#but then religious visions possessed me

[gauloiseblue]

sea, swallow me

[König × reader]

TW: drowning, trauma, mention of death, obsessive thought

When you're drowning, you could only hold your breath for 30 to 90 seconds underwater, before you couldn't help but inhale the water. Survivors—like himself—would describe the burning sensation in their chest, a violent rejection from the lungs as the water filled in instead of air. Then, quiet. Quiet and calm, as they slip out of consciousness.

But the tranquility is only brief, before your own body jerks up, awake, and coughing out the water.

By the time you realize you're still alive, you know that the worst is yet to come.

Surviving the torture was easy, but what was left of it would be enough to turn a person into a deadman. Because the mind is unforgiving, the mind remembers it all.

At night, when it's supposed to be a quiet one, your mind would conjure up the memory of it. One by one in hazy details.

And for him, the cost of surviving was heavier than death.

Still, it doesn't mean he hated the water. It did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong except for the fact that it ended up in the wrong place inside his body.

(It's a wonder how a misplaced thing could cost you your own life

Just like how a stray cell destroyed his mother's brain)

He tried to ignore them—the creeping darkness from the corner of the room—but it's no avail. It always finds a way to disturb him.

Sometimes he saw it in the form of analogy; an unsuited soldier would always ruin the whole team, or a mistyped word would cause the documents to be invalid. But recently, the depiction of it became clearer as he returned home.

His village is nothing like an ordinary one. It was supposed to be a beautiful one, but the civilization moved too fast, and it forced them to keep up. Now what was left of it is a ghastly mishap between modernity and staleness.

Yet, in the middle of the bleakness, there was Blume.

She was the aberration of the gloom, the deviation from the somber faces that surrounds her.

For him, she's a flower that grew in the middle of the battlefield. She shouldn't have existed, yet here she was. A misplaced thing.

Wherever she went, the sun would follow behind. Lighting the path that she took.

He didn't like her, and he'd leave whenever she's present, just like the darkness that's chased away from the light.

That was, until the fateful day, when she arrived at the front of his door, holding a jar of yellow marmalade.

"Do you remember me? Your mother was a good friend of my ma."

She said it as she handed him the container,

"She told me to give you this. It's an apricot jam."

At that moment, his breathing came to a halt.

(God is the cruelest creature

Tempting Its mortals with purity

As if it's within their reach)

He couldn't do anything but stare, and she took it as the exit point.

"Let us know if you need anything."

With that, she left the doorstep. Leaving him in the darkness once again.

It took him a few seconds before he could catch his breath.

For the first time in his life, he felt a greater fear clutching his heart in a tight grip—something that's more primal, more ancient than the fear of death.

Yet the fear didn't come alone. It bought fascination and curiosity into his mind. Poisoning him with an obsession for the mystery.

(A mystery that took after her face)

She was an enigma, something that he couldn't solve. He could tell a soldier's weakness over a glance, but with her, he wouldn't even know the meaning behind her smile.

Whenever she smiled—whether it's aimed at him, or somebody else—he'd tense up, as if his head had been submerged underwater.

At night, he'd lay there, thinking and overanalyzing the small talk they made at the market, ruminating over and over again, to the point of madness.

It'd follow him to his dream, where he'd see her among the sea of people. And he'd follow her, despite the muddy ground on his feet. Sometimes the people around him would drift away like the usual crowd, but sometimes they stared at him, with their milky-white eyes.

Dreams were a good teller for what transpired in his life. The odd looks from the people around him, and the unashamed attitude of the voyeur—watching him as he walked with her.

There's time where he wished he could grab her arms and shout,

You're not supposed to be here

You're not supposed to be near me

But the image of the crowd, with their white eyes, would haunt him. So he swallowed back the knife, and let it hurt him instead.

(He'd even cut his own hands to keep her pure

Untouched by the ugliness that's him)

She was oblivious to it, blissfully unaware of her surroundings.

He didn't understand it, until he realized the attention they gave was pointed at him.

He was the water in the lungs—the strange bird in a flock.

(Should he walk into the fire

So he'd be cleansed from the impurities

That were latched on his body?)

Still, she'd look at him, as if he's something of a human. Something that didn't resemble a grotesque, misshapen creature.

And he'd cry if she ever touched him, with the same tenderness that she showed to a mere beetle.

(She gently placed her hand on a leaf, letting the bug crawl out of her finger until it reached the familiar place.

Gods, if no other beings could rival your mercy,

Then she must've been one of you)

He'd crawl into her hand if she let him—basking in the warmth of the sun during the long winter—until he withered away.

Alas, the summer had to pass.

At the dinner table, he told her goodbye. One day earlier than he was supposed to.

And she chuckled, rubbing her neck as she looked at the window.

"That's too bad, I'm just beginning to like you."

He stopped at his track, not believing what he just heard. He'd pretend he didn't listen, if their eyes didn't meet.

"Liar." He said.

"It's not a lie." She told him, "I do like you."

"Kiss me then," He replied to her, "If you're honest."

And she did. She kissed him earnestly.

(For a moment, he thought he'd die

With his heart hammered against his chest

—Pleading to be freed, to be spared from the horror

Of loving and leaving her

Before it turned silent)

The tenderness of her lips left him too soon, that he almost fell on his knees, begging for another blessing he didn't deserve.

(It was too much, too much

He didn't deserve it, didn't he?

But what should he do

When he himself was ravenous?)

[hinamie]

we may not get forever / but forever is far

[wine-and-madness]

I still yearn.

I still long for things I have no access to, I still long for my god, I fear he is distant.

He is the god of mental health, too. He is the god of taking your meds. I know this.

I cannot help missing the all-consuming rush of emotions unbridled, mind spinning, vision tunneled, hands buzzing with glorious tension. Excitement, ecstacy, blinding rage, all intense, all burning.

We never talk about how it feels good. We are already judged enough as it is.

It's better this way, I know. It's better calm, feeling reasonable amounts at a time, not hurting myself, not hurting those around me.

I fear I have lost his madness with the rest.

It is better this way, I know.

Maybe now, I can find purely Dionysus, instead of the hateful creations of my own mind.

[runa-falls]

what a mess~

pairing: miguel o'hara x reader cw: smut, established relationship, superhuman stamina, overstimulation, cum EVERYWHERE, 'use a condom, it's too messy X(', 'bitch stfu i'll show you messy'..., so many sheets, reader is a pushover (bc I WOULD BE TOO) wc: 1k + a/n: i um... just take this and I'll go to a corner of a room and think ab what I've done.

---

Having a superhero boyfriend is great – he gets you discounts at your favorite restaurant, he easily carries you home after a long night out at the bar, he saves you from getting kidnapped by his arch-nemesis for the fourth time this month (though isn’t that his fault in the first place?....) – but there are aspects of the relationship that you didn’t consider before. 

Apparently, with great power comes great… stamina. 

To put it plainly, Miguel’s (sex) drive is unheard of. You better clear out your schedule for the whole day because he can go for hours. And most nights, you can barely sit up after he fucks you.

You like that – or you did when you could afford to be sore every other day. You like how enthusiastic he is – how much he wants you. It makes you feel desired and beautiful. But it’s not just the intense workout you risk every time you steal a kiss that turns into more – it’s the number of times he can…finish. 

Every time you think he’s finished, he’s still hard and thrusting into you, overstimulating you until black stars start to fill your vision. 

It’s a mess in the end. 

You lay on top of him, filled to the brim, dripping all over his lower stomach and onto the sheets under you, breathing so hard you���re sure you’d rupture a lung. You feel like you’re barely conscious on the bed as your heart beats harshly against your chest from how hard you came. Hair sticks graciously against your forehead as your eyes struggle to stay open to see Miguel, who gently pulls out and watches his mess spill out of you. 

He whispers sweetly of how well you took him, how pretty you look all fucked out, how much he loves that he can turn you into a blabbering – mindless whore. Being the possessive man he is, he attempts to shove it back in, using two of his thick fingers to gather and push his essence back into you, hoping that, against all odds, it’ll take, despite the fact you take your birth control religiously. 

Of course, when he sees how your thighs shake and squeeze around his hand from the overstimulation of him fucking his fingers into you after you just came, he immediately gets hard again. 

He gazes down at you with apologetic red eyes as he bites his lip under a sharp fang, “I can’t help it when I see how wrecked your pussy is for me…”

It’s nice – it’s hot – but you end up having to change the sheets 5 times a week. He’s insatiable… well ok, you’re just as thirsty as your boyfriend, but the amount of maintenance you need for each session is ridiculous. You basically gave up washing your sheets after every fuck, and instead ordered several identical sets of bedding to make the process easier. 

Many sheets have been destroyed beyond recognition. Okay, maybe you’re being a bit overdramatic, but the amount of cum-stained sheets in your linen closet is insane. How are you supposed to hide this if you were to have guests over?!

After staring at the layers of folded-up and stained sheets that you’ve accumulated over the past few months, you decided you were going to do something about it. 

You can still have fun without the mess.

…right?

—

Miguel has you on your back at the end of the bed with your legs resting on the crook of his arms. You have on a cute little nightgown – white to symbolize purity (though what you were about to do was far from pure) – with nothing underneath. It was one you bought just to get a reaction out of him – and now you got it. 

He holds you open for him, regarding you like he would a special gift – though there’s nothing to really celebrate (unless you count his raging erection). He breathes harshly against your neck as he paints your skin with kisses and nips. You’re nearly folded in half with how closely he’s pushed against you, but you can barely recognize the mere tinge of soreness in your legs with how fluidly pleasure seems to travel from his lips down to the apex of your thighs. 

Miguel O’Hara, the strong, independent Spider-Man, is truly a mess in front of you. His once neatly ironed tie now hangs loosely around his neck, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and his hair a tangle of unruly curls. His fingers, now caressing your body, are already dripping in your slick from when he forced a couple of orgasms out of you right when he got home. 

You find a sense of satisfaction in the disheveled state of his appearance, relishing how his once meticulously groomed demeanor has been disrupted – how his eyes transition from their usual chocolatey brown to a striking blood red, how his lips swell sweetly with lust. 

Miguel groans deeply as he grinds his clothed hardness against your wet center, “Mm…I want you so bad.” He unbuttons and unzips his pants, sighing as he releases himself from the tight fabric. No underwear? 

“Wait, Mig." he pauses his movements, waiting patiently – prepared to do whatever you want. “Get a condom.” …Except maybe…that. 

“Condom?” He could barely hold back his sneer, but you could faintly hear the growl vibrate from his chest. 

“Mhm, we’ve been too messy lately. We can’t just keep buying new sheets every week!”

“...We could…”

“Miguel!”

“I don’t see what the problem is… this is just how it is.”

“But it’s too messy.”

“I thought my baby likes to be filled up…”

“...I-I mean, I do sometimes, but –”

“Don’t you like it when I get you all messy?” He leans in close, distracting you from denying him. “Have you dripping with me for days?” He presses closer, and you can feel his hard cock slip against your wetness, dragging against your sensitive clit. 

“Miguel.” You whine.

It’s so hard to deny this man.

“How about we just try to be more careful, hm?” He presses against you gently, nearly entering you, but not quite. It feels so good, the tip of him barely stretching past your entrance. 

“Okay…j-just this once though…” You surrender with a whisper.

[ozzgin]

I just watched The First Omen at the cinema and you may go ahead and cuff me for blasphemy, but…

Devil x Reader

You have been chosen by the Cult as the one to carry their ungodly plan after many failed attempts. This time it was a success, yet not for the reasons they might expect. The Devil has his eyes on you.

Content: female reader, mentions of pregnancy, religious themes, blasphemy, violence, horror, a non-consent scene!, based on The First Omen (2024); image from the promotional poster

Why you, of all people? You're not particularly devoted to religion, nor do you stand out in terms of virtuousness. Or lack of, for that matter. Alas, their reasons remain unknown.

What's certain is that you woke up one day and found yourself strapped to a foreign bed, staring into a ceiling you didn't recognize. You weren't alone. Around your helpless form stood men and women, dressed in black and wearing a solemn smile. Your forehead received a gentle, encouraging stroke from the hand of the priest. The scent of chrism invaded your nostrils.

You begged them to release you. The older man spoke softly in your ear. "You are serving a greater purpose. It is all in the name of God." God? Purpose? You rolled your eyes back and gazed upon the large painting hanging behind you. Virgin Mary and her blissful smile and stretched out hands felt like a mockery.

The holy image vanished as a black cloth was nonchalantly draped over your face. You felt the rope tighten around your neck and begun gasping for the scarce air barely making it through the thick canvas. A crescendo of muffled chants, and the room went abruptly quiet. Had everyone left?

Then you heard it. That profane growl, causing the entirety of your body to shiver in repugnance and terror. You trashed, and pulled, and screamed, to no avail. A clawed hand rested on your bare stomach, then a second one traced the rest of your body. You laid limp, vision blurred as the room swayed in tandem with the sacrilegious act.

You'd been defiled by a Beast. The next time you opened your eyes, you were back in your bed. Your hopes of it being a mere nightmare were shattered the moment you lifted your gown and noticed the deep scratches, the monstrous prints left on your skin, and the hollow sensation in the pit of your stomach. Your body had been tampered with, and something was growing out of your misfortune. A vile blight, throbbing with life within the comfort of your flesh.

You spent the months haunted by voices and visions. The grotesque, horned Creature would frequently reappear in your mind, exhausting all other thoughts. Such a heavy, imposing presence. It wouldn't let you forget, not even for a second: you belonged to Him, and He would soon return to retrieve you. The mother of His child, the object of His adoration. Was such a thing even conceivable?

You prayed to be left alone, yet the Cult naturally longed for its promised gift, bound to come back eventually. And so, once more, you were facing the people who caused your despair. "We've come for the child", the priest explained, glancing at your obvious, bulging belly. The clawed hand framing it was still a fresh wound that never healed, almost as an ominous warning: this body was owned by a jealous God.

Your trembling hands revealed a pocketknife. This time, you were prepared. The group took a moment to observe your daring gesture, then proceeded to approach you with calculated steps, with newfound resolve. Would you be able to keep them away? Their intentions were clear: you were in possession of the Antichrist, and they needed to secure this immense power.

The ground shook, and everyone froze. You glanced at the altar painting, the same one that witnessed your corruption. Virgin Mary remained with an unfaltering smile. From behind the ornate frame, large, horrid hands creeped out. A travesty of everything Holy. The priest gasped and quickly threw his hands in prayer. This was not part of the plan. This was not meant to happen.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis-" he began, but his voice was cut short. His face turned pale, and he clutched his chest with a terrible grimace. The nun next to him let out a scream before she was pushed away by an invisible force. Her body hit the wall with a loud, wet sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing. You stared at the massacre unfolding before you, devoid of any fear. Somehow, in the depths of your soul, you knew you'd be safe.

An enormous shadow emerged from behind the painting, twisting, bending, stalking towards you. Your nose scrunched at the stench of blood. You were the last one standing among corpses. To your surprise, you exhaled deeply, shoulders drooping in comfort. A silent voice murmured in your ear, telling you not to fear. That Father was finally home for you.

Foolish, ridiculous humans. He'd been willing to entertain their petty plans of grandeur, until he met you: your tender, frail body, your innocent soul. How exalting it was to have his way with you. You were meant to be the one. To carry His offspring into the damned world. But not for some trifling reason of a Cult desperate to crawl their way back into control. Their greatest mistake - which led to their demise - was to assume the Devil himself can be controlled, ordered around. He has allowed you the greatest honor of joining him, out of your free will, to sow the seeds of chaos as his beloved mortal.

Thus, he couldn't have possibly allowed anyone to interfere. What you saw that day, in that old, musty underground cavern, was an omen: a bloodbath awaits the one who dares to approach his human.

You look up into the demonic orbs: trenches of madness, obsession, vulgarity, burning holes into you, slurping your very existence with hunger and lust. You are his.

[kiyoomi-levin]

Morning Routine pt.1 [nsfw]

(Wakatoshi Ushijima x F!Reader)

a/n this is something i wrote and edited today in a single run >.< I wanted to release a haikyuu fluff fic for my tumblr debut but i was just possessed by something this morning and rolled outta bed and just typed this up hehe.. reblogs and comments appreciated!! i have like 12 unfinished works rn and i am busting my ass off to get those finished and published! please be on the lookout for more from me!

summary:: wakatoshi has a bad habit-- his morning routine revolves around you. more specifically, cumming to the sounds of you. warnings:: wakatoshi is highkey a creep/stalker but this fic is fluffy i promise music rec!:: 2fast by superm <AKA the song i listened to when writing> word count:: 1.9k

6:33 AM, the blinking clock reads. 

He doesn’t even need an alarm now. 

Silently, Wakatoshi rolls over, reaches over to his nightstand and grasps the two items he needs most– lube and toilet paper. 

Sighing, he sits himself up, leaning against the headboard of the bed, and, as if awaiting instructions, goes very, very still. 

In a way, he is waiting for orders. You just aren’t aware that you’re the one giving them. 

6:34 AM. A mere minute before you’re up and he can get started with his day. It doesn’t feel right, yet he can’t stop. Shaking his head, Wakatoshi shifts his weight around, impatient. 

I should stop. 

There it is. That nagging voice of reason that scolds him every morning. But really, at this point, he can’t function normally without you. 

There’s a certain amount of stress that comes with carrying the title of ace. All the papers praising his skills, cheering fangirls, and words of encouragement from coach only added to the ever growing expectations that people had for him. 

Luckily, when he was a senior in high school, Wakatoshi had discovered what best alleviates this pressure– not meditation, not Tendo’s comics, but sexual relief. 

Every morning, a quick handjob does the job, gets him into prime condition. He even checked with his primary doctor to ensure it’s safe and healthy to release everyday– “you’ll be fine, Wakatoshi, as long as you don’t consume too much porn,” the old man had advised kindly. 

He took the doctor’s words to heart– since he had discovered this method of relief, Wakatoshi had never viewed porn. Some of his teammates laughed at him when they found out he almost religiously avoids it, but he doesn’t want to contaminate his brain with potentially intrusive or disturbing visions. His imagination has always been enough, after all. 

Until he met you.

In a way, you’re both a blessing and a curse– probably the latter, he admits to himself. Because since he’d met you months ago, the only thing that’s been able to get him up is you. 

He’s never slept so well, his skin has never looked so clear, and, most importantly, his condition on court has never been better. He’s considered the possibility of you being a goddess, or possibly his guardian angel and can only rule those out with the fact that you, like him, masturbate. 

More accurately, masturbate. Every. Single. Morning. 

Then he hears it. The first soft moan. Wakatoshi glances at the time– 6:37 AM. You’re getting a slightly late start today. 

No matter. He lifts his hips, gently rolls down his gray sweats to his lower thigh. He’s already hard. He doesn’t even have to touch himself now to get excited. Your quiet voice and the thoughts of you are enough.

Poor you. You’re unaware that despite residing in a luxurious, single-person room reserved for school athletes, the walls are criminally thin. 

Wakatoshi pops open the lid of the lube, squirting a glob into his warm hand. He throws aside the bottle, barely registering as it bounces off the bed, only intent on listening into the sounds of you and your body. 

When he first grasps his cock, he has to hold back a groan. Despite it being an everyday routine, he still feels the same surge of pleasure as when he first started this nasty habit months ago. 

You're breathing slightly more heavily now, and he hears the sounds of your fingers inserting and exiting your body at a familiar pace. He follows along, carefully stroking up and down. 

He wonders where you’ve learned this from, because you always go at the perfect pace. Somedays, you go slower, teasing yourself, pausing just before you orgasm, but it’s always. 

It’s always exactly what he needs.

God. He knows this is wrong, even as he pumps faster with his left hand to keep up with your quick fingers. It feels so good. 

Next door, you’re beginning to let out soft cries.

He presses his thumb against the tip, holding back a moan of his own as he envisions you jerking him off. 

He’s seen your hand before– extra soft from being in gloves for multiple hours daily as a fencer. 

Thinking about your sport has him thinking about his, and now he’s back to thinking about how wrong this is. But he can’t help it, he’s already tried to give it up once– yielding horrible results. 

The day he held back and skipped a morning fap session with you was also the hardest day of his life. He had found himself unable to focus in lecture, especially grumpy towards Tendo’s typically bearable antics, and worst of all, all his hits were off. 

