#captor bonding tw

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Mend

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: After the punishment comes silence, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your mind. But when violence breeches the walls of the Heelshire manor it's your captor who saves you, carrying you home in bloodstained arms. In the quiet aftermath, soaked in steam and shadows, something unspoken begins to bloom– and the rules between you start to bend. TW: DARK content read at your own risk. , breaking and entering, trauma bonds, unprotected sex, stalking, foul language, implied assault, power imbalance, excessive descriptions of violence, murder, torture, nudity, blood, handjobs, sloppy kisses, dare I say fluff?, and more. Word Count: 8,246 MDNI-NSFW A/N: Took this ask and RAN with it... eat up. [part one] [part two]

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The early morning doesn’t seem real.

Soreness clings to your flesh like a second skin, every breath, every stretch of your limbs reminding you of last night– of him. Dried sweat coats you like a wet blanket, the sheets tangled around your thighs reeking of sweet and sex and sin. 

The attic, in its gloom and darkness carries a much deeper secret– something darker that you could not quite place, almost possessive in the way it held your heart in a chokehold. Dust particles float in the haze of the rising sun, casting a faint kaleidoscope of shadows along the walls. Undisturbed by years of wear and tear, the abandoned passageway entrance glares at you from the far wall– eager to swallow you whole. 

The image sends a shiver down your spine. 

Shifting slightly, the metallic bed frame groans beneath your weight. You freeze in place, waiting for the beast pressed against your back to stir. A moment, two– nothing. Daring to glance behind your shoulder, your wrists throb, skin raw and irritated from the wire bindings forced upon them hours ago. 

A mess of curly brown meets your gaze, locks ruffled as the cool porcelain of the mask presses uncomfortably against the swell of your shoulders. Slow, heated breaths fan over your naked skin– the occasional snore breaking through the silence as you are practically nuzzled. 

It was strange, seeing him like this. So calm, so vulnerable as he peacefully slept beside you, not a care in the world– arm strung lazily over your waist, fingers ever so slightly digging into your flesh. The scene tranquil, as if it were any other morning instead of the result of another punishment.

The tears had refused to come last night, the ones of self-pity and hatred only sprouting in the aftermath when you knew you were the only one to witness them. Now, all that remained were the broken pieces of your sanity for you to put back in place. 

Even when Brahms had whispered broken promises like twisted wedding vows against your bruised skin, you fought the shame, the guilt of it all. But in the wee hours of dawn, the early kiss of the sun only taints your skin further with the devilish acts of the night. 

Brahms shifts slightly, curls raking across your flesh– a gurgled groan slipping. Spine straightening, you pause, not wanting to disturb the peace you were so desperate to keep. Something wet smears your back, and you realize he was drooling. 

Gross. 

Cringing away from the sensation, you peel the sheets away from your skin. Punishment or not, the Heelshire manor always required your undivided attention. Lifting the massive arm draped over you, your eyes linger a beat too long at the wiry muscle staring back at you. 

You couldn’t shake the way he held you after your punishment– gentle, borderline worshiping you as he brought your betrayal to the surface. Brutal strength you knew you held no match against, yet once you had been properly disciplined the touch was undeniably tender. Your thumb presses against the vein in his wrist, the slow pulsing of his heartbeat almost lulling you back into his arms. 

The same arms that dragged you into the tunnels with such viscous strength you felt as if your heart would beat out of your chest. 

You swallow, shaking the memory from your mind. There was no point in dwelling on the past, you had much more pressing matters to attend to. Easing out from beneath Brahms’ grasp, you push yourself up from the mattress– wobbly legs planting against the rotting wood of the attic’s floor. 

Brahms groans, rolling over in your absence. A pause, then another grumble of a snore tearing through the air. The broad expanse of his shoulders shift, muscle rippling before disappearing underneath the tattered blanket. Your jaw clenches. 

Stumbling across the rotting floor, you didn’t know what about last night unsettled you more, the punishment or the affection that had followed. You didn’t want to find out. 

The silence of the manor, of the tunnels, seem louder as you dressed– the scratchy fabric of that godforsaken apron cutting into your skin like a testament to your own undoing. Clinging to the bruises dotting your hips and sternum, you shuffle uncomfortably, trying to make the treacherous clothing yours once more. 

It seems that the Heelshire manor laid claim to your very soul.

Tying the apron around your waist, you could still feel the heated breath against your ear, voice a cruel melody playing in your mind like a broken record: “I love the way you hate me– it means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.” 

Worst of all, you knew he was right– every touch, every word seeping into your soul like a reckoning leaving you to pick up the pieces and pray that you were wrong. And God, you pray you were wrong. 

Trying to ready yourself for the endless expanse of daily chores, that very idea made your stomach curdle like sour milk: not the tears, not the violence, but the undeniable heat that pooled in your being at the thought of his touch in those late hours– and how you let him.

You spare one last glance at Brahms’ sleeping form as you tug on your shoes, a heavy sigh tearing from your throat as you glance at the passageway. It would take sheer luck for you to successfully navigate the sprawling expanse of tunnels to the kitchen, but it was better than risking the wrath that would follow if you woke him. 

At this point, you have nothing to lose. 

__

The morning tasks went by in a foggy haze, mind reeling from the lack of sleep. Yet, you persevere through the tiredness weighing you down like a bowling ball strapped to your chest. Afterall, that was all you could do– deep breaths, one foot in front of the other, ignore everything else. 

That was the rule if you hope to avoid another punishment. Afterall, perfection was never encouraged, it was expected. 

So perfection was the goal– the tea brewed with careful dedication, breakfast made with culinary expertise, foyer wiped clean of all former sins to utmost excellence– as if you were ashamed of the actions that had taken place in the past. Porcelain china was cleaned until shining, silver polished until shimmering, yet shaky hands folded the linen napkins with apprehensive devotion. 

Devotion– such a silly word these days, yet you find yourself living the very being of a lifelong disciple. Pathetic. 

Every task seems to take twice as long as it should have, something you would have been scolded from in the past, yet the harsh words never came– the master of the house sleeping soundly as you work silently in the early hours. 

It was as if your body no longer belonged to you, chores forgotten as the grandfather clock chimes towards the afternoon– dish towels muddled, feet tripping over each other while stumbling across the hardwood floors. All you could focus on were those sinful touches that lingered into your every waking breath. 

Passing by the foyer mirror while dusting, you barely recognise yourself– something much smaller, more raw than you remember. Shoulder slouching, finger trembling, eyes sunken in. As if you were a shell of your defiant state. 

Just like he likes it. 

Forcing those less than professional thoughts from your mind, you try to find comfort in the small actions throughout the day. The heat of the sun pouring through the stained glass windows, the smell of parchment paper in the pantry, the clatter of the china as you organize the kitchen cupboards– things that usually calm your racing heartbeat failing when nothing compares to the thoughts swirling in your head. 

The groan of the metallic bed frame as it scraped against the floorboards. The sting of the wire as it bit into your skin. The fire in your stomach as your sins were swallowed whole.

Stop it. 

The cool press of the porcelain against your heated skin. The burn of your skin as he slapped you over, and over again. The damning scream that tore through your throat as you came. 

“Stop.” Fingers digging into your temples, the muddled dishrag falls into the kitchen sink as shaky breaths tear through your sternum. Nails scratching against the skin of your scalp, you beg to be anywhere else. 

Not in this room, not in this house– anywhere as long as it was far away from him. 

Poor thing, what happened to that pesky backbone of yours, hm?

Glass shatters, the echo ringing through your ears like a gunshot as the broken china plate lay in ruins at your feet. Stumbling backwards, panic grips your heart in a vice-like grip, tears dotting your vision as you struggle to slow your ragged breathing. 

The sting in your fingertips doesn’t even register until it drips onto the hardwood floor, coating the surface in an all too familiar shade of crimson. Dropping to your knees, shards needle into your skin as trembling hands scrub away the mess– the sin. 

But it was too late. 

His voice was in your head, in the walls, in the house, everywhere all at once as it rings in your skull, words reducing you to a whimpering shell of who you once were. 

There’s nothing left that’s yours. 

Your stubborn defiance, so rooted in your hatred, was now reduced to a sniveling whisper that haunted the manor. That was the worst part of it all, he didn’t have to chain you– barricade you within the house, tear away your defences, or threaten you. 

No, that would have been too easy. 

He had taken your freedom piece by piece, chipping away at your defences with such quiet devotion one could have almost called the act loving– and you had let him. 

A muffled sob slips past your lips, hand pressed against your mouth like a scolded child as you try to will away the sound. Chest heaving, silent tears drip onto your palm, and when you pull away your hand all you could see was red. 

God, you couldn’t breathe– you need air. 

Limbs moving without thinking, trembling hands yank the gardening gloves hanging from the pantry door, feet slipping on the discarded glass shards. The thin material, worn from use, cling to your sweaty palms as you slip them on, rubber scraping against the slices in your fingers. 

The door slams against the wall, rattling the kitchenware as you dart into the chilly air, seeking the only place of sanctuary you could think of before you were pulled back. 

The greenhouse.

The one place Brahms never went– the only place in this forsaken world that still belongs to you. The only place keeping you sane. 

The wind whips your hair across your forehead, all too similar to a slap in the late afternoon. Grey clouds, dark and foreboding, block out any sunlight as you scurry to the ancient structure, arms folding against your chest. Sparing one last glance at the manor as the greenhouse comes into view, you try to push away the feeling of him staring at you from the attic. 

You hadn’t checked the tunnels, refused to clean up your mess, didn’t notice if he heard you flee the grounds. You didn’t care. 

If you spent one more second in that haunted house, you'd scream, and there was no telling what punishment would await you after that. 

Looming over you like a forgotten chapel, overgrown vines wrap around the dirty glass, dripping in secrecy and silence and privacy– the answer to your prayers. The ironwright bars scream as you pry the door open, darting inside as the wind howls against the glass. Slamming the door closed, the heavens burst, rain battering the ceiling and casting a kaleidoscope of shadows across the dimly lit room. 

For just a moment, just one breathless second, you felt that maybe, possibly you could find peace within the sprawling plants. But peace never lasts on the Heelshire grounds, and the monsters always come crawling back home. 

Whether that meant him or you, there is no telling. 

Exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, the greenhouse seems to come to life as you walk across the cobblestone flooring. The air, damp with humidity, wafts heavily with the scent of dirt and earth with undertones of lavender. Almost unnaturally warm, mist swirls along the aisles of potted plants, herbs, and flowers. Sweat pools in your gloves, softening the long forgotten sting of the slices on your fingertips.

Not even bothering to remove them, you gingerly reach for a fern, the stems twirling around your arm as your hand plunges into the moist soil. Oxtongue tickles your wrists as you walk, leaves and stems bending under your touch. Lightning flashes across the sky, painting the greenhouse in a ghostly glow of white before disappearing into gloom once more. 

There were no calculated footsteps behind you. No harsh words, no empty threats, no heated breaths wafting over the nape of your neck– just you. 

Clutching a pair of rusted clippers, the smell of tea leaves and mint invade your nostrils, calming any bubbling nerves that remain. Plucking a few strands of lavender from the soil, you become lost in the tranquility of fog and dirt and moss. Every breath tastes like earth and tea tree, not the sour tang of mildew and mold.

You feel the cleanest you had in weeks, even with sweat dripping down the expanse of your neck and dipping into the frayed collar of your shirt. The buzz of anxiety shifts into something quiet, something much calmer as you work, hands kneading the soil and discarding stray weeds from the greenery. 

Stepping towards the middle of the greenhouse where the tea leaves grow, the waxy edges of the foliage glimmering in the light– dancing under the shimmer of rain overhead. A smile, small, thin, but a smile cracks through your dry lips, the first in weeks. 

Kneeling, you pinch a strand between your gloved fingers, clipping a few before pressing them into an apron pocket. Almost lovingly, you trace the shape of the winding stems, relishing in the fragility poised between your fingers. 

“Hello, little thing.” you coo, humming as the plant almost seemed to wrap itself around you. So pure, something untouched by the violence and hostility in the manor, yet so delicate that its life was held in the palm of your hand. 

Here, hidden away from the overgrowth, time passed differently. Slower, kinder. The routine came easy, the weight in your chest falling away as you collect the waxy leaves in your apron. 

Inhale, snip a few leaves, exhale, press them into the folds of your apron, repeat. 

The storm rages onwards, rain battering against the glass panes, but the sound was white noise among the plants– a blanket against the war around you. Leaning into the sensation, you continue onwards, apron jutting from the collection of greenery tucked within the fabric. 

Brushing a strand of hair from your face, dirt smeared across your skin, your gaze meets the overgrown camellia sinensis adorning the back wall. A bittersweet sigh tears from your chest at the sight, leaves choking beneath the thick, oppressive weeds crowding the soil bed. 

You always have meant to trim them, yet always forgetting when time seemed to be against you– much more focused on Brahms than a pitiful plant. Yet, as you stare at the winding overgrowth trapping the leaves, a pang of empathy stirs in your gut. 

It deserves better. 

Approaching the back wall, another telltale flash of lightning ripples across the sky, and your hand freezes midair. 

The air was still– too still. 

Something was wrong. 

It isn’t a sound, not exactly, but a feeling of dread curling around your stomach as you glance behind your shoulder. This, you know– the telltale sign of goosebumps fluttering across your arms, the hairs of your neck standing straight up as a chill tears through you. 

Like you were being watched through the broken slates in the greenhouse. 

Spine straightening, you almost miss the shadow darting across the threshold of the door as thunder claps across the sky. Snapping your head towards the greenhouse entrance, the garden shears fall to the floor, breath catching in your throat as you expect to find a furious Brahms towering over you–

Nothing. Just vines flapping against the wind. 

Turning back towards your work, you uproot a weed, cursing as the thorns prickle against your wrists as you toss it to the floor. Kneeling to grab the shears for a particularly pesky stem, you pause. 

The garden shears were gone. 

Blood turning to ice, you duck under the raised bed, expecting them to be haphazardly strewn across the cobblestone– but nothing. The air turns sour, something akin to anticipation crackling through your skin as you shakily stand on wobbly legs. Pushing away from the wooden countertop, you stuff the last handful of leaves into your apron before turning to flee. 

Lightning flashes through the sky once more, just a split second, and you finally see it. A figure– wrong, two. 

Tall and broad and creeping across the fogged glass just behind the entrance. Worst of all, there was no porcelain pressing up against the greenhouse, the faint childlike smile peeking through the wall.

Brahms wasn’t there. 

Bile risse in your throat as your heart drops to your stomach, stumbling backwards in an effort to conceal yourself among the shrubbery. Your ankle crashes against a metal watering can, the hollow clang tearing through the silence like a bomb. 

Fuck.

Clamping a hand around your mouth, you drop, knees digging into the cobblestone painfully as you still, pressing into the greenery so hard you felt as if you were returning to the clutches of the earth. 

You have to move, run– but you were trapped inside. 

The metal hinges whine as the door is forced open, the wind howling fated warnings as two figures emerge from the storm. Your mouth dries, air torn from your lungs at the sight. 

It wasn’t Brahms, you were right about that. It wasn’t even close.

Soaked to the bone, covered in black clothing, hunting boots squelching against the stone. Two men adorned in muscle and brawn and eyes so hungry you could feel them from across the room. The shorter of the two enters first, stepping into the reprieve of the storm and tugging off the balaclava, revealing a nasty slash across his face, purple and mottled. Your stomach curdles.

The other, taller– quieter, stretched. A flash of silver catches your eye, a machete hanging from the black cargo pants with eerie stillness. A duffle bag drops to the floor, the sound of metal clattering throughout the air as the men survey the plants as if they were livestock. 

Scarface finds you first, eyes burning into you as you shrink against the cobblestone. 

“Oh, fuck.” A slow, calculated grin spreads across his face– revealing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. “-I thought you said the place wasn’t occupied.” The taller one gruntes, hand resting on the handle of the machete, now glinting under the rain. “...the place looks like a goddamn mausoleum.” 

Fighting the urge to vomit, you muster any courage you could gather, trying to seep venom in your words. “Get out. This is private property–”

“Private property?” The shorter of the two mocks, taking a step closer. The words die on your tongue. “It looks like you’re the only one here, sweetheart. That private enough for you?” The other chuckles, and you swear your heart lurches from your chest. 

They weren’t here to escape the storm. 

They weren’t here to find solace in the plants. 

They weren’t even here to rob the place– at least, not anymore. 

“Pretty little thing, all by yourself.” Scarface speaks again, words dripping with venom, with need. His accomplice nods, “Wonder what else she has hidden in the house…” his eyebrow cocks beneath the mask, and you shrivel at the sight. “I bet she keeps all kinds of things locked away.”

Your hand darts behind you, blindly grappling for something, anything to protect yourself with. Your fingers close around an ancient weeder, the tongs rusted and dull from age and abandon, but they were better than nothing.

“Don’t move, or I swear–”

Your threat goes unheard as Scarface lunges across the table, a startled shriek tearing from your throat as his fingers wrap around your ankle. Blindly kicking upwards, your heel catches his nose, snapping his head backwards. Scrambling to your feet, you hold the weeder in front of your chest as he rises– blood dripping from his nose. 

“You fucking bitch!” He slaps you across the face, hard. White splinters across your vision as your head cracks to the side, ribs cracking against the edge of the soil bed as you fall. Crashing into the cobblestone, the taller one wraps his hand around your hair, pulling you onto your feet. 

Scalp burning, you stomp on his toes, hoping to throw him off guard as tears line your vision. Scarface turns, kicking you in the gut, and you collapse, wheezing as the air is knocked from your lungs. Greedy hands tear at your apron, tea leaves spilling onto the floor as you kick and punch, landing a lucky hit as the weeder digs into Scarface’s forearm. 

He grunts, tearing the weeder from your hands before landing a right hook upside your head. You feel your eyebrow split… was he wearing a ring?... and the world tilts. A hand kneads at your breast through your shirt and you scream– the sound long, primal– rattling the caging of the greenhouse.

It was the kind of scream that cracks glass, the kind that summons ghosts, the kind that reaches into the walls. 

Blood pours from your temple, blinding your right eye as your pulse thunders in your skull. Writhing against your captor’s grip, another jab hits your ribs and the taste of iron fills your mouth. 

The taller one forces your wrists over your head, and you deadweight in the hopes of relieving the pressure burning your wrists– to no avail. Scarface chuckles, spitting blood. “Stop fucking moving and this will be quick, I promise. Or don’t– I don’t give a fuck.” Fingers dig into your jaw and you cry out under the assault. 

