right away, hastily going over to the cages with a pair of keys he must have stolen, freeing each dragon as expeditiously as he could while the hunter groaned in pain on the floor.

The stranger with the flaming sword was agile in unbuckling the muzzles and chains, nimbly going to another cage as soon as he was done with a previous one. He didn't notice you yet, too engrossed with freeing the dragons out of all things. It wasn't hard to figure out that he was apart of the group you've heard about, the one that was on a mission to 'save' all trapped dragons. It brought a bitter taste to your mouth. That, however, would have to be pushed aside. For now.

You tried calling out for their attention, but combined with the screeches and roars of oversized reptiles and your hoarse voice, it was no surprise that it went unheard. Anxious that you wouldn't be seen, and therefore have no way of escaping, you continued to yell out as loud as you could: "Hey! Over here, flaming sword person!" Oh, how you wished your hands weren't tied together; you could've at least made some extra noise against the bars if they hadn't been.

You doubted the stranger would ever look over at you, all until another person sharply sprinted down the steps, a familiar set of armor adorning their figure, one that appeared to have the same material as the other stranger. In the dim lighting from above, you managed to see a distinct difference in the color, though. "Alright, they're all down and the dragons are freed!" Stranger number two shouted, dodging a dragon as it bolted up next to her, breaking through the wood to finally escape. The rest of the dragons followed, roaring in triumph.

"Good. We need to get going then." Their voices came out slightly muffled, the helmets they wore covering their entire faces as they got ready to leave. Much to your relief, Stranger number two scanned the area one more time, doing a double-take when they noticed you. They frantically tapped on the other's arm, gesturing over to your form as they both looked over at you in surprise.

"How could you have missed that? And, look! There's a whole other dragon over there in front of her!" Stranger number two, who sounded like a young woman, pointed to the dragon that still remained in its cage in front of yours, whining to be free. Shaking her head, the stranger ran over to your cage, inspecting you from where she stood while the other one worked on getting the dragon free, rambling out their apologies in the process. "Are you alright? Can you walk?" The unknown woman asked, not making any immediate move to get you out of the cage.

You cleared your throat before responding, "I'm alive, and it'd be a pretty big struggle for me to walk right now.." Your eyes watched as she turned to the other stranger, who now had freed the dragon. It was quick to leave, darting up in the same way the others had done, not glancing back at the people who helped it even once. She beckoned for them to come closer and, as you listened more carefully and looked them over, the other stranger appeared to be a young man. For a moment, you didn't entirely know that because of his muffled voice.

It sounded a bit odd.

He was about to unlock the cage for you, but the woman extended out her hand, stopping him from continuing any further. He seemed just as confused as you were by the slight tilt of his head, the helmet hiding any other evidence of what he was thinking. "Hold on. Are you..one of them?" She cautiously asked, silently questioning if you were also a dragon hunter.

You were startled that she asked you such a thing, being that you were in a cage. You felt your mouth become even more dry at the sudden confrontation, the small bickering between the two strangers that now occurred going deaf to your ears. Of course you couldn't tell them the truth, they'd probably abandon you here like the rest on this ship. And you knew the only way they must have gotten here was on a dragon, the very creature you were set out to kill. You wondered what your father would think of you if you rode on the back of one of those things.

Being faced with the decision of lying directly to them about who you really were, you internally apologized to your tribe, finding that being alive was much better than having to stick with the identity you placed on yourself because of your job and be left for dead because of it. Your heart ached at the thought of your father, wondering what his reaction would be like when he found out what you were about to do. Not wanting to get stuck down that spiraling hole of worrying, you lifted your head and spoke, raspy voice and all:

"No. I'm not."

When they looked at you as though they didn't understand what you had said, you gave a more detailed answer, "I was..kidnapped, and they, uh, put me down here with the dragons. It's been three days." Your answer was true, for the most part, but you hoped they wouldn't interrogate you any further. An excruciating long second of silence passed as you waited for one of them to open the cage door, beginning to think your response wasn't good enough, until the young woman took a step back. The first stranger took that as his confirmation and he rapidly unlocked the cage, allowing you to take your first wobbling step of freedom.

"Wait, let me get that off you." He gestured towards the ropes that entrapped your hands, speaking with a softer tone as though he were helping an injured animal. You weakly nodded as he pressed a button on the handle of his sword, the flames dying out in a matter of seconds before he carefully began to cut off the man-made prison for your hands. The moment you felt the ropes fall off, you sighed out in content, grateful your wrists could finally breathe. "Alright, she can ride with you, Astrid."

You glanced at the young woman, who you knew now as Astrid, who quietly agreed as she took careful steps closer to you, lifting one of your arms to wrap it around her shoulder, giving you the much needed assistance to walk up the not-so-stable stairs, which were halfway destroyed by the dragons who flew out of there. The other stranger, who's name you still didn't know, walked beside you as well, making sure you wouldn't trip in any form.