“Your schedule must be off,” his captain had said, casually tossing a ball high into the air.

“Bad sleep? Rough morning?” 

Wakatoshi had blinked at him wordlessly, wondering how the tall setter had guessed accurately. 

“It’s fine,” the third-year had reassured him, “just get back on track tomorrow.”

With that, Wakatoshi had found himself ‘back on track,’ masturbating with– no, to you– every morning. 

You’re moaning out loud now, almost whimpering. His cock pulses in his hands, veins bulging, growing hotter and heavy. Fuck, he just wants to see you right now. Your cute face, your sexy neck, gorgeous arms... 

He can almost see it now– your smooth thighs shaking and twisting as your small hands would grasp your pillow. He’d make you feel so good, he just knows it. He’d lean against you, kiss your neck and ear before whispering how good you are, how you’re making him cum, how much he loves you! 

You’d cum, and he wouldn’t stop. He’d want to see your eyes roll back over and over again, and he’d memorize every inch of your face.

Wakatoshi holds back another groan. His fisted hand feels so good against his cock, especially as it imagines it’s your tight pussy. 

Contrary to what Tendo believes (the only one to know about this bad habit) it wasn’t just your soft moans and quiet gasps that had him clenching his sheets as he lifted his hips.

He had long fallen for you, since you had first locked eyes with him in the long hallway. 

There was something about you. The way you always smile up at him gently– not in the way that other girls smile at him, as if they want something (usually his number)– but a genuine smile, eyes crinkling slightly.  

This unexpected attraction was only exacerbated when you sat next to him at the first-years’ dinner party. You smelled so fucking good and listened to his words with actual interest, asking him about his family and laughing at his lame jokes.

Unfortunately, he was also scared. 

He had heard about the countless rejections you’d dished out since the first day of university. 

Despite his perceived sexual ignorance, Wakatoshi knew everything there was to know– he was popular, too, in his own right. Tall and lean, there were girls throwing themselves on him left and right. 

But he only wanted you. 

Today, he must be extra stressed (especially with that upcoming psychology exam that he hasn’t studied for yet) because he’s so, so close, yet can’t seem to finish. 

Fine then. 

He leans over, grabs his cell phone. He only does this in emergency cases, which occurs about once or twice a month. 

Swiping up, he’s greeted by his photo gallery, opened the night prior for this cause. 

In his locked gallery awaits dozens of photos of you. 

Obviously none were taken by him! 

Wakatoshi’s a creep, but one with manners and boundaries. 

This gallery is cluttered with headshots of you from the school’s official website, silly photos of you that were sent into the college athlete’s group chat, and his favorite– photos of you from your close friend who sells them to him at fair prices, starting at $10 minimum. 

None are suggestive. But they still rile him up, maybe because the only connection he has with you is through your early morning activities. 

Wakatoshi desperately taps on the newest picture he bought for $40, quadruple the usual price– he can hear your breath hitching, and he knows you’re almost done. 

He wants to finish with you so bad. 

He was going to save this picture for next week, when he knows you’ll be gone for the fencing nationals and he’ll have to cum without you for an entire miserable, dreadful, god-forsaken week–

but he doesn’t care now. Nothing matters. 

It’s a glorious photo– when he heard your friend had it, he had grabbed her by the shoulders and demanded a price. 

You. On the beach. Under an umbrella. Lying on a purple towel.

He had paid an extra ten dollars for the motion picture– so he could watch you go from ass up onto your back, breasts jiggling and cheeky smirk in full action.

That’s enough. 

He holds his fist tight–one more pump and he’s finished, but he wants to make sure you’re cumming first– and he hears it– to his relief, you’re moaning and whispering– “‘m cumming!” 

Yeah, he’s cumming too. His hips lift again, and he drags his closed fist downwards against his wet cock. His vision blurs. 

“Fuck!” 

He can’t help it, today’s orgasm is especially strong, taking control of his full body. He’s shaking, mind barely in control as he continues to slowly pump to ride out the whole orgasm. After all, that’s what you’d do, right? You’d keep riding him, even as he finished and begged you to stop. 

Thank God we came together.

Sometimes, you bait him. More often than he likes, you switch it up, holding yourself back and not allowing yourself to cum before masturbating all over again for an even more powerful orgasm. Those days suck– when he’s already softening, cum all over his large hands, and you’re still going. 

He hears your bed squeak, and he sighs– as soon as it starts, it’s already over.

6:45 AM, his phone reads. Wakatoshi tosses it aside.

Thankfully, he had pulled his phone away in time, avoiding tainting the device with his release. A few times a month, he gets careless and cums onto an open picture of you, causing him to have to run through his shower extra fast so he can leave time to wipe down the device.

Rolling off the bed, he heads towards the shower leisurely. It’s also become a part of his routine to time his shower. It makes him feel even more intimately connected to you. 

Wakatoshi’s grateful you take long showers– you’ve never taken less than 24 minutes to shower, typically, they last about 34 minutes on average. That gives him the time to jump out first and wait to exit his room at the same time you depart from yours. 

Under the heat of warm water, he’s usually consumed with thoughts of you, impossible thoughts, like maybe you know. 

The wall between you and him is equally thin, and your hearing may be as equally good as his…

Maybe you know, and you like masturbating with him. 

And then, just as a precaution, he douses himself with cold water at the end of his shower, and those thoughts dissipate with the steam escaping towards the vent. 

Like everyday, Wakatoshi laces his shoes, sprays on his favorite cologne (that your friend claims you like) and inhales, bracing himself to see you. 

As he hears your feet shuffle, he pushes his door open first, stepping out into the warm hallway.

“Good morning, Wakatoshi!” You greet, eyes brightening. He nods, gulping. That’s an acceptable form of greeting, right?

As the two of you walk towards the elevator in silence, Wakatoshi can’t help but hope that this morning routine won’t be coming to a stop anytime soon. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n and that's a wrap :,) i really hope you liked and sorry the ending is highkey shit LOL as i kept editing i kept adding and removing more and more and honestly that's kind of my biggest weakness:: i'm never satisfied with my work and i'm scared ppl won't like it ... but i'm trying to overcome that!

[theabysss]

Plush toy

pairing: sagau!Zhongli x Reader

summary: Zhongli performs his evening prayer, goes to bed and suddenly finds himself in your plush toy.

warnings: yandere, possessive & obsessive thoughts, religious + cult themes.

word count: 1.1k

note: Okay, I give up, I just can't stop writing at night. My body and inspiration are in cahoots to keep me from writing during the day. I ordered acrylic stands with Zhongli and Dottore, it remains to wait for them to arrive. Life is not so bad (looks askance at the last exam, it would be better without you)

Zhongli kneels and clasps his hands in prayer, as he has done so many times before. He was in his apartment on the harbor in a room dedicated to you, with a statue of you that he personally sculpted with his geo powers. Once at a time, he tried to capture your image in stone, and he considered this his attempt the most successful of all, even if it did not fully convey all your grace, mercy, power, beauty. But this is all he could be content with until the moment you go down to Teyvat physically.

On especially bad days, when his longing for you became especially strong, when he could no longer pretend that a life spent not in your radiance was meaningless, Zhongli stood in front of your statue for days, desperately praying. Praying for your return, not allowing himself to be interrupted for a second, whispering through cracked lips, when every word was a blade passing through a parched throat, he wanted to feel all your splendor, and not the pitiful crumbs that he felt next to the traveler.

His soul still found solace when you were around, even if your presence was ephemeral, but deep in his heart, Zhongli wanted to see your physical form. To be able to hear your voice, to see how emotions change on your face, to finally give all the gifts accumulated over the millennia. To dress you up in Liyue's best outfits made from the most expensive silk, feed you the most delicious meals, and be able to directly enjoy your divine presence, which always filled his heart with warmth. He desperately wanted it all, with all his draconic greed.

Zhongli finishes his daily evening prayer and, before leaving the room, takes one last look at your statue, full of longing and reverence. He performs evening routines, go to bed and slowly falls asleep, his last thought is about you. If he had a chance to see you even for a second, there's nothing he wouldn't do.

When Zhongli opens his eyes, his vision is very hazy and blurry, the body seems somehow cottony, completely motionless and small. He tries to blink and move, but he can't. When the vision finally becomes clear again, Zhongli's heart skips a beat and then begins to beat furiously. He sees you sitting at the table behind some strange luminous rectangle on which pictures move. Zhongli desperately tries to call you, but no sound escapes his lips. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. How could this happen? He just fell asleep, and now he was here next to you, though in some very strange state.

Everything becomes completely unimportant when Zhongli hears your laughter and notices your smile. You were beautiful, perfect, his wish came true, he was so close to you, directly watching you. For about fifteen more minutes, which seemed to him the most wonderful eternity in the world, Zhongli simply absorbed your emotions, your appearance, he was unable to get enough of you. You were his oasis in the middle of the desert to which he walked for five thousand years.

When the rectangle in front of you goes out, you get up from your seat and leave the room. He glares at you longingly, but now at least Zhongli has the opportunity to analyze the situation in which he finds himself. He collects his thoughts and tries to sort out his sensation and what he sees. A minute later, Zhongli comes to the conclusion that he was in a plush toy, out of the corner of his eye he can see others nearby. Well, it was strange, but he wasn't going to complain, rather, on the contrary, he was infinitely grateful for the opportunity to be near you, even so. It's true that you didn't seem to know about his presence, Zhongli wouldn't want to invade your life without permission, but it doesn't seem like he had a choice, he couldn't even close his eyes.

For the next half hour he hears a noise water and assumes that you are taking a bath. Zhongli can't help but look at the interior of your room, the colors in which it is decorated, the arrangement of furniture, trying to memorize as much as possible so that he can then reproduce the furnishings in Liyue later. All to increase the chances that you will like the place he created and want to stay.

Zhongli notices several photos, they show you with some people, joyful and smiling. Who were they? Other followers who have been given the great honor of being pictured with you in the same image? Or is it someone more important to you? The reason why you still have not descended to Teyvat fully, Zhongli feels jealousy and anger in his heart for those who dared to take your attention. But all negative thoughts fly out of his head when you return back to the room. You are wearing only a bathrobe and Zhongli definitely swallowed dryly if he could, your skin looks so soft, steamed, tender, the way it glistens in the lamplight, it makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter. It seems to him that he is not worthy to see this picture, the beautiful work of art that you are now.

When you approach and take him in your arms, Zhongli feels a moment of panic. Did you know he was here? How could he justify himself? But you just take him and go to bed. When you turn off the light and lie down next to him, he holds his breath. You cover yourself with a blanket and pull the toy that he was now towards you and Zhongli's mind thrashes about. It was all so much like a dream, a wonderful false dream, too beautiful to be true. Before you fall asleep, you kiss him briefly and he melts like a mist flower corolla on a hot day. Zhongli hears how your breathing becomes calmer and more measured and just enjoys this sound, gradually he is lulled, although he is desperately trying not to fall asleep so as not to miss a moment with you, but he does not succeed.

Zhongli wakes up from the sun's rays hitting his face, and as soon as memories reach him, he immediately jumps up on the bed, staring into the void in prostration. Did he dream everything? But you were so alive, so real in his memories. The whole next day, Zhongli is extremely confused and Hu Tao sends him home early, and he doesn't even try to dissuade her. You completely occupy all his thoughts, and in his heart the hope burns that this was something more than a dream. And when he goes to bed after the evening prayer, Zhongli longs to see you again. Just one more time.

Dragons were known for their greed, so he would never get enough. Always one more time and never the last. After all, the more he had, the more he wanted.

Reblogs, comments, are always greatly appreciated! ヽ(o^ ^o)ﾉ

[love-is-patient]

I have religious trauma.

I was raised in a household where my dad wanted to be God, and so characterized Him in a way that left me constantly paranoid.

God was a judge, God was a debt collector, God was a hammer waiting to strike.

My mother was likewise delusional to a point. She used religion as a manner of control, manipulating my egotistical dad and our chaotic little world so she could feel better about herself.

I was abused in the church. I’ve been so many churches since childhood I can’t count them.

I was told I was possessed because I was a child with adhd and couldn’t sit still in a pew. I was told that if I didn’t see visions or speak in tongues, I wasn’t saved. I was told that I must be thinking about God at all times or I wasn’t good enough. That I was lukewarm, unlovable, unworthy.

I was too afraid to take communion. I cried and turned away from the altar multiple times because I was a too dirty to touch the offering.

I was told so many awful things that I grew up with a persistent religious paranoia on top of my already anxiety inducing life.

So… why am I still a Christian, after all of that?

Stockholm syndrome, right?

It would be easy to write it off as that, but I did turn away from religion. In the back of my mind. I stayed cautious in case God was still watching.

It wasn’t until I got rid of the destructive influences in my life that things changed.

My perception of God changed when I left the awful people using His name in vain- or for personal gain.

When I grew up, learned to be discerning about the character of people.

Many people live under the assumption that I did- that God is a tyrant who is waiting for you to mess up so he can smash you and send you to hell. Paradoxically, that almost makes Satan sound preferable.

But that’s not who God is, and he doesn’t want people to go to hell.

Even if you haven’t had good parents, you’ve seen what they’re like. They get excited to share experiences with their children. The first taste of lemon, the first puddles to splash in. First words, first laughs, first steps.

God wanted that for us.

Satan got jealous after his rebellion in heaven. He saw God had something good and wanted it for himself again - even if it was just to spite God.

He offered humanity a choice and we took it.

We can debate why it happened until we’re blue in the face, but what matters most are God’s decisions afterwards.

Everything that has happened since the fall has been God trying to bring his wayward children back without force.

Just like when you see that friend of yours making the same bad decisions day after day, and you know their quality of life would improve if they just stopped. It’s heartbreaking, frustrating. You can give them all the advice in the world but they’ll just keep on doing the thing and complain to you about every headache afterwards.

Now you know a little what God feels like.

Only God is a little more patient than we tend to be.

God doesn’t ask much from us, not as much as people, which is weird to think about.

God doesn’t measure your worth by how good you are at your job, how badly you do in school. He doesn’t equate your value to how rich or poor you are, he doesn’t judge you the same way people do.

The first thing he asks of you is to love him and love each other.

He loves us so much that he opened heaven again if we ask for it.

He came down as flesh and blood in Jesus and took all the punishments we should’ve had. In Jesus death and resurrection, we have a way home.

All he wants for us to do is acknowledge that.

He doesn’t hate you if you can’t pay tithe. He doesn’t talk behind your back if you make a mistake. He doesn’t demean, debase, abuse.

Why am I still a Christian?

Because God was there for me when people weren’t.

God didn’t abuse me as a kid, people did, and used God as a shield.

God didn’t lie to me, call me names, break my things - my parents did.

God didn’t order me to do unbelievable things in order to reach him - my pastors and teachers did.

God didn’t tell me I’m unworthy - people did.

Even if you don’t believe in God, if you’re angry at him, feeling hurt and betrayed.

Maybe take a closer look and see if it’s really the people around you making you miserable, instead of an untouchable, invisible hammer.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Joshua Graham (Fallout: New Vegas, Honest Hearts DLC) NSFW Headcanons

Massive voyeur. He's attracted to you the moment he meets you, but his religious beliefs/the probable age gap/the circumstances/his own fucked up self-image keep him from saying anything. It doesn't keep him from watching you closely, though, from studying your habits and your daily schedule. Especially interested in what times you usually leave camp. He already disappears sometimes without anyone really knowing where he's gone; despite his positive working relationship with the Dead Horses, Joshua's energy is off-putting overall, and he's intimidating. It makes people nervous if they have to interact with him one-on-one for too long. Due to this, he has the freedom of sort of coming and going as he pleases, since no one wants to be the person to question him, though more often than not he can be found working away at weapons in the Angel Cave. That said, he is prone to sneaking away for an hour or so in the evenings (to stretch his legs and occasionally sneak a cigarette), slipping out unnoticed amid the hustle of the busy camp; his schedule for this changes once you come around, but, he'd swear it has nothing to do with you if confronted. He just so happens to want to take a little stroll right around the time you go to find somewhere private to bathe. The commitment to promptness only increases when he realizes that you sometimes use this little bit of "alone time" to masturbate.

He won't even touch himself 95% of the time; seems the type to get off on denying himself. Trust me, he desperately wants to, though. On a day where he gets especially worked up watching you, he might stroke himself over his clothing, or even cum untouched, but he won't take the risk of exposing himself fully. This usually happens on days where he gets to watch you touch yourself, caught up in studying every detail of how to bring you pleasure while openly lusting over your body. However, most of the time he'll simply sit in silence, hidden away out of your line of vision as he takes in every ounce of your beauty.

If he notices you starting to get close with someone, it'll be enough to prompt him to reveal his own feelings. The man is deeply jealous in an ugly way, and the idea that someone else would have you just because he failed to ever say anything is repellent to him. Doubly so if that person is Daniel. Once he's confessed his interest, he'll be quite possessive, even if you're still weighing your feelings for him against your feelings for someone else. Knowing this will drive him crazy, and he'll be quickly desperate to "mark his territory" in some way.

In terms of your intimate life, he doesn't have much energy for sex despite his sex drive and attraction to you being quite high. As long as his wounds go unhealed, he's in a lot of pain, and pain is exhausting. He may want to bend you over every flat surface in Zion pretty much every second of the day, but he simply does not have the energy.

He's sinned a lot in the past, so he's not exactly sexually inexperienced (his faith has clearly always been important to him, but I think the level of fervor we see in him in current day is a result of him seeking some feeling of salvation from all the things he's done/a doubling down after his incident), but it has been a long time since he's done anything with anyone. When you two grow close and eventually start dating, he'll fully intend to wait until you get married to have sex. It won't work out that way. At the very most, you two may be able to resist penetrative sex until after you fully commit, but you won't be able to keep your hands off of one another overall. He chastises himself (and, when he's in a darker mood, you) for failing to resist temptation, but ultimately he thinks that God likely has more of an issue with other things he's done than not waiting until marriage to let you blow him or whatever.

Absolutely knows what "soaking" is. Shocked and quite taken aback if you also know what "soaking" is.

That Legion history of his starts to poke through once you start spending a lot of alone time with him, once he feels comfortable showing his true face. He isn't abusive, but he is still quite controlling in some aspects. It's not that he denies you of options, but he does have a tendency to make it difficult for you to make choices he doesn't agree with. More often than not, he exercises control when he worries for your wellbeing, but there are times when he exercises control over you simply because he wants to see you bend to his will. Sex is one of the aspects of your relationship he often uses to this end. He'll make you cum until you can't see, but make no mistake; he's making you cum because he wants to, because it feeds his ego to see how you react when he breaks you down completely and commands your body. He also knows that it'll be easier to keep you around if he tries his best to make you happy, to ensure your needs are fulfilled, including the intimate ones. Yes, he will take very good care of you in bed, but know that ultimately it's sort of a form of control. I mean...you're still allowed to enjoy it. But keep that in mind.

Does it even need to be said that the Mormon former Legionary has a massive breeding kink? I don't think he believes he deserves to have children, but that doesn't stop him from fantasizing about seeing you so swollen with his child that you can't effectively get away from him. Definitely buys into the idea that adults are supposed to procreate as much as they can stand; in his ideal world, he'd have you pregnant every two or so years for a good portion of your life. He'll worship every inch of your body before he fucks you, fantasizing silently about how a pregnancy would change it.

[heybrownieboy]

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: A MURDERER, A DEMON, AND AN ELEMENTAL?

POV: 2nd Person. Y/N.

— Word Count: 2K+

Author’s Note: Finally an update :). In all honesty, I’ve been struggling with getting back into writing lately— after not having time nor mental energy to in so long— but, I’ve also have felt awful going M.I.A for over two months. So, while I was working on this, I decided to break up what I do have and give you all this little update. I wanted to reassure you all that I am NOT giving up on this SMAU. At all. I will be continuing and finishing it. But for now, I hope you enjoy this. I apologize for it being short but, I promise the next chapter is much longer (once I’m able to actually put this one damn scene into words 😭).

“Do you honestly think this is a good idea?” 

You tore your eyes away from your TV—which was currently playing reruns of “Happiness”— and to the spirit siting on the couch next to you.

“What?” you asked. 

“Tonight,” Minho said. “Do you honestly think going to that shrine tonight is a good idea?” 