The sound of glass shattering halts the attack. Craning your head, you barely catch the blur of movement before it slams into your assailant, jostling you from his hold. Crumpling to the floor, an unearthly growl tears through the room. You freeze, relief flooding your system. 

Boots crunching against the shards of glass, Brahms emerges from the shadows– shoulders heaving, towering form casting a shadow over your crumpled state. Porcelain mask cracked from the force of the blow, Brahms straightens, a rusty poker clutched in his fist.

The very one that was stabbed through your journal the night before. 

They never stood a chance. Bloodlust radiating off his form in waves, the poker connects with the tall male with a sickening crunch– both crashing into the side of the greenhouse with such force the entire greenhouse rattles. Scarface pales, stumbling backwards as you scramble towards the corner of the building, head pounding as the room falls into chaos. 

Fists pound into the bludgeoned man’s face– once, twice, shrieks escaping as he tries to pry Brahms off of him. Something pops, Brahms’ fingers plunging into the male’s eye sockets, and you gag as a shrill scream fills the air. The sound of flesh tearing fills the room as Brahms punches him. 

Over, and over and over again. 

Until the beast of a man was nothing more than a bloody pulp pressed against the glass. Scarface pushes across the room, vaulting the soil bed as he sprints towards the door, trying to run. But Brahms was too angry, too fast, fist colliding with his temple just before he reaches the threshold. 

Grabbing the shears, your missing shears, Brahms plunges them into Scarface’s neck– a choked gurgle escaping as the man coughs on his own blood. Ripping the tool from the flesh, blood sprays across the room, coating the fogged glass in a gut-churning crimson. 

Lungs burning, you cower in the corner, only able to watch as the male twitches against the cobblestone. Brahms towers over him, placing his foot onto his throat before stomping. 

Once, twice until there was only silence in the greenhouse. The rain, the only sound, continues to batter against the glass as Brahms stands– chest heaving as his gaze snaps towards you. The mask, ever still, doesn’t soften as you stare. But his voice, eerily calm, utters just one word. 

Your name. 

Hanging in the air like a prayer on his tongue, a broken testament to his faith. Voice low, straining beneath violence and fury, the world around you splitting as a sob tears from your throat. Adrenaline fleeing your limbs, you collapse. 

Before your head cracks against the cobblestone, strong arms curl beneath your back and knees, hoisting your writhing form away from the bloodstained floor as if you weigh nothing. You curl towards him, burying your face into the damp fabric of his tattered sweater as you breathe his scent in frantic, shaking gulps. 

Dust, firewood, worn books– just the way you like it. 

Tears stream down your cheeks as you shake, fingers digging into his sweater as you sob. The weight of the world felt as if it were lifted off of your shoulders, and for the first time since you arrived in that godforsaken manor, you feel safe. The poker clatters to the floor, completely forgotten as he cradles you to his chest, calloused fingers combing through your matted hair as you weep. 

“I was so scared–” you hiccup, gasping for air as you push closer to his skin for warmth. “-Oh God, I thought they were going to…” The words refuse to come, a broken sob manifesting itself as you shakily wrap your arms around his neck. Muscles convulsing, your teeth chatter against the frigid air.

“You’re hurt.” Brahms murmurs against your hair, thumb dipping into the blood pooling at your eyebrow. You flinch, breath coming out in uneven, ragged huffs. “They… touched you.” Ribs burning, every breath sending a ripple of pain down your spine as you inhale. You didn’t even realize you were whimpering until his finger ghosts over your jaw, tilting your head to look at him. You glance at your hands, fingers clenched around the fabric of his sweater and tainting it in crimson. 

The blood on his sweater wasn’t just yours.

He pulls you in closer, and you jolt, fear coursing through your veins– knuckles turning white as you grip him like a lifeline. He stills at the action, eyes boring into you through the porcelain mask. 

“It’s alright. I’m here,” Forehead pressing against your own, you shudder. “-I’m here. Let me help you.” 

His skin was warm, soft, any semblance of a response dying on your tongue as you bury your face into his chest.

For the first time, it feels like home. 

__

The manor doors slam open as you are ushered inside, water, blood, and dirt trekking through the halls as Brahms carries you up the stairs. You could feel all three clinging to your skin– sticky, cold, and full of sin in a way you knew you couldn’t scrub off. The thought made you shudder violently in his hold.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you expect to be dumped in your room. Maybe placed on the kitchen table to tend to your wounds. Even the bathroom, if you were lucky– somewhere practical. 

Instead, Brahms persevered, trudging up past the stairs and pushing towards the only wing in the house where you scarcely visit. The master wing– his wing. Pushing open the heavy doors, the smell of cedar and worn paper fill your nostrils, the scent dizzying as you are gently set on the edge of the bed. 

Squirming uncomfortably, you pull the tattered remains of the apron to your chest, cringing as dirt and blood seep into the pristine sheets. Barely even registering the softness of the bed, you could only gape forward– hair matted to your skull as your body thrums with pain. 

The sound of running water tears you from your fogged gaze, and you glance towards the bathroom, where Brahms moves with startling urgency– filling the tub with warm water, tearing towels from their resting places, grabbing a washcloth. Steam begins to waft through the air like vengeful spirits, your bones aching for heat as your toes curl at the sight.

Trying to push yourself off the bed, you rise on bruised legs. A pained gasp rips through your chest, and you wobble. Ever so carefully, you are lifted into the air once more, legs dangling as you are brought to the edge of the clawtooth tub. 

Firmly planted on the edge, your toes barely brush against the marbled floor. In another life, another place you would have dreamed of being able to bathe in such a luxurious setting, yet all you could think about was the warm water that await you. 

The flimsy remains of the apron are carefully pulled away, frigid fingers trailing under your bare stomach as the grimy sweater is pulled over your head. If you had been braver, more stubborn, you would have resisted– but tiredness weighs you down like a wet blanket. 

Moving gently so as to not spook you, Brahms fiddles with the button of your jeans, sending another chilled shudder down your spine. Slowly, your jeans and panties are ushered down your legs, socks quickly following as you sit bare against the porcelain tub. 

Hands cupping beneath your knees, Brahms eases you into the water– causing a hiss of pain to grumble from you as the warmth laps at your wounds. “I know… I’m sorry.” His voice cuts through you, so gentle it almost hurts, as if he was in pain just from watching you writhe in discomfort. Fingers cradling your jaw, the cool surface of his mask presses against your heated forehead. You sigh, eyes closing as you sink into the sensation, trying to relax your aching muscles. 

The rustle of clothing echoes through the bathroom, but you ignore it, choosing instead to savour the warmth seeping into your chilled bones. The water sloshes against the tub as Brahms climbs in across from you, knees brushing against yours. Lazily opening your eyes, you faintly make out the blurred outline of him reaching for something before your forehead is set ablaze in pain. 

Gritting your teeth, your hands fly to the edges of the tub, knuckles turning white as your nails dig into the smooth surface. The soaked washcloth dabs along your split brow, wiping the blood away from your skin. Cool fingers trace the bruise on your ribs, ever so slightly brushing against the curve of your breast as he begins to wipe the grime from your flesh. 

The scratch of your jaw comes next. Then, the slash on your thigh. Finally, the bruised ring around your throat. Each movement sends a thrill through your veins as the pain begins to subside, the sting of your wounds fading under the warmth of the water– of his touch. 

“They don’t get to keep any part of you… not even this.” a whisper, laced with disdain as his thumb presses against your brow. Your lips tremble, tears blotting your vision. “I…” you swallow thickly. “-I thought I was going to die.”

“No.” he hissed, shoulders heaving as his gaze drills holes into the split skin. “You belong to me.” 

The words should have scared you, sending a pit of dread in your stomach at the possessive tone. They should have irked you– irritate you even– but they didn’t. Tonight, they felt different. 

Shifting in the water, your hand wraps around his wrist, halting his movements. The washcloth drops between you, water splashing onto your chest as you meet his searing gaze. Frozen in time, Brahms lets out a shaky exhale– so subtle, so gentle as if he didn’t trust himself to hold you together. 

You were beyond saving, anyways. 

“I’m sorry… for leaving.” You whisper. “-for…” voice catching in your throat, you instinctively glance away, shame lapping at your skin thicker than the blood in the water. 

For breaking the rules. 

“I know.” Slow, calculated words ring in your ears. He knows– he always does. 

“But you saved me.” Retorting, knees curl to your chest, chin resting on them as you wait for any reasonable explanation as to why there was no punishment– no threatening words, no searing touches exploring your unforgivable sin. 

He only huffs. “Always.” 

You blink at him, stunned at his response. The water stills between you, air heavy with something like a confession. His fingers twitch, shaking every so slightly before they curl into a fist– and you see it. 

Fear. 

Barely contained beneath the surface, the very same driver of his fury that ended in blood and sweat and violence– is a sense of terror, one rooted in losing you. Your chin digs into the skin of your knees and you watch as his self control teeters closer to snapping. Once so cold, so brutal, now held back by only your gaze. 

Your heart lurches within your chest at the sight. 

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers cradle the cracked porcelain of the mask so endearingly he flinches. Adam's apple bobbing from the touch, his hands tense at his sides as if he were burned– mentally debating whether to retreat or tear your hand away. But he does neither, only staring at you through half lidded eyes, chocolate orbs stirring with confusion, apprehension, and something you couldn’t quite place. 

You could swear they glisten under the light. 

“I… let me see you.” you urge, fingertips cusping the edge of the mask– slightly grazing across the dark curls that hide beneath. “-please.”

Silence crashes through the room, the only sound coming from the occasional drip of the faucet. The air shifts, and you almost retreat into yourself at the tension– pulse hammering in your ears like a wardrum. 

A pause, then slowly, Brahms shifts into your touch. 

Drawing closer, water sloshes over the side of the tub and crashes over the marble tiles as his knees plant on either side of your own. Massive frame surging towards you like a tidal wave threatening to swallow you whole, dusky curls tickle your forehead as his face stops just inches from your own. 

You don’t flinch, refusing to pull away as you brave onwards– the eye of the storm. His palm, slick and trembling, cups your jaw. Thumb brushing the bruise forming under your eye, he pauses– offering himself to you like a lamb being sent for slaughter. Your fingertips catch the wiring tucked behind his ear, and his breath catches in his throat. 

Finally, you lift it. 

The porcelain rises with a low creak, water dripping down his skin as you unmask him with aching slowness. His jaw catches the light, then his cheekbones, his brows– until there is nothing separating him from your gaze. 

And you see him for what feels like the first time. 

Bruised, blotted skin peppered with scars and burns running across his cheekbones. Seared browline and sunken eyes lined with fringed lashes dripping with water and grime and tears. Bottom lip split open, dried blood caked to the scruff of his jaw– clenching like the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders and threatened to leave him shattered beneath your gaze. 

But his eyes– that is what tears your heart to shreds. 

Coffee with flecks of caramel so devastating you were drowning. Irises dilated so wide his eyes almost look black as he gapes at you, memorizing your reaction– carving it into his skin. You swallow thickly, reaching upwards, and he doesn’t stop you. 

Fingertips tracing the mottled skin, nails delicately scraping over the swelling, he shudders. Shoulders sagging as if it were the first time he was touched in his life, not out of fear, not of pity, but with empathy. His lip quivers as you move closer, cupping his face in your hands as if he were made of glass, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples. 

“You didn’t have to…” nails scraping against his scalp, he groans at the feeling, and you falter. “-save me. You could have left me to be punished.” trailing off, your hands retreat, shame building in your stomach. “...let me get what I deserved.”

Fingers coil around your wrists suddenly, firmly planting them on his shoulders. “Don’t–” he rumbles, brow twitching as a warning glare flickers across his face. “Don’t ever say that.” Voice dripping with pain and anger, you shudder. 

Pressing your forehead against his, no barriers– no masks, the rawness of it all sprouting tears in your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” You breathe out, nose brushing his as your lip quivers. “For hurting you– leaving you. For thinking you wouldn’t come for me.” 

He pauses, jaw clenching as he tastes the apology on his tongue. You swallow thickly as his nose ducks into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. “I would always come for you… you’re mine.” 

Forgiveness– the taste sweet on your tongue. 

Tilting upwards, you catch his eye, all resolve shattering as you lean in and press your lips to his– slowly, carefully. Not a kiss of a prisoner, not one full of fearful regret. But one shared between broken pieces clinging to the only warmth they have left. 

You finally feel whole. 

Hands sliding into his wet curls, you tug on the tufts as you pull yourself closer, chasing the flutter blooming in your stomach like something born again. He falters, arms wrapping around your waist as he falls backwards, water spilling out of the tub as you collide with his chest. But neither of you notice– neither of you care. 

You were drowning in something else entirely. 

The taste of iron fills your mouth, and you pull away, breath stuttering as you see the blood trickling down his chin. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as the ghost of the kiss remains– warm, intimate. 

Fingers dig into the flesh of your hips like you would vanish beneath his touch, the reality of your affection, your willingness almost too much to bear. “You’re hurt,” you murmur against his skin. “...because of me.” His brow furrows, a sigh tearing from his throat as you press into him. 

A pause, one full of ache and longing– before: “I had to. They touched you.”

“I know.” Cupping his jaw in your hand, you examine the damage– hushing the protest forming on his lips. Mustering the courage coiling around your ribs, you echo those very words whispered in the greenhouse. “Let me help you.” 

It wasn’t a plea, one forged with fear of punishment. Instead, it was a vow. 

With every ounce of gentleness you could muster into your aching limbs, you shift forward into the tub, water sloshing around you as you straddle his waist. Brahms’ breath catches in his throat, something akin to awe glimmering in his eyes as you reach for the discarded washcloth. Wringing it in your hands, you press a kiss to his temple. 

Bones weary, skin bruised– yet you never felt more alive. 

“Let me take care of you,” You urge again, murmuring against his heated flesh. “...you always take care of me.” Pressing the drenched fabric to his lip, he jerks against your touch– wincing as you wipe the blood from his chin. His fingers flex beneath the water, but he doesn’t stop you.

Trailing the cloth across his jaw, the water pools down his neck as you wipe away his skin with devout reverence. You trace his jugular, ducking to his collarbone– where a purple bruise blossoms along the tender flesh. He groans at the action, as if it hurts to be touched so gently when no one else ever has.

You brave onwards, cleaning his wounds of dirt and grime, replacing the pain with feather-light kisses as you work. Your nails rake down his chest every so slightly, and he twitches. You couldn’t tell what festered beneath his skin: fear, restraint, or something much darker pulling at his psyche. 

He killed for you– so now, you would have to live for him. Something that sounds more like a blessing than a punishment. 

The cloth falls from your palm, a dull smack echoing through the walls of the bathroom as it hits the water. Your fingers delve lower, nails lingering across a scar splintering across his stomach– and he gasps into the crook of your neck. A jagged smile breaks out on your cracked lips. 

Poor thing. 

Nails dragging down his skin, your fingertips brush against his cock, lips folding over his as you swallow the moan building in his throat. “Let me…” you whisper against him, breathing in his shaky exhales as you wrap your fist around him. “-I want to.”

The fist gripping the porcelain edge of the edge almost splinters the surface as you trail your fingertips along the underside of his cock, jerking your hand towards his tip. A strained exhale wafts across your collarbones as you pump him underneath the water. Brahms’ head thuds against the edge of the tub, curls messily plastered to his forehead as sweat drips down his temple– eyes fluttering shut at your sinful touch. 

“You always want to control everything,” Voice dripping in cotton-swabbed heat, your hip bones push against his stomach as your arms wind around his neck, trapping him beneath you. Breasts squishing against the hard ridge of his chest, a stray hair dips onto his cheekbone– tickling the swollen burns blossoming across his skin. “The rules, this house… me.” 

The words taste bitter on your tongue, yet as they coat the condensation-filled room they sound devout. His lips part, a sputtered protest building in his chest as you latch your mouth against his jugular, the sharp thrum of his pulsepoint hammering against your lips in a dizzying concoction.

The tip of his cock catches on your folds, and your stomach flips– mouth unbearably dry. Nails raking into his shoulder blades so roughly you were certain you draw blood, chocolate orbs snap to your own, full of pain and heat and want. 

“You don’t get to control me. Not this time.”

Your hips lower as you spear yourself on his cock, walls screaming as heat churns in your gut. Brows furrowing at the uncomfortable stretch, a shaken exhale escapes your lips as you seat yourself in his lap. Brahms groans, hands flying to your hips as you rock against him– water spilling out of the tub with every stroke. 

Fingers digging into your flesh so hard it bruises, yet he doesn’t shift, refusing to dare and break the spell as you set the pace– guiding your hips in such a teasingly slow manner it almost hurts. Your thighs burn as you roll your hips, knees slipping against the porcelain as you ride him like it was your last night on earth, as if the manor was engulfed in flames and you were damned for eternity. 

Maybe you were– the way you could feel him in your throat something so unearthly it feels as if you were already dead. 

Iron, cedar, and earth cling to your skin as he jolts beneath you– cock hitting your cervix as a whine builds in your chest. God, you couldn’t breathe, the hard ridge of him tearing into you, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving nothing left but strained gasps. Mind foggy as steam wisps around your heated skin, all you could focus on was the subtle roll of your hips.

A shaking rise, a deep fall, as you prepare for the aftermath– like a moth drawn to a flame. 

“Look at me,” you whisper, voice hoarse, head tilting back as his cock digs into your walls. Your clit scrapes against his skin as you lower yourself once, twice– the sensation causing you to flutter around him. 

His eyes, God those eyes, dark and heavy sear into your own. Hungry, depraved, wild. Hips screaming for release, you suck on your bottom lip for comfort, muscles ablaze as your pace falters. Let me help you.

“You’re mine too.”

The words slip before you catch yourself, but it was too late. Almost barely audible, but impossibly weighted. And with them, Brahms’ resolve shatters. 

Surging forward, your legs coil around his waist as he thrusts upwards– mouth melting into yours as you are all but lifted from the water. Pushing up on his knees, Brahms’ fingers dig into the fat of your ass as he bounces you on his cock. You gasp, nails digging into his back at the shift in the position, every movement much more pronounced as your insides turn to mush. 

Spit dribbles down your chin as his tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming you as his. Toes curling, your heels dig into his lower back, spine arching as he practically splits you in two. The rhythm is frantic, breathless as his cock drives into your gummy walls– ruining you for all others. 

He bottoms out, hips stuttering as your teeth sink into his bottom lip, fingers dancing across his flesh like worship. Every inch, every ridge, every scar mapped by your palms as you commit him to memory. Not as a monster, not as your captor– but as a man. 

Your name falls from his lips like a broken prayer, low– raw, and your fingers drag across his scalp. Fisting damp curls between your fingers, you yank his hair backwards, lips raking across his jawline as he holds you like you weigh nothing. 