The fresh air was your own sip of pure cold water; it brought a faint sense of relief, reminding you that you were still actually alive and would make it out of that ship as such. That peace was short-lived, however, once your gaze settled on the dragons that were still there, although these ones had..saddles. You never imagined the day where you'd meet a dragon rider, nonetheless get rescued by them. You swallowed down the nerves that started to arise in you at the sight of the difference sizes of dragons that stood before you, all of them having someone sitting on top of them as though they weren't completely dangerous.

Your eyes flickered over the ship once more, noticing a Deadly Nadder without someone on it, concluding that probably belonged to one of the people who helped you. Glimpsing at Astrid, though, you figured that was most likely her dragon due to the similar color of armor she wore. "Okay, guys, let's head out!" Stranger number one yelled, signaling for the other riders to leave, which they all did with skeptical glances thrown your way, the freed dragons following close behind. One of them, however, who sat on top of a Monstrous Nightmare, didn't hesitate to voice out his thoughts as he stayed on the ship with them; "Uhm, who's that? You guys just magically come back up here with..a girl? Instead of a dragon? What--"

"She was locked up in a cage, Snotlout. She said she was kidnapped, so we're gonna take her to Berk to get her wounds treated." The young man sounded irritated at first, briefly shaking his head in disappointment at the words the other dragon rider, 'Snotlout', said. He turned his focus onto Astrid, giving a short nod, "Make sure she's fully secure on Stormfly." With that, he took a few steps forward as Snotlout left, calling out for what you assumed to be his dragon: "Toothless! Time to go, bud!"

It was silent for a moment, only for a hauntingly familiar roar to sound in your ears, freezing in your spot as you witnessed a Night Fury appear from behind a cage on the far end of the ship. It was early in the morning, so there wasn't any natural lighting to see the dragon completely, the lamps that hung over a few of the cages being the only reason why you were able to make out its form. Its sleek scales blended in with the darkened sky, dorsal plates faintly glowing in a light blue as it bounded over to the three of you. Large emerald eyes cautiously looked over your figure, as though seeing if you were worthy of his trust, and all you could do was try and become as perfectly still as the pieces of wood that littered across the ship.

The Night Fury huffed, examining you from where he stood next to the first Stranger, looking just as skeptical as the other riders. "It's alright, bud, she...she didn't hurt us. She's not an enemy." You could easily pick up on the hesitation in his voice, knowing that he probably didn't trust you completely - rightfully so. "C'mon, let's go." At his command, Astrid also led you to the Deadly Nadder, lightly patting the dragon before she turned to help you mount it. You intended not to appear as uneasy as you felt, but you didn't do such a great performance. It also didn't go unnoticed by Astrid.

"It's okay, she won't harm you.. her name's Stormfly." She said, hoping to make you more comfortable with the dragon, which did not work at all. Hearing your silence, she continued to guide you up on the back of Stormfly, nodding towards the first Stranger once you were fully settled. She was much more skilled in mounting the dragon, making you even more discomfited. Glancing over at the other dragon rider who had now flown up in the air on the Night Fury, you questioned to yourself why he was so willing to help you. Berk, from what you've been told, was an island full of dragon lovers. That's what you called it, at least.

It made your skin crawl with disquietness.

"You might want to hang on. As tight as you can, okay? I know you're a bit..injured, but once we're at Berk you'll be able to rest there." Astrid brought you out of your hateful thoughts towards the dragons they rode, causing you to begrudgingly wrap your frail arms around her torso, not knowing what to expect. Not a minute later, the Deadly Nadder sprang up from the ship, vigorously flapping down her wings as she propelled herself up to the sky, deftly making long and husky strides towards the rest of the group. You yelped at the sudden impact, not fully comprehending if you were squeezing Astrid at that point. She didn't seem to mind, though, focused on getting closer to the other dragon riders.

The wind rushed past your unruly hair, leaving behind a piercing cold pang across your face as you desperately used what little strength you had left to hang onto the stranger that seemed more at ease than you were, barely only knowing her name. You narrowly heard her speak to you, as she slightly turned her head to glimpse back at your panicking form, "What's your name?"

Despite being on the back of a Deadly Nadder, your mind told you not to even mutter out your real name. Your last name, Arne, would be a dead giveaway as well, so you struggled to come up with a quicker response. Thankfully, you grabbed a hold of the lingering idea in your thoughts, shouting out your answer over the gale that surrounded your senses:

"Thyra! My name is Thyra."

She acknowledged your answer with one of her own, making sure you were able to hear, "I'm Astrid, you've probably heard that by now." Returning her focus forward again, she allowed you to be consumed by your worries once more. Your father certainly did not come back yet, and when he found out you weren't on the same ship as the one you were held hostage in, you pondered on the possibility of him setting out search parties for you.

Instead of hunting down dragons, he would have to go on a prolonged hunt for you.

Suddenly, you thought coming with this group of dragon riders wasn't as good of a plan as you predicted it to be.

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