“Yes,” you said. 

“That caretaker is crazy, Y/N. Like completely batshit crazy."

“So I’ve heard,” you said.

“I mean it,” Minho said, exasperated. “I think he’s the one that actually killed Jisung and I.” 

Your eyes widened. “Wait what?” you asked. 

“I don’t remember a lot from that night,” he said. “Like at all. And I know you said spirits tend to forget more and more things the longer their earth bound.” 

You nodded at that. 

“But I remember some snippets of that night,” Minho said. “And I think he was there. I swear saw him for a spilt second. I was too shocked when I found…” He took a deep breath, an obvious expression of pain and grief crossing his face. “When I found Jisung’s body. So, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to my surroundings. I saw the caretaker run behind me from my peripheral vision. But, before I could react there was a rope wrapping around my throat.” 

“I thought you two were kidnapped?” you asked. 

“I think we were,” he said. “At least in a sense. Do you remember when Jeongin talked about that night he went to the mountain alone?” 

“He said he doesn’t remember the car ride there,” you said quietly. 

“Or half of his hike through the woods,” Minho finished. "Not until he heard Jisung. From what I remember, something similar happened to me.” 

“It was probably the demon controlling you,” you said. “They’re good at that. It’s like a semi-possession.” You rubbed your temples. “So I’m about to go spy on a murderer, a demon, and an elemental?”

“What do you think they’re doing up there?” Minho said.

“Honestly I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know anything. Everything for me with this whole thing has been guesses.” 

“Yet you’re still trying to help,” Minho said. 

“Of course I am,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because it’s dangerous and you could get hurt,” he said. “Or even die.” 

You shrugged. “It’s not the first time I’ve almost died.” 

“Yeah,” Minho said slowly. “What’s with that huh? How are you alive and have been to hell?” 

You winced. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “And in all honestly I don’t really like talking about it much.”

“I get that,” Minho said. “And I won’t push you to talk about something you don’t want to. Hell was the worst thing I ever experienced in my life. I mean, yeah I guess it’s Hell but, I never expected it to be like…”  He grimaced at the memories.

“Yep,” you agreed, completely understanding of what he meant. 

“I thought it was just going to be super hot.” Minho let out a humorless chuckle. “I wasn’t exactly religious before all this so, I guess I never really read up on it.”

“You could say Dante wasn’t too far off,” you said. “And I do think it’s a little different for everyone.” 

“Yeah. Sometimes Jisung and I would see different things.” 

You squinted at the spirit. “Have you seen any other spirits lately?” 

Minho tilted his head at you. “No actually,” he said. “Now that I think about it. The only one I’ve seen all week is Jisung. Why?” 

“Fucking hell,” you grumbled. You leaned against the back of your couch, head thrown back and eyes staring up at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think that’s what these rituals are for. Because in my twenty years of life, I’ve never gone a day without seeing a least four or five spirits. I’ve only seen three others— besides you and Jisung— in the last week. That’s it. And it been over a week since I’ve seen a demon.” 

“That’s not a good thing?” 

“God, I wish it was. But, no it’s not.” 

“Fuck,” Minho breathed. “So, what should we do? I knew this was complicated and dangerous but this? This seems next level.” 

“I don’t know…” You threw up your hands exasperated. “I feel like that’s all I’ve been saying lately. ‘I don’t know’. It’s so fucking frustrating.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Minho said softly. “You’re trying. You’re helping us even if you don’t have to. And so far you’ve done an amazing job okay?”

You have him a half hearted smile. “Thank you,” you said.

“Is there maybe any kind of research you can do on this?” he offered. “I mean, there has to be some answers out there somewhere right?” 

“Maybe,” you said. “I only have like an half an hour before Jay and Nico pick me up though. And kind of search isn’t something I have easy access too. Not to mention it’s the supernatural. Nothing is finite. There’s thousands of rituals out there. And thousands more that aren’t recorded.” You nibbled on the inside of your cheek nervously.

“You grew up in a family of Shaman right?” Minho asked. “Can’t you ask like an elder or something for help?” 

You scrunched your nose at that. “I don’t talk to most of them anymore,” you said. “But, I do have someone I could call. My aunt should be able give me some kind of advice.” 

You leaned over to grab your cell phone off the coffee table. It should be around five P.M in London right now. You scrolled to your aunt’s contact and hit call. It only took a few rings for the line to be picked up

“Y/N-ah.” 

The sound of your Aunt Bora’s gentle voice on the other side of the line immediately had you relaxing. The tension that had building up all day seemed to almost completely melt away. 

“Hi,” you said softly. “How are you?” 

“I’m doing great, honey,” your aunt said. “But what about you? It’s almost one A.M in Korea right now. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” 

“I wish I could,” you said. “But I’ve been stressed out lately and couldn’t sleep.” 

“Stressed out about school?” Bora asked. “Because you shouldn’t be. I know studying to get your nursing degree can be challenging but you’re extremely intelligent, Y/N. You’ll make an amazing nurse in the future.” 

You smiled at that. “Thank you,” you said. You let out a soft sigh. “But that’ not the reason I called you. I need advice. On the supernatural.” 

“Oh? What do you mean? What’s happening?” 

“Do you remember those two men that went missing last year?” you asked.

“Yes,” Bora said. “Lily-ah and Natty-ah knew them through friends, correct? What were their names again?” 

“Lee Minho and Han Jisung,” you said. You glanced at Minho for a second. He was the one now leaned back into the couch watching you contently. 

“Didn’t you try to help find them last year?” your aunt asked.

“I did,” you confirmed. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t find a trace of them physically or spiritually.” 

“I’ve always found that strange. It’s almost like…” 

“Someone might have been hiding them.” 

“Exactly,” Bora said. “Did you finally find them?” 

“Kind of,” you said. “It’s more like they found me. Well, technically Jeongin found me.”

“Jeongin?” 

“Their friend. Um, how do I even explain?” 

“Start from the beginning yeah?” Bora said, her voice gentle. “Tell me everything you know.” 

And so you did. You explained how Jeongin originally had come to you or “Eris” for advice because he thought his friend was haunting him. How that turned out to be correct and that Minho was in fact trying to get through to him. You explained how you saw Minho and then had the premonition about Jisung. You explained their spiritual debt and how they were tricked by those three. How they had to escape hell and how half of their soul was stolen from them.

“So,” Bora said slowly, “you’re trying to help them break their spiritual debt and move on?” 

“Yes,” you said, with a slight wavier to your voice.

“But?” 

“But that’s not all. One of the trio he made a contract with was human. A living human. Minho is pretty sure that he’s the one that murdered them.” 

“Y/N,” your aunt said lowly. “You can’t confront a murder.” 

“Oh, I’m not done though.” 

There was a few beats of silence before your aunt asked, “What do you mean?”

“In the past week or so, I’ve seen three spirits and no demons,” you said. “Only one of those spirits talked to me. And all it did was ask for the time.” 

“Asked for the time? Spirits never ask for the time. Unless…” 

“Unless they’re being summoned somewhere,” you said. “I think they’re all being summoned to that mount Minho and Jisung went missing on. By the human.” 

“You think he’s summoning them all there for something bigger,” Bora said. 

“Exactly,” you said. “He’s been preforming rituals for about two weeks. At least that we know of. “

“He’s most likely a Shaman. A very powerful one. Rituals like that? They aren’t easy. At all.” 

“I know,” you said.

“And I’m guessing there’s more,” Bora said with a soft sigh. 

“The other two being they made this contract with are supernatural. One is a demon. But the other one, neither Minho or Jisung knew what it was. They said it was different from the demon.” 

“Don’t tell me…” 

“I’m pretty sure it’s an elemental, yeah.” 

“Y/N,” your aunt said voice now taking on a firm, cold edge. “You need to stay away from elementals. They can and will kill you if you ever get in their way. Forget the murderous shaman. Elementals are not bound to the same rules as demons. Not to mention they hate humans more than demons ever have.” 

“I know,” you said. “I do but…” You took a deep breath. “I cannot not help. There’s something seriously wrong.” 

“It doesn’t matter. This is your lif—“ 

“They have wards to keep away angels,” you said cutting your aunt off. 

“What?” she asked, utter disbelief overtaking her tone.

“Minho said that the mountain is littered in wards keeping angels out,” you said. “Namely Azrael.” 

“That’s impossible.” 

“You would think. At first he thought it was just the hellhounds being kept out. They got too close to the mountain and they were repelled, But he said that Azrael has not been able to get onto the mountain at all either. That the barrier the wards created repelled him as well.” 

The other line went silent. After a few moments you began to worry that the call had disconnected. 

“Hel—“ 

“I don’t like this Y/N,” your aunt said quietly. “At all. I understand Azrael is probably the last angel you want to see since… since all of that happened. But he’s still an angel. He’s still a protector. If you go on that mountain, you have absolutely no protection. Not against the Shaman nor the elemental.”

“I realize that,” you said. “And I completely understand that. But like I said. There’s something seriously wrong happening. I think Minho and Jisung were apart of whatever plan they have going on. Not to mention they’ve been talking about Jeongin. Another human life they most likely want to take. They’ve been planning this for at least a year now, Aunt Bora. Whatever it is, it’s huge. God know how many people will eventually be dragged into this."

Your aunt let out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I know there’s no way to talk you out of this.” Another sigh left her lips. “ Let me think for a few minutes. Maybe I can help.” 

You smiled. “Thank you,” you said. “So much.” 

Your aunt simply hummed. After a few minutes she began speaking again. “How were those to boys killed? Do you know? I might be able to narrow down what ritual they’re trying to get ready up for.” 

“They were strangled,” you said. You peered at Minho for a second, your eyes focusing on the wound around his neck.. “Well, honestly it looks like the rope cut into their throats. They both have these huge infected gashes.” 

“Infected?” Bora asked. 

You copied her hum from a few moments ago. “Yeah.”

“Y/N, if they were dead, how could their wounds be infected?” 

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[doormatty3]

Sinner's Salvation: Chapter 1 (Ed Warren x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Next chapter

Summary:

[Ed Warren x Female Reader] [Ed Warren x You]

You don't believe in the supernatural and superstition. Witchcraft and demonic occurrences are nothing but quackery to you. But when the room starts spinning, days start blurring into each other and shadows start dancing in every corner you wonder what is wrong with you. No doctor can tell you more about your condition - each and every one is insisting that you are fine and perfectly healthy.  Seeking alternative help, you stumble across Ed and Lorraine Warren.  They promise to help you, rid you of the demon that has taken hold of you - to drive it out. But you didn’t know what you signed up for and what an exorcism by Ed Warren entails.  OR: Ed shows you how well he can possess your body - and your cunt

Wordcount: 8019

Chapter: 1/2

Warnings: 18+, description of violence, dirty thoughts, flirting, religious imagery

A/N: Peer pressure is strong - so here is another Patrick Wilson fanfic. This first chapter is pretty much swf, the smut is in the next one. And belief me…it is filthy. Anyway I need Jesus or Ed to exorcise me.

Next chapter

CHAPTER 1

Your head pounds as you try to busy yourself with the magazines on the glass table at your doctors’s waiting room. Headaches and migraines have been intermittent companions throughout your life - coming and going over the years with an emphasis on going.

However, for the past few weeks, they were persistent and overstayed their welcome.

What began as a dull ache that had settled in the front of your skull had slowly morphed and spread through your whole head until it felt like constant and pervasive pressure was applied to your temples, squeezing your mind between its fingers restlessly. The dull throb had escalated into a sharp, blinding stab, like invisible hands transforming into relentless claws.

It was at this point that you resolved to consult your doctor. Those headaches were out of the ordinary, deviating from their usual form and you were yearning for some relief and an explanation as to what was causing them. Because you were sure that it wasn’t just migraines or stress.

You sink back into the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room as you find yourself desperately seeking some solace from the sharp pain throbbing at your temple. The mix of the flickering fluorescence overhead and the bright daylight seeping in through the window seems to intensify your discomfort so you close your eyes to drown out one sensation. But the lack of one sense amplifies the other, so you hear the murmur of hushed conversations and discussions as well as the rhythmic ticking of the clock that has never seemed so loud as it does at this moment.

You bring your right hand to your head and rub your thumb in circular motions over your temple while your fingers rest on your forehead. Despite your best efforts, it does not really help against the throbbing ache and only provides some short-lived relief.

Each passing minute elongates your stay in the room, marked only by the clock’s relentless ticking.

On any other day, you would have read something or watched the other people sitting in the room but the headache makes everything tiring and painful.

Suddenly, your name echoes through the waiting room, your head jolts up and your eyes fly open. The doctor’s assistant meets your gaze with an expectant look and gestures with her hand, saying: “Please follow me”.

As you rise from the unyielding chair quickly, the ticking clock and flickering lights momentarily fade into the background when spots dance in the edges of your vision - a new side effect of your headaches. You blink a few times to regain your composure and balance.

The corridor leading to the treatment room is long and sterile - occasionally a colorful picture on the white wall breaks up the monotonous path. The echo of your footsteps sounds loud in your head and you feel the sharp stab in your temple with every noise.

With a smile and a nod, the woman opens the door to the doctor’s room: “He’ll be with you in a couple minutes. Feel free to take a seat”.

“Thank you”, you mumble quietly and pull out a chair to sit down.

The room is adorned with medical charts, anatomical diagrams, and informational posters that detail various parts of the human body. Anatomical models of organs and skeletal structures stand on shelves, their detailed features catching the sterile light.

You lower your eyes to your hands and away from the bright lights in the room when the door to the room creaks open.

“I’m sorry for the wait, dear”, the doctor enters the room, shutting the door gently and taking a seat opposite you, “What brings you here today?”

“I wake up with headaches almost every morning”, you admit, your voice carrying the weight of fatigue and frustration, “It started a few months ago and hasn’t gotten better - only worse.”

The doctor, a mix of empathy and expertise, leans in, pen poised over a notepad, ready to capture the nuances of your struggle.

“Tell me more about the nature of the pain. Is it sharp, dull, pulsating?”, he inquires, his eyes focused on yours, seeking a clearer picture.

You take a moment, searching for words to convey the indescribable sensations.

“It’s like… a relentless pressure, sometimes sharp and stabbing, and it just lingers throughout the day. It’s not just the pain; it’s the way it clouds everything else, like a persistent shadow”, you explain, your frustration evident in the furrow of your brow.

And then you add, almost as an afterthought: “I usually have migraines, but this headache feels different. It’s like a stranger invading my headspace, and nothing seems to help.”

The doctor nods thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in a half-hearted attempt at concern.

“I see. How would you rate the intensity on a scale from one to ten? And have you noticed any specific triggers or patterns that coincide with these headaches?”

You take a deep breath, appreciating the opportunity to provide more insight into the daily struggle you endure.

“The intensity varies, but at its peak, I would rate it around an eight or nine. It’s not just the pain…”, you trail off for a second, blinking your eyes rapidly against the throbbing of your head, “It’s the relentlessness of it, like a drumbeat in my head that refuses to fade away.”

The doctor scribbles a few notes, but his furrowed brow remains a mere semblance of genuine concern and you cannot help but wonder if he takes your concern seriously.

He continues, without looking up: “Triggers or patterns - have you noticed anything specific that seems to bring these headaches on? Certain foods, stress, lack of sleep, perhaps?”

Your mind races to pinpoint potential triggers, hoping to offer any helpful information.

“No, I don’t think I can pinpoint any specific trigger. I’ve tried tracking my diet, but nothing conclusive… I know stress can make it worse, but that just doesn’t seem right. It almost feels like they have a mind of their own.”

The doctor’s nod is accompanied by a distant sound of acknowledgment: “Understood. We’ll note the variability. Have you observed any changes in their frequency or duration recently?”

You pause, considering his question. “Yes, they’ve become more frequent, and the duration seems to be stretching out. Sometimes lasting for days.”

As you share your experiences, the doctor’s responses remain mechanical, lacking the depth and engagement you hoped for.

He takes down a note on his pad, his expression somewhat detached.

“Thank you for sharing that. We’ll explore this further. In the meantime, have you experienced any other symptoms alongside these headaches? Changes in vision, sensitivity to light, or nausea, perhaps?”

You take a deep breath before responding: “Yes, there have been moments where I see shadows dancing at the edge of my vision, and light, especially bright light, seems almost intolerable.”

“Well, headaches can be tricky. I’ll prescribe you some pain medication for now. It should help take the edge off. Let’s see how that goes before jumping into more tests.”

The doctor’s demeanour remains distant, his response lacking the reassurance you were seeking.

A pervasive disappointment sets in as you absorb his words, rendering you speechless. The doctor’s lack of genuine concern leaves you disheartened.

With a brisk movement, he rises from his chair, with a faint smile gracing his lips as he extends his hand toward you.

As the doctor withdraws his hand, he nods almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment that punctuates the end of the consultation. With a parting glance, he pivots and makes his way towards the door, the echo of his footsteps emphasising the hollowness of the room. The door creaks open and then closes, leaving you sitting alone as you try to comprehend what just happened.

The initial hope for understanding and empathy begins to waver, replaced by a nagging question: are your headaches truly as severe as they feel, or are they being downplayed by the doctor’s lack of concern?

The doubt grows as you leave the examination room, and a wave of self-questioning accompanies you. Perhaps you’re exaggerating the pain, or maybe others endure worse without seeking medical attention. The once vivid description of your headaches starts to blur, muddled by the doctor's detached response.

This self-doubt, however, doesn’t entirely quash the very real and tangible pain you feel daily. The clawing at your temples persists a constant reminder that, regardless of the doctor's reaction, your struggle is genuine.

_____6 months later_____

The moment you pry your eyes open, you instantly regret it when a familiar surge of pain flares up and radiates through your head. The once-tolerable discomfort, only triggered by encounters with brighter lights, now manifests even at the gentlest touch of illumination.

The blinds in your apartment are drawn almost entirely shut in a deliberate attempt to shield you from the outside world. Only a handful of thin, feeble stripes of light manages to illuminate the room, casting delicate patterns on the floor. The room around you remains shrouded in a semi-darkened veil.

As you lay there, contemplating the day ahead, you can't help but wish for a respite from the relentless screaming in your head. With a groan, you push yourself up, your movements measured to avoid exacerbating the persistent ache.

The dull glow of a digital clock on the bedside table reveals the early hour, a reminder that the day has just begun, yet the promise it holds seems elusive under the weight of your current state. You’d much rather not have to open your eyes at all and retreat into the comforting embrace of darkness and the inevitability of facing the day ahead.

The current intensity of the throbbing headaches promises a rather bad day ahead - maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

The cool surface of the floor meets the soles of your feet offering a momentary distraction from the pulsating discomfort in your head as you navigate the dimly lit space. The few rays of light filtering through the partially closed blinds create a chiaroscuro effect, casting shadows that dance along the walls like fleeting memories.

The weight of uncertainty presses down on you, adding an undercurrent of fear to the pulsating discomfort in your head. The unknown, wrapped in shadows, looms over your thoughts, intensifying the ache that reverberates through your skull and manipulating the threads of your mind like a malevolent puppeteer, weaving a twisted dance of uncertainty.

With each step, you can’t shake the feeling of being adrift in a sea of questions, with no clear answers in sight.

You lower yourself into the desk chair in your office, facing the computer. With a heavy sigh, you rest your head in your hands, succumbing to the pounding in your head that seems to be intensified by the soft glow of the computer screen.

A sense of worry washes over you as you contemplate the missing fragments of time. There are moments when waking up brings with it the haunting realisation that whole days have slipped through the sieve of your memory. You recall mornings when you’ve donned shoes and proper clothes, yet the specifics remain elusive, lost in the fog of an obscured consciousness.

Unexplained bruises are scattered across your body like cryptic symbols etched into the canvas of your skin. The morning light sometimes reveals these marks - random, and varied in size. Some bruises are inconspicuous, while others are more pronounced, a stark contrast against the pallor of your skin. You know that it may very well be a nutritional deficiency or just your clumsiness in general.

It's plausible that during the night, you inadvertently collide with objects or navigate your dimly lit apartment and stumble into furniture, while the pain is obscured by the prominence of your persistent headaches. Which rhythmic persistence feels as if someone else is dwelling within, an unwelcome tenant navigating the labyrinth of your thoughts.