“Shh,” you whine. “-you’ll wake the dead.”

His eyes roll back into his skull, something between a groan and a shudder tearing through him as he molds you against his skin. Heat and blood and need coarse through your veins, stomach clenching as tension knots in your gut. 

Fire laps at your skin, climax coiling around you so tightly you feel as if you would snap. Nails scraping against Brahms’ scalp you whine as the orgasm crashes through you– legs numb from the force as you cling to him like your saving grace.

His eyes widen as your head buries into his neck, thighs twitching as exhaustion consumes you, brain short circuiting from the overstimulating combination of pain and pleasure coursing across your skin. Shuddering, Brahms retreats, pulling you off of him as his hand wraps around his cock, frantically pumping himself with laboured breaths as you sink against the edge of the tub. 

You could only stare, lost in those dangerous caramel flecks in a sea of brown coated in lust, obsession, and something else hiding just beneath the surface. A strained groan echoes across the bathroom walls as Brahms peaks, coating his navel and thighs in a frothy white. 

Before you could stop yourself, you move closer– grabbing the washcloth and wiping away the mess. So faithful, so devoted. A content sigh bubbles from his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the tup as he hoists himself over. Your eyes glance at his back, covered in irritated scratches across his shoulder blades, sending a wave of heat churning in your gut. 

The very scratches you marked him with just moments before. 

The bath water, now tepid, sloshes against your pruned toes as you are hoisted from the tub. Standing on wobbly knees, a fluffy towel wraps around your shoulders, condensation dripping down your skin and onto the marble tiles. You dry yourself silently, muscles aching, limbs numb as you try to ignore the eyes boring into your flesh. 

The mask lay forgotten on the bathroom floor, a reminder of your fall from grace. Towel wrapped loosely around his hips, Brahms ushers you towards the bed– no teasing words, no lingering touches, just warm sheets encompassing your naked form as you sink into the mattress. 

You don’t speak, you don’t have to.

Weariness sinking into your bones as the bedspread lowers next to you. Arms coil around your waist like ivy, pulling you into a solid chest as if he feared you would vanish from his grasp. Melting into the soft goose down of the duvet, you tilt your head towards him, offering a peck on the underside of his jaw. He grumbles in response, tiredness evident as his movements grow sluggish. 

Lips caressing the crown of your head, you almost miss the whisper that wafts against your flesh. 

“Mine.”

Eyes fluttering closed, sleep begins to take you– body weighing into his chest like roots taking shape. Slow, deep breathing fills the room, the faint sound of the water draining from the tub echoing across the walls. Skin pressed so tightly it felt as if you were fusing together, the world fades to black. 

Outside, the greenhouse waits– rain mingling with the blood soaking the cobblestone path. Tea leaves curl around the broken bodies left to rot, the smell of death heavy in the damp air. Silence clings to the manor like moss, sprouting across the tunnels and through the halls. 

And beneath it all, something begins to stir– something that might be love.

[snail-day]

A Star That Burned Too Bright

Sum: He trusted you more than he should have.

Yandere! Insert x Reader

WC: 1.7k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Kidnapped Reader, Suicide/Self harm (Reader Dies), Mentions of Noncon, Blood, Angst

A/n: Felt a little angsty

Oh, how your captor swoons when his darling, once so hesitant and fearful, now greets him at the door with a radiant smile, eyes shimmering with something close to love. How his heart stutters when you lean into his palm without hesitation, pressing a delicate kiss to the roughened pad of his thumb, as if savoring the very texture of his touch. Those once-wary eyes now gaze up at him, brimming with adoration - whether genuine or meticulously crafted, he dares not question too deeply.

At first, suspicion gnaws at him, creeping in like a parasite. Your obedience is far too seamless, your affection suddenly too intoxicating. He watches you carefully, scrutinizing every lingering glance, every sweetened word. Is this the slow, insidious grasp of Stockholm Syndrome? Or could it be? Are you truly falling for the twisted love he offers, surrendering to the love he so desperately gives and craves?

It takes only a month for his iron walls to begin crumbling, the once-impenetrable barriers corroding under the slow oxidation of your touch, each whispered word, each softly pressed kiss, each desperate clinging of your body against his as you curl up close, eating away at the foundation of his resolve. A mere month before the padlocks vanish from most of the doors, before his paranoia begins to wane under the weight of your adoring presence. The ultimate test arrives when he leaves the front door unlocked, a temptation, an open cage. Yet, upon his return, he finds you still here, draped in one of his oversized shirts, your face aglow with welcome. His breath catches as you run to him, and in a moment of unfiltered joy, he sweeps you into his arms, twirling you like a princess in a fairytale. Burying his weary face into the crook of your neck, he exhales, inhaling your warmth, your scent, your promise of permanence. A long day's work spent securing your future, keeping you here, where you belong, safe and sound within his grasp.

Another month drifts by, the air between you thick with something far different than fear. No longer does he keep you from the kitchen, his paranoia of you reaching for a blade, of cold steel plunging into his back, slowly melting into trust. Instead, he lets you stand beside him, guiding your hands as you chop vegetables with a blade he once would have never let you touch. The knife is no longer a weapon in your hands but a sign of the bond you've built, a bond he once thought impossible.

Slow jazz hums from the old record player, the same sultry melodies he used to play in the dead of night when he’d take you, when your body shook not from pleasure but from the horror of it all. Back then, you would crawl away, curling into yourself, muffling sobs into the sheets. But now - now you sway in his arms, his grip firm but gentle as he leads you in a slow dance across the kitchen tiles, the golden glow of the overhead light casting halos around you both. Your beautiful smile beams up at him, undeterred by every little misstep, every moment of clumsiness he only ever finds endearing. His laughter rumbles in his chest as his hands wander to the ticklish spots he’s memorized, teasing you, reveling in the way you squirm and giggle beneath his touch.

Then, the air shifts. The teasing, the warmth, the playful brushes of fingertips against skin evolve into something deeper, something hungrier. His fingers lace with yours as he guides you toward the bedroom, footsteps slow, anticipation thrumming in the space between you. The dinner plates remain forgotten on the table, the meal left untouched. Neither of you care. Not when the only hunger that matters now is for each other. A playful push, a breathless laugh, and suddenly he’s on the bed, his back hitting the mattress as you straddle him with an ease that sends his heart hammering. What was once nothing more than rough, desperate claiming has softened into something dangerously close to love. Gone is the struggle, the resistance, the broken cries muffled into pillows. Now, it is you who lowers yourself onto him, your body molding against his as if it were always meant to be there.

His breath hitches as he watches you, enraptured, your pretty lips parting into a perfect "O" as you take him in. The slow roll of your hips ignites a fire in his chest, a burning, uncontainable need that he thought was reserved only for his wildest dreams. He reaches up, calloused fingers tangling in your hair, tugging you down into a languid kiss - one not fueled by hunger alone, but by the intoxicating sweetness of having you, truly having you.

From rough, desperate fucks to the kind of passionate love he never thought he’d deserve. And yet, here you are, offering it freely. His. Entirely his.

Yet another month, in the cool summer night when the air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of earth and dew as he holds you close in his arms. The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of crickets and the soft rustle of the wind weaving through the trees. He holds you close, his arm curled protectively around your waist as you both lie in the cool grass, gazing up at the endless expanse of stars. The fresh scent of earth surrounds him, grounding him in this moment - this rare, perfect moment where nothing else exists but you, him, and the infinite sky above.

Your body is warm against his, your head rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. His fingers trace absentminded stars on your arm, committing every detail of you to memory - the way your skin feels beneath his touch, the way your chest rises with each slow inhale, the way your lips part slightly as you get lost in thought.

Then, your voice - soft, dreamy, laced with something distant. "I hope to be a star one day."

He stiffens just slightly, his gaze shifting from the cosmos to you. He studies your expression, the wistful glimmer in your eyes, the way you’re not quite here with him but somewhere far beyond, among the stars. A quiet, unspoken fear grips him, curling in his stomach like an ache he cannot soothe.

"Not just any star," you murmur, your voice barely louder than the wind. "I want to be part of a constellation. Something eternal. Something that people will look up at and wonder about."

His breath catches. A constellation. A pattern in the sky - fixed, unchanging, forever intertwined. He swallows the fear that threatens to rise, the thought of you wanting to be anywhere but here gnawing at the fragile trust he's built. But then he sees it - not an escape, not a longing to be away, but a desire to be remembered, to be something greater than fleeting moments. A slow exhale leaves him, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. "Then we'll become one together," he murmurs gently into a whisper, pressing another gentle kiss, "A constellation. Just you and me - forever."

He means it. With everything in him, he means it.

Trust was once a foreign thing, something brittle and dangerous. He had learned long ago that trust could be broken, shattered beyond repair. And yet, against all logic, against all self-preservation, he had placed it in your hands. Trust where he no longer felt the need to bind you in chains when he left the house. Trust where he expected - no, believed - you would always be there, greeting him at the door in one of his old t-shirts, despite the delicate, frilly things he had bought for you.

Trust.

A beautiful, fleeting thing.

A broken thing.

Because today, when he steps through the door, you are not there. No soft smile, no bright eyes, no eager arms wrapping around his waist. Only silence. A silence so loud it rings in his ears, claws at his chest, forces his heart to hammer against his ribs.

"Darling?" His voice wavers as he steps deeper into the house, his stomach twisting itself into knots.

No answer.

His pulse quickens. His breathing turns shallow as he takes further steps into the humble abode. His narrowed gaze flickering to the kitchen, and ice grips his spine. A knife is missing. The air in his lungs turns razor-sharp as he stumbles forward, calling your name again, louder this time, desperation clawing at his throat. And then - then he hears it.

The water running.

His world tilts, dread surging through his veins as he rushes toward the bathroom. The door is closed and locked, but the proof of his worst nightmare is already seeping through the cracks. A slow, creeping red, curling like cruel fingers across the tile.

“No - no, no, no- ”

His hands shake as he fumbles with the handle, panic making him clumsy, animalistic. He throws his weight against the door, again and again, until the wood finally splinters and gives way.

The sight steals the breath from his lungs.

You’re there, slumped in the porcelain tub, limbs floating weightlessly in the water turned crimson. The knife - his knife - rests at the bottom, its job done. Your head is tilted slightly, resting against the porcelain, eyes half-lidded, gazing at something far beyond him. Your lips, the same lips that once whispered sweet nothings, that once began to kiss him with tenderness and devotion, are now pale, tinged with an unnatural blue.

He stumbles forward, collapsing to his knees, his hands reaching for you, shaking so violently he can barely hold you. His arms wrap around your lifeless body, pulling you against him, but there’s no warmth left.

"Please -" His voice breaks, forehead pressing against your damp hair. He rocks you gently, as if that could will life back into your body, as if he could press his love into you and make you stay. His breath is uneven, his vision blurred as the first sob tears from his throat. "No, no, no, don’t do this to me - don’t leave me - "

He cups your face, calloused thumbs brushing over your cold cheeks, his fingers trembling as he cradles you the way he always did, the way he always will. His lips press against your temple, your forehead, your lips - anywhere, everywhere - desperate, frantic, begging.

But you don’t respond.

You don’t melt into his touch. You don’t smile. You don’t whisper his name.

You’re gone.

His constellation, his brightest star, the only light in his universe, is extinguished.

The love of his life, the one he had fought for, kept, cherished beyond reason, is nothing but a lifeless star fading into the void.

Characters: JJK: Nanami, Gojo, Geto MHA: Hawks, Bakugo, Tomura, Dabi AOT: Eren, Levi, Jean

[winged-self-indulgence]

Why Do People Like Yanderes?

Hi everyone, my name is Diya, and this was going to be a YT video-essay-type-thing but I'm too poor to afford a mic and too busy with college to learn how to edit videos, so here's my vague exploration of the psychology behind why people like yanderes so much through the lens of my favourite Visual Novels.

TW for uh. yandere content. Mentions of sex, gore, and non-con, particularly in the last topic. This is more like the first draft of an academic paper so while it's not explicit, I do go into some detail.

Introduction

If you’re a fan of anime or visual novels, then you’re probably already aware of what a yandere is, or at the very least you’ve seen that one picture of Yuno Gasai. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, let’s take it from the tippy top. The term ‘yandere’ is a Japanese portmanteau of ‘yanderu’ – the progressive form of ‘yami’ – meaning ‘sick’, and ‘deredere’ which roughly translates to ‘loving’. Together, the word refers to someone who is – in short – extremely lovesick. Obsessive to the extreme, and with little morality to spare, the standard yandere is characterized by a dangerous fixation on a chosen target, often appearing shy and caring at first only to flip the script and become violently aggressive towards perceived threats (Kroon, 2010).

It should be noted that yanderes are not a strictly romantic or sexual trope. The Ancient Greeks classified at least six forms of love, from familial (storge) to guests (xenia). Modern psychologists may distinguish love as either Companionate or Passionate (Kim & Hatfield, 2004) or consisting of three dimensions of Intimacy, Passion, and Commitment (Sternberg & Sternberg, 2018). Realistically, possessiveness shows up in a variety of relationships. However, people are generally primed to view certain dynamics as inherently amorous. Societal norms tend to encourage the idea that romantic bonds ought to rank above all others, and therefore if Person A is bizarrely fixated on Person B, then clearly there must be an element of sexual interest involved regardless of the actual relationship between the individuals in question.

Regardless, yanderes remain quite popular in fiction. Many dismiss it as a fetish, which it can be, but that isn’t the case for everyone. While there is nothing wrong with indulging in kinky fiction, not all of us get horny at the thought of being chained up in someone’s basement, no matter how hot our captor may be. So why is it so pervasive? Why is this trope so appealing that most writers cannot help but include at least a single line of dialogue implying that – if circumstances had been ever so slightly different – my wholesome shoujo romcom might have turned into a psychological horror?

Hybristophilia

‘Hybristophilia’, also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome after the titular criminal couple, is a word is derived from the Greek word ‘hybridzein’ meaning ‘to commit an outrage against someone’ and ‘philo’ which means ‘a strong preference for’. Sexologist John Money reportedly defined it as a paraphilia in which an individual is sexually aroused by a partner who has a predatory history of hurting other people (Money, 1986, as cited in Matuszak, 2017). In his book, Serial Killer Groupies, true crime and crime fiction author RJ Parker distinguished two forms of hybristophilia: passive and aggressive. The former is when an individual contacts a criminal with the intention of striking up a relationship with them, allowing themselves to be seduced and manipulated but having no interest in committing a crime themselves. The latter are far more dangerous, as the individual not only derives sexual pleasure from their partner’s atrocities but are active participants in carrying out or covering up the crime. To quote Griffiths (2013, as cited in Pettigrew, 2019):

“[They] help out their lovers with their criminal agenda by luring victims, hiding bodies, covering crimes, or even committing crimes. They are attracted to their lovers because of their violent actions and want to receive love yet are unable to understand that their lovers are psychopaths who are manipulating them.”

In some ways, hybristophilia is the nearest thing we have to a realistic understanding of why people love yanderes. I mean, much of the fantasy surrounding such characters and their media tend to be filled with posts begging to be spat on or calling the rightfully terrified main character ungrateful for being a teeny bit upset about finding surveillance cameras in their ceiling. However, enjoying fictitious immoral activity does not predict real perpetration, so what does? There exists little consensus amongst psychologists as to what sparks this particular predilection, and that was strange to me. You would think there would be more studies into this topic, in spite of or perhaps because of its controversial nature. Heck, that one dude wouldn’t shut up about white women’s obsession with Bundy and Dahmer, and I assumed he had gotten that information from somewhere, but it turns out that was just him using modifiers to justify sexism.

However, I believe that we can hedge a few guesses, and over the course of my research, I’ve organized the main rationalizations under four umbrellas which I will explore through the lens of my favourite yandere-themed Visual Novels. Please keep in mind that most of these games are rated as mature due to sexual scenes and/or gore. Additionally, in the spirit of transparency, this ramble will be focused exclusively on male or masculine yanderes. So, without further ado:

Call Me Bob the Builder Because I Can Fix Them

If you’re familiar with DC Comic’s Batman, or just happen to have attended any costume event held over the span of the last 20+ years, you may be familiar with the character of Dr. Harleen Quinzel, better known as Harley Quinn. Initially created as the Joker’s one-off sidekick in Batman The Animated Series, she was so well-received by audiences that she became a recurring character in the cartoon and was eventually given a proper origin story in the form of a one-shot titled Mad Love.

Harley’s origin story has seen some alterations over the past decades, but the core aspects remain largely untouched. In the beginning, Harleen Quinzel was a promising young woman who wanted was a degree from the university’s prestigious psychology department, which she gained through…less than scrupulous means.

(Listen, I’m not sure if the authors were leaning on the Dumb Blonde stereotype, or if they simply thought that casting her as a genuinely bad student would make her later actions more believable. Either way, the idea of Harley as someone with a legitimate PhD came later)

After landing an internship at Arkham Asylum – a half-hospital and half-prison straight out of the 1870s that might as well be built out of one-ply tissue-paper soaked with gasoline and left next to a crate of fireworks – Harleen set her sights on the then incarcerated Joker. At the start, her fixation on the criminal wasn’t remotely sympathetic. She didn’t want to help him, she wanted to use him. Harleen Quinzel wanted piggyback off his infamy and write a tell-all tale detailing what sort of messed up childhood resulted in Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime. Yet the more she interacted with him, the more the Joker took advantage of her empathy. By the end of their sessions, Harley no longer saw him as a violent serial killer with a clown schtick, but as a “lost, injured child looking to make the world laugh at his antics.”

But Diya, you may be asking, what does this have to do with the video? The Joker never loved Harley, and it could even be argued – as Shehadeh did in a 2017 essay – that her obsession with the pasty-faced clown is more akin to Histrionic Personality Disorder. While that may be the case, I believe that Harley’s story provides one of the reasons yanderes are so popular: their backstory.

Whether they were abandoned by their family, bullied by their peers, experimented on by evil scientists, starved on the streets, died under mysterious circumstances and then trapped in a haunted VCR tape for decades, or are simply so impossibly inhuman that they frankly do not understand why it isn’t socially acceptable to imprison their crush in a pocket dimension made of meat and non-Euclidean geometry, yanderes often have fairly sympathetic or at least understandable explanations for why they are Like That. Your mileage may vary significantly depending on how much you sympathize with these motives, but the point is that yanderes always make sense to some degree. Their morality and priorities may be twisted or even completely incomprehensible, but the audience almost always knows the reason, and that can be comforting. In the real world, other people aren’t always straightforward, and we never really know what they’re thinking, but narrative coherence demands a semblance of internal consistency lest the audience end up frustrated and confused. So yanderes are not only easy to sympathize with, but also fairly predictable. In-universe they may be unhinged freaks with a blood fetish, but to you watching from behind the safety of the screen they’re just acting out the script written for them based on a prototype. And if you understand the why behind their loose gears, then you might just be able to put them back together again.