Once again you google your symptoms just as you did before in hopes of finding something that provides you with the answers you so desperately seek. The tapping of keys echoes in the quiet room as you type in the details of your affliction.

The search results hold a plethora of possibilities, ranging from the mundane to the foreboding. Your eyes sweep across the information, revealing a spectrum of potential explanations.

Predictably, illnesses such as cancer or a brain tumor show up in the results. But you recall a recent and disappointing visit to the doctor during which you talked about the results of brain scans that were completely normal and unremarkable. The lingering sense of unease that clings to your every thought has not been dispelled by that and still remains.

As you delve deeper into your online search, the glow of the computer screen casts an ethereal light on your face, accentuating the furrowed brow that accompanies your contemplation when the search results take an unexpected turn.

Among the medical explanations and everyday ailments, there is a collection of pages adorned with ominous symbols, discussing the supernatural, and invoking the paranormal.

A skeptical scoff escapes your lips at the absurdity of such notions. The idea of demonic involvement feels like a fantastical escape from the reality of medical concerns. You dismiss these supernatural threads as mere distractions, remnants of an online world where fiction and reality often blur. But you cannot deny that you are intrigued and fascinated by those weird demonic and paranormal things.

So you decide to dive deeper and steer your thoughts in a different direction than your medical condition.

You stumble upon Ed and Lorraine Warren. Their names are etched in the annals of supernatural and demonologist lore, their photographs capturing a certain gravitas that transcends the ordinary.

As you delve into their stories, a mix of fascination and skepticism grips you. The tales of haunted houses, malevolent entities, and their seemingly fearless pursuit of the unknown unfold like chapters in a dark, mysterious novel.

The images of the Warrens show a tall, imposing couple that exudes an aura of authority. Their gaze seems to pierce through the screen as if they have encountered unknown forces that your brain cannot comprehend. Both exude attractiveness and Ed, in particular, captivates your attention with his clear blue eyes and a soft, reassuring smile.

As you sink deeper into your exploration, you come across intriguing details about the Warrens, including snippets about their artifact room.

Further research reveals that Ed is a non-ordained demonologist officially recognized by the Catholic Church and Lorraine, on the other hand, is described as a gifted clairvoyant.

Notably, you discover that the Warrens are scheduled to speak at a university near you in a few days, where they will delve into topics surrounding demons and the supernatural. This upcoming lecture piques your interest, as it offers the possibility of gaining insights on the topic you’re interested in and steering your thoughts in a different direction.

The next day unfolds with a disconcerting air that hangs over every moment. As you move through the routine motions of your day, a persistent sensation gnaws at the edges of your consciousness - a feeling that someone might be in your apartment, an invisible presence tracking your every move. The shadows seem to linger, conspiring to elongate and distort as if concealing the secrets of an unseen observer.

Unease settles in, and the weight of the unknown intensifies. Your senses are on high alert, hyperaware of subtle sounds and fleeting shadows. Paranoia casts a veil over your perception, transforming the familiar surroundings into a labyrinth of uncertainty. The notion that you are being followed, and watched, becomes an inescapable undercurrent.

As you sit down at your computer to continue your Google search about Ed and Lorraine Warren, the mysterious feeling of being watched persists and the noises in your apartment become more pronounced.

Suddenly, you hear a distinct tapping sound, like fingernails lightly brushing against a surface. Your head jerks up, and you glance around the room, searching for the source.

You decide to investigate the source of the sounds. Slowly, you get up from your chair and start to explore your apartment. The creaking floorboards and faint whispers add to the tension in the air. As you move from room to room, you can’t shake the feeling that someone - or something - is with you.

Jesus, you think.

Delving into the Warrens’ cases has genuinely left an impression on you. Despite your rational certainty that you'll discover nothing unusual, a small part of you wants to make sure that you are truly alone, so you look into your bedroom.

The room is dimly lit, and shadows dance on the walls, creating an unsettling atmosphere and you half expect to come face-to-face with an intruder.

Of course, the room is empty. You shake your head at your antics and the weird games your mind sometimes plays at you. So you return to your computer, determined to focus on your research.

As you delve deeper into their history, you come across tales of unexplained occurrences and inexplicable events. The line between the paranormal and the ordinary becomes blurred, and you can’t help but wonder if there's a connection between your eerie experience and the stories you’re reading.

The distinct creak of the front door opening sends a shiver down your spine, intensifying the unease that had settled in the pit of your stomach. Your head jerks up instinctively, eyes widening as you try to discern any movement or sound that may follow.

Slowly and cautiously, you ease yourself out of the office, your senses on high alert - your mind cannot have made that up again, it feels too real.

Each step is deliberate, the floorboards beneath your feet protesting with muted groans. The dim lighting in the hallway casts long, wavering shadows, creating a macabre dance of darkness that seems to come alive with each flicker.

As you make your way to the kitchen, you can't help but notice the play of light and shadow, accentuating the contours of the furniture and giving the surroundings an otherworldly quality. The eerie atmosphere lingers, and every sound, whether a distant whisper or the faint rustle of curtains, contributes to the unsettling symphony. Your heart pounds in your ears, the rhythmic thud echoing relentlessly as adrenaline courses through your veins.

The air feels charged with tension as you navigate through the space, acutely aware of your surroundings. The kitchen, once a place of familiarity, now holds an unfamiliar weight, and you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to find a presence lingering in the shadows.

You look around for a potential weapon in your kitchen. Your eyes land on a set of sharp kitchen knives neatly arranged on the counter. You grab one, the cold steel offering a reassuring weight in your hand. Gripping it tightly, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as the blade reflects the gentle glow that is emanating from the windows.

Your mind races with possibilities, ranging from a potential intruder to something more otherworldly. Your eyes blink rapidly, a reflex under the stress, and you can feel sweat building as your apprehension grows.

With the knife in hand, you decide to cautiously approach the area near the hallway that leads to the front door. Every step is deliberate, and the creaking floorboards beneath your feet seem to echo in the silence. The shadows play tricks on your imagination, making you question whether the movement you see is real or just a product of your heightened senses.

As you reach the entrance, you notice that the door is slightly ajar. The chill in the air sends a shiver down your spine. Holding the knife in a defensive stance, you push the door open, ready to confront whatever or whoever might be on the other side.

To your surprise, the hallway appears empty. The dimly lit corridor stretches out before you, devoid of any immediate threat. However, the feeling of being watched persists, leaving you on edge.

A shiver runs down your spine as you turn towards the living room, and your eyes widen with a mixture of fear and surprise.

In the dim light, you make out the silhouette of a figure standing in the shadows. The room seems to hold its breath as you lock eyes with the unexpected visitor.

Your grip tightens on the knife, your instincts urging you to be prepared for whatever may come. The figure remains still, a mysterious presence cloaked in darkness. Panic and curiosity wrestle within you, but you muster the courage to speak.

“Who’s there?”, you demand, your voice wavering slightly, betraying your inner turmoil.

The figure doesn’t respond immediately, maintaining an unsettling silence. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you start to discern features - the outline of a person clad in big, dark clothing wearing a hood. The air in the room feels charged with tension, and the quiet seems to amplify the beating of your heart.

A surge of fear courses through you as the stranger inches closer in the dimly lit living room. Your panic intensifies, and without thinking, you unleash a scream, a mixture of fear and warning, hoping to startle the intruder or whatever presence stands before you as you feel your whole body shaking.

“Who are you? What do you want?”, you shout, your voice echoing through the tense silence. The sudden burst of sound reverberates in the room, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

The stranger freezes momentarily, their movement halted by your unexpected reaction. The dim light casts uncertain shadows on their stance, making it challenging to discern their intentions. You maintain a defensive stance, clutching the knife tightly in your hand.

In the wake of your scream, a heavy silence lingers, broken only by the sound of your own rapid breaths. The stranger remains silent, their next move unclear.

“I don’t want to hurt you! Please just…go”, your voice is shaking and the fear that settled itself in your core is palpable.

Suddenly, the stranger surges forward and in a split-second response to their move towards you, fear and adrenaline drive you to react instinctively. Without hesitation, you thrust the knife forward, aiming for the center of the oncoming threat. The blade makes contact, sinking into the stranger’s stomach with a sickening resistance.

The stranger gasps, a guttural sound escaping their lips, and their momentum falters. The reality of the situation hits you, and your eyes widen in shock as you release the blade and stumble back. You watch their hands instinctively clutch their injured stomach before inevitably collapsing onto the ground.

Time seems to stretch as you assess the situation, your mind racing to comprehend the events that have just happened.

You stand there, breaths coming in ragged gasps, staring at the figure now on the floor. The dim light accentuates the stark reality of the situation - their blood on the knife, their blood splattered on the floor, and their blood staining your hands.

A wave of panic grips you, and you feel the onset of a panic attack tightening your chest. The reality of the violence you've just inflicted crashes over you, and a whirlwind of emotions - fear, guilt, and shock - threatens to overwhelm your senses. Bile rises at the back of your throat, adding to the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

The heavy silence in the room is broken by the sound of your laboured breathing when you realise the gravity of the situation. You just stabbed someone.

You step closer to the figure on the floor, your hands are trembling and your mind is in turmoil. Your gaze falls onto the knife. It is still stained with their blood and lodged in the stranger’s stomach like a macabre focal point that rhythmically rises with their rattling, shallow breaths.

You hover over the figure and you reach out to grab the protruding knife with your bloody hands in a motion that you cannot stop. Your hand closes around the handle and you pull.

The knife emerges from the stranger’s stomach without much resistance but with a wet squelch and a deep, pained groan. Blood follows the blade out of the wound, drenching the stranger’s clothes as you watch mesmerised.

A few seconds tick by before you sink to your knees and lift the blade again as if pulled up by invisible strings.

The knife plunges into the stranger's chest, and a sickening resistance, a visceral clash of flesh, bone, and muscle, courses through your hands. The figure beneath you convulses, and the room is filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of their laboured breaths and pained noises, and the air is heavy with the metallic scent of blood, a salty tang settling on your tongue.

As you continue to stab in a mindless range, the blood pools over your hands, coating them like a warm embrace. The stranger beneath you convulses in response to each stab, their breaths growing more ragged with each passing moment.

Your frazzled breathing is loud in the room when you snap out of your frenzy. A sudden realisation grips you as the weight of what you've done settles in and the knife hits the wooden floor with a loud clink.

The dim light flickers, casting an eerie glow on the tableau of violence before you.

The dark clad, hooded figure that lays motionless on your floor in a pool of deep red blood surrounding them, drawing a macabre outline.

You reach out to the stilled stranger's form and tug the hood down from the stranger's head.

A jolt of terror courses through you as you reveal your own face staring back at you, eyes wide in terror. The shock is overwhelming, and you stagger back, falling onto your hands. The surreal horror of the revelation sends a scream tearing from your throat.

But then, as abruptly as the situation unfolded, you wake up screaming. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you're drenched in a cold sweat. The remnants of the dream cling to your consciousness, leaving you disoriented and unsettled.

As the realisation sets in that it was all a nightmare, a wave of relief washes over you. The room is bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, and the familiar surroundings of your bedroom reassure you that the disturbing events were only figments of your imagination. The oppressive shadows, the metallic tang of the knife, the haunting echoes of the chilling act - all dissolved into the hazy realm of dreams.

You extend your arm to hit the light switch for your bedside lamp, flooding the room with a brighter light. However, the sudden change triggers a throbbing headache, and spots dance before your eyes. The harsh illumination contrasts sharply with the peaceful moonlight, leaving you momentarily disoriented as you navigate the transition from the dreamworld to the stark reality of your lit room.

Abruptly, you raise your hands, a quick and anxious gesture, checking for any signs of harm or scattering of remaining blood. When you see nothing but spotless skin you take a moment to collect yourself, breathing deeply. Yet you still rub your hands together, attempting to rid yourself of the lingering sensation of phantom blood that appears to have permeated your skin.

The digital numbers on your clock glow faintly, spelling out the hour: 3 am. The unsettling residue of your nightmare clings to your thoughts, a haunting aftertaste that refuses to dissipate.

As you consider the option of getting up, you notice the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the night outside. The weight of the bedsheets feels heavier than usual, as if reluctant to release you from the lingering grip of the dream's distressing scenes. The room, while familiar, carries an air of unfamiliarity, as if the vivid dream has cast a subtle shadow over your reality.

The intensity of your frustration grows as you realize that even your dreams have become a source of distress. The pervasive discomfort of constant head pain during waking hours now seems to extend its unwelcome influence into the realm of your sleep, turning what should be a respite into yet another source of anguish. The feeling of being trapped in a dual nightmare, both waking and sleeping, causes tears to well up in your eyes.

In all the months of your illness, you have never felt so completely and utterly lost and afraid.

A sob escapes your throat, and tears stream down your face as you succumb to the overwhelming weight of despair. You just want to get better - because this state is not living anymore, it is merely existing.

You recall the Google search from the day before - about Ed and Lorraine Warren being at a university for a lecture.

Maybe they can help you tackle whatever this is. Conventional medicine has failed you, leaving you desperate and adrift, and at this point, with nothing left to lose you are okay with anything. After all - it cannot get worse.

_____

The lecture hall at the university is packed, filled with an eager and diverse crowd, spanning different ages, all buzzing with anticipation as they gather to witness the renowned Warrens deliver their lecture.

Ed and Lorraine take their place on the stage, positioned behind a podium. You find yourself nervously seated in the middle of the audience, the bright lights exacerbating your headaches, the dull throb syncing with the beat of your heart as you feel anxious. Your attention shifts to the front, where Ed and Lorraine stand and you let your eyes rank over them.

Ed, with his impeccably styled short auburn hair, is dressed in a light grey three-piece suit paired with a black shirt and a tartan tie. Lorraine’s attire is a black vest over a light blue ruffle blouse and a long skirt carrying a matching tartan pattern, echoing Ed’s tie.

It’s a subtle reflection of their devotion to each other, you figure. Both of them emanate an undeniable attractiveness that seems to reel you in and you understand why they are so successful in what they do.

As they stand behind the podium, Ed exudes a grounded demeanour, his voice breaking the silence and resonating through the hall: “Fear is defined as a feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. I don’t care if it’s a demon, a ghost, a spirit, or an entity - they all feed on it.”

Despite Ed’s composed presence, Lorraine appears unfocused, her eyes scanning the crowd as she nervously plays with her rosary.

The room is illuminated by a large screen, displaying rough film footage featuring a gaunt, despondent man in his late twenties - rail thin, eyes black like his hair, and skin pasty white. A Catholic priest stands beside him, murmuring Latin in a barely audible tone.

“Maurice here was a French Canadian farmer with nothing more than a third-grade education - yet after being possessed by a demon, spoke some of the best Latin I had ever heard - sometimes backward. He had been molested by his father, who also exposed him to bestiality. Evil found its home in this man because he was conflicted, and forced into this - he never had a choice. He thought he was saving his wife by shooting her - like his father did to his mother”, Ed informs the audience as the film unfolds before them.

You experience a mix of unease and captivation in Ed’s presence, marvelling at how he commands the room. His bright blue eyes gaze into the audience as he speaks, intensifying the dull throb in your temples as you concentrate on the lecture rather than the charismatic man on the stage.

Shifting your focus from Ed’s figure, you fix your gaze on the screen displaying the possessed man, Maurice, writhing in agonising agony.

Lorraine interjects as the film plays: “If you look at his eyes, you can see them tearing blood onto his shirt.”

You witness Maurice’s white T-shirt morphing into a canvas of dark crimson, accompanied by anguished screams.

“And upside-down crosses started appearing on his body”, Lorraine’s soft voice narrates as Ed lifts Maurice's shirt in the film, revealing two inverted crosses pushing out from the inside.

A sense of disbelief floods your thoughts - how is that possible?

Your headache pulses, prompting you to massage your temples as you watch Maurice’s struggle. The shocking scenes inadvertently bring back memories of the unsettling nightmare from the previous night. You blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the lingering thoughts and bring your focus back to the stage.

Ed takes charge, saying: “That’s good, Drew, why don’t you hit the lights.”

As Drew obediently follows Ed's instruction to turn off the projector, the room is bathed in light once more.

The harsh contrast between the vivid reality around you and the haunting scenes you’ve just witnessed on screen intensifies the unease. You notice others in the audience shifting uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances that reflect a shared sense of disquiet.

Ed’s silhouette becomes more pronounced against the darkened backdrop, and his next words pierce through the silence, undeterred by the discomfort permeating the room, as he begins to explain the significance of the possessed man’s ordeal.

His voice, a steady and authoritative cadence, cuts through the residual tension: “What you’ve seen tonight is not an isolated incident. Demonic possession is a very real and insidious force that can take hold of a person's soul.”

The rational part of your mind grapples with scepticism, but the visceral memories of Maurice’s screams and the grotesque symbols etched on his body make it challenging to dismiss the possibility outright.

Ed’s blue eyes, still holding the attention of the room, seem to penetrate the shadows of doubt. As he delves deeper into the supernatural narrative, your unease mingles with a growing curiosity.

Your attention is drawn to Lorraine, who still appears notably on edge. Her eyes nervously traverse the audience, revealing a subtle unease as her husband, Ed, steers the course of the lecture. It’s as though there's an undercurrent of tension beneath the surface, and Lorraine’s apprehensive demeanour suggests an awareness of something lingering in the air.

You wonder what she may be searching for or if that is normal for her - Ed doesn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“So, what happened to Maurice?”, a young man seated in the front row blurts out loud.

Ed responds with gravity in his tone: “Well, he tried to kill his wife but instead he shot her in the arm and then turned the gun on himself. Maurice had a very troubled life with little to live for...and not even an exorcist you bring him back.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, evoking a sense of sympathy for Maurice. The nonchalant demeanor with which Ed addresses the grim outcome leaves you intrigued and a bit unsettled. You can’t help but wonder about the myriad experiences the Warrens have encountered, considering their seemingly unshaken composure in the face of such dark tales.

As Ed turns to roll up the projector sheet, your attention briefly wanders. At that moment, you find yourself discreetly appreciating his form – his broad frame, strong shoulders concealed by the suit, and his ass that is pronounced by his tight pants.

“Which brings us to the three stages of demonic activity”, Ed declares, pointing emphatically to each word written on the blackboard. He begins to pace around the room, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the assembled audience.

“Infestation, oppression, and possession. Now, infestation: That’s the whispering, the footsteps, the feeling of another presence… which ultimately grows into oppression - the second stage. Now, this is where the victim, and it’s usually the one who's the most psychologically vulnerable, is targeted specifically by an external force. Breaks the victim down. Crushes their will. And once in a weakened state, leads them to the third and final stage: possession.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, emphasising the ominous progression of these stages.

Ed’s eyes, still holding the attention of the room, sweep across the assembled audience, and he opens the floor for questions: “Are there questions?”

A smattering of eager arms shoot up, and you find yourself sinking deeper into your chair. While you too have a question, the nature of it – perhaps delving into the experience of possession – could raise suspicions, causing you to hesitate.

Ed acknowledges a male student in the front row with a subtle nod, indicating his readiness to entertain the question.

“I’d love to know what scares you the most?”, the student inquiries, his curiosity evident.

Ed’s demeanour shifts slightly, breaking into a small but genuine smile at the inquiry. His gaze is momentarily diverted from the audience to meet Lorraine’s. In that brief connection, it’s apparent that Ed’s gaze is filled with love, a sentiment that practically emanates from him, adding a layer of warmth to the otherwise intense atmosphere. Lorraine, still appearing unfocused and nervous, scans the room with vigilant eyes, seemingly attuned to energies beyond the visible.

“Being married to a clairvoyant - there’s not a whole lot I can get away with”, Ed responds, his smile widening as he adds a touch of humour to the gravity of the topic, “But there is just a base level of respect for everything we deal with.”

You can’t help but find Ed’s smile endearing and attractive. The way the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles toothily adds a touch of charm to his already charismatic presence.

As Ed shares this insight into his personal life, the room absorbs the shift in tone, the lecture momentarily transitioning into a more intimate and conversational atmosphere. The male student nods in response, seemingly satisfied with the candid revelation, as the audience gains a glimpse into the intricate dynamics of the Warrens’ unique partnership, accentuated by the palpable love that underlies their connection.

You raise your hand into the air since you thought of a question that won’t arouse suspicion among the gathered crowd. The odds of being chosen appear slim, given the multitude of raised hands, but you decide it’s worth a shot.

Yet, the moment your hand ascends, Lorraine abruptly grinds to a halt.

She suddenly stops cold - her smile vanishes, and her fidgeting with the rosary stops as her eyes lock onto yours with unexpected intensity. Under the weight of her unyielding, scrutinizing gaze goosebumps rise on your arm, and an unexpected chill ripples through you.

Simultaneously, as if in synchrony with the abrupt cessation of Lorraine’s movements, a searing flare of pain erupts in your head. It feels as though an unseen force is ruthlessly clawing its way into the recesses of your skull, compelling your hand to instinctively seek solace on your throbbing temple.

Breaking free from Lorraine’s gaze, you shift your attention towards Ed, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy.

However, Ed, too, has pivoted his attention from the audience to his wife. His gaze remains riveted on her, a pronounced crease forming between his brows as he meticulously follows the direction of her unbroken stare.

Your breath catches in your throat as you meet his eyes - bewildered and tinged with concern. As you lock eyes with Ed, a sensation akin to lightning strikes courses through you. The connection feels electrifying, and for a moment, the world seems to narrow down to the intensity of that shared gaze.

He takes in your form, trying to make sense of why his wife froze on the spot.

As he registers your hand that’s still suspended in the air, Ed’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before finally breaking the silence: “The girl in the fifth row. What’s your question?”

The exchange with Lorraine felt like an eternity when in reality it must have only been a few seconds. Strangely, it appears that no one else in the audience has noticed it.

Before you speak, you discreetly clear your throat. The disconcerting encounter with Lorraine has thrown you off balance.

“How do you protect yourself against the evil forces? Are there specific precautions you take?”

Ed Warren takes a moment to compose himself before addressing your question. The room falls into a hush, and all eyes are now fixed on you and Ed, with your heart still racing. The intensity of Ed’s gaze momentarily threw you off balance.

He responds with a serious expression: “Well, that's a good question. When dealing with the paranormal, it’s crucial to approach it with caution. Lorraine and I always ensure to say a prayer for protection before any investigation. We also use blessed religious artifacts, such as holy water and crosses.”

Lorraine, still visibly affected, nods in agreement, her gaze somewhat distant. You wonder if the people in the audience noticed her strange behavior or if your mind is just playing tricks on you.

“In addition to that, we have a network of clergy and experts whom we consult for guidance. Spiritual strength and faith are crucial when confronting dark forces. It’s about maintaining a balance between understanding the supernatural and respecting the spiritual realm”, Ed continues.

His intense gaze remains on you as he concludes the ghost of a smirk on his lips: “Well, rooms and artefacts can be blessed - but people cannot.”

“Thank you”, you nod and try to fake a smile.

Some part of you had hoped for a more detailed approach on how to deal with the unsettling experiences you’ve been facing. You doubt that you can just pray the persistent headaches and unexplained occurrences that have been plaguing you away.

The audience appears satisfied with the response and begins to murmur amongst themselves. Ed picking up on the collective mood, smoothly gestures for the next question, effectively shifting the focus away from the brief moment of tension.

Despite the outward calm, your mind is racing. You remain deep in thought, contemplating the practicality of the advice given.

You feel Lorraine’s gaze lingering on you, still scrutinising you but no longer frozen.

Ed occasionally diverts his attention from the audience, his concern evident in the subtle furrow of his brow and the way his eyes linger on Lorraine. His glances toward his wife carry an undertone of protectiveness, a silent reassurance seeking confirmation of her well-being as you wonder if it was a good idea to speak to them.

When your eyes meet Ed’s, there is an inexplicable intensity that steals your breath for a moment. The connection feels charged with unspoken questions and a shared curiosity about the peculiar reaction Lorraine had toward you. The exchange is profound, but it’s repeatedly interrupted, the moment broken again and again as Ed diverts his gaze back to the audience or checks on Lorraine.

You sense that Ed is wrestling with his own thoughts, wondering why Lorraine reacted in such a way, and, truth be told, you share the same curiosity.

As your headaches intensify with each passing moment, you find yourself yearning to escape the persistent gaze. The desire to leave this space becomes increasingly urgent as the weight of the unknown, coupled with the growing discomfort in your head, becomes almost unbearable.

“Well, that concludes this seminar; our time is up”, Ed declares, prompting the attendees to rise, and you join the collective movement toward the exit.

Just as you’re about to step through the doorway, a gentle, small hand is placed on your shoulder. The unexpected touch startles you, and you instinctively turn around. There stands Lorraine, her eyes carrying a mix of concern and kindness, and her voice holds a soothing quality as she speaks.

“Can we talk to you? Please, just stay behind”, Lorraine requests, her tone gentle but with an underlying seriousness.

The weight of her words feels like a sudden rush of cold water, and you can’t help but wonder if she has picked up on something you may not even fully understand yourself. A conflicting mix of desire for help and an underlying fear grips you in that moment. Despite the uncertainty, you decide to comply, nodding in acknowledgment and watching as the room empties.

As the door closes behind the last departing seminar attendee, you find yourself alone with the Warrens in the now-empty room. The weight of both Ed and Lorraine’s gazes fixated on you becomes palpable, creating an atmosphere charged with unspoken questions. It’s an unnerving feeling, like being under a microscope, and you can’t help but shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny as the pounding in your head reaches its peak.

Ed, ever perceptive, notices your discomfort and steps forward, breaking the silence.

“You don't have to be scared”, he reassures you with a calming tone, “My wife, Lorraine, she... well, she sees things that I cannot. And right now, she sees that something is bothering you.”

Lorraine, standing beside Ed, remains silent but her eyes, keen and perceptive, seem to penetrate to the core of your being. It’s both fascinating and unsettling, knowing that she possesses abilities beyond the ordinary.

Ed continues: “We’ve encountered many individuals who’ve faced unexplained phenomena, and sometimes, it helps to talk about it. Lorraine has a unique gift, and she might be able to offer some insights.”

As the conversation unfolds, the weight of your distress becomes increasingly apparent to Ed and Lorraine. Their expressions soften, recognizing the urgency of your situation.

“We understand that you’re going through something, and we’d like to help. Our home is a sanctuary, and Lorraine’s unique insights might bring some clarity to what you're experiencing”, Ed’s voice is marked by genuine concern as he reassures you.

Lorraine, who seemed to exude a calm and reassuring presence during the conversation, her demeanour a blend of empathy and understanding, gently adds: “Sometimes, being in a different environment can make it easier to open up and address these issues. We’ve assisted many people facing similar challenges, and we are here for you.”

The persistent throbbing in your head intensifies, and shadows seem to dance in the periphery of your vision as you stand before the Warrens. The pain becomes a tangible force, urging you to seek relief and answers. The sincerity in their words, coupled with the promise of potential resolution, convinces you to accept their invitation. Despite the lingering uncertainties, the hope of finding solace from the unexplained phenomena that have haunted you is a powerful motivator.

As you agree to visit their home, you take a moment to scrutinise Ed and Lorraine up close. The subtleties in Ed’s mannerisms captivate you - the way his hands flex when he explains something. The fluid movements of them, enticing your gaze to trace the contours of his rather large palms.

His lips curl in a subtle but genuine smile, revealing a warmth that contrasts with the gravity of the situation.

You notice that Ed is not clean shaven but instead, a carefully groomed short stubble graces his jawline, framing his face in a way that accentuates his features. The stubble adds a rugged charm, underscoring a sense of authenticity and strength.

You find yourself feeling a different kind of pull - a quiet and unexpected attraction to Ed.

As you stand near him, you catch a whiff of his intoxicating scent, a distinctly manly fragrance that envelops you like a comforting spell. It’s a blend of woodsy notes and subtle hints of spice, leaving an indelible impression that adds an intriguing layer to the enigmatic connection blossoming between you.

A momentary hesitation causes you to instinctively bite your lip, a nervous habit that betrays the complexity of your emotions. In that fleeting instant, you catch Ed’s gaze flickering down to your lips, lingering longer than appropriate.

The attraction to Ed catches you off-guard and the unspoken connection, heightened by your response and Ed's subtle acknowledgment, adds a subtle tension to the air.

Not only is the situation at hand graver and darker but he is also married - and his wife is standing right beside you.

A twinge of guilt creeps in as you become keenly aware of the poor job you are doing to hide the magnetic pull you sense toward Ed.

Next chapter

[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (7)

She never thought she would be involved in a murder case. She also never thought she’d encounter her one-night-stand again—the awkward stranger who isn’t exactly that good in bed… Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong.

Part Summary: She finds herself in a compromising position.

Series Warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide

a/n: this is my first time writing suspense and crime-mystery, so bear with me if you find any inaccuracy

IF THERE WAS ONE THING SPENCER WAS SURE OF, IT WAS BEING SLEEP DEPRIVED. Fatigue, like an invisible shroud, draped itself around his shoulders, draining all of his energy while his mind stumbled through a labyrinth of exhaustion.

He stifled a yawn, his mind trying to focus on the situation at hand and not the lack amount of sleep he was having. When was the last time he actually slept on his bed? When was the last time he went through his days without constantly refilling his cup with too much caffeine? The muscles around his eyes were starting to twitch with restless energy, a sign of a restless mind faltered under the weight of weariness.

Yet amidst it all, a strange resilience emerged within him. He still managed to focus his blurred vision, scanning his eyes around the room as he pushed away any fatigue and the desire to be somewhere else.

His gaze finally ceased on Garcia, engrossed in her own digital world, a sleek laptop perched on the round table before her. She leaned in, her eyes fixed on the vibrant screen which illuminated her face with a soft, cool glow. "Alright, so, I did more digging onto our recent victim, and let me tell you this, Jamison Lynch wasn't exactly the boss of the year."

Jennifer Jareau—who most of them regarded as JJ—looked up from the document in her hand, sitting across from Garcia. "What do you mean?"

"Jamison Lynch was somebody you wouldn't want as a boss. There were a lot of complaints coming from his subordinates—which surprisingly, most came from female workers."

Spencer's eyes scanned the large board in front of him adorned with a labyrinth of interconnected information. Photographs of the two crime scenes were pinned up, highlighting key details, while strings of marks and drawings crossed the board. "He was very different from the first victim."

"Exactly. Kevin Marshall was the epitome of boss of the year, and everybody just loved the guy, which was why no one could guess how something terrible could happen to him."

"There's a chance what happened to him isn't related to his job," JJ offered.

"Maybe not," Garcia muttered, throwing Spencer a curious look. "But the question is still unanswered, how are the two victims linked to one another?"

"The Unsub's memo is clearly done to punish them," Spencer explained, his attention started to gather all the information gripped onto his brain. "The verse written on Jamison Lynch's body was Romans 6:23, For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in our Lord."

JJ leaned over the desk with a pointed stare. "One thing for sure, the Unsub has a strong religious background."

Spencer nodded. "All the verse they used highlights the notion that sin carries consequences, and death is described as the 'wage' or payment for those transgressions. In his mind, they may interpret these verses as a justification for his vigilante actions, believing that he's carrying out divine punishment on behalf of God."

"A religious upbringing," JJ suggested. "The Unsub could have grown up in a deeply religious environment, where strict interpretations of scripture might be emphasized."

"Most likely a distorted belief system." Spencer's hands were all over the place as he continued with his elucidation. "Over time, the Unsub's religious beliefs may have become twisted and distorted, leading him to believe that he possesses a unique calling to carry out punishment on behalf of a higher power."

He then studied the picture of the first crime scene, his eyes raking over the lifeless body covered in a pool of blood. "Kevin Marshall might seem like the golden citizen, but he must be involved in something that could be illegal..." He suddenly looked over to Garcia. "Did Jamison Lynch start his career as a journalist?"

Her fingers danced across the keyboard. "Yes, he published a lot of his work since 2004."

"Search any articles he wrote that might involve Kevin Marshall, or maybe the company he worked for. "

"Or legal cases that he was assigned with," JJ added.

"That could be a start, although it might take a while because sleuthing without much lead is difficult." Garcia peered at the two of them by the rim of her eccentric, colorful glasses. "But do not fret, I am known to be the best."

Footsteps suddenly emerged into the room as Aaron Hotchner glanced around the three of them. "Garcia," he mentioned, standing behind her. "Did you find any old cases that might be involved in the victims?"

"Ah, yes, the system was searching through the database based on your queries this morning and it took me a while before—" A sudden ping echoed from her device. “Well, that was perfect timing."

Her fingers clicked across the keyboard as her eyes scanned the dimly lit screen. Everyone in the room stood frozen in their tracks, their faces etched with a curious mix of trepidation and curiosity.

Garcia's eyes widened, revealing the turmoil that echoed the collective sentiment of the room. "Whoa."

JJ stood up and circled her way around the table, standing close to her. "What is it?"

"I started looking through the database for any similar crimes in surrounding areas this morning." Her attention shifted between the other three people in the room. "There have been enucleations in other cases, but none recently, and none close by. No similar murder case was shown, but suicide on the other hand..."

"Harvey Webb," JJ read, looking at the photo of the deceased man. "Suicidal death?"

"Thirty-nine-year-old landlord took a tumble off a sixth-floor balcony two years ago, exactly on the apartment complex he rented out."

"Why are we looking at a suicidal case?"

"That's the thing, the local authorities ruled out that he might've not jumped on his own accord, although his wife at that time determined that he had been having suicidal thoughts for a long time and decided to close the case." Garcia did more tapping on her keyboard and somehow pictures of the crime scene were plastered across the screen in front of the room. "Harvey went through depression and a lot of suicidal attempts, there were always cuts along his arm except—"

"There was a writing on his body?" Hotch guessed.

Garcia nodded as she clicked on a clearer picture of the victim's arm. "His autopsy came in that while there were definite signs of attempt self-hurt, this was written between the cuts."

"Galatians 6:7," Spencer read, his eyes fixated on the screen as he recited, "Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows."

"Definitely a vigilante on the loose," JJ remarked.

Spencer hummed a positive response and walked over to the board, a marker in his hand as he wrote down the verse. "This verse underscores the concept of reaping the consequences of one's actions, which could further justify the Unsub's belief that his victims deserve punishment for his perceived sins or mistakes."

Hotch studied the pictures of the recent victims and the one shown on the screen. "The way the words are carved across the skin is definitely done by the same person," he noted.

JJ looked between the three pictures before nodding. "I agree." She then glanced up at her co-workers. "So why the different MO? Something connects these three victims, and yet this one"—she pointed to the photo of Harvey Webb—"died in a completely different manner. He either jumped or was pushed. We don't even know if it was a murder, just that he was branded the same as the other two victims."

"The timeline doesn't add up," Spencer claimed, his brows furrowed deeper. "There's too much of a gap between the first victim and the second victim, we're looking at two different stressors that triggered the Unsub."

Hotch stood beside him, crossing his arms as he studied the evidence they had collected these past few days. "If this was his first victim and the two men were his second and third, it's possible he's advancing, that his fantasy is developing."

Spencer looked back at the three pictures. What connected these three dead people, two murdered in violent, heinous ways, the third a potential suicide victim? What wrongdoings might they possibly sin? And now he couldn't help but feel the weight of Hotch's words and how revolting one could act in this series of crimes, proclaiming them as fantasies, his skill, and determination more distinguished than ever before.

"If that's the case..." he pointed out, a certain tension hanging in the air. "He's only getting started."

Y/n must be mad—utterly, completely out of her mind.

She always considered herself a very sensible person characterized by an ability to think critically, or make rational decisions on logical reasoning. But her thoughts, once orderly and coherent, twisted into bewildering shapes because here she was, perched right in front of an apartment door she once closed behind and never looked back.

Why did she think it was a good idea to come here uninvited at this time of hour? How did she end up being here when she was lying in her bed a few hours ago?

She recalled turning around in her sleep, or perhaps, her attempt to rest her eyes, because she found herself staring into the dark with an unsettling feeling in her gut. Maybe all the turmoil of emotions piled up in her chest had her going into a panic frenzy, relentlessly moving in her bed when she should've been fast asleep.

Somehow amidst dwelling on her anxiety, she was suddenly on her feet, putting on a jacket before calling a cab. Her mind was too tangled to be driving on her own, and when the driver asked her where she was heading, she recited the area she was familiar with. Did she remember the building she wanted to go to? Yes. Did she know the exact address? Apparently not.

Although it was easy to spot the building. The old but clean apartment was recognizable, the sturdy wooden door, adorned with vintage brass fixtures, welcomed her after she tipped the driver her fair. The cool air hit her face, her hair flying around her shoulders as she spotted a residence walking out of the building. She quickly slipped in, seeking a very much-needed warmth, yet now she was starting to question her common sense.

But it was too late to turn back because her hand was already curling into a fist as she knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times. When there was no answer, she wasn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed. She knocked once again, and when she was met with silence, she decided it was a sign that she was indeed making the wrong decision.

So she exhaled a breath she wasn't even aware of holding, turned around, and completely froze when she was met with a familiar pair of hazel eyes. There he was, almost a week since the last time she saw him, standing on the last step of stairs.

Time seemed to stand still. Her heart skipped a beat, his presence exuded a captivating charm. His chiseled features were accentuated by a sculpted jawline, leading up to a pair of intense, deep-set eyes that seemed to hold a hefty amount of fatigue. Dark circles cast shadows beneath his eyes, hinting at nights spent wrestling with restless thoughts.

He was dressed in a rumpled shirt and loosely fitted trousers, his attire mirrored the fatigue he wore upon his face. The fabric seemed to hang upon his frame, lacking the crispness that usually accompanied his wardrobe. But despite his weariness, there was an undeniable pull emanating from his presence. It should be illegal how handsome he still looked even when he looked like he needed some rest.

Spencer took a tentative step closer, looking reminiscent of a puppy with his eyebrows pinched at each beginning in a way that can only mimic either confusion or concentration. "Y/n?"

"Hi," she awkwardly greeted, suddenly feeling out of place.

"What brings you here?"

"I..." she trailed off, her brows furrowed as she tried to find a reasonable answer. But somehow she found herself telling him the truth. "I honestly don't know."

His eyes fixed upon her, silently studying her figure. A cascade of lustrous hair framed her face, falling gracefully upon her shoulders.

"Do you want to come in?"

"I don't want to impose on you—" she stepped aside, letting him unlock his door. "Or disturb your much-needed rest."

A ghost of a smile curled on the corner of his lips as he fished out his keys. "I look terrible, don't I?"

"I wouldn't say terrible, just... you look very tired."

"I haven't had proper sleep in days." With a steady hand, he inserted the key into the lock before a satisfying click echoed in the air. With a gentle push, the door swung open, and he gestured to her with a nod.

She looked between him and his apartment. "Are you sure?"

"Come in," he offered. He walked inside his home and pulled the door ajar. "Please."

She studied him for a while before nodding. The floor creaked as she stepped into his household, and as the door swung shut behind her, she scanned the room that seemed familiar yet foreign at the same time. A sense of warmth enveloped her despite the predominantly dark colors that adorned the space. Soft, ambient lighting emanated from placed lamps, casting a gentle glow upon the room.

She walked past him and noticed the chessboard splayed across the coffee table. "I didn't know you play chess." She sat down on his couch. "Looks like you were in the middle of a game… was someone else here?"

He wasn't sure whether he heard a note of jealousy in her voice, but he smiled nonetheless.

"Actually, I was in a game with myself," he answered sheepishly, shrugging off his suit jacket before placing it over his couch. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"No, it's alright." She leaned forward, her gaze fixed upon the chessboard. Her eyes darted back and forth, analyzing the board with a keen interest before moving a chess piece, placed with precision and purpose.

Genuine surprise crossed his face as he settled beside her. "You know how to play chess?"

"A little. I used to play with my father growing up."

"You don't play with him anymore?"

She shook her head. "He passed away when I was young. Both of my parents did."

"I'm sorry," he gently spoke. He leaned back and turned his body toward her. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Nope, just me."

"I'm an only child too." Then he assessed her carefully while her eyes wandered beyond her striking features, a subtle tension betrayed a deeper complexity lurking beneath the surface. "Now are you going to tell me why you're here?"

He noticed the subtle language of her body where uncertainty weaved on her face. It was in the way she looked between him and her hands, a balance between wonder and reservation that hinted at the lingering doubt within. Then she took a deep breath, her brows furrowed as her voice filled in the silence.