The concept of rescue romances or “I Can Fix Them” has been around in our stories for thousands of years. The Epic of Gilgamesh detailed how Shamhat essentially ‘civilized’ wild man Enkidu through ritual lovemaking, and a concerning number of religions push the idea that women are dutybound to save men from the follies of sin. Yet men are not exempt either, with one notable example being the German fairytale, King Thrushbeard. Call it what you will regardless: Knights in Shining Armour, the Florence Nightingale Effect, or a plain old case of Because You Were Nice to Me, studies have shown that human beings generally like helping [DA2] others, even when the reason doesn’t necessarily stem from pure altruism. I will delve deeper into this later, but care and compassion are deeply ingrained in human nature, and arising from those roots is the appeal of this mentality: You can save them. You can change them. You can make them better. You are special, and the way you treat this person carries a weight that has not and will never be matched by anyone else for the rest of their mortal or immortal existence.

The illusion is a delicious one, especially if the person you’ve helped turns out to be a billionaire CEO with cash to burn, a super powerful ghost king willing to raze continents to dust for you, a demon having fun on a Friday night, or just your average hot creep with a knife. Moreover, different people have different ideas of what ‘fixing’ even means. Maybe you want to single-handedly rehabilitate your yandere into a functional member of society. Maybe you’re cool with the incessant stalking but would like them to stop slaughtering your friends, family, and local service workers. Maybe you want to make them much, much worse.

Not only do yanderes provide immediate proof that your actions have a tangible impact on the lives of others, but the fantasy also includes the desire of being seen as special. Of being admired and adored by someone whose life you inexplicably made better by virtue of simply being yourself, or an idealized version of yourself. In this fictional world, in this imaginary setting, the person you are is so uniquely, impossibly irreplaceable to someone. And if that’s the case then they can’t risk losing you, can they?

The Allure of Obsession, or ‘Til Death Do Us Part (Literally)

It shouldn’t be necessary, but here is my obligatory disclaimer anyway. Ahem: obsession is not a good thing in real life. Fixating on another human to the detriment of your own wellbeing and that of those around you is dangerous, as is encouraging someone else to obsess over you. You might think you are being worshiped, but real life is not a visual novel. The outside world doesn’t come with an age rating, the author’s guiding pen, and a convenient fade to credits sequence once you’ve reached an ending. The consequences will still be there in the morning, so don’t do it. Just don’t.

PSA out of the way, it’s natural to want to be wanted. Maslow’s Hierarchy places it just above physical safety, but I’d argue that it could easily be compared to baser drives. According to many psychological and anthropological studies, much of humanity’s continued survival and environmental dominance is largely attributed to our ability to form groups, cooperate with one another, and maintain complex interpersonal networks. Social support, intimacy, and a sense of belonging are linked to emotional and physical benefits, such as more optimistic health perceptions, higher subjective well-being, increased creativity and innovation, and greater self-efficacy (DeWall & Bushman, 2011; Harandi et al., 2017; Wang & Sha, 2018). Therefore, it’s perfectly understandable that rejection of any sort would be construed as a threat.

But if someone is obsessed with you, then you have no reason to worry about that, right? No more nights spent agonizing over how they feel about you, asking yourself whether your last text made you sound too desperate, or if you’re boring them because you spent the past hour info-dumping about Stardew Valley farm layouts. With a yandere, there will never be any doubt that they care about you. Sure, they might go about it in weird, manipulative, and insidious ways that violate your physical and mental autonomy, but you can’t deny their loyalty. They do love you in their own bizarre way. You are the sun around which they orbit. When you’re in the room, no one else exists. Every single messy flaw is just another bullet point on the mile-long list of why they adore you.

In essence, yanderes are not only attentive, but their love can be virtually unconditional. A yandere might know everything about you, and still revere you. It’s unhealthy as hell and you might genuinely question their taste, but it can be tempting to pretend that all of you, right down to the ugliest parts of yourself – the traits and choices that you would never share with another living soul even at gunpoint – are worthy of understanding, if not open praise and affection.   

Attractiveness, or Okay but Have You Considered That They’re Hot Though?

.

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I mean what am I supposed to say here? They’re hot, what do you want from me?

No, but in all seriousness, fictional media paints an idealized version of the world, and most yanderes are hot because they have the freedom of existing purely behind that screen; artfully arranged and edited to forever appear compelling to anyone who happens to enjoy their particular style. And there are a lot of styles to choose from. Whether you want them pretty faced and disarmingly cute, or scarred up and big enough to pin you like a butterfly, yanderes come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes that are meant to pique your interest and draw you in like a naïve little fish being lured towards the mouth of an angler fish, unwilling to believe that anything bad might happen to us when the bait is this pretty.

This is often referred to as the Halo Effect, a form of cognitive bias referring to the tendency for people to assume that a single obvious positive trait must be associated with other positive traits. The go-to characteristic is typically physical attractiveness, but a nice voice, good humour, and cooking skills are also factors which serve to influence our perceptions.

So, conventional physical attractiveness is one thing, but that’s only skin deep. What about beyond that? After all, the yandere still has to talk to you before they enact their master plan of tying you up in their basement until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in.

When I showed my friend a picture of John Doe from the game John Doe, she told me that he looked like a creepy slob, and she’s far from the only person who’s ever thought so. Look at them. I feel like if I tried to comb that hair it would simply eat me, and some of the CGs really put the scopophobia in Scopophobia Studios. I love Doe, but he is not hot, and he doesn’t behave in a normally appealing way either. If the player chooses not to take a bath, Doe will immediately comment that you “smell good” before following you home, breaking into your house, and leaving a bloody organ on the floor for the player to trip over. Many yanderes can at least fake a veneer of normalcy, but from the get-go Doe doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s anything less than an otherworldly creature stuffed into a vaguely person-shaped meatsuit. In an effort to find out why so many people had latched on to Doe – including me – I shopped around social media and YouTube for answers, and what I found was a widely unanimous sentiment.

While some were drawn to his fun design and goofy personality, most simply thought that he wasn’t inherently malevolent, just very confused. In addition to being a supernatural being with a completely alien axis of morality, Doe’s meta-awareness and unbridled attempts at winning the player’s affection lends him quite a bit of support from the audience, especially if you yourself also happen to struggle with social cues and relate to his pure earnestness. In Ending 7 of the extended version, the player character has the option to tell Doe – who has altered himself to pass as more ‘normal’ – that they prefer who he truly is, at which point he grows visibly flustered and sports an adorable pair of literal heart-shaped pupils.

Whether they’re charismatic, seductive, cute, sweet, funny, nurturing, or generous, the best yanderes have engaging personalities. Even while they’re committing truly heinous crimes against God, man, and your guts, you still kinda want to hang out with them, and you want them to acknowledge you as being just as interesting. And this is all fine in fiction because you’re the one in charge, and if you ever get bored or uncomfortable or busy with something else, then you can simply close the tab or window with zero consequences, which brings us to the final and most important reason.     

Power Dynamics and Consent in Fantasy (I Couldn’t Think of a Joke Here Guys, This Is Kinda Serious)

Once again, I feel that I must preface this section just for the sake of my own peace of mind: sexual coercion and assault are vile and disgusting crimes that should never be emulated or tolerated in the real world. We are speaking purely of fictional media, specifically adult-oriented media in this case, so please be mindful.

In 2009, Bivoni and Critelli conducted a study on 355 undergraduate women with the goal of assessing the reasons behind fantasies of non-consent. At the time, there were two leading explanations of this phenomenon. One stated that women with high libidos but repressed views of sex used these imaginary scenarios to alleviate the guilt they had grown to associate with sex. Because the simulation was a purely mental exercise and they themselves were cast as helpless victims in the scenario, they were able to remain blameless while still finding sexual gratification. The second stated that these fantasies were an expression of liberation by women who were adventurous and comfortable enough with their own sexuality to engage with taboo ideas that they weren’t at all interested in performing in real life. Which do you think was more common?

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If you guessed the second option, you’d be right. The study found that of the 220 women who had experienced such fantasies, 45% found theirs erotic, 46% were mixed, and only 9% reported pure aversion. One justification for this outcome relies on psycho-biological theories, for example masochistic preferences or the unintended activation of the sympathetic nervous system and subsequent mis-attribution of arousal. Other reasons have to do with higher order thinking and are tied to the power dynamics within such fantasies. On the surface is the appeal of being so desirable to someone that they simply cannot control themselves, but then there is a deeper impulse, which the researchers referred to as Adversary Transformation. To quote the article: “[fantasies] involve a struggle between an assailant and a potential victim in which it is relevant to consider who is the winner and who is the loser. At one level, it is a struggle over sex, but the woman's non-consent may be feigned or token. At another level, the woman may be seeking a victory that is not about whether sex occurs, but about what happens emotionally between the protagonists.”

Basically, the imaginary perpetrator may have ‘won’, but the self-character need not have ‘lost’.

Media provides an extra layer to the illusion, one that you as the viewer have absolute control over. If you are choosing to engage with a piece of media that explicitly labels itself as including R18+ yandere content, then you clearly have some expectations, and that background awareness goes a long way in reducing long-term discomfort and allowing audiences to make informed decisions. If you don’t like the plot, you can simply turn it off it with the click of a button, and when the screen goes dark it’s not like the yandere is going to punish you for saying no. Strade isn’t going to break into your house with a drill, there are no homicidal clown ghosts hiding in your TV, and no suspicious pink-haired hackers watching your webcam. They aren’t real, and the consequences aren’t real either. You have all the power here.

Conclusion

In summary, Yanderes are appealing for a variety of reasons. Whether you want to save them, think they’re attractive, wish to indulge in a dream of being utterly coveted, or simply enjoy a bit of spice in your me-time, it’s obvious why the trope has persisted for so long and will likely continue to do so. If you enjoy yanderes but are worried that having a taste for the less wholesome side of things might imply something about who you are as a person, don’t be. The notion that fantasies and media preferences directly reflect subconscious desires is not only painfully out of date debunked nonsense but also indicative of restrictive ideologies wherein bad thoughts = sin. This isn’t 1984. You haven’t committed a thought-crime by having a weird kink. You aren't going to superhell for fantasizing. The human mind is hardly ever so mathematically rational, and the point of fiction is to allow us to safely engage with and explore various ideas, provided the everyone involved is mentally, chronologically, and emotionally mature enough to do so.

Thank you all for listening to me. If you learned something or were just a little bit entertained. If you're curious about knowing more, I've listed my sources below

REFERENCES

Bivona, J. M., & Critelli, J. W. (2009). The Nature of Women’s Rape Fantasies: An analysis of prevalence, frequency, and contents. Journal of Sex Research, 46(1), 33–45. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490802624406

Critelli, J. W., & Bivona, J. M. (2008). Women’s Erotic Rape Fantasies: An Evaluation of Theory and research. Journal of Sex Research, 45(1), 57–70. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490701808191

DeWall, C. N., & Bushman, B. J. (2011). Social acceptance and rejection. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 20(4), 256–260. https://doi.org/10.1177/0963721411417545

Flynn, F. J., Reagans, R., Amanatullah, E. T., & Ames, D. R. (2006). Helping one’s way to the top: Self-monitors achieve status by helping others and knowing who helps whom. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 91(6), 1123–1137. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.91.6.1123

Harandi, T. F., Taghinasab, M. M., & Nayeri, T. D. (2017). The correlation of social support with mental health: A meta-analysis. Electronic Physician, 9(9), 5212–5222. https://doi.org/10.19082/5212

Hazen, H. (1983). Endless rapture: rape, romance, and the female imagination. https://openlibrary.org/books/OL3161300M/Endless_rapture

Kroon, R. W. (2010). A/V A to z: An Encyclopedic Dictionary of Media, Entertainment and Other Audiovisual Terms. McFarland.

Matuszak, M. (2017). Hybristophilia White Paper. https://static1.squarespace.com/static/55dfd21ee4b0718764fb34cc/t/5cb7cabee5e5f00ab13be58b/1555548863275/Hybristophilia+White+Paper.pdf

Oarga, C., Stavrova, O., & Fetchenhauer, D. (2015). When and why is helping others good for well-being? The role of belief in reciprocity and conformity to society’s expectations. European Journal of Social Psychology, 45(2), 242–254. https://doi.org/10.1002/ejsp.2092

Parker, R. (2014). Serial killer groupies. RJ PARKER PUBLISHING, INC.

Wang, T., & Sha, H. (2018). The influence of social rejection on cognitive control. Psychology, 09(7), 1707–1719. https://doi.org/10.4236/psych.2018.97101

[silverbladexyz]

TW: Death, blood, guns, fighting. 5.6K words. Third and final part to part 1. Part 2 is here

Skilled hands worked away at the rope, each bind falling to the floor with a heavy thump as they were severed by a knife. The sound echoed throughout the little room inside of a foreign dungeon.

Soon, the chair legs were surrounded with the thick brown threads as the saviour continued to free the captive. They operated fast; in just a matter of seconds, half of the bonds were already sliced open- the blade meeting little resistance. Too little, in fact.

But you didn’t have time to worry about that now.

“Y-Y/N, what are you doing here? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“And watch as Chuuya barges in to what could possibly be his death? I think we both know how disastrous that would be, Yasuko.” 

The girl bit her lip and fell silent. You continued to free her, despite having so much you clearly wanted to say at this moment. But you couldn’t risk your best friend finding out about what happened to her, and making a rash decision as a consequence.

“H-how did you find me?” Yasuko stuttered, her limbs trembling with fear. It was perfectly normal considering her situation, but it hindered your progress since your knife got dangerously close to her sometimes due to her shaking.

“I was in Chuuya’s office to retrieve something when he was on a mission. Then his phone lit up with an unknown text and a picture of you tied to this chair. It seemed that your captor had intended for him to come alone, with the threat that he would kill you if Chuuya brought backup or arrived even a second late. I couldn’t determine if it was telling the truth or not, so I went first to test the message’s authenticity. You know what happened afterwards.”

The ropes finally came off- only to reveal that Yasuko’s hands and feet were also bound to the seat. You cursed under your breath, before starting to work on them as well. The girl repeatedly peered over your shoulder in an anxious manner, but you didn’t give much thought about it. You had just passed it off as nervousness. 

Until another knife suddenly grazed your cheek, leaving a small crimson trail of your blood in its wake.

The blade pierced itself into the chair, missing Yasuko’s temple by a hair’s breadth. She cried out in surprise and fear, immediately prompting you to react.

Your gun was drawn out and aimed at the attacker before you even processed what was going on.

“How surprising that you came instead. I didn’t know that Chuuya-kun was the type to be late to important events-”

You fired three shots before he could finish talking. Each bullet was aimed good and true, as they were shots made to kill.

“-especially events considering his girlfriend. Wouldn’t you agree, Y/N?”

The beautiful black-haired man standing in front of you smiled. 

By his feet lay the bullets that rolled out of his fingers, and the bloody holes they normally left behind were nonexistent. The shots had bounced off of him as if he were made of steel.

His ability must have allowed him to repel any physical attacks that came his way. Defeating him seemed near impossible now.

Your eyes narrowed as he came closer, his unhurried steps matching the complacent aura that he gave off. You knew there was no use in trying to shoot him again, but you still tightened your index finger around the trigger. As a last resort, you could use the gun as a distraction to let Yasuko escape.

“I know who you are. You’re Hasegawa Kyuji. A high-ranking member of Obsidienne; a rival organisation of the Port Mafia.” You stated, with a steely gaze that could rival his relaxed stare.

“But you aren’t here to kill Yasuko. You’re here to kill me instead.”

His golden eyes seemed to shine as he smirked in response. The male tilted his head towards the aforementioned girl.

“Oh no. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m just here to reveal the truth.” 

You heard Yasuko give a quiet whimper, and you scowled, aiming the gun at Hasegawa’s forehead.

“And why should I believe you? For all I know, anything that falls out of your mouth could be a lie. Deception is key for getting the upper hand in any fight.”

“...” The young man let out a short chuckle. It wasn’t long before he broke out into a hysterical laugh.

“Oh, you’re so naive it kills me! For all this talk of deception, you don’t even seem to realise a certain friend of yours that was deceiving you for months. And how you thought that nobody could see your obvious infatuation with your best friend. Isn’t that right, Yasuko? My dear cousin?” 

He stared straight into her eyes, a dangerous glint apparent in his pupils.

Your eyes widened slightly. Not only at her betrayal and their kinship, but also at the fact that he knew your secret. A secret that you had hidden deep deep down, never letting even a bit of it slip out. Were you easier to read than you thought you were?

Whipping your head around, you glanced at the girl, silently begging her to say that it wasn’t true- that it was all a lie. 

But Yasuko silently closed her eyes, hanging her head in a sign of guilty confirmation. 

The silence that descended was suffocating, permeating the entire room with an invisible tension. 

You had an unreadable expression on your face as you lowered your arm, the fingers clenched around the gun shaking ever so slightly from their rigid hold on the grip. Hasegawa’s smirk widened as you gave no response.

“Oh, but maybe you want to know why she betrayed you. Why she was working with me, a member of an enemy organisation?” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms as he fixed his golden eyes on you. Yasuko gulped a little, but neither of you paid her any mind.

“Well, it’s simple. It all started 8 years ago- when Yokohama lived in constant terror and dread of a single organisation. The Port Mafia. Many civilians were killed because of the Boss’s paranoia, and a lot more organisations were decimated by his sheer ruthlessness. It must still be as clear as day to you.”

You frowned slightly. Despite not wanting to listen to anything he said, you couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing. Memories of fear, uncertainty, and bloodshed as the old Boss of the Port Mafia abused his reign, forcing you to live in extreme apprehension every second.

“One day, rumour had it that somebody in our vicinity insulted the Port Mafia. It was only a mere jab at how Yokohama would’ve been better off without the organisation; but that was enough for all the families in the district to be rounded up and interrogated. Then, when it was evident that the culprit wouldn’t show themselves, the Boss ordered everybody to be executed. Not even the infants were spared.”

“And two of the families that were killed on that day were yours and Yasuko’s. Hence why you wanted revenge; they were accused wrongly of something that likely wasn’t committed in the first place.” You interjected. You knew that he wasn’t lying, because there was nothing but truth in his words. 

Afterall, the incident he described became very well known amongst the city in a flash.