"Does it make me a bad person that I didn't cry after everything that happened?"

He frowned, taken aback by the sudden question. "What do you mean?"

"There was a memorial service for Jamison a few days ago, and while everyone mourned, I just... stood there." She looked down at her hands. "What happened to him was very unfortunate, it just happened that, apparently, I have no emotions.”

His head fell back onto the couch as he watched her. "It doesn't make you a bad person. Grief is a deeply personal and individual experience, and people respond to loss in different ways. Crying is just one expression of grief, but it isn't the only definitive indicator of how much someone cared for or was impacted by the loss of a person, especially given how you saw what had happened."

"But it makes me feel kind of heartless." She glanced back at him. "I mean, he wasn't exactly the greatest boss, and I should've felt a certain kind of sadness, but I... I don't know how I feel, to be honest."

"Y/n," he gently called, his expression softening. "It's important to remember that everyone grieves in their own way. What matters most is that you find healthy ways to navigate and process your emotions surrounding the loss, whether it involves crying or not."

She hummed in response. "I guess you do have a point."

"I do, and I'm right most of the time." Spencer smiled when she rolled her eyes and a comfortable silence settled between them. "Now tell me the truth."

She quirked an eyebrow. "What truth?"

"You obviously have a lot on your mind right now and I'm trying to wrap my head around why you chose to be here."

"Do I need to have a reason?"

As his gaze lingered, he found himself drawn to her eyes—a delicate blend of curiosity and trepidation. They shimmered with a gentle vulnerability, revealing the depths of her longing to be seen and understood.

"I would like to know your reason."

She weighed her words carefully. "I couldn't sleep,” she decided to say. “My mind was constantly turning its gear, then it got too overwhelming?” She shook her head. “I-I guess I needed the comfort..."

As she tried to find her voice, her words become entangled in the turmoil of her emotions. With a deep breath, she gathered her courage. The words spilled forth, unfiltered and vulnerable, resonating with a sincerity that echoed through the room.

"And somehow you were the first person that came to mind."

Spencer felt an unfamiliar intensity washing over him—a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty that tugged at his heartstrings. And then suddenly, completely out of nowhere, the desire to embrace her consumed him, both thrilling and terrifying. It was such a baffling thought because he found hugs to be overwhelmingly intimate for his liking, yet there was this urge to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his.

The weight of uncertainty pressed upon him, urging caution and restraint. But logic lost its battle with instinct, and caution lost its wrestle with impulsive longing as he found himself asking, "Can I give you a hug?"

Her body tensed, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. But as he kept staring at her, she realized that he was being serious. And she found herself nodding, yearning for the warmth radiating from his body.

He carefully drew closer and a magnetic force guided her movements, gently pushing her into his arms. Nervous excitement coursed through her veins, infusing a sense of vulnerability.

Bodies entwined, they breathe in unison, inhaling the essence of closeness as senses unfold—the warmth of skin against skin, the familiar scent that filled the air, the weight of the world momentarily faded away as they surrendered to the pure simplicity of human touch.

His head was spinning with longing and somehow he managed to pull her body gently onto his lap. She silently accepted his tug, placing her legs on either side of his thighs as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Amidst her relishing the gentle press of his body against hers, she couldn't help but find amusement in this new position.

He felt the subtle shake of her shoulder as a burst of soft laughter escaped her mouth. He suddenly tensed. "Is there something funny?"

The confusion etched in his voice had her pulling away, a small smile lingering on her face. "Yes," she answered. "It's amusing how you like having me on your lap so much.”

A slight warmth spread along his face as he became aware of her weight settling on top of him. "I didn’t notice."

She wasn't sure whether it was the glimmer in his eyes, the bashful smile on his lips, or the way he didn't pull his gaze away from her, but before it could register in her mind, she drew herself closer to him. The sudden shift of her movement caused a friction underneath her, and it was at that moment she realized how compromising of a position they were in.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, and an electric current surged through her veins, awakening a longing she had not anticipated. Her eyes flickered with a newfound intensity—a hunger that shimmered in the depths of her gaze as she could only focus on the pulse settling between her thighs. 

As her longing deepened, she became acutely aware of his proximity. The scent of him enveloped her, intoxicating her senses, and her mind was consumed by allowing herself to surrender in this newfound need. 

So she slowly rolled her hips, feeling his body beneath her, and suppressed a moan when she felt the outline of his bulge stroking against her core. Her breath hitched, betraying the innocent intentions that had initially brought them together. 

She felt him tense from the friction and his heart thudding hard against his ribcage, her heart beating to the same rhythm. "Stop doing that," he suddenly said, eyes darkening as he stared at her, voice deep and raspy. 

"Why?" She whispered.

A whirlwind of emotions churned within him. His heart ached to offer solace, yet primal longing tugged at his core, igniting an undeniable urge to keep her closer, to indulge in the sudden pull of desire.

"Because if you don't," he grunted, his hand sliding up her neck, burying it in her thick hair as he tilted her face. He pulled her closer, his thumb sweeping in long strokes along the side of her throat. The heat of her presence lingered on his fingertips, tempting him to pull her into an embrace that transcends mere comfort. "I won't be able to stop myself."

His gaze then traced the contours of her form. The subtle curve of a hip, the graceful arch of a back, the gentle swell of a chest—all become objects of fascination. He watched as her tongue wiped along her bottom lip while she slid her hands across his shoulders, stopping right on his chest, hovering above his heart.

"Then don't," she softly pleaded, moving her hips once again, igniting a moan deep within his chest. “I don't want you to stop."

It was the only push he needed as he closed the distance between them, finally crushing his lips to hers.

>> NEXT PART

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[leighcest]

i don't smoke (except for when i'm missing you.)

--

1.7k words

adam faulkner-stanheight x lawrence gordon

tropes: m/m, hurt / no comfort, mlm, ghost!adam faulkner-stanheight, slight headcanons, trans!adam faulkner-stanheight, slowburn(?), they're in love they just don't realize it, no happy ending, angst, religious mention once, chainshipping, suggested divorce between ali and larry, lawrence is an apprentice, canon timeline, not betaread we die like adam faulkner-stanheight

note: the title is a reference to the song i don't smoke by mitski! uh yeah! please enjoy:). posted on my ao3.

tags: @mychem1calbr0mance , @st4rcryptid

Every night had the same premise. Lawrence goes to sleep, dreams about Adam, and wakes up.

Tonight is no different. Lawrence is sawing his leg off, but it never comes off. He’s just pressing the blade against his leg and sawing. When he blinks, he has a gun pointed to Adam. Lawrence tries to stop himself from firing it, as if it would change what really happened. But it doesn’t. He puts seven rounds into Adam this time.

Adam looks so young. So painfully young. Because he was. The most youthful he had ever looked. Larry thinks about how that was the youngest and oldest he’ll ever look. And Lawrence took that away from him. Took him away from his parents, his friends, his siblings (if he had any). He murdered Adam. Shot and left him to rot. Took away his life. And now he’s gone. Because of Lawrence. He looked petrified.

He blinks one more time and Adam is bashing in his skull instead of Zepp’s. He looked even younger, even more afraid. and with that, he jerks awake.

His temples are near-exploding and his sheets are soaked. Lawrence’s chair is just far enough it’s painful to grab it and as he collapses in it, his will to shower is now gone.

A ghost dripping blood blurs his way into Lawrence’s vision. A gnawing feeling of guilt curls itself into the blond’s gut. It bubbles and hardens into a deeper feeling similar to rage. At himself, at Adam, whoever his mind can reminisce of. Somehow, Adam dissipating into a soft smoke makes Lawrence’s grief worse.

Lawrence tries to convince himself that Diana is sleeping in her room across the hall, to fill the lonely empty inside of him. It doesn’t work. He knows that Diana is at Alison’s with her new boyfriend. He knows it’s just him. Alone with the ghost of his most guilt ridden victim following him.

The shower dulls the ache in his head and the warmth consuming him like the fires of Hell themself. His foot aches, despite the fact it’s alone, rotting in a bathroom with the decaying corpse of Adam. John hadn’t told Lawrence to come in, so he has all day to pity himself.

His hair drips water down his back that makes him shiver. He can feel Adam’s presence (or the lack thereof) in the room with him. Lawrence wants nothing more than to call out. To scream at him. He closes his laptop and shoves his work to the side.

An empty balcony clouded with smoke is Lawrence’s favorite place as of recent. The sting of cigarette smoke reminds him of the irony of his job. The irony of it all. He’s a cancer doctor, who’s smoking. He’s a doctor who saves people, yet couldn’t save the one person that mattered most. He’s supposed to save people, yet he kills them in his freetime.

“Larry.” Adam chirps out. He’s smiling. “Thought you didn’t smoke?”

Lawrence’s face pulls into a mix of annoyance and longing. He sighs deeply before thinking of a response. “I didn’t. And then I did. Simple as that.”

Adam seems to take this answer before the corners of his lips quirk up once again. “You’re kinda pathetic, y’know?” He smirked like the Joker himself possessed Adam’s facial muscles. “I mean, really Lawrence. Smoking for someone you knew for six hours before you killed him? You didn’t even know me.”

“Exactly. I didn’t know you. Nobody knows you. You told me you were alive and nothing, and you were right.” Lawrence had to pause when he felt bile creep up his throat. “That’s why I feel guilty.”

That reasoning shuts Adam up quickly. Lawrence swears he heard the boy mumble a soft apology before sitting down. “I don’t blame you. I know that… Everything that happened was for a reason. I know that. I know that whatever happened to me was for the better.” He started. “I would have done the same in a heartbeat. I wish someone would have done that for me.” Adam chuckled, but it sounded more sad and pathetic than happy. Then again, everything Adam did was sad and pathetic. John was right.

The younger sits down and looks over at Lawrence. “Are you actually a ghost or did I make you up?” The blonde whispers. It was supposed to be to Adam, but came out like he was talking to no one in particular, and maybe he was. Adam hums in response. “I’m whatever you want me to be, handsome.” He winked. The older man clearly was not thrilled with this response. Adam could tell. He made a noise adjacent to clearing his throat. “Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that I’m not mad at you. Y’know, just… don’t leave me alone wondering where you are.” Adam said softer now. His smirk had melted into a soft and genuine smile.

Lawrence didn’t like how it tugged at him. He rubbed his eyes and put out the cigarette he was smoking, before staring blankly over the balcony as he nodded at Adam’s previous comment.

Paperwork was boring, and that’s all Lawrence could really do except for sleep. So he slept.

When Lawrence opens his eyes, Adam's decayed face floods his view. He's not stupid. It's been two months, he wouldn't look this dead. His jaw is eaten away and his body is pale. Adam's skin like the moonlight reflected off his window.

Lawrence squeezes his eyes closed. When he decides it's been long enough, he unclenches his body. His eyes slowly open. Adam is laying on his side, and his hand is propping up his head.

The older man desperately tries to cool the warm, tingling feeling that Adam's shit eating smirk is causing him.

"Hey, doc." His whiny voice pierces Lawrence's ears. Adam's voice to Lawrence is like a whistle to dogs or the wind humans used to hear. Lawrence feels his throat desperately constrict as he begs it to swallow his shame. "Adam. It's far too late for this."

He's still not sure if the Adam that's in his nightmares is the one haunting him, but he tolerates them both, so why fuss?

Adam stays silent, simply observing Lawrence and seemingly admiring the empty pit he leaves in Lawrence's stomach. His smirk transformed into a softer, more playfully smirk. "Sick of me already? Jeez, Lar, no wonder you left me."

A sour taste other than smoke fills Lawrence's mouth. "Don't call me that." The man said sternly, trying to hide the meek shame in his voice. Lawrence let out a breath he was holding. Talking to each other felt like walking on eggshells. Or landmines.

Looking over at Lawrence, the shorter stays unmoving. Just taking slow and deep breaths. He blinks. Adam is gone, the only remnant being a dent in Lawrence’s pillow, and the faint reminisce of a “sorry” on Larry’s lips.

Remembering Adam is cold. Touching (or the lack thereof) the ghost of Adam is colder. Lawrence is currently hugging the air, gripping it like a vice. His arms are loosely hung around Adam’s neck, and his nose is digging into his collarbone.

This is extra humiliating, because Lawrence is hovering over the air because he can’t touch Adam without his skin ripping through his hands and into the air he breathes.

Adam’s shirt is cotton. It’s soft and wet and soaked in blood. Lawrence tries to grip it but he watches as his wounded shoulder puffs into gas before resolving back. This makes the blond feel worse.

Ugly sobs rip painfully through Lawrence’s throat as it tries to close to ward off the whines and cries. He cries until he thinks he might throw up and some more after that.

He resists the urge to slam his fist desperately into a wall until his knuckles are shreds of skin and muscle. As he clenches his fist where Adam’s hair would be, the ghost whispers shushes to him. Promising he isn’t angry anymore, that Lawrence shouldn’t be either. Lawrence swears up and down he feels ghostly hands sliding up and down his back. The eldest gasps harshly for air.

Lawrence can’t remember the last time he’s cried like this, surely before Diana was born. Maybe even before Alison and him met.

“You’re fine, Lawrence, Jesus Christ!” Adam whispers, unsure of what to do. “Just take a deep breath… let it all out. I can take it… I can take it. I can take your anger, I’ll keep it safe inside me.” If Lawrence knew any better, he would think Adam was speaking gibberish. However, at that moment, Lawrence listened, leaning against Adam and wailing. He wasn’t even sure why. He drove his fist into Adam, even though he couldn’t feel it.

“Yeah, that’s it. If you need to be mean, you can be mean to me. Just lean on me as you break my heart.” Adam said softly, listening as the other tried to mumble stupidly about how he was fine. “Oh, don’t fucking bullshit me. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be crying and punching a ghost.” He scoffed to which Lawrence scoffed too.

The doctor didn’t have the strength to fight back, so he just let himself weep against Adam.

“I want to know more about you, Adam.” Lawrence said, scribbling his signature on various pieces of paper. The brunet perked up.

“What do you want to know?” He smiled up at Lawrence. “Anything.” The eldest whispered.

Adam looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I grew up catholic. I dropped out of highschool. I wanted to be a vet. I took up photography because it was the only thing my brothers weren’t doing. Oh, yeah, I have twelve brothers, I’m the youngest. I overdosed on depression medicine when I was nine. My nose bleeds randomly. I can’t really sleep. I’ve always wanted to fall in love.” Adam listed random items about himself.

Lawrence hums in response. He tries to get choked up. “What about you?” Adam asks.

“I also grew up catholic. I wanted to be in the army growing up. I tried to take my life at 19.” The silence after that was tense enough from Lawrence to make the quiet awkward and calm enough from Adam to make it nice. Lawrence thought before responding again. “And, I’ve also always wanted to fall in love.”

note: rb & comments are always appriciated 💛

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 33

read on ao3! (153k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Series tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Series synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Warnings: animal death. threats of cannibalism. gore.

Word count: 6.4k

Chapter 33

Juliet’s POV:

Juliet hadn’t noticed the men who clung to the side of the building like dark moss. She didn’t see the sight that had made Joel pause. But Juliet saw, with the harshest of clarity, the back end of the shotgun as it assaulted Joel’s temple.

Mouth open in a silent display of horror, Juliet watched as his body crumpled to the ground like paper in a tight fist. 

The self preservation that guided her for many years and protected her like a sure compass was nowhere to be found. She didn’t look to her left to find Joel’s attacker. She didn’t even raise her gun, instead, it slipped through her fingers and hit the ground with a sound that never reached her ears.

Juliet didn’t hear herself scream for him but she felt her lips form his name.

Why wasn’t he listening to her? Why wasn’t he moving?

Her skin was numb by the time the first man touched her skin, gripping her wrists and roughly pulling them behind her body before a rope enclosed around them again, again, blocking her blood flow. But Juliet felt nothing. The men around her didn’t exist. They couldn’t exist, because if they did, and that rope around her wrists was real too, then that meant that Joel… that Joel…

No, no no no NO. 

“Get up, Joel,” Juliet demanded, her voice hard, mimicking his past commands. “Get up,” she continued when he still didn’t move, louder this time. “Get up. Get up. Get up. GET UP,” Juliet begged.

She tried to drop to her knees, tried to crawl to him. But the men around her had hands under her arms, keeping her upright. Juliet just writhed and bared her teeth, seething like a woman possessed.

Why wouldn’t they let her crawl to him?

Through her burning vision, Juliet watched in cold, biting horror as hands were shoved under Joel’s arms and his motionless body was lifted into the air.

She was screaming again then his feet began to drag against the ground. 

Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he -

Juliet couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t feel anything beyond stunned terror.

Take me with him! She wanted to scream. And maybe she did scream it. Maybe she couldn’t stop screaming.

Sharp heat and a welcome numbness hit her cheek. Too slowly, Juliet’s head tilted towards the hand that slapped her. Her eyes widened when she realised that she knew the man the hands belonged to. Juliet scrambled her confused mind for his name as recognition flared within her. The man had become almost synonymous with her father when she was young; he watched her from corners and lingered in open doorwards as her father hurt her. And he was always first in line when her father opened their game up to other players. 

John, Juliet remembered. 

“What’re you doing back here, Juliet?” John’s sneering voice asked as the hand that slapped her now gripped her chin, tilting her chin up to meet his face. 

Through her hazy mind, she felt his breath coat her cheek and she blinked up at his, too thin, face. 

“Don’t care who she is, pick her up and let’s go,” a voice called from behind them. 

John’s cracked lips spread into a bloody smile before he pulled her even closer until his lips met her ear. 

“You might’ve been something in this town once, sweetheart,” he murmured, causing Juliet's already broken and pounding heart to jump. “Do you know what you are now?” he asked as he pulled back to meet her wide stare. 

John’s eyes roamed down her body before he answered. 

“Fresh meat.” 

……………..

They dragged Juliet through the gate, passing the corpse of the horse that had carried them here. 

Its hollowed body told her what fate awaited her. 

Her head whipped around. She couldn’t see Joel. Juliet began to scream his name in a guttural cry. She thought that if she yelled enough it might wake her from his nightmare. 

God, they must have been watching them since they entered the town. 

Joel had questioned Danny for looking over his shoulder but that’s what they should have been doing. Maybe they had grown too comfortable in Jackson, had forgotten the habit all together. 

The tall gate that protected the town had been open. Why had it been open? The question had plagued Juliet’s mind as they had searched for Danny. 

Only now, as she was dragged through the same streets, did the answer reveal itself like the solution to an old riddle…

What does a starving town, in the midst of winter, with a dead leader, and no contacts or suppliers need most? 

Fresh meat. 

It was a trap, the open gate had been a snare and they had walked right into it. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Juliet just wanted to know if she was destined to her father’s fate, if his blood had truly corrupted her.

Stupid, fucking selfish suicidal mistake. 

Joel was right, he was always right, and yet he still came with her…

And now he was … and now he …

“Joel!” The scream erupted from Juliet’s raw throat. 

“Shut her up, will you?” One of the men she only vaguely recognised groaned from behind her. 

“It’d be my fucking pleasure,” another one said before the back end of a gun sped towards the side of her head. 

…………………………….

Her bed was so cold that the feeling bit through her layers of clothing. 

Juliet groaned, trying to turn over away from the chill, but her body wouldn’t follow her commands. 

Juliet’s eyes flashed open to a ceiling that she didn’t recognise. Her mind was foggy and the world was still blurry as Juliet blinked a few times and tried to raise a hand to rub at her eyes. But she couldn’t move her arm, why couldn’t she move her arm? 

Her memories barreled into her like another hit to the temple. 

Joel. 

Juliet’s pulse began to roar in her ears as she remembered what had happened and she realised where she was. 

She couldn’t move her arms or legs, and it wasn’t a bed she was lying on.

Juliet was strapped to a metal table in what looked like Ethan’s father’s old medic office. 

The room had always been kept immaculate when Ethan’s father was alive, but now every surface was overflowing with dirty rags, containers and knives which all had a slick red coating to them which made Juliet’s stomach drop. 

She remembered their horse. 

“Fresh meat,” John had called her. 

Juliet swallowed down her nausea as she tilted her head the best she could to see the floor. 

It was stained with blood. 

This wasn’t an examination table anymore… It was a butcher’s block. 