“But that was when the Port Mafia was still under the control of the old Boss. There wouldn’t be much point in getting revenge now that everything has changed; and besides, our enemies are always hit twice as hard. This old grudge of yours could do nothing against us.”

You knew that you were behaving just as any stereotypical tough-talking mafioso would, but it was all a ploy for you to buy more time until you could figure out a solution. Hasegawa was already a formidable opponent with his ability, and it was obvious he also had the brains to go along with it. Someone of his calibre could decimate you and walk out without any serious injuries.

He spoke again, breaking your train of thought.

“Grudge? You speak as if the Port Mafia itself takes grudges lightly. It is obvious how strict the rule of borrowing and returning is in illegal organisations. Every grudge must be satiated, no matter how high the cost. But we could not act on ours without enough power.”

“And that was when you came up with the idea to join Obsidienne to gain this ‘power’?” You said, narrowed your eyes.

“Oh, I didn’t come up with the idea. Yasuko herself did, and she thought up many more after that. Everything that has happened up until now was all in the palm of her hand. Tell them, Yasuko. Tell them about everything you plotted for their demise.”

The silence that fell this time was deathly.

“... Yasuko. Is it true? That all this time you’ve been planning to take down the Port Mafia, starting with me and Chuuya?” 

There was no anger in your voice. Only a cold flatness that seemed to absorb every emotion in the room as you spoke to her.

Yasuko slowly opened her eyes, fixing two beautiful brown pupils onto you. Those same pupils that had deceived those she was around for an entire six months. And they now held nothing but tears and guilt.

“I never meant for it to go this far. But he threatened to kill me if I backed out from this plan. So I had no choice but to continue with it.” She whispered, her voice heavy with resignation.

“And that wasn’t all.” Hasegawa added suddenly. You looked back at him, but he was staring at her. Like how a cat eyes its prey before it goes in for the kill.

“My dear Yasuko, weren’t you also the one who came up with the idea to poison your lover’s wine so that he wouldn’t give us any more trouble?”

Your whole demeanour changed in an instant once you heard those words.

A shot reverberated throughout the chamber, followed by Yasuko’s short scream.

The bullet had pierced through her sleeve, narrowly missing the chance to give her the sweet release of death. Your expression remained emotionless, yet burning in your eyes was anger that was hotter than the black flames of hell. The gun was pointed directly at her brow, held with an unusual stillness that was parallel with your aura.

“The next time, I won’t miss.” You coldly stated, speaking with nothing but truth in your words.

“I was willing to give you another chance. But this promises to exceed the limit of my forgiveness. Daring to poison the man you loved- the man I loved; I expected nothing less from a wretch such as you. A wretch who doesn’t even deserve this quick and painless death.” You stepped closer towards Yasuko, until the gun was pressed up against her skin. 

Neither of you moved a single inch. It was as if everything was frozen in time, save for the dust that drifted elegantly onto the ground.

“... Do it.”

The girl whispered, looking up into your eyes with a soulless gaze. 

“It’s only proper for me to die as a result of my foolish choices. That’s what a traitor only deserves, afterall. My only regret is… that I didn’t get to spend more time with you as a true friend.” 

She closed her eyes for the last time, ready to face death with a serene expression.

Without hesitation, you pulled the trigger.

A final shot rang out within the walls.

And the bullet flew right into Hasegawa’s chest.

“!” His eyes widened in shock and disbelief. 

Thankfully, he activated his ability right before the pellet could fully pass through him, but the damage had already been done. Blood gushed out of the wound as the bullet fell out of his body, and you wasted no time in drawing your dagger out.

“Don’t think that I haven’t forgotten you, Hasegawa. Sure, Yasuko’s done some pretty terrible things. But you were the one who was truly behind all of this. If you had not forced her to continue with the plan, then none of this would have happened. The Port Mafia does not forgive those who plan to hurt their family. And I cannot rest until I have finished what I came here for.”

“… So it’s come down to this.” He muttered.

In the blink of an eye, Hasegawa had lunged at you, bringing up his hand that also held a blade within its palm. You raised your own arm up to counter.

The clash of metals resounded in the room, all your training sessions with Chuuya bearing fruit as you found that you could actually keep up with your opponent’s attacks. You were fast and precise with your strikes, whereas he liked to be unpredictable, always making you guess his next move. It was a direct contrast to how your best friend had fought.

Your blades danced in a fierce tango as both parties tried to subdue each other. You were mostly put on the defence due to your attacks having no effect on him, but you kept on twisting and leaping just out of his reach whenever his weapon went to graze your body. He aimed for your stomach, and you managed to dodge the sharp edge that threatened to slice your skin apart.

Your opponent wasted no time in immediately transitioning into an uppercut, but you were prepared for this. Grabbing his wrist, you held it firmly in place before bringing your foot down onto the elbow, twisting his arm the opposite way. A snapping sound echoed, and you heard him curse in pain.

Hasegawa aimed a sloppy swipe at your chest, to which you blocked with your blade. Taking advantage of this momentary stillness, you aimed a kick at his ribs that would’ve broken them upon impact. The force made him stumble backwards a bit, and you were about to close the distance between the two of you with your weapon. 

But you failed to consider that there was something he could use to his advantage. And it was already too late when you remembered what it was.

The next moment, Hasegawa threw the kodachi blade with all his might at Yasuko's neck.

The small sword flew through the air with deadly accuracy, landing cleanly into flesh and bone. Crimson liquid splattered all over the girl, some of it dripping off the chair and staining the floor with their scarlet hue.

Yasuko gave a small gasp of disbelief.

“Y-Y/N- why?!”

The kodachi blade was buried deep into your chest, and the tip protruded out of your back. You swore you felt it scrape an artery right near where your lung was. 

Hasegawa chuckled at your figure, which struggled to remain standing as the excruciating pain evaded each of your senses. Your ears rang, and you could hear your heart pounding- gradually slowing down as your life started to ebb away. If heartbreak was the sensation that hurt the most, then this definitely had the potential to exceed it.

“In the end, you still chose to protect the one Chuuya-kun cared for the most. I must say that I’m touched; not many people can see the sight of true love at its finest.” Your opponent slowly approached you, the barrel of a gun directed straight at your face. His broken arm hung limply by his side, bent at an unnatural angle, but it didn’t even seem to faze him.

“Do you have any last words, Y/N?”

“... Go to hell.”

Hasegawa gave a dry chuckle. But he suddenly frowned when he realised that his index finger refused to move. 

One by one, the fingers on his hand started to shake, loosening their grip on the gun. It clattered to the floor, bouncing away from him.

You laughed, despite your vision starting to grow blurry from blood loss.

“You made a mistake, Hasegawa-kun. When I shot you in the chest, the bullet was tipped with poison that was absorbed through your skin. It didn’t act immediately, but the more you moved, the quicker it spread in your bloodstream. And it will not stop until your heart has ceased to beat.”

The male collapsed against the wall, his legs having lost their strength to keep him standing. A sheen of sweat coated him as his body tried to force the toxins out, but to no use. The poison was designed to kill without leaving any exceptions.

“Hahaha... Well done. You truly… deserve… to be called my opponent.”

He smiled slightly, before he stilled.

You turned around to Yasuko. Grabbing the knife stuck in the chair, you haphazardly cut the last remaining ropes off of her hands and feet, successfully freeing her from the binds. She slowly stood up, staring wide-eyed in shock and penitence at you as you started to lean against the wall.

Your knees buckled, causing you to drop to the floor. The blade was knocked out of your body due to the impact, clattering onto the ground as a result of gravity. Blood spurted out of the opening as your breaths became shallow and rapid, trying to get as much oxygen they could into your lungs. Yasuko slowly crouched down by your side, pressing her hands to your wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She didn’t deserve to cry over something that was entirely her fault.

“I was always wary of you.” You said, breaking the silence.

“It all started when Chuuya rescued you. People don’t tend to think about suspecting an innocent civilian girl who got kidnapped by an underground organisation, and was coincidentally saved by a Port Mafia executive. However, crime syndicates tend to stay away from citizens due to their fear of attracting the government’s attention. The only exceptions being if a civilian was somehow connected to a rival group. And after doing some digging… I found out that the organisation who kidnapped you was an enemy of both Obsidienne and the Port Mafia. Your cousin, Hasegawa Kyuji, was an executive of Obsidienne, and both of your families were killed on that fateful night 8 years ago. The entire situation seemed too suspicious. It was then… that I knew to keep a closer eye on you.”

“If you suspected me… then why didn’t you tell Chuuya? Or anyone else in the Port Mafia for that matter?” Yasuko asked, her voice shaking.

You let out a dry laugh in response.

“Do you honestly think he’d take my side with the way he looks at you? Seven long years of being his best friend… and he’d still choose his lover of whom he’d only known for six months over me. His lover who only loved him so that she could betray him in the end.” 

“…” She looked down into her lap, her silence speaking more than words themselves. A single teardrop fell from her eye, landing onto the floor with a silent plop.

“… I wanted to stop. I realised that the Port Mafia was not the same as it was 8 years ago, and that Chuuya was genuinely a kind man who wanted the best for me. But when I realised it… it was too late. So instead of putting the poison into his wine, I slipped it into Hasegawa’s drink. But he caught me, and furious at my betrayal, he decided to use me as bait to lure Chuuya here. I… I had told Hasegawa that my lover was more of a long-ranged fighter due to his gravity manipulation ability. So he planned that when Chuuya was at an appropriate distance from him, he’d hit a switch hidden on the wall, which would release toxic gas onto Chuuya so that he could be easier to defeat. But he didn’t expect you to be the one to show up. I only knew about this when I was being tied to the chair-” 

You cut her off by coughing up drops of blood. Some of it landed onto her cream-coloured dress, creating a jarring contrast against the fabric.

The movement doubled the amount of pain you were in as your breathing quickened. Yasuko bit back a sob, her hands pressing harder onto your wound as more blood seeped out of it, staining the majority of your shirt a beautiful red. 

“It seems that- I don’t have much time left.” You rasped, already feeling that you were starting to lose consciousness. Putting your hand over hers, you grasped it in a frail grip, tugging her closer as you forced the girl to look into your sincere eyes. Eyes that hid nothing in their final moments.

“Yasuko. I want you to leave Obsidienne. Leave the underworld of Yokohama, and live on as a normal person. Nothing good comes out of a life of crime, no matter how tempting the money or power is. Because all that will await you is a cold and empty death that doesn’t suit a girl like you.”

The female listened in solemn silence, her hand clasping yours tighter as she felt your hold weakening. 

The ruby ring that sat on top of her finger knocked against your silver one, as if in a desperate attempt to transfer some of its life force to the metal. But just like its owner, the silver ring seemed… dim. Tarnished. No longer carrying any value after it was consumed by the shadow of death itself.

You hacked up some more blood, with the droplets being the darkest red this time. The liquid dripped down your chin, filling your mouth with the metallic taste of iron.

“... Tell Chuuya… that I’m sorry. I promised him I wouldn’t recklessly throw my life on the line again, but I did. However, I’m not searching for his forgiveness... because I’ll still love him just as I always did.” You said, your voice growing fainter. Yasuko had to lean in close to properly catch your words.

She gave a bittersweet smile, despite her vision starting to go blurry from the built-up tears in her eyes.

“I will. Chuuya really was lucky that he had you in his life.”

You gave a small chuckle, the grip on her hand loosening with each passing second.

“Tell me…” You whispered, each word seeming to evaporate into the atmosphere after it left your lips.

“Can a heart still break once it’s stopped beating?”

The stillness that followed afterwards would haunt Yasuko for the rest of her life.

Your hand, which had been warm in Yasuko’s grasp, slipped out of her hold, finding its final resting place on the floor.

The room seemed to hold its breath as your life flickered out, leaving only the echo of what it once was.

Time stood still as Yasuko hugged your body to hers. She finally let go of the tears that had already started streaming down her cheeks. The reality of her choices, the betrayal that had led to this devastating moment- all came crashing down onto her in waves of remorse and guilt as she acknowledged that your blood was on her hands.

She sobbed endlessly, her cries muffled by your shoulder that she buried her face into. The female didn’t look up, not even when hurried footsteps raced to the room she was in. All she cared about was that you were gone because of her stupidity.

Chuuya burst into the room, enraged and ready to fight whichever bastard dared to kidnap his girlfriend.

Only to find her weeping over a dead body. Your dead body.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

No… not them too!...

Chuuya stumbled against the wall, almost collapsing to the ground as he bit back a scream. 

Surely this wasn’t happening, right? You must have been gravely injured instead; there should still be hope that a doctor at the Port Mafia could manage to save you just in time. He knew that you survived worse before, and each time you bounced back after you were healed. There was no way that you were dead!

But he knew, deep deep down, that you had left him too.

Chuuya shook his head, blinking back the wetness in his eyes that he didn’t even realise was there. 

The first priority right now was to get Yasuko to safety. There were still members of Obsidienne in the building, and there was no way in hell that he was letting her stay here for another second. He hated that it had to be this way, but he’ll have to come back afterwards to properly avenge you. 

He approached her slowly, laying a gentle hand down on her elbow.

Yasuko didn’t react much as Chuuya helped her to stand, putting his arm around her shoulder just like he always did when he was with her. She leaned onto him, with tears silently streaming down her face while she walked. Not even noticing how he cast one last glance towards your blood-stained body against the wall.

The whole ride back to their home was a blur to her. The Mafia executive had stayed at Obsidienne’s headquarters, ordering his men to completely exterminate every single member in the building. He even engaged in full-out combat with the powerful ability users who also belonged to the organisation. It was the angriest she had ever seen him; but she knew he was also suffering behind the fury that consumed him whole.

The limousine stopped in front of her house, and she collapsed onto the couch once she was inside, starting to cry again as she recalled the events that had happened just less than an hour ago. Events that she could have prevented in the very first place.

An eternity seemed to pass before she heard footsteps, and looked up to see Chuuya holding a glass of water in his hand. He gazed at her softly, fighting back his own emotions that threatened to rip his chest apart if he didn’t let them out somehow. But he pushed them down, instead focusing on the woman he loved.

He held her, not saying a word as she sobbed, getting his shirt wet from the salty tears that never seemed to end. His hand rubbed up and down her back, the steadiness of his touch grounding Yasuko as she hiccupped, trying to take deep breaths so that she could calm down. 

“It’s okay, baby… it wasn’t your fault.” Chuuya said softly, planting a tender kiss on her forehead as he hugged her close.

She pushed herself off of him, staring back at his slightly confused expression towards her action. Yasuko bit her lip, clenching her fists so hard that her nails dug deep into her palms.

 “N-no, it was my fault! I-If I hadn’t done the things that I did back then, if I had been stronger and smarter, then Y/N wouldn’t have died! All I did was to stand back and watch as they took the hit for me-” A sob erupted in her throat- the sound of the blade passing through your flesh was still vivid in her memories.

Chuuya stepped forward, his blue eyes tender as he took her hand in his.

“My love… don’t blame yourself. I know that it hurts, knowing that you couldn’t save them. But I will never get tired of saying that it was not your fault. That bastard was to blame, not you-”

“Why don’t you understand?! It was my fault!! I had the idea of joining Obsidienne in order to exact revenge on the Port Mafia for murdering my family. And I came up with the idea of being close to you so that the plan would be easier to commence!” She half-yelled, her voice cracking.

“Being close to me?... What are you talking about-”

Yasuko knew that she should stop before she ruined everything between them. But Y/N’s death weighed upon her shoulders, never letting go until she confessed. She would rather end things with the truth than to die with the guilt of a lie.

“I planned to be kidnapped by the criminal organisation because I knew that the Port Mafia would soon dispatch someone powerful to take care of them once and for all. Then I came up with the idea to romance you in order to know your weaknesses, just so that you wouldn’t be a hindrance once Hasegawa and I finally launch our attack on the Mafia. But soon, I wanted to stop when I realised that it all meant nothing. H-He didn’t let me, and instead used me as a hostage, setting up a trap for you when you’d arrive to set me free. However, Y/N showed up instead, and… and fought him instead. It’s all because of me that they’re dead!!”

She broke down, burying her face in her hands once again. Silence followed for a long time after her confession.

Until it was suddenly broken by the shattering of glass.

Yasuko looked up in alarm.

Chuuya stood there silently with a wide-eyed stare. His gaze seemed distant, painful- countless things running in his mind hidden behind those beautiful blue eyes of his. Despite having dated him for six months, he was still unreadable to her sometimes. Only Y/N could’ve deciphered those complex emotions of his hidden within his head.

He had crushed the glass in his hand, soaking himself in water as the shards embedded themselves into the floor. Yet despite this somewhat violent action, he only remained still.

“Chuuya?” Yasuko asked meekly, slightly fearing what his reaction afterwards would be like. Would he shout at her? Use his ability on her? The Port Mafia didn’t take traitors lightly, afterall. And he was an executive in the said organisation, too.

But instead, he walked towards the door. Picking up his hat, he dusted it off before standing in the hallway, casting his gaze at her.

“... I need to be alone for a while.”

And just like that, he walked out of the house for the final time. 

Chuuya felt nothing but rage that day.

His gloves and coat were repeatedly stained with blood as he hunted down the remaining members of Obsidienne in Japan. The expensive leather and fabric quickly became filthy after the first few kills. But he didn’t care; because nothing he did could bring back his best friend. His best friend that was always there for him, who understood him better than anyone else.

His best friend that was now gone as well.

Chuuya wouldn’t- no, he couldn’t rest until he found every single member and crushed them with the weight of gravity. There would be no mercy, not even for the Boss of the organisation himself as he pleaded for his life. The gravity manipulator let loose his feelings, hurling bullets and remorseless kicks at his enemies. 

Blood splattered onto the walls in each base as the dying screams of it’s owners faded away into nothingness. Buildings collapsed on top of each other, the infrastructure groaning as it succumbed into the pull of gravity. Even Mori was slightly surprised at Chuuya’s brutality as he tracked down one base after the next.

All for Y/N.

Back at home, Yasuko sat down onto the couch again, breathing heavily from her outburst.

Something fell out of her pocket, and she stiffened as soon as she saw what it was.

Trembling hands slowly picked the object up. The sun’s rays were reflected back onto her face, but she felt no warmth.

It was the topaz bracelet that you had just bought with her a few days ago. When you were still happy and alive.

Yasuko held it to her chest, where there was nothing left but numbness.