Despite the chill, a sweat broke out across her forehead. She tried to think of a strategy to get out but all she could think about was Joel. 

Where was he? How long had she been out for? … Was he alive? 

The door opened so suddenly, Juliet didn’t have time to wipe the horrified look from her face.

It was John. He looked the same as he did in the dark memories of her childhood, except he was now a lot thinner, like Danny. Lost leadership and the effects of winter had hit this town hard. 

He opened his mouth but Juliet spoke first. 

“Where is he?” she demanded in a voice far stronger than she felt. 

John shook his head slowly, and walked to pull a chair over to the table she lay on.

“Slow your horses, sweetheart. You’re not the one asking questions here,” he warned as he sat down and rested his hands on his knees.

“Where is he?” Juliet bit out, ignoring him. 

John laughed and leaned back in his chair. 

“So you’ve come back, and with Elijah’s killer, no less,” he observed with a quizzical look. “I was out on a supply run when your father was murdered. Knew he was looking for you, though. Just didn’t expect you to betray us, Juliet.” 

She swallowed down the fear that was crawling up her throat.

“God, what a disappointment you were to him,” John sighed. “Your father gave you everything, he saved you and yet you brought that monster straight to him.” 

Juliet’s heart was pounding so hard in her chest it was difficult to hear John’s voice. 

“When I came back, they told me that Elijah was murdered by this crazy man and I -” John paused, shook his head and clasped his hands in front of him. “I vowed that I’d get revenge, one way or another but keeping this town alive became more important.” He rubbed a hand over his face and barked out a surprised, almost delighted laugh. “And then you walk right in, like you own this fucking town and with the psychopath himself. It’s just perfect, couldn’t have wrote it better myself.” 

Juliet began to shake her head. “We don’t want any trouble,” she promised. 

John tilted his face to the side, to match her position on the table, and looked deep into her eyes. 

“Oh we’re way past that now, sweetheart,” he said almost softly as his eyes roamed down her restrained body. “All you are is trouble.” 

Juliet squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. She couldn’t see a way out of this, she couldn’t even begin to make a plan because her mind was playing a constant loop of Joel’s body crumpling to the ground. Juliet analysed it over and over. Did she see him breathing? Could he have survived this? 

“Where is he?” she pleaded. 

John stood so suddenly that Juliet flinched. He pushed his chair back with a biting shriek and walked over to the counter. 

“He’s no concern of yours now. You brought him right to us, sweetheart,” John replied with his back turned as he fiddled with something on the counter. “You didn’t think we’d want to have a little chat with the man who killed Elijah and left us all to starve?” 

Hope slammed into Juliet’s chest, fast and sudden. 

“He’s alive?” she choked out. Her eyes began to flood with tears and they leaked onto the cold metal table beneath her. 

John turned suddenly, resting his back on the counter, as his lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You really do care about him, don’t you?” He scoffed, then shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.” 

Juliet said nothing, just bit her lip to stop another scream from erupting. 

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. 

“Why’d you come here, Juliet?” John demanded, turning his head to the side. The action made him look menacing, and Juliet remembered that she should be afraid of him, not just because of what he might do to Joel, but what he might do to her. 

“We want nothing from you,” she bit out as she struggled against the restraints. Juliet was growing restless, and her breathing grew laboured as she realised there wasn’t an easy way out of this. 

She was entirely at John’s mercy; whatever his revenge may include. 

“Just let us go,” Juliet pleaded as the ropes that bound her scratched red welts into her skin. 

John’s look stretched several moments as he watched her struggle, then he reached for something behind him that Juliet couldn’t see from the angle she lay at. 

“No,” he replied quietly as he began to walk towards her, his footsteps slow and careful as though he were approaching a wild beast. “No, this is just too good. You took everything from us,” John’s voice had grown darker. “Your father was a proud man and he provided for us, kept us from starvation every winter… now you’ll have to fulfil that duty.” 

Juliet’s stomach dropped as she noticed what was in his hand. The stark overhead lights reflected off the sharpened edge of the cleaver. 

“Wait,” she begged and begged and begged. 

Juliet’s eyes widened as John’s steps paused. Her entire body trembled as he raised her knife and its mirrored surface reflected her horror stricken face. 

This couldn’t be the end. She couldn’t die here. 

Juliet had survived this town, she had survived her father, and now…

“Elijah was against this practice, said it was against the word of God,” John murmured in a voice that sounded underwater to Juliet’s ears.

“Wait!” She pleaded again, her own voice almost unrecognisable in her state of terror. 

John ignored her.

“But I think under the current circumstances, he’d understand.” 

Juliet writhed against her restraints, pushing further against the metal table, wanting to melt into the surface if only to get away from the cleaver now angled dangerously over her body.

“You don’t have to do this,” she screeched. “We have food in our bags, you can have it, you can have it all.” 

John’s eyes hit the ceiling. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we got that already.” 

The cleaver dropped to her stomach and Juliet’s eyes squeezed shut.

But the blade didn’t pierce her skin. Instead, John used the pointed edge to trace along her jacket, watching as it formed a perfect slash in the fabric. 

Nausea washed over her as she pictured what the blade would do to her skin. 

“It’s just not enough,” John continued with a click of his tongue.

Her knife was in her boot, if it was even still there. But there was no way for her to get to it. She was entirely defenceless. All the years of fighting and bleeding and learning how to defend herself and, in her final moments, it still wasn’t enough. 

Her mind went to Joel. If he was gone already then at least she would join him, wherever they ended up. 

In her sweetest fantasies, she’d always imagined they would find a farmhouse, like the one he had described almost a lifetime ago, and live together. They might sit on a porch swing in the evenings and watch as the sun set, then they would walk up the stairs to the bed they shared and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

Maybe in another life, she thought. 

Juliet’s mind tuned back into reality and John’s voice filtered back through. 

Despite the fear and the adrenaline that was pumping through her bloodstream, Juliet frowned as she watched, through tear soaked eyes, as John moved the cleaver away from her chest and, with his other hand, he gripped her wrist. 

“We’ll start with something small, see how you manage,” John explained, coldly. 

John winced as Juliet’s scream began to fill the room, echoing off every surface. Her throat burned and raged. 

He struggled to grip her flailing hand but a quick elbow to her gut paused all her movements. 

“This is for Elijah,” John seethed.

Then he brought the cleaver down on her finger, slicing through the bone until it was no longer attached to her body. 

Black spots filled her vision immediately and Juliet’s scream vanished at the first flash of pain. 

Then there was nothing at all. 

……………………………….

“Juliet.”

“Juliet.” 

Her eyes opened, then immediately closed again.

The lights were so bright and something was on fire, but she couldn’t figure out what.

“Juliet, please wake up.” 

The voice wouldn’t stop harassing her, it was like a hand had reached through her mind and was dragging her subconscious out of the dark waters up to the surface.

Panic hit her with the first gasp of air. 

“Joel?”

Her eyes searched frantically through her tears as her head bent in different directions, desperately trying to find who had pulled her back to life. 

“No, it’s me. It’s Danny.”

To her left, there he was, crouched against the table, shaking Juliet’s shoulders. 

“Danny?” she asked. 

“Listen, we don’t have much time,” he cautioned, letting go of her shoulders.

“Where is he? Is he alive? Please,” Juliet’s questions poured from her, the words overlapped and sleep still clung to her slurred speech. 

“Don’t move, I need to wrap your finger,” Danny whispered, avoiding her questions.

My finger? 

Juliet had discovered the source of the thick, burning pain and she remembered the glint of satisfaction in John’s eyes. 

She tried to lift her hand to her face, to see if it was really gone, but she still couldn’t move her arms. The restraints still held her to the table. 

“Untie me. I - I can’t move,” Juliet croaked, her throat raw. 

Danny just shook his head and lifted her injured hand, still restricted by the binding on her arm. 

Juliet watched with her mouth open in a silent scream as he began to wrap a bandage over the stump of what was left of her finger and around the palm of her hand, over and over until he tied it tight. 

Her breathing bordered on hyperventilating as she struggled to not pass out again. 

When the job was done, Danny lay her hand by her side and took a step backwards, making no move to untie her.

“Please, untie me. I have to get to him,” Juliet almost sobbed, her voice confused and desperate. 

Danny shook his head again, quicker this time, as though he was ashamed. 

“I can’t. There’s no time,” he replied quietly. 

“What do you mean? Where’s John?” Juliet demanded as her eyes flashed to the closed door.

Danny ran a shaking hand, covered in her blood, over the sharp bones of his face. “He’ll be back soon. He went to Joel,” he revealed reluctantly. 

Juliet’s chest ached as the restraints bit through her clothing. “Do you know where they’re keeping him?” she begged. 

“You shouldn’t have come back here,” Danny sighed, then nodded to the table she lay on. “That night you were last here, I found you on this table. You were unconscious and Ethan was patching you up while Joel hovered over your body like he’d shoot anyone who came near you,” Danny paused and let out a humourless laugh, “he almost shot me, actually.” 

“When he carried you got of here, I thought that, despite everything he’d done, that at least he’d protect you, that maybe you’d have a chance at a life,” Danny said solemnly, staring down at his feet, refusing to meet her eyes. 

“Untie me,” Juliet commanded, her voice angry. 

Danny stood so still, it was as though he hadn’t heard her at all, then he turned and looked behind him at the door. He was terrified, she realised. Maybe if they hadn't come to the town, it would have been Danny on this table instead of her. 

Then he broke the silence, with words sharper and more ruinous than the edge of John’s cleaver: 

“Elijah wasn’t lying to you.”

Juliet’s heart stopped. 

Danny sat in the empty chair, left behind by John, and dropped his head into his hands. And when his face rose to meet hers, his eyes were glossy with unshed tears. 

“You were born not far from here, we all were,” he began. “I was younger than your parents, but I knew them well. I was the son of the town minister and they came to our church, the whole town did, really. I was there at your parents’ wedding and your christening.”

His words didn’t feel real. Juliet could have sworn she was asleep again, floating in her fantasies. 

“You were such a happy toddler, you know, you were always smiling,” Danny smiled too, like the memory was clear in his head, until his face darkened. “Then the end of the world happened,” he said grimly, wringing his hands, “and nothing was ever the same.” 

“It was a small town and those of us who weren’t infected, we banded together in the church. There were some supplies there and, for a while, we managed.” His voice was quieter now. “Then, a few weeks in, we heard a knock at the door. We knew by that point that the infected didn’t knock, so we opened the door and,” Danny paused to meet Juliet’s eyes, “Elijah was on the other side, with his daughter.”

Juliet swallowed roughly, and her heart jumped at the mention of his name. 

“He’d always lived in town with his wife, and their daughter was about your age. They always kept to themselves, they came to church but never stayed long afterwards,” Danny explained. “It was a surprise to see them, to say the least. Especially because they were covered in blood and his wife was gone.”

A chill settled over Juliet’s body, sinking deep into her bones.

“We checked them for bites and we let them stay and Elijah I guess slowly took up the role as the leader of our group. He was skilled and he knew how to appeal to people,” Danny paused to run a hand through the greasy strands of his thinning, grey speckled hair. “Then… then his daughter was killed.”

Juliet’s breath caught in her throat. 

“It was a freak accident. The church was swarmed and so many survivors were bitten, including his daughter.” His eyebrows furrowed, as he considered his next words. “I watched him kill her. A bullet straight between her eyes. She was only three.” 

Tears hit the metal table. 

Danny stretched his back and nervously looked around him at the door as though John would walk in at any moment, then he turned back to Juliet. “Things are hazy in my mind after that,” he stated. “We moved out of the church, Elijah had found us an abandoned farm with some good land, and we started hunting for food.” 

“Your parents were strong, and brave. They volunteered to hunt and I didn’t notice it at first but Elijah started to spend more and more time with them, and more time with you. It seemed like a man grieving his daughter and no one really paid any mind but, I don’t know, it was almost possessive.” 

Danny’s story unravelled like an old ball of tangled string, bringing more troubles with every pull. 

“I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t there, but your father went on a supply run… and only Elijah returned.”

Juliet bit her lip hard and a sharp metallic taste entered her mouth. She swallowed it down.

“Your mother was… I’ve never heard anyone scream like that. Elijah said your father had been bit and he had to kill him but,” Danny shrugged. “Your mother died not long after.”

“No,” Juliet whispered, not realising the word had left her mouth. It was too much to take in. Her whole world was unravelling.

“She had taken you down to the river to bathe but hours later, neither of you had returned. Elijah eventually found you, sitting on the riverbank, alone with your mother’s jacket draped over you.”

Juliet couldn’t feel the pain of her severed finger anymore. She was numb with a loss of people she couldn’t remember, but had offered her a love that had been taken from her. 

“He said that she drowned herself on purpose,” Danny’s voice cracked. “But your mother would have never left you alone.” 

A sob worked its way up Juliet’s throat but she didn’t let it out. Danny wasn’t finished. 

“Elijah took you in straight away. You even looked like his daughter,” he winced. “I - no one could even question it. People worshipped him, and if we wanted to live, we had to go along with it.” 

Juliet tried to speak but her voice was muted. She coughed out a weak sound and then tried again. 

“What were they like, my parents?” she asked quietly.

At her question, Danny’s hollow eyes found some life again. 

“They were good people, Juliet,” he tried to smile. “Truly good. They were kind and they loved you so much. They were nothing like him.”

Juliet let out the sob this time, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“Why did no one tell me? Why did you all let him hurt me?” she asked like a confused child.

Danny held the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, wincing. “I was a coward. We all were.” He let go of his nose and his eyes locked on the ropes around her body. “I still am.” 

“No,” Juliet gasped out as she began to write against her restraints again. “No, you can get me out of here, just hand me a knife. Please.”

Danny shook his head slowly. “He’ll kill me.” 

“Elijah’s dead,” Juliet said forcefully, the words still felt unreal to her. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” 

Danny still didn’t look up at her. 

“Don’t let someone else dictate your life for another twenty years,” she ground out. “Come on, please.You owe me this,” Juliet seethed. 

Danny’s eyes flashed to hers. His mouth opened and for a split second, Juliet saw him make a decision, and watched him begin to speak the words and then - 

The door flew open, banging against the wall with a sound that made Danny jump from his chair. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” John demanded as his hard gaze bounced between Juliet, still bound to the table, and Danny, now standing in front of him. 

To his credit, Danny didn’t flinch. “Just came to check on her,” he explained. 

“Yeah?” John asked, tilting his head to the side. “And who fucking told you to do that?” 

“I’m leaving,” Danny said as he tried to move around John to the door. 

“No you’re not,” John protested with a heavy hand on his chest, pushing him towards the table Juliet lay on.

“Do you wanna be the one on the table?” John demanded, then laughed sickly when Danny didn’t answer. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

John’s hand pushed him again, until Danny practically leant against the table. 

Juliet stared at Danny’s back, desperately avoiding eye contact with John lest he take another finger as retribution. 

Her eyes were focused on Danny’s thin, hunched shoulders until a flare of light caught her eye. She looked down… there was a knife in Danny’s back pocket. Her knife. The blade was open and ready. 

He’d brought it for her, despite not having the courage to give it to her himself.

Maybe there was some bravery left in him. 

Juliet tuned out John’s anger fueled words as he fired them at Danny and she started to inch her hand towards the knife. The pain from her missing finger was stronger than she’d expected and Juliet had to bite down on her lip again to stop a scream from escaping. 

Her remaining fingers inched closer and closer to the knife until finally they enclosed around the blade. Its sharp edge cut into her flesh, forcing Juliet to bite her lip even harder, and every time she thought she gained a grip… it slid from her fingers again. 

She was losing time. John was going to kick Danny out any second… or worse. She had to get this knife now. 

Ignoring the bite of the blade, Juliet tugged with all the strength she had remaining in her butchered hand and the knife finally slid free. She grasped it carefully, terrified that it would drop onto the metal table. 

John continued his power trip, pointing vile accusations Danny’s way. Juliet tuned him out again and focused on turning the blade in her trembling hand until the sharp edge grazed the rope around her wrist. 

Sweat began to bead across her forehead despite the temperature in the room as the knife threatened to slip from her hand. Without her index finger, gaining a good grip was impossible but she kept trying until the blade cut through the first fibres of the rope. 

John had Danny by the throat now but his body was still covering the movement of her hand as she pushed the knife harder and faster, slicing the rope again and again and again. 

Then, as Danny was pushed against the counter, and a gun was pressed to his head, the rope released from her wrist. 

Juliet choked out a strangled gasp as she rapidly assessed the situation around her.

Danny was shouting at John, with words that her panicked mind couldn’t comprehend.

John’s back was turned, this was the distraction she needed.

With her hand freed, Juliet pushed down the pain and used the knife to cut through the rope on her other wrist, faster this time with her returned mobility. 

John landed a punch on Danny’s face, causing him to sag against the counter. 

Juliet’s eyes flashed towards him but she had to keep working. The knife was at the rope around her chest then finally the rope around her legs. 

Time slowed to a crawl as she lifted her numb legs and managed to drop onto the floor. She stumbled but caught herself on the metal table with her damaged hand.

She couldn’t help it. Juliet yelled out in pain.

John whirled towards her, gun in hand. Juliet’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened. 

“No, you don’t,” he growled and stepped towards her, aiming to grab her by the middle. 

But, despite the shock, Juliet was ready. As he reached for her side, Juliet whipped her arm around until her knife lodged in his shoulder then she pulled back, unleashing it with a spray of blood.

“Fuck,” he shouted, stumbling back as his free hand rose to cover the fresh wound.

Juliet eyed the door, fueled by adrenaline and the desperate, searing need to find Joel. But unfortunately John handled a stab wound better than Juliet expected, because within seconds he had his gun pointed at her head. 

Despite the adrenaline in her bloodstream, the injury and the lack of food and water had taken its toll. Juliet’s hands rose in the hair as her body began to sway. 

“You really are trouble, aren’t you?” John sneered. 

In her desperation, Juliet’s eyes flickered to Danny’s, begging him desperately to help her. But Danny had a different idea, quickly he began to mouth a phrase over and over, urging her to understand.

She peered closer, blinking fast as her mind whirled.

Juliet thought he was saying “Elijah’s house.”

She gasped when realisation slapped her across the face. Elijah’s house. That’s where Joel was. He was telling her where Joel was being kept. 

“Don’t look at him,” John interrupted fiercely. “He can’t help you.” 

The sound of the gunshot was so unexpected that Juliet’s hands flew to her ears and her eyes squeezed shut. 

She hadn’t even seen him move the gun in his direction. She hadn't even noticed when he decided to change target.

The gunshot rang in her ears, muting the rest of the world. 

But Juliet could see clearly and her eyes dropped to Danny’s body, now slumped on the floor against the cabinet with a ring of red surrounding his face.

It took a moment for the moment to catch up with her. Juliet felt two steps behind. How did this happen? 

Juliet’s eyes slowly lifted from Danny’s unresponsive body to John’s towering presence, breathing heavy as he watched her reaction. 

“What did you do?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. 

“What did I do?” he scoffed. “Get back on the table.” 

Juliet shook her head like an impudent child. 

John rolled his eyes and tucked his gun into his back pocket, then in two strides he was in front of her, gripping her knife from her numb fingers and dropping it on the floor, before he kicked it out the way. 

Then his hands were on her shoulders, roughly pushing her towards the table.

Juliet’s thoughts were too slow and her actions too weak, as the events washed over her in disjointed moments. Danny was dead. Her parents were good people. Joel was still out there. 

Oh god. 

He was still out there. He needed her. 

Juliet twisted her body before her mind realised what she was doing and she pushed with all of her strength against John’s unsuspecting body. 

He stumbled backwards with a frown, then his eyes grew darker and he reached for her again. 

But Juliet was smaller than him, and she knew how to use this to her advantage when men were coming towards her. She ducked immediately, twisting herself under his arm until she stood behind him, breathing heavy, waiting.

She had no plan other than ‘don’t get killed.’ 

Juliet was moving on pure instinct from all her years surviving. John staggered towards her, a snarl taking over his mouth.

Strangely, he didn’t use his gun on her.

He must prefer his meat fresh, she thought. 

An image of herself lying on that table for days on end as body part after body part was hacked off flashed into her mind and Juliet’s body went into overdrive. 

She darted to the side, avoiding John’s outstretched hand.

He was strong but she was quick, and finally, she had a plan. 