Only death could truly reunite her with you now.

~~~

Chuuya sat with his back against your grave, the cold stone pressing into the skin that was full of scars.

There was only silence that filled the tranquil air of the Port Mafia’s private cemetery.

“... You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He spoke as if you were there with him, listening to his every word.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t be so reckless ever again. You could’ve waited for me to return, and we might have been able to defeat him together. Like we always did ever since we were fifteen. But you didn’t.” Chuuya gave a wry chuckle, lifting his head up to gaze at the blue sky. His eyes held nothing but sorrow and regret.

“... Yasuko and I have cut connections. She told me everything about what she did. I don’t blame her for your death, but it’s hard to look at her in the same way again after knowing about the truth.”

Again, there was only silence that answered him. But Chuuya could still see your smile, and hear your voice as clear as the day in his mind when you responded in your typical manner. He closed his eyes, wordlessly curling his mouth up into a forlorn smile as he laid his head against your tombstone.

“If you were mine instead… would you still be here beside me?”

It was softer than a whisper, but his words carried a weight heavier than all the precious stones in the world combined together.

A small gust of wind blew by, ruffling his clothes and hair in a virtually affectionate yet comforting manner. It gently brushed against his cheek, before moving on to his lips, his neck, and his forehead. The breeze was neither cold nor warm, and it strangely felt like the caress of a lover. Almost as if you had heard his statement and responded with a reply of your own.

Chuuya opened his eyes when he felt the last touches of the wind disappear. All that was left behind was the silence that had always been there.

The silence that would forever be tinged with tainted sorrow.

@circinuus @justcallmesakira @riiwrites @ruanais @sariel626 @atlasnessie @yasu-masashige @oldworldpoolhall @yuugen-benni @chocsra @heartsfourdazai @iridescentdove

[bew1txched]

Kinktober fic No.1

TW: profanity, slight voyeurism, heavy kink, overstimulation, monster-fucking, magical tentacles, punishment, dubcon, bratty reader

Request: none

Rating: under fifteen dni!!

Being a brat all day always got on tom's nerves, and you did it anyways. What you weren't expecting, however, was to be tied to a bed, spread-eagled, seeing multiple tentacles making their way towards you.

You squirm, thrashing against the cuffs and trying to get out, terrified. One makes their way up your leg, and you scream.

"Please, no!" you beg, your voice cracking.

Tom ignored his pleas, watching intently as the tentacle penetrated deeper. His eyes never left your face, drinking in the mix of fear and arousal. Your body betrayed you, your cock swelling despite your protests. of fear. The tentacle inside of you twisted, the movements deliberate and calculated, designed to elicit the maximum response from your body.

Your breaths grew ragged as the tentacle filled you, stretching you to your limits. The coldness of the slimy appendage was a stark contrast to the heat of your own body, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You felt violated, yet oddly fascinated by the sensation. Your mind screamed for it to stop, but your body was responding to the intrusion, seeming to welcome it.

Tom took a step back, watching as more tentacles joined the first, slithering over your body, each one finding a new place to invade. One coiled around your throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind him of your captor's control. Another tentacle wrapped around your cock, stroking it with a cold, mechanical precision that had you whimpering and squirming in its bonds.

Your eyes rolled back in your head as the tentacle inside you began to pulse, mimicking the rhythm of a heartbeat, filling you completely. You could feel the others probing at your mouth, nostrils, and ears, each one bringing a new wave of sensation that you never knew existed. The panic slowly gave way to a strange curiosity, your body succumbing to the inescapable allure of the alien appendages. The pain morphed into something else, something dark and primal that resonated deep within you, a perverse symphony of pleasure and fear.

The tentacles grew more aggressive, their movements more erratic as the night progressed. Your cries had turned to moans, your body a canvas of pleasure and pain. Your skin was slick with sweat, your eyes glazed over with lust as you were claimed by the monstrous tentacles. Tom's own arousal grew, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants as he observed the scene unfolding before him.

Your body tensed, the tentacle around your cock squeezing tighter. You could feel the pressure building, the unstoppable wave of pleasure that was about to crash over you. You didn't want this, didn't want to give in to the monstrous creation that had taken you over, but your body had other ideas. With a gasp, you felt the orgasm ripping through you, a white-hot explosion of sensation that left you trembling and gasping.

And that was just the beginning of a very long night ahead.

[petrapalerno]

✨Free Monster & Alien Smut✨

Hi, I'm Petra Palerno and write filthy otherworldly smut. I mostly dabble in novels but have recently decided to give erotic shorts a try here and on my patreon.

Pretty much all content on this blog is NSFW. Minors do not engage. For TW/CW check individual stories.

✨MASTER LIST

CURRENT FREE STORY

✨Abducted by Moonlight

Free on Patreon!

A werewolf stalks his newly found human mate in the forest when a ufo abducts them both. What happens when the alien tries to stake a claim on her as well?

TW/CW [a WIP, will be added to]: Stalking, consensual sex, shifting, breaking bones, abduction, aliens, violence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Like my writing? Support me by reading my other works!

✨Love on the Korlyan Moon

Out now everywhere books are sold

A bubble babe is unknowingly dropped into a mysterious ocean by the Deenz transport ship. Lena, a tattoo artist from the Twin Cities, is sure she's going to die as the bubble she's in sinks deeper and deeper. She's rescued by Kitaico, a color-shifting tentacled alien, and unknowingly takes his mating venom. She must cycle through heats all while trying to resist her attraction to Kitaico.

✨All I Wanted Was Sushi but I got Abducted By Aliens Instead*

Book #1 in the Bubble Babes Series

Opal is trying her best in the Midwest after the sudden death of her parents. Everything comes to a crashing halt as she's abducted by aliens and forced to work as a human dancer for extraterrestrial enjoyment. A chance encounter with an alien prince while stuck in a traffic jam might just change the trajectory of Opal's new life in space.

✨All I Wanted Was To Become A Scientist But Now I've Got An Alien Boyfriend*

Book #2 in the Bubble Babes Series

“Sometimes I think it would have been easier if I hadn’t accepted the free shower at the hot alien’s apartment.”

☆JESSY

For the past few years, my life has kind of blown. On Earth, I dedicated my entire existence to science, even if my peers dismissed me as a pretty face. When I got abducted by aliens, I was forced to dance in a bubble for extra-terrestrial enjoyment.

I can’t get anyone to take me seriously even in space.

When I escaped by crashing my alien captor’s bus, Gra’eth saved me from drowning and even offered me a place to stay. He keeps telling people I’m his mate, even though I keep telling him the human word for what we are is roommates, but he refuses to say it that way. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious—and for my very literal neurodivergent brain, that’s a big problem.

☆GRA’ETH

I never expected to have to save Jessy, and I certainly never expected for this strange human to be my mate. Her idea of fun would be to take apart my data pad only to see if she could put it back together again, which sounds like torture to me.

I’ve convinced her to stay in my apartment as what she calls a roommate. The mating bond won’t let me let her leave, but humans can’t even feel it. I don’t know how to keep things friendly when just the smell of her hair is enough to send me into a mating frenzy.

I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, but I can’t keep fighting the pull of this bond. This little speckled human will be the death of me.

✨All I Wanted Was a Glass of Vino but an Alien Duke Kidnapped Me Instead *

Book #3 in the Bubble Babes Series

The Bubble Babe series continues in this standalone novel. 

Will an aquatic alien duke be able to reconcile the fact that his fated mate is a small, mouthy, human woman who can't swim? Will that human be able to love him despite his scars and the fact that he's keeping her captive? 

☆MARTA

The reality of being a mob boss' daughter is anything but glamorous, despite what one might think. In the absence of true freedom, my only companion was my loyal dog, Bruno. When he passed, I felt like my life had hit rock bottom. But when aliens abducted me from my pity party in a local wine bar, I realized how wrong I was. As if things couldn't get any worse, I woke up in an alien duke's closet, forced to rely on a giant alien pleasure toy as my only means of defense. All I know is that the gaudy duke can’t stand me…and the feeling is mutual.

☆RAF’ERE

Throughout my dukedom, I have dedicated myself to restoring the fi'len species to their natural aquatic habitats. How in the goddess's name am I supposed to do that when this human is my mate? Despite her mouthiness, the tiny human cannot swim. Did that stop me from stealing her cryopod from a crashed ship and locking it in my closet? Absolutely not. I also didn’t expect her to wake up and demand answers, either. But I can’t expect my people to look at me to lead if a human stands beside me, despite how much my body burns for hers. The dilemma arises: should I prioritize the goddess's wishes or grant her the freedom she deserves, joining the other human refugees?

This erotic alien romance is part 3 of the Bubble Babes series. It can be read as either a standalone or as a continuation of earlier books. This book features a 5’2” plus sized Italian-American female male character and a 7’6” aquatic alien duke as the male main character. Tropes include Kidnapping, size difference, enemies to loves, reformed playboy, alien romance, fated mates, and forced proximity. This full-length novel (67K words) ends with a HEA.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Christmas Special

(5.6k words, wrote this in 24h <3 Merry bloody Christmas, guys! TW murder, I guess. Nothing too detailed, tho)

I woke up with a headache. Not a hangover, mind you. I am above getting such things, and in any case it's unfitting for a man such as I to get drunk. No, I had one of those classical headaches, the likes of which are received after a fine blow to the head.

That naturally implied another assassination attempt. How coarse. I opened my eyes and tested my bonds. There were none. Either my captors were convinced I would not run, or they were remarkably incompetent fools indeed.

The room I was held in was… strange, for lack of a better word. There were bright lights that danced across the ceiling, a roaring fireplace, and a table chock full of meats, vegetables, and grains. Yet, that was not the greatest surprise of all.

There was, for unfathomable reasons, a massive tree. Just— sitting, in the center of the room, dominating the festivities. It was gaudy with glowing lights, glittering twine, and baubles infesting its surface. 

Oh, and there were people. Lots of them, in fact, all looking equally confused. We were draped on sofas, sprawled out on armchairs, resting against walls. I was, perhaps, the first of us to wake up, and I swept a watchful eye across the room.

A surprising number of familiar faces caught my eye. Hash, my darling, was there, along with her lowborn friend the vampire. And, would you believe it? There was my old nemesis, the Godhuntress herself, lying blissfully unconscious, just waiting for me to kill her.

By instinct, my hand found its way to my dagger. Some of the bloodlust must have shown on my face, for I caught a mortal boy flinch and hide behind his companion. 

I was halfway to her exposed throat when said companion grabbed my wrist. “You don't want to do that,” she murmured, and her tone gave me pause. It was far too weighty to belong to a mortal, the regality in it far more reminiscent of one of us ancients.

I turned to her and showed off my best smile, the one with all my teeth. She didn't so much as blink at it. “Oh, believe me, miss. I really do. Nothing, and I mean nothing, in this world would grant me more pleasure than snuffing out the life of this vile monster. Now, how about you let me go about my business, hmm?”

She remained imperturbed. “Not happening, kid. Now, how about you tell me what's going on? I don't like this one bit.”

I shrugged and withdrew my blade. Under that strangely cold grip of hers, I sensed a power I did not want to mess with. “Damned if I know. Last I remember, I was in bed, sleeping.” 

“Your kind sleep?” She sounded skeptical. “Actually, what the hell are you?”

“I could say the same of you, miss,” I replied. “But I suppose I'll go first, shall I? I'm a forest spirit, and you may call me Hans.” I left the last portion of my name unspoken, for no one as versed in inhuman dealings as I would ever give my name freely. A damned shame that mine was so short, however. Two syllables was not a great deal of room to make aliases with.

“Katherine, and I suppose you could quantify me as a demon.” She paused. “You don't look like a spirit to me. How old are you?”

I crinkled my nose at her. “Old enough to handle my own, Miss Katherine. And you're one to talk, wearing the face of a little girl. Don't the humans call that pedophilia?”

“No, you're pedo-bait. I'm jailbait. There's a difference, pipsqueak.” The smile was slipping off her face. “Or maybe your little-boy brain is just too underdeveloped to understand that?”

I didn't take the bait. “Fortunately for us, that's not the case. And if you'll excuse me, I'll go find someone more cordial to chat with.” The Godhuntress was stirring, and much as I wanted her dead, a fair fight with her was not one I would win. 

The demoness Katherine let me go, turning back to her mortal boy-toy. I beelined to Hash, the one soul in that room I trusted wholeheartedly. “Wake up, my dear. We've got trouble.”

At that last word, he bolted awake. “Trouble?” He surveyed the room. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Trouble.”

The two of us watched as more and more people got up. The vast majority of them were humans, gangly and pock-marked and over-solid, though I did catch glimpses of spirits and others of our ilk here and there. Katherine was attempting to interrogate the Godhuntress, something I wished her the best of luck with. If I was fortunate enough, perhaps they would get into a fight, and at least one of my problems would be solved.

“We should try to investigate,” Hash whispered. “Someone must know something, yea?”

“If you are so inclined, do it yourself.” I pursed my lips. “I think I shall wait for them to come to me. And sample the food, while I'm at it.”

“Are you crazy? We don't know where it's from. We don't know what it's made of. We don't know jack shit, and you want to play it cool? Have you finally lost your marbles? The only kind of person who would act so casually in this scenario is-” He stopped in his tracks. “Oh. So that's your game. I like it. Dangerous as fuck, but that's life, isn't it?”

“Yes, that is life. Now hop to it, my love. Between the two of us, I think we can get a grip over this crowd in no time.”

Hash gave me a final nod, and strolled off. The first thing I did was grab a glass of wine. Everyone looked more suave like that, and it gave me an excuse to put myself in the center of the room. Several curious eyes followed me as I picked up a plate of venison on the way back, and it was not long before the first of my visitors followed.

She was a young woman, something I sensed would be a common theme in the hours to come, with a spear in hand and an unquenchable rage about her. I swirled my drink in its cup and waited for her to speak.

“Hey! Creepy little boy.” In my own name, was I going to have to be called little boy all evening? “Tell us what's going on, or I'm gonna shish-kebab you with my spear.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” I replied, pretending to be preoccupied with the vortex within my flute of wine. That glorified stick of hers was hardly sharp enough to pierce a slice of bread, let alone me. “Why would you think I know anything at all, dear?”

“Because you're the only person who looks even slightly at home here? Everyone else is freaking out, and you're just sipping a drink. What are you, one of Santa's elves? Krampus' stolen children? Why are we stuck in a Christmas celebration?” She waved her spear around threateningly.

That was interesting. I did not know what Santa or Krampus were, but I did know the elves, and I knew I could not hope to pass for one in my life. “Maybe,” I said, winking. “Or maybe not.” With luck, she would elaborate.

The girl seemed to only grow angrier at my words, leveling her spear at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hash watch me with alarm. I shook my head slightly, warning her not to rescue me. It would be for the best if we did not show our hand yet. 

“Come on then. Aren't you going to stab me already?” I spread my arms, offering her a clear view of my chest. She narrowed her eyes, and for a moment I felt a genuine flash of fear. Beneath that gaze was something that writhed and fed on rot, something old as time itself and hardly less conquerable.

And then it was gone, as an old man grabbed her weapon and pulled it from her grasp. “Athena! What the hell are you doing?” He was followed by another human boy and… a summoner? 

Yes, a summoner, or something akin to it. I had not seen one of her kind in a very long time. The plot thickened. I have the newcomers a lazy smile, and they responded by tensing up.

“What on earth are you?” That was the summoner, pushing angry little Athena behind her. “You're not human, that's for sure.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Athena snapped, wrestling her spear back. “That thing knows something. I'm sure of it.”

The summoner met my gaze, piercing me right through. “No he doesn't,” she said, before I could recover. “He's bluffing.”

“Excuse me?” I pushed myself out of my chair, going nose to nose (or nose to collar, as the case was) with her in not-so-faux rage. “I know plenty, little mortal. For starters-” Pulling her down by the scruff of her tattered shirt, I whispered in her ear. “I know your little girl is cursed. I know that you are a witch, and a good one at that. And, I know that you really do not want to go back to where you came from, so how about you enjoy the food and leave me be, hmm?”

That last line was nothing more than an educated guess, but it paid off. They were too scruffy and thin to have been living in safe conditions, and I caught sight of more than one open sore on them. 

Gears turned in the summoner's brain, wondering if it was worth the cost to call my bluff. Eventually she stepped away from me. “My apologies, sir,” she said, nodding politely. “We'll leave you be.”

I grinned. “Thank you very much, little one. Go try the venison, if you feel peckish. I find it delightful.”

Athena opened her mouth to argue some more, but the summoner gave her a warning glance, and she left with naught more than a glare at me. Settling back in my chair, I took another sip of the wine.

“Hey, you're Hash's boyfriend, aren't you?” On the list of things I did not want to be called, that somehow ranked below ‘creepy little boy'. I turned to see Hash's vampire friend, still wearing his Smiley Mart™ shirt. What was his name: Dane? Dale? Dave?

Yeah, Dave sounded about right. “Hello, Dave,” I said, turning back around so I did not have to look at him. “Is there something you want?”

“Hash told me to come find you. She said you could use my help?” He stepped around so I was facing him once more. “I really don't know what to do, honestly.”

I sighed. “Go interrogate someone,” I told him, more to get him off my back than anything else. “Actually, go keep an eye on some people for me.” I pointed out the Godhuntress, who was flapping her wings in an attempt to get a mortal girl to stop poking them. 

“Is that who I think that is?” Dave's eyes widened. “You think this was her doing?”

“Hmm? Of course not. I want you to tell me when she looks distracted so I can go kill her.”

“You're crazy,” he said. “That's the Godhuntress. You know, the greatest deity since the Creator herself? Yeah, that Godhuntress. She'll squash you like a bug.”

“Doesn't matter. I will find a way.” I clenched my glass. “She took something very precious from me, and I will take my revenge, one way or another.”

“Alright, alright. It'll be a hell of a story to tell, in any case.” He made to leave, then turned back. “Say, is that wine any good? I'm feeling rather thirsty.”

I considered it. “It is rather dry,” I replied. “But fruity, too. Take that as you will.”

“Cool. Thanks, Hash's boyfriend,” he said, and the glint in his eye told me he was calling me names in insult. Unfortunately, by the time I had registered it, he was long gone.

People were beginning to crowd around the tables, finally encouraged to touch the food. That was when I spotted someone I had thought I would never see again: Merida Ryder. And with another forester at that! 

For once, curiosity got the better of me, and I trotted over to talk to her. She would not recognise me, of course. I had taken great pains to disguise myself that time, and I wondered how she would feel seeing my true face for once. 