The cat and mouse game continued as Juliet steered John towards the counter closest to Danny’s body. 

She was quick but that didn’t matter when she backed herself into a corner. John’s hands found her throat and he squeezed and squeezed as he pushed her into the cabinet behind her. 

His eyes were flaring with sick pleasure as Juliet felt her face turn red with dwindling oxygen.

Panic struck her mind but she didn’t let it linger. Her hands flailed out, as though she were gripping for the counter to hold her weakening body up. But she wasn’t. 

Juliet was searching, searching for the cleaver. 

Black spots appeared in her vision as she finally enclosed her fingers around the wooden handle. Her wrist was still weak from the restraints so she had to tighten her hold before she could swing the makeshift weapon. 

Just as it had sliced off her finger in one fell swoop, the cleaver lodged itself in John’s back like his spine didn’t even exist.

Through her hazy oxygen deprived eyes, Juliet watched John’s mouth form a shocked silent expression before his legs crumpled beneath him… just as Joel’s had. 

At the reminder, Juliet’s hazy vision turned a dark, dangerous red and she drowned out the sound of his gasping whimpers.

Juliet kept her eyes locked on his and she took her time bending to her knees, until she straddled his writhing body. 

The cleaver was high in the air before she had even committed to her act. Then she dropped it down. 

The spray of blood splattered against her face like a hot shower after a cold day. 

In the back of her mind, Juliet thought of Elijah and the cruelty that was housed within his body. With every slash of the cleaver as she brought it down again and again on John’s already butchered stomach, Juliet wondered if it was already too late for her. If Elijah’s sickness had found its way into her bloodstream despite their lack of relation. 

But he had no claim to her, he never had. She wasn’t destined to be locked in that basement, she wasn’t destined to be tortured every day of her childhood, she wasn’t even destined to turn out like him.

Juliet had parents, real parents who loved her. She was supposed to grow up with kind parents and become a kind person, the type of person who forgave and who never lifted a hand against another. 

But that didn’t happen.

And in this world, that girl, the girl she was supposed to be, would have been killed a long time ago. 

Finally, she was free from the curse of her father’s possession and the sick promise of his heritage. Juliet could be her own person, she wasn’t bound to become one thing or another. 

Maybe one day, she might allow herself to be kind and try out a life without bloodshed and violence.

But today wasn’t that day. And, despite everything, Elijah had taught her well. 

For a final time, Juliet would heed his lessons of pain and torture, to save Joel.

To save the man she loved. 

Juliet’s arm ached viciously but she brought the cleaver down a final time, welcoming the blood that dripped down her face. 

As Juliet stood on trembling legs, she stared down at John’s still form and empty chest and realised with a sick satisfaction that he now looked a little like their horse. 

She didn’t bother wiping the blood from her face, Juliet just bent down to collect her knife from where it landed on the floor and tuck it firmly in her boot. Then she dug John’s gun from his back pocket and put it in her own. 

When she walked around the table towards the back door, Juliet forced herself not to look at Danny. He was the last connection to the parents she never knew she had. And now he, too,  was gone. 

In the end, he tried not to be a coward, and maybe there was some forgiveness in Juliet afterall. 

The backdoor opened easily. John had a lot of trust in the ropes that bound her to the table. 

The winter sun was bright in the sky when she opened the door, and Juliet blinked several times as her brain processed the change from the artificial lighting. 

She started walking in the direction of the house where almost every scar on her body was formed. Her legs were weak and she kept stumbling but that didn’t stop her.

Joel had to be alive. Juliet couldn’t even consider a possibility where he wasn’t.

She got him into this fucking mess, and she would get him out.

The desperation poured over her and Juliet was choked by it.

She was going too slow, she had to move faster. Juliet had brought Elijah’s murderer back here and the town wanted its revenge.

But she wouldn’t let that happen. This town owed her, for every blind eye when her blood was spilled, for every silent voice when she begged them for help. 

This town couldn’t have him. 

It had taken her childhood, her innocence, and her faith in humanity.

It wouldn’t take him too.

Juliet started to run, her feet crushing over the frosted grass as she raced across the field. Her loose hair flew around her head, mimicking the thoughts that sped through her mind.

He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone.  

-------------------------------

@amyispxnk @casa-boiardi @http-paprika @shotgun-shelby @weeping-werewolf @mysaviorjoelmiller @chlojoceycom @joelmillersblog @socialistmary @orcasoul @ashhlsstuff @caitlynsixxx

-------------------------------

Nearing the last few chapters of this story 😭 I'm going to be so sad when it's done but I'm also just super proud of it. Thanks for reading this far ❤️

[charlie-thewitch]

Tell me about the latest AU you've got rotating around your head 🥺🥺🥺🥺 RIGHT NOW. RIIIIGHT NOW. AGOIRHHGREHORHIW GHOR GHIW 😘

I call it "Twin Souls Au" and it's mostly an exercise.

Chinese mythology has this persons called Wu (巫) which were shamans. By the late Zhou dynasty, Wu referred mostly to female shamans, while Xi refers to male ones. But for this Au I take Wu to mean a gender-neutral Shaman. As it says in the Shang oracular inscriptions:

whether the Wu is a man or a woman is not known;

it could be either the name for a function or the name of a people (or an individual) coming from a definite territory or nation;

the Wu seems to have been in charge of some divinations, (in one instance, divination is linked to a sacrifice of appeasement);

the Wu is seen as offering a sacrifice of appeasement but the inscription and the fact that this kind of sacrifice was offered by other persons (the king included) suggests that the Wu was not the person of choice to conduct all the sacrifices of appeasement;

there is only one inscription where a direct link between the king and the Wu appears. Nevertheless, the nature of the link is not known, because the status of the Wu does not appear clearly;

he follows (being brought, presumably, to Shang territory or court) the orders of other people; he is perhaps offered to the Shang as a tribute.

And yes, I copied that from Wikipedia. Another one:

"men and women possessed by spirits or gods, and consequently acting as seers and soothsayers, exorcists and physicians; invokers or conjurers bringing down gods at sacrifices, and performing other sacerdotal functions, occasionally indulging also in imprecation, and in sorcery with the help of spirits." - The Religious System of China (vol 6) 1910

It's more complicated than that but Wu are basically the jack of all trades of chinese magicians.

What I focused on are two specific Wu:

The sacrifice

They are people, usually women and disabled people, who were burned at the stake to bring about rain. They themselves are an offering to the gods. CofCofShenJiuCofCof. They are also mediums for the spirit world.

Fangxiangshi

He is referred to as "The one that sees in all four directions" and wears a mask of bearskin with four golden eyes, and carried a lance and shield.

His primary duties were orchestrating the seasonal ritual to chase out disease-causing demons from buildings, and leading a funeral procession to exorcize corpse-eating wangliang spirits away from a burial chamber. Which he did by violently getting into buildings, houses included, and energetically thrusting his spear into the air.

He is a seer, and one that can conjure visions only he can see. Like a certain nerd who read the "book of fates for PIDW"

Wu were often a pair of siblings that are referred to as a single entity. Like two souls in a single body.

To the actual story:

The day of the transmigration, just as SY's soul is getting settled into SJ's body, a pair of heavenly officials (unimportant who) comes to get them for some important thing they have to do in heaven (Because more often than not, one is born a Wu), as Wu are also bureaucrats.

Man is Yue Qingyuan confused. He was there taking care of his ailed shidi and suddenly someone comes and takes him away before he can say anything. He naturally calls for a meeting and all peak lord are on the case to get him back (some more reluctantly than others)

The Ku Xing Peak Lord or whoever is in charge of rituals and divination gets them permission to go get SQQ (As they already did the thing they had to do), but only YQY and LQG are allowed. So they go.

In the heavenly realm (Not heaven outright) they see SQQ siting calmly in a gazebo on the garden, reading. More relaxed than anyone has even seen him.

SQQ sees them and, without letting them speak, says: "I'm not dealing with this"

And he separates from the body.

The body (SQQ) is let in a sleep like state while a tiny, tiny, Shen Jiu comes out of it. He looks perhaps 10, wearing ceremonial robes that only reach his knees. Shen Jiu takes his book and screams for "A-Yuan" to come take his turn.

Then, another 10 y.o. comes out of the house the garden belongs to and immediately protest upon seeing the adult cultivators. He is identical to Shen Jiu, dressed the same, but wears short hair (angled bob) and has a mask winkwink hanging from his neck.

This A-Yuan and Shen Jiu proceed to banter for a while, ignoring both YQY and LQG.

What happened was: Time functions differently in the heavenly realm; ergo, Both Shens have spend a lot of years together and already consider the other their sibling. And their dynamic is to fight and banter... so normal siblings.

Long story short; The Shens are send back to the mortal realm to work and solve mysteries because the heavenly officials were tired of them, and fight over who uses the body.

No one want to use it. They have to be responsible when they are SQQ and it's bothersome. Also CQM keeps trying to make them come back and be a peak lord but solving mysteries is more fun.

[theabysss]

Hiii good morning/afternoon/evening!

I just saw the event post and I have come bearing a request.

If you do not mind..Can I please request a sagau kinda crack fic where there’s a tournament/competition being held in Teyvat where vision users must prove their love and devotion to the creator by fighting to the death (oooh brave scaryyy fighttt~) and whoever loses a.k.a dies are “punished”

Everyone thinks this “punishment” is horrible. Like they’ll be sent to a place where they can no longer feel their creator’s grace.

But little do they know this punishment actually just turns them into one of the creators thousand of plushies.

So they just sit there in the bed, unblinking, soft and squishy, watching their beloved Grace going on about their day normally

I recently read the Zhongli turning into a plush fic and my mind went “How about the other vision users turning into a plush?” Also I think my request is more like a reverse!isekai than sagau..Sorry..!

Fem or GN!Reader please! (While I prefer fem as I’m a female I would like this to be as inclusive as possible for other people out there..! So GN is most likely more suitable)

I’m not sure who the characters are but..If you can, can you please add any of the anemo boys and Itto?

I apologize for making this incredibly long. Please feel free to delete this request if you don’t want to do it! Anyways, that’s all. Thank you and I hope you have a wonderful day!

It's okay about the length of your request, I really liked that idea. I hope you enjoy the way I wrote the fic, this is my first time responding to a request and I'm a little nervous. Of the anemo boys, I chose Kazuha because I'm actively trying to get him c2 now, I hope this fic will help me lure him. If you have any other idea and you like how I wrote this one, you can send another request while the event lasts, I will be glad. ヽ(´｡• ᵕ •｡`)ノ

summary: A tournament in which your allogenes must fight to the death with each other, proving their loyalty and devotion to you Creator. But what fate awaits the losers?

characters: Kazuha, Itto, Zhongli, Raiden + mentions of some other characters.

warnings/tags: gn!Reader, religious + cult themes, possessive & obsessive thoughts, description of deaths (not detailed).

word count: 2.2k

It was a beautiful sunny summer day, the warm wind playfully ruffled your hair, it must have been Venti's antics. Ordinary inhabitants of the regions came to support the vision wielders from their nations, hoping that one of their people could become one of the seven champions, bestowing glory on the entire nation. For your allogenes, as they said, participation in the tournament was the best way to show their loyalty, love and devotion to you. You chuckled, their willingness to put their lives on the line for a slim chance of winning and getting your confession amused you.

You shifted your gaze to the archons standing next to the throne, they were forbidden to participate, otherwise the outcome of the tournament would have been too predictable, and it was not interesting that way. Although you allowed adepts and youkai to participate, and it may not have been fair, you just wanted… more entertainment. Venti's offended expression popped into your head when he knew he couldn't compete in the tournament. On that day, he followed you like a tail, not unstick for a second, hoping that you will change your mind. The reaction of the other archons was much more restrained, but each of them was certainly upset by the impossibility of participating in the competition. After all, they were your most loyal followers, following you for thousands of years, and the fact that you denied them the opportunity to show their loyalty to you frustrated them. But your desire was above all, so they simply accepted your decision.

Catching your gaze, Zhongli bowed his head respectfully.

"Do you need anything, Your Grace?" The geo archon's eyes were full of awe and willingness to fulfill your every wish.

"Please feel free to tell us if you need anything." Ei joined the conversation. "Perhaps you would like to taste the Inazuma confections? I have specially brought them for you, and I hope they can please your exquisite taste, Your Grace."

"Sounds wonderful, I'll gladly taste them, in that case, Zhongli, could you make some fruit tea?"

"With pleasure, Your Grace." Zhongli bowed.

You smiled brightly at both of them and noticed how Zhongli's breath hitched for a second, and a blush spread across Ei's cheeks. You followed them with your eyes as they went to fulfill your requests. The tournament was about to start and up to this point you wanted to face some of your especially favorite allogenes. So that you instructed the servant to bring the two people you named.

Itto could be heard from far away, explaining something very loudly to Kazuha walking beside him.

"Of course, I will definitely take the place of one of the seven champions, it cannot be otherwise, because I am the great and invincible Arataki Itto, the supreme, the one and oni!"

"Behave yourself, we are in front of the Creator." A smile appeared on Kazuha's face as he met your eyes and knelt down on one knee with his hand on his heart, Itto follows his example.

"I'm glad to see you my allogenes, you can get up from your knees, let's leave excessive formality."

Kazuha and Itto obey your order, you could see a spark of curiosity in their eyes, why did you ask them to come? Just do not think that they were unhappy with this, for them it was only a joy to be next to you, your presence always warmed their hearts.

"I just wanted to wish you the best of luck for the competition, you are one of my favorite followers." Your smile was more tender than the most expensive silk.

"I'm honored to be one of your favorites, Your Grace, I won't let you down, I promise." There was a fire in Kazuha's eyes that should have led him to victory.

"That's right, we will definitely win! With Your Grace's faith in our strength, we will definitely become champions! Ushi and I will show you excellent fights and after the victory, maybe Your Grace will agree to fights with bugs."

"Well, if you win, I'm really up for a couple of fights." You giggled. "I won't delay you, you can go back to the others."

Bowing once more, Itto and Kazuha left, and a minute later Zhongli and Ei returned.

"As you requested your tea Your Grace, the flavor is based on sun-dried mulberry petals and should have a sweet aftertaste due to the addition of zaytun peach juice." Zhongli gave you an elegant porcelain cup and placed the teapot on the table next to the throne.

"It's a dango Your Grace, bon appetit." Ei handed you a plate with colorful balls strung on a stick and poured with sauce.

You take a bite and the sweetness in your mouth. Tasty. The widths are tender and seem to melt in your mouth, you cover your eyes with pleasure. In the blink of an eye, you eat the confection and look at the plate with sadness.

"It was delicious." You put plate on the table and pick up a hot mug of tea and blow on it before you take a sip.

Ei lights up with joy "I'm glad you enjoyed it, maybe you'd like some more sweets after the tournament?"

"I won't refuse such a generous offer." You lean back on the throne and continue to sip the tea, just like Zhongli said it had a sweetish aftertaste. Not the worst tea you've had in your long life.

Soon the iron smell of blood will be in the air and the people will cheer for cruelty. What a rotten world, but how do you like it. Perhaps among all your creations, they were the most bloodthirsty and devoted. Your beautiful dolls, ready for incredible deeds, are all covered in blood and with wide smiles on their faces until the very end. The last sip of tea marks the beginning of a bloody dance from which seven will come out victorious, and the rest… what about them, something much more interesting awaits them.

It's time to start the tournament. Thousands of eyes are attentively watching you with bated breath as you rise from your throne, walk to the edge of the loggia and put your hands on the railing. A wide, joyful smile appears on your face and you begin to speak.

"Today, on this beautiful day, there will be a tournament with life-and-death battles between my precious allogenes. The names of the seven winners will be covered with glory and they will be personally blessed by me. The losers will be punished after the resurrection. The stakes are high and if anyone wishes to opt out, now is the last time you can do so." Your voice, picked up by the power of the anemo, resounded throughout the arena.

You look around the participants and all you see in their eyes is the will to win. Their souls burn with fiery determination and no one is going to retreat. Even if the punishment is excommunication from your divine presence, a terrible event, the thought of which makes their hearts bleed, they were willing to take the risk. Your gaze lingers on Kazuha, his serenity standing out a lot from the nervous anticipation of the other allogenes, which some of them hid just a little more carefully than others. Also striking was Itto's high spirits, whose wide smile was brighter than the sun. No wonder they were your favorites.

"Since there is no one who wants to withdraw, let's start the tournament." You returned to your throne and prepared to watch magnificent battles in which every drop of blood spilled was dedicated to you.

The number of contenders for victory gradually decreased. After each battle, the sand in the arena changed its color to red more and more, and the screams of the crowd became louder. Childe quickly and brutally cracking down on the next opponent, ignoring other people's attempts at resistance and having time to wink at you at the end of each fight, before someone else's head flies away from the body. Diluc whose phoenix mercilessly roasts the next unfortunate to the bones, so that the smell of burnt flesh could be felt a few more fights after. Distracting the attention of opponents with the help of hydro illusions and the swordsmanship of the Kamisato clan brought Ayato victory after victory.

Unfortunately, your favorites' chances of winning were dwindling every second, each of them was badly enough wounded that he might not survive his next fight. However, you never really believed in their victory, but still called them to give them hope. Yes, and then it will be funny to watch how they will apologize to you for losing, when you also personally bestowed your blessing of luck on them. Though they'll have to survive the resurrections to begin with, it's a pity you didn't say how quickly it would happen, so they would have been in a very unusual position since then, but you didn't think they'd complain.

The last fights have passed and the seven winners have been determined, as you thought Kazuha and Itto were not among them. The spectators from the regions whose participants won shout even louder than before, while the residents of the losers are depressed and look enviously. You go down to the arena with Zhongli and Ei, and when you almost slip on the blood-stained sand, you grab Geo Archon's hand. Zhongli's muscles tense up under your touch, and the warmth of your hand is felt vividly even through the fabric. He closes his eyes, hiding his pupils that have become vertical for a second, you were so close to him, exciting close. Your warm palm burned through him, making him feel butterflies in his stomach, as mortals said.

You do not focus on what happened, and without letting Zhongli say a word, you quickly approach the winners. The Allogenes' eyes flare jealously when they notice you are holding Zhongli's hand, but you don't let that feeling flare up and start talking.

"Congratulations to you all on your victory, your strength and devotion have been proven, this evening there will be a ball where you will be honored and I will perform a blessing ritual."

They bow respectfully and praise you, saying that it was only by your mercy that they won. How happy they are now standing in front of you among all the applicants. You smile favorably at them, allowing them to enjoy your presence next to them. When you leave, they sadly follow you with their eyes, but it is not so strong because they know that you will see each other again in the evening.

You dress up in beautiful clothes made of expensive fabrics to your taste, smile at the mirror, knowing that the eyes of all those present will be turned to you. After all, you were their Creator, their precious Creator for whose sake they were ready for anything. You enjoy the ball, drink sparkling wine, which, unfortunately or fortunately, did not affect you in any way and dance with some winners. When one of them manages to make you laugh, all those present eagerly absorb this sound, recording it on the subcortex of consciousness in order to reproduce it later.

You return to your chambers and fall on the bed without undressing, you may have been immortal, but emotional fatigue still affected you. There were a lot of plush toys in your room, they were everywhere, on the bed, sitting in armchairs and on bookshelves. Their eyes seemed to be watching you intently. Well, there was nothing surprising in the fact that they did it. You took the toy in which Kazuha was supposed to be. A cute charming toy for you, silent, but understanding, seeing and feeling everything. And there were a lot of those. You gently kissed the toy, if you had done this while he was a human you are sure that he would have been redder than boiled cancer. The lack of reaction was frustrating, so sooner or later you were going to put them back into human bodies. In the end, it would be a real loss of so many insanely loyal and devoted followers. But for now, they could just be your cute toys.

Night or day they are always watching, greedily absorbing every little thing, every gesture, everything that you want to show them. Your sleepy expression in the morning, the way you stretch before finally getting out of bed, the exposed areas of your skin when you get out of the bathroom. They enjoy all these and are infinitely glad to be here in your chambers so close to you. Getting to know you better and better, remembering all the little habits. They don't want it to end, you won't let them get that close if they become human again, will you? So they'd rather be here with you in that state, just please don't leave them alone don't put them away in dark wardrobes or closets, let them watch. Please.

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