“Well, well. If it isn't miss Merida, all grown up. Remember me?” I tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around, and it broke my heart to see how she had changed. Her eyes were sunken, the lights gone from them. Merida looked down at me, and there was no spark of recognition. “No,” she said flatly.

The forester turned around, and he let out a little gasp. “You're-” I shushed him. 

“Can you not see I am trying to talk to someone here? It is most lovely to see a fellow Ces-ilre, but I must speak to Merida first,” I said. “Are you sure you don't remember me? I passed you that gun, all those fateful years ago.”

She blinked slowly. “Don't. I don't want to remember.” Merida shuddered. “Go away, Hans. Thank you for your help. I absolve you of the favours you owed me.”

I am not and have never been a stranger to suffering, but it hurt to see her crushed like that. “So you do recognise me,” I continued. “What happened, Merin? You used to be so happy.”

“I grew up.” 

And that was all she would say on the matter. The forester extracted my hand from her shoulder and led me back to my couch. I let him, of course, something in the hollow cavity where my heart should be aching. 

“You're the Spirit Emperor,” he whispered to me, snapping me out of my reverie. “What are you doing here, my lord? And how did you know Merida?”

“Same as you, and that is none of your business,” I whispered back, slipping into forester dialect. “What is your name and clan, sirrah?”

“Kristavla, formerly of the Ko clan. My lord.”

“So you were there when… the Incident happened.” I jerked my chin at the Godhuntress, now attempting to engage a very uncomfortable Dave in conversation. Or perhaps she was interrogating him.

“No. I was attending to my fiance, my lord. The late Kitsy Te-clan.”

“Oh. I killed her, did I not?” I vaguely remembered a foul-mouthed guard who had insulted me the moment I arrived on castle grounds.

“Yes, and I thank you for it.” Kristavla shook his head. “I will not speak ill of the dead, but she was not a good woman.” 

“I can imagine that.”

We sat there in silence for a few more moments. “Would you like to help me avenge our people?” I gestured again to the Godhuntress, who was being fawned over by a lich of some kind. “We may not get another chance.”

“I am not one for vengeance,” Kristavla said. “But you are a friend of my friend. And so I will. For you, my lord, and for our people, may their remains soak the earth.”

“Thank you. Be on your way, friend,” I told him. “Speak with the vampire in the demeaning costume—” I had to approximate a word for Dave's Smiley Mart uniform— “and see if you can isolate and weaken her. From there we shall make the kill.”

Kristavla nodded, and slipped away. Taking his place (for it seemed I would have an endless supply of supplicants today), was a lean, sly doctor. Her red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and her skin was dry enough to resemble scales.

“Hello, Spirit Emperor,” she hissed. “Fancy seeing you caught up in the Christmas web.”

There was that word again. Christmas. “Care to explain, doctoress?” I offered her a seat. She was about as human as I, with the way she moved, though I could not tell what on earth she was.

“I am an Oracle,” she rasped, as though reading my mind. “And my people arranged this felicitous meeting.”

I froze up. “I see. And why should I believe you?”

She laughed, a sound that had more in common with the death of a small furry animal than anything friendly. “Your name is Hans-el Ko-clan. You killed and ate your parents to save the Goddess of Dreams. Your lover is a shapeshifter who will not tell you its true name, and you hold a grudge against the fallen angel they call the Godhuntress.”

“All very impressive,” I agreed. “ But any old fool could have worked that out with the right background knowledge. Tell me something nobody knows.”

The Oracle grinned, revealing red and raw gums. “Careful what you wish for, little boy.” She shifted closer, and I could smell the blood on her breath. “You claimed the throne by mimicking the magic-thieving spell the Godhuntress used on your dear friend. You helped the renegade Merida start the civil war in Palioden by orchestrating a situation in which she had to kill her sister using a gun you provided. And, as the topping on this pie, your worst fear is-”

“No!” It came out louder than I expected, and more than a few heads turned our way. “I believe that you are an Oracle. Please, do not continue this.”

The Oracle leaned back, victorious. “Good boy,” she murmured, proving that there was, in fact, a nickname I could dislike more than ‘Hash’s Boyfriend'.  “Now, I suggest you stop hiding in this little corner and get to moving the plot forward, will you, dear? You ought to be an active protagonist.” She pushed me off my chair. “And be grateful we didn't send you the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present or Future.”

Before I could ask her what the ghosts, or even Christmas, were, she was gone. Not gone like a ghost walker, or like a teleporter. Gone entirely, as though she had never existed in the first place. I shook my head to ward off the strange feeling, and got up. It was unwise to disregard an Oracle's warnings.

I was about to approach a random person, when someone once again came to me. For once, she seemed perfectly normal. “You look like you know what's going on,” she said without preamble. “Care to explain?”

“Unfortunately for you? I do not,” I informed her, pausing to pick up a few jellies and put them onto my plate.

“Well that's not very polite of you, seeing as I know what Christmas is and you don't,” she replied, taking a few jellies of her own. “And I hear you killed your parents too. We've got that in common, at least.”

That gave me pause. She didn't look like a mage of any kind. “And how did you do that, little girl? With a knife? A pillow to the face at night?”

“A death ray, actually. I'm Mara. Nice to meet you, Hans,” she informed me, sticking her hand out. “You're the talk of the party, you know. They say you're an Emperor.”

“And just who might this ‘they’ be?” Blasphemous gods above, did she ever shut up? 

“Well, Visitor over there, and his buddy Aida. They're from Palioden, which a few little birds tell me is a land in your world. Which, if you can't tell already, I'm not from.”

“What?” 

Mara giggled. “You heard me, Mr Spirit Emperor. I'm not from your world. And if I eavesdropped right, they-” she pointed at Athena's crew- “aren't either. The creepy girl who stopped you from killing that goddess too.”

“The Godhuntress isn't a goddess,” I snapped. “She's nothing but a grandiose genocider. And how did you know about me and Katherine? Everyone was asleep.” 

“I happen to be really good at pretending to be asleep. Picked up the habit in kindergarten.” I tiptoed to pick a cream puff off the top of its tower, and she helped lift it down for me. 

“Thank you. So what do you want, Mara-murderer? A boon? As you have ascertained, I know naught more about this place than you.” Finally, that was a lie. The Oracle had provided me with some excellent information.

“I want to help you kill that bitch. The Godhuntress, or whatever her name was.” Mara's eyes glinted with bloodlust.

“Why?”

“She disrespected me,” Mara snarled, cracking her knuckles. “I was wondering what she was, and I poked her wings, and would you believe it? That fucking bitch slapped me. Me! No fucking warning.”

I was deeply surprised to hear that the Godhuntress had not done worse than a mere slap for the insolence of grabbing her wings. But any aid was welcome aid, especially from someone as adept at spying as Mara appeared to be. “I see. Let's team up, shall we?”

“Excellent.” She rubbed her hands together. “I know that pretty elf girl and the convenience store dude are on your side. Is the other spirit with you too?” I nodded. “Mmkay. I'll tell them everything I know, and report back.”

“Certainly,” I replied. Mara let out another disturbing giggle, and ran off. There was something deeply wrong with that girl, I decided.

I drifted down the table, plucking up more desserts as I went. The talk of the party, was I now? I could certainly see it. More than one person parted way to let me pick out my food, and I saw a distinct wariness in their eyes. Then again, it was but my dues. 

I passed by a Luxatian Crusader in full armour, and she nodded at me. “Spirit.”

“Knight.” For once, I was having a normal encounter. For once, nobody was questioning me about Christmas, or Santa, or Krampus, whatever they were. For once-

The knight unsheathed her sword.

I moved to dodge the blow, but it never came. Indeed, she was not so much as looking at me. Her eyes were trained on someone else, instead. A lich.

“You,” the knight snarled. “Iraela Foundling. The Lich-Queen. I swore an oath to defeat you. And now, I shall.” Ah. It seemed I was not the only one with a grudge to satisfy. 

The Lich-Queen blinked, and eloquently croaked out, “What?”

“I am going to watch your unlife spill out onto my blade, foul beast. You killed my family, my entire village. I watched your ghouls eat my sisters. They were six years old, Lich-queen. I had to run while they begged me to save them.” Tears sprung to the knight's eyes. “You are a monster of the foulest kind, and a fog shall lift the day you die.”

“A monster? Damn right I am a monster,” the lich announced. “I am the monster humanity made of me. Your kind declared me cursed, broken, unlovable. All I did was listen to their words. You should have known it by now: a child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth. And all I ever wanted to feel was warm.” She threw her arms wide. “Go on. Slay me. Continue your precious little cycle of hatred. One day, the people I saved, the ones your family scorned, will avenge me.”

A glint in her eye told me she had no plans of going down so easily.

The Crusader spat on the ground. “Spare me your lies, Lich-Queen. Your pretty words will not sway justice.”

I sighed. I knew what kind of woman turned herself into a lich, and it was hardly the sort who a mere knight could defeat. If nobody stopped that fool knight, she was going to get herself killed.

In a flash, I was standing behind the Crusader, barely reaching her underarm. A quick knockout spell later, and she was down, keeling over like a metal doll with its strings cut.

The room had fallen silent. Everyone, even the Godhuntress herself, watched me. I resisted the urge to declare my undying hatred of her, and instead gave a cheery wave to the room. 

The Lich-Queen let her arms fall. “Say, might you be the Spirit Emperor?”

I nodded. “The one and only. And a little bird—” I prodded the unconscious knight with my foot— “told me you were the Lich-Queen. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours.” She offered her forearm, and I took it. “I actually knew your predecessor: Sucsu'anane.”

That name belonged in our history books. Sucsu was old, and infamous. “But that would make you the first Lich-Queen,” I murmured. “You- It was you who started the Runic wars! It was you who caused the shifters to die out!”

I was staring a legend in the face, a woman who had caused horrors long before my time, horrors that echoes for all eternity. “By the false gods, it is good to meet you! What an honour, Lady Iraela. What an inspiration you were to me.”

I might have spread the flattery on too thick, but Iraela lapped it all up. “Why, you're too kind. Let me tell you: ruling is all in the flair. Why, for my coronation…”

I let history's greatest disaster lead me by the arm to a nice corner, where she proceeded to chatter my ear off. For once, I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say, I learnt more about the history of the Deadlands than I ever wished to know. 

“Let me tell you something, Hans,” she said, interrupting her own monologue.

“Hmm?”

“I heard you knew a shifter named Hash. Well, I met him too.”

That made me perk right up. I'd known Hash was older than I, but that old? Fascinating. What else was he hiding from me?

“Don't trust him. He betrayed us all. We would have won the war, if that little bastard hadn't run off to the elves and spilled the beans. We could have been great, Hans-el. Our peoples, the vampires and the spirits and the ghouls, could have ruled the world. But Hash was soft. Do not let that softness corrupt you,” she warned. “It will rot you from the inside, and when your enemies scoop your guts out, they will not so much as give you the gift of eating you alive.”

“I know,” I replied. “My mother was soft, and it brought her naught but suffering. Our people revile it.”

“And yet you love him,” Iraela commented wryly. “That alone tells me enough about you.”

I did not dare lie and disagree. “Yes, I do. But Hash can take care of himself, now. He's slippery as hell.”

“Yes, that much I have seen from tonight's festivities. But that is the point, is it not? He will slip your grasp and betray you, just as he did the shifters. One day, you will make a cruel choice, a choice for the greater good, and his soft little heart will push him to betray you. All because you weren't hard enough to cut him off.”

I stood up, suddenly reminded of my conversation with the Oracle. My greatest weakness indeed, I thought. “That may be so, my lady. He may betray me, and leave me dead in the gutter. But that is a risk I am willing to take.” I brushed invisible dust off my skirt. “All you are is a woman who failed to rule the world, Lady Iraela. At the end of the day, all you have is your love's blood on your hands and a heart you wrenched out of your own chest. Even if I lose it all, at least I loved, and was loved in turn. For someone who went on and on about needing to feel warm earlier, you just do not seem to understand that, do you?”

Iraela laughed. “So young,” she whispered. “So young and so foolish. They'll make mincemeat out of you, little Emperor. And I'll laugh at you from my grave.”

I strode away from her, back stiff and fists clenched. I could take insult all day, but this? This firm condemnation? It stung. It stung like my father's whippings. It stung and I wanted to never think of it again.

I was still standing about, willing emotion away from me, when Mara tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,” she said, grinning. “Buncha tables appeared. I grabbed one for us. Your little vampire friend got dragged off to hang out with the rest of his kind, but it seems I'm free to roam.” She laughed maniacally. 

She led me to a table. Hash, my Hash, my brilliant, softhearted friend, grabbed my arms and all but pulled me by his side. “Check this out: That vampire's got a tan!” He pointed a woman in work clothes, conversing animatedly with Dave. “Apparently, she's a field researcher. Can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can,” I agreed numbly. 

“Oh, and this Christmas thing! Mara told me all about it. Apparently, they eat turkey and give gifts and celebrate this saint of theirs. I don't have a gift for you, but I figured this might do!” He pointed at the Godhuntress and lowered his voice. “I cut a sleeping rune onto her piece of turkey while I was carving it. She doesn't know know to use the cutlery, so when she bites into it, the spell will activate, and it'll be your chance! Whaddya think?”

He really was sly. “Brilliant, my love,” I whispered, my mind still on the Lich-Queen. “What else did you find?”

He scrunched his nose up and thought. “Um, the God of Evil's here, and he's a pretty chill guy. The Godhuntress' daughter's here too, and she's got an axe to grind with dear old mum, too, but I convinced her not to do anything drastic. There's some poor blue fellow in the corner, and he's got some kind of curse. I didn't go too close, but he seems… different from the rest of us. When we're done, we should go investigate.”

Beside me, a man in a strange vest sat down. “Hello there, lad,” he began, only to fall silent when he met my eyes. “You're no child. You're a monster.” He stumbled back, clutching his hand to his chest. “Maya? Let's find another table.”

Hash barely hid back laughter as he all but fled the scene, the girl he called Maya giving me a wry smile and nod as she followed. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The others. Look over there. No, not at the demon-girl. The blondie and the redhead next to her.”

“I recognise the others at that table,” I told him. “Kristavla and Merida.”

“Yeah, Kris was helping us out earlier. The redhead? Apparently an infamous mind-mage. She fuckin conquered an entire city, all on her own. And the blond girl's a spell-snapper. Ugly combo, if you ask me. They're from the same era as us, but Nyctomachian.”

“And them?” I pointed at Athena and the one-eyes summoner. “They damn near called my bluff.”

“Yeah, they bothered Dave real bad too. Something tells me they're not gonna harass us again, though.” He grinned at me. “A certain someone may have implied that he was the reason they even ended up here.”

I wanted to facepalm. “Damnit, Hash. That was exactly what I told them too.” I looked over at them, deep in discussion. The old man met my gaze, and held it with the kind of defiance that promised trouble. “Ah, what the hell. We can deal with them later. For now, let us celebrate.”

I drank more wine, this time watered down (for no man of my stature should ever get drunk), gossiped with Hash and Mara, and bided my time.

The Godhuntress took her spare time sipping drinks and eating appetisers. For a moment I suspected she knew of our devious plan, for she avoided her turkey for far too long. Then she lifted the fateful piece of poultry with more grace than it deserved, and bit down.

I was by her side before her head hit the table. My reputation preceded me, for the others at her table, a rather foolish spirit and his mortal friend, scrambled back. Gasps of shock and horror resounded as I readied my blade.

It was quite a shock to realise those noises were not for me. I glanced up from my goal for one fateful minute, perhaps compelled by the strings of Fate that the Oracles pulled, and caught sight of what could only be described as a cryptid.

He came from the chimney, white and red despite the soot. A full white beard hung limply from his chin, and his deep voice resounded throughout the room. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry bloody Christmas, fools!” He pulled out a massive sack and grinned at the room. “You're all bad apples, the lot of you! Coal for everyone!” 

Everyone except me dodged the sudden hail of coal that followed the opening of his sack. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He leered at me, icy blue eyes piercing me like the fangs of the last Oracle I met. 

I lifted my knife, aiming it at the dazed Godhuntress' throat. A glimmer of recognition dawned upon her face, but I did not let her recover fully. Down went my blade, swift, brutal and twice as just as any executioner's axe.

And what a merry, bloody Christmas it was.

[aquariitheorchid]

Sorry I’ve been gone long.

Have a Dad! Knives fic based off something one of my mutuals said in a discord server. (Pic below)

EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU TO @pr0x1mma FOR THE IDEA!!!!

TW: mentions of abuse, aftermath of abuse and allusions to PTSD.

———

Blue, like him.

The night was..cold. Much colder than what one would expect on a desert planet. The same type of night that would make any well cozied person shiver. Except now, those shivers aren’t what Legato experiences late at night. His shivers are the ones that rattle your skin; making it feel all sorts of wrong and itchy. The kind of shiver that makes your breath come out in puffs. Puffs that try to push out all touches, all pain, all of everything he didn’t-

A sudden gasp pushes him to his feet. The shivers still pull at his skin. Yanking him, tugging him back there. It’s fainter now. Maybe it’s finally walking without weights. Or with a full stomach. Or maybe it’s no harsh tugs on his hair. His hair. He can’t- no. Not now. He is a free man. Cut free, elevated, while they were cut down. Down beneath the feet of an angel. That angel. That angel who brought him here-.

Here.

A hallway. Like it blinked into focus. Materializing out of nothing. No, not just a random hallway. And certainly not that hallway. He had called it the Arc. A simple name for a grand place. A free place. A new place. A place where feet can softly patter down hallways, near aimlessly. Desolate hallways. No humans. No prying eyes. No prying hands-. No. None of that. Today, or tonight, Legato is a free man. That freedom feeds something deep. Like a soft rush that makes his face twitch upwards. Upwards. Like climbing a staircase. Perhaps it was the soft tingling he felt in his hands that led him here. Maybe it was that twinge of power. Of something so unseen yet necessary. A power that basks the large, open room with blue light. Blue, like him. The Angel had called them a ‘PLANT’. He had said they were his sisters. He said they were hurt by humans systemically. Out of greed and lust for power. Like..

oh.

The blanket shields from the shivers. The shivers of cold. Of prying. But now, it shields a small, sleeping form. Tucked away next to a metal base. Safe. A small sleeping form that does not go unnoticed by the inhabitants of that room. Perhaps it’s the reflection in the glass, of a child so much like them. Once stuck, but now free. Perhaps a mirror image. A found bond. It’s through this bond that the sisters welcomingly, lovingly open their cocoons. The sisters, kind and gentle. Poised and confident. Perhaps they could share this with little brother. A brother who even looks like them! Blue hair. Blue like them.

The Angel was disturbed. Soft nudges kept disturbing him. Nudges that came from his sisters. The kind sisters. The hurt sisters. So, arriving like the same wind that blows and scorns the pathetic humans, he steps into a quiet room. A room meant for his sisters and only his-how curious.

“Brother.”

The voices echo in his head, strong and with appropriate flair. The small form, wrapped in a blanket was a noticeable flaw. The opulence of the room disturbed.

“Brother.”

The voices echo again. As Knives’s eyes glance back up at his sisters, now staring down at the resting form. This…disturbance..had never occurred before. Then again, this situation hasn’t happened before as well. It was a fleeting moment, when he decided to help the young boy up. To elevate him to be more than what his captors made him be. Perhaps it was also that same feeling, that disturbance, that caused one of his blades to extend and tuck the fallen blanked back over his new ward.

The Angel leaves the room as fast as a gale whispers in the night. Behind he leaves his family to rest their weary hearts. After all, the new ward was blue, like them.

——pic of convo on discord——

[hufflepuffsandghosts]

Fic swap? 👀 - ur bestie Zero 🖤

Plot: PH!Bakugo and Y/N (AFAB)  get captured and thrown together in a dark cell. Whoever put them together wants them to do..things. They both refuse. But their captor is determined, putting hormones in the air to urge them on. How long can they last? 

A/N: Hello friend! This is a FicSwap for my lovely bestie! I tried to keep it as gender-neutral as possible for you bby. But please keep in mind that the reader has female anatomy. I really hope you like this as you know i am NOT the type to write smut ahh <3 ily

TW: Non-Con/Dub-Con, Use of drugs. Slight exhibitionism if you squint. Swearing. Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kiddos!), Breeding NO MINORS ALLOWED TO INTERACT

The night was dark and eerie, with an air of tension surrounding Bakugo, aka Dynamight, Japan's #2 hero, and Y/N, aka H/N. Bakugo’s explosive quirk and Y/n’s strategic abilities complemented each other perfectly. The villain in question has been known to kidnap and kill couples. 

As the night settles in, the moon’s faint glow casts shadows on the abandoned industrial complex where the villain has set up his hideout. The air was tense, and each breath felt electric as the pair prepped to confront the dangerous kidnapper. The villain emerged from the shadows, his sinister laughter echoing through the desolate space. He was a towering figure, clad in all black as the moonlight glinted off a wickedly sharp blade he wielded. 

The battle began with a ferocious exchange of blows from both parties at play. Bakugo charged forward, using his explosions to close the distance between him and the villain. Y/N, always one step ahead, flanked the enemy with precision. Using their wits and agility to dodge the villain’s attack. 

Bakugo and Y/N always moved with almost telepathic coordination during their joint missions. They knew and anticipated each other’s moves, covering for one another effortlessly. Their effectiveness as a team always caught the attention of their peers and superiors, leading to more frequent assignments together. During this particular mission fraught with danger, the pair were hesitant to acknowledge their evergrowing feelings for one another. It wasn't until a split-second decision on Bakugo's part, stepping in as a shield for Y/n from a deadly attack that put them in this predicament and was captured by the villain and his team

In a dimly lit, desolate underground cell, Bakugo and Y/N found themselves shackled together. They were both heroes, each possessing unique abilities and strong wills to help. But now, stripped of their powers and freedom, they faced an unimaginable challenge. Their captor, a sinister figure hiding in the shadows, had a twisted plan for them. 

Bakugo’s fiery temper ignited immediately as he attempted to break free from the chains that bound him to Y/N. “Let me GO, damn it! We’ll tear this place apart!” he snarled, his red eyes blazing with fury. 

Y/n on the other hand, remained surprisingly calm, trying to reason with their captor. “There’s no need for this. We won’t give in to your sick demands,” they declared, their voice steady despite the fear bubbling beneath the surface. Their captor’s voice echoed through the chamber, chilling them both to the bond. “Oh, but you will my little bunnies. I’ve laced the air with hormones designed to incite desire, and unless you want to be permanently trapped together, you both will have to cooperate.” 

Bakugo growled in frustration, not wanting to give their captor the satisfaction of seeing them weaken, “Like hell we will! I’m not falling for your tricks!” Y/n on the other hand, felt a sudden warmth spreading through the air, affecting their thoughts and emotions, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the proximity of Bakugo, the scent of his sweat, and the intensity of his gaze. 

As time passed, their willpower began to waver. Their captor kept the pressure on, taunting them with veiled threats and vague incentives that played on their deepest desires. “Come on Katsuki, don't you wanna feel how good Y/N feels? I know for a fact that she’s absolutely dripping right now.” Whispered the villain. 

Bakugo grunts, and shifts a little, he can see how slowly Y/n is becoming more and more desperate, moaning a bit here and there and shifting her legs to gain some sort of release for themselves. “F-Fuck Bakugo, please. I don't know how much longer I can take it.” Y/n Groaned. “It’s the hormones talking Y/N, dont let them win.” Bakugo huffed. 

“Tsk, tsk,” The villain said. “They’re practically asking to be used at this point Katsuki, how on earth can you deny them the pleasure.” 

“Shit” Bakugo thought. This was not good for the both of them, but all he could imagine is Y/N whimpering underneath him as he- 

No

Stop

Don’t give in. 

Is what he kept on telling himself before he realized that he was over the top of Y/n, both of his hands freed and placed lightly on their skin-tight hero costume, playing gently with their breasts. Y/n purred softly, grinding on his thigh at the slight touches. “Please Katsuki-” Y/N spoke softly, before being immediately interrupted by a forceful kiss from their partner in crime. “Shh baby, let me take care of you properly” Katsuki growled, placing kissing and nips along Y/N's neck.

  Feeling the heat rise between the both of them. Katsuki gets off slightly, admiring the work of light bruises along their neck. Bakugo rips the bottom half of Y/n’s costume, revealing their wet pussy. He chuckles “Wow, what a little slut you are, getting off just at my leg alone. Tell me, what do you want.” 

Y/N huffs and doesn't say anything. 

Smack. A sting to their ass before he repeats. “Tell me, what, you want.”  

Smack

Y/N whimpers “Make me cum please Kat, please.” before gasping for air as Bakugo uses his thick, rough fingers to make quick work of spreading their legs the rest of the way, and his tongue is suddenly everywhere. Eating them out like his life depended on it. Lapping everything up like it was the last thing he was ever going to drink. 

Y/n writhed underneath him, grabbing and pulling at the blonde’s hair. He sucks on your clit and rubs his cock against the hard mattress when you moan. Tongue sliding between your folds like he’s been starving for you. Bakugo then moves his face so it’s closer to your neck, so his lips are beside your ear and he can say things just as breathily as you. and places bites and hickeys along their breasts while inserting two fingers. “fuck Y/N,” he moaned. “You’re already so tight for me and I haven't even done anything yet.” Y/n nods, chatting out agreements “Just fucking get it over with already Bakugo-” 

He reaches up and places two fingers into their mouth, while you suck and gasp as he removes his pants, showing his cock covered with his own pre-cum, slowly teasing Y/N’s wet folds. He removes his fingers and smirks, slamming his dick inside. Y/n jolts suddenly, toes curling at the sheer size and thickness of Bakugo’s cock. 

“You’re being so obedient for me Y/n, you’re so good for me..” He purrs, slamming into you over and over again. Losing a bit more sanity and more as Y/n gets tighter and tighter around him. “Fuck, that's it, baby, let me hear you.” He says, grabbing Y/N’s hair and pulling the both of them as close as possible. Slamming into Y/n's G-spot as they moaned and were almost screaming with pleasure. It makes both of their heads a little foggy. 

“Shit- fuck- Y/N I'm gonna-” Katsuki moans, pushing in as hard as he can, hitting the cervix before cumming. “M-me too-” Y/n moans. Slow and controlled, lifting up a bit to kiss them deep and make you feel every little bit of him. He allows himself to fuck the cum into you, reveling in the quiet gasps you make. Both are so sensitive, but it feels so good. 

“You’re mine now, Y/n,” He huffs, before kissing Y/n’s lips, and then to their forehead. Y/N smiles, “I would love that but now, let's figure out how to get the hell out of here.”

All content © hufflepuffsandghosts 2023. Do not repost, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 47 – CANON DIVERGENCE

Gained in Translation by Annie D (scaramouche)

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 11,556 Tags: Humor and Banter, Light-Hearted, First Kiss

Summary: Steve returns to New York and meets Tony for the first time since they’d parted ways after the Chitauri incident. It’s a little awkward at first, but they gain a new rhythm, which is mainly based on their ability to surprise each other and prove those first impressions inaccurate. Set between Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Avengers: Age of Ultron.

Reasons why I love it: I love how we get to see Tony figuring out that Steve is a little shit with a sense of humor, but it's told from Steve's perspective in all these subtle cues, which makes it even better. And oh my god, the moment Steve realizes that he feels something for Tony is one of my favorites in all the fics I've read, it's just so Steve. I adore this fic, and if you haven't read it yet, you are missing out!

Sins of the Father by AvocadoLove

Pairing: Bucky/Tony Rating: T Words: 11,196 Tags: Hostage Situations, Howard is HYDRA, Secret Identity

Summary: Tony's practically become an old hat at being taken hostage, but something's fishier than usual this time around: his captor looks twenty-eight but claims to know Howard Stark, the NYPD negotiator is a SHIELD plant, and what's this about a fleet of helicarriers set to launch? (TWS AU.)

Reasons why I love it: Everything about this is so fricking good – the whole mess with Howard, the way that SHIELD's HYDRA infestation comes to light, the hopeful ending, I love all of it. And of course, the hints of Winteriron bonding are amazing. Also check out the second part of this series, which is a prequel to this one, it adds another layer of awesomeness to this whole thing.

Can You Carry It (With No Regrets) by RayShippouUchiha

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: G Words: 1,722 Tags: Major Character Death, Infinity Gems, Unhappy Ending

Summary: “I know,” Tony tells him softly, eyes wide and soft and lips quirked in a small smile, “it isn’t fair.” Tony’s always been so good at knowing what Steve’s thinking, except for the few times Steve purposefully, actively, lied to him. Times he knows now he’ll never get the chance to make up for. “Focus,” Tony whispers as he leans forward into Steve’s space. “Breathe.”

Reasons why I love it: Aaaah, this hurts SO GOOD! I love the role switch and the way the scene goes down with those subtle differences that make it Stony. And of course, the added regret just makes it all even more tragic. Definitely check this one out, it's amazing!

Party girls don't get hurt by sirona

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 12,871 Tags: Age Difference, Misunderstandings, Howard's A+ Parenting

Summary: Steve never slept under the ice. Howard found him, and got him back, and Steve married Peggy, and Howard married Maria, and then there was Tony. This is the story of Tony growing up with Steve very much present in his life, and everything that changed because of it - and some things that didn't.

Reasons why I love it: What do a young Tony Stark who is just as full of snark as you would imagine and a supersoldier not so lost in time make? The recipe for a fantastic fic, that's what. I love the way their relationship develops over time and all of the canon elements that they find their way into the plot. This fic is spectacular, and you should definitely read it!

Symmetry Breaking by Annie D (scaramouche)

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 10,824 Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Casual Sex, Happy Ending

Summary: After the Battle of New York, Steve rode off on his motorbike. That's how it went the first time. This time he rides back, all the way to Stark Tower, where he asks Tony for help.

Reasons why I love it: This is such a brilliant take on what might have happened after Steve's little elevator stunt during the Endgame time heist, it's honestly genius. The smut is fantastic, and I love every single line of dialogue that they say to each other, it's so them. This fic is wonderful, and you should definitely read it, if you haven't already!

[sholiofic]

A Prompt- Erich being waterboarded, in front of or within earshot of Biggles and co., and the subsequent aftermath thereof

TW torture aftermath

--

As Biggles helped Erich out of the restraints with furious yet careful hands, Erich was perfectly controlled -- but the effort was visible, his entire body rigid and trembling. His face was chalk white, his hair damp, and he kept his eyes downcast, as if meeting Biggles' gaze might crack something in him. His hand, when Biggles cautiously took it to guide him, was cold and shaking.

The sounds that Biggles had been forced to hear, as he had struggled to free himself from his bonds, would haunt his nightmares for a long time. But this sight was somehow almost worse.

"Come on." Biggles found that he had been talking without being entirely aware of it, low words murmured as if to give Erich something other than his hand to grasp. Because Erich wasn't gripping back, he hardly even seemed aware of him. Biggles had seen him in many states, from cold fury to the dead-eyed look of Sakhalin, but he had never seen anything like this.

Algy and the others were taking care of their captors, and Biggles guided Erich out of sight of the metal chair he'd been strapped to, and the crumpled wet burlap on the floor. He meant to take him all the way outside, but Erich was gasping in short, shallow breaths, and his jerky, uncoordinated movements suggested that outside might be too far; so Biggles guided him to sit on the floor as soon as they were somewhere relatively private.

It was hard to make him go down, as if Erich didn't understand what was wanted, and then he capitulated and went down so suddenly that the back of his head bashed into the wall. "Careful!" Biggles said. He had been trying not to touch Erich any more than he had to, not after the violent recoil when he had first put a hand on him. But now he moved on pure instinct, slid his hand behind Erich's head, shielding the back of his skull from the cold cinderblock wall.

He did not expect Erich to lean his head back into Biggles' hand, but that was what happened. Biggles sat beside him on the floor, not sure what else to do, one hand curled gently across the close-cropped, damp hair on the back of his head, the other wrapped around his unresponsive hand. 

Slowly Erich's rapid, shallow breathing slowed to something more normal. He was still looking at the wall, not at Biggles, but finally his cold hand turned around to clamp onto Biggles' hand, and hold on.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: Ogodei fights back against his captors and gets a small win for a prize.

Pairing: Ogodei x Night Lord

Genre: Drama

TW: Gore, Foul language, HEAVY DEPICTION OF CANON NIGHT LORDS, DEGRADATION

Goblin tag squad: @cardinalcanis @finchly-tintinnabulation @artemisareia

@echo-of-damnation @meervalv0 @druidwolf21

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @beckyninja

@jaghatai-khock

Find it too on Ao3 in my series of the Nomads!

Prev

A small win

In the silence of the cell that surrounded him, after yet another day of enduring torture and the ravaging of his body, Ogodei found himself curled up in the corner of the barred walls that surrounded him, clinging on to whatever thoughts could take him far away from there; distract him, even for a little while, of the atrocities committed by the hands of Mercutzio.

He thought of his father, the so distant memories of nights spent waiting for him to arrive back home; with a Olght dragged behind him with enough meat to supply the small family of four. It had kind features, that much he recalled, with the hair tied the same way his son would have it in the future.

He taught Ogodei of the Spirits, the lesser gods that watched them from every tree and every whisper in the wind; he taught the boy how to interact with others, be kind, show strength but never shying away from the emotions deep inside of him. Most of all, with his actions Ogodei got a taste of how family bonds worked, of how one could love another with the same or more passion than which it was used to hunt or make war.

In the twelve years of life shared with his parents, the Nomad learned the lessons that would stay with him until the end of his days. Indoctrination couldn't erase those memories from him, Jubik teachings never surpassed those that he got from his father. Such a different man, he was; the recounting of others in the Chapter displayed families of warriors or poets or chieftains that gladly presented their sons to the Embers when the time to give them was right, Ogodei father was all of those and none at the same time. He had his weapons, but the boy only saw them whenever there was time to defend their lands, he knew of his father singing because of the lullabies the man sang to make his son fall asleep, the wealth they had was not in the possessions but their love for each other.

It was what made Jubik be such a close second father figure for Ogodei; the Captain of the 10th understood all this when the man before him gave his son for the tests, how he knelt and hugged and cried for his son. Jubik never sought to erase those years from Ogodei's mind and never, ever, made the Nomad forget who his father had been.

"You are going to be fine, boy. I will watch over you."

He could almost hear him.

Ogodei felt his tears falling from his eyes, as he clutched tighter on to the metal that surrounded him. His mind was racing, he wanted to escape and not think of those words. He was trying so hard to not feel, not think, not care. He was an Astartes after all, the ones who did not felt fear nor pain, for the good of Humanity.

But he was also a Nomad, and he knew his people well enough. He couldn't hide away, even when surrounded by those that could keep his mind from slipping back to reality.

The memories of the days of torture, the beatings, the pain, the blood, the screaming.

"Stop crying."

The words came again.

"There is a time to feel, there is a time to steel your mind. Be a warrior, but do not forget too you're human”

The Ember Nomad felt the words of his father and Jubik fusing in his mind, their teachings so distant from one another before now started to merge, to align themselves. They were not opposed to one another, he realized. His father was an example of humanity and what it could accomplish, of what it was capable to do. What the Emperor sought, that's what his father was, what humanity sought in their protectors. The teachings of the Captain of the 10th were those internal commands each Marine had to uphold and display; strong of mind, soft of heart.

Ogodei chuckled lightly, his voice sounding weird even to his ears. So much time without that harmonious sound had passed than he forgot how it felt.

Distant footsteps were heard entering the halls that contained the dark cells of the Night Lords ship, as the figure passed other prisoners wailed in pain or begged for food and some water, like beggars to their Gods. Ogodei kept his head down, his eyes closed. He was tired, and he could feel the weight of his exhaustion upon his shoulders.

"Sweetie" said a voice that he knew all too well.

He didn't answer.

The silence stretched for a while, only the screams and the pleas of the other prisoners could be heard, until Mercutzio spoke again.

"I've got a treat for you. You want to see?"

Ogodei still didn't move, even when he felt the door of his cell being opened. He felt something being placed before him, and then he heard the door closing back.

"Come on, sweetie. I know you want to see."

The Ember Nomad let out a sigh, and looked at what the Night Lord was referring to. In front of him was a figure, tied up and gagged, barely standing as blood dripped from the many wounds that covered his body. He was bruised and beaten, his face was swollen and he had lost consciousness. It was one of the Marines that was captured with Ogodei.

"He resisted so much, he even managed to hurt me a bit" Mercutzio said, his hand caressing Ogodei's cheek, the Nomad flinching away from the touch "he lasted almost as much as you, my love."

"What do you want, Mercutzio" Ogodei whispered, his voice raspy and cracking.

"Aww, don't be like that sweetie" the Night Lord knelt before his prisoner, lifting up Ogodei's chin with his finger "I thought on doing something different for once. Spending time alone with you is more than...anything I could ever hope for; but today I thought we could all use some playtime together"

The Night Lord rubbed his hands together, he seemed even happier than other days, which sent a shiver down Ogodei's back. His brother seemed to snap in and out of consciousness, it made the Nomad remember of the first day he had been locked up in that cell, the first time Mercutzio had his way with Ogodei. He tried so hard not to remember it, the pain, the blood, the screams, the moaning. But Mercutzio made it impossible to forget.

"Ogodei-" Mercutzio snapped his fingers in front of the Nomad "Did you heard whatI said?"

"Wh-what?" Just seconds after pronouncing those words, Ogodei felt the Chaos Marine give him a stiff punch

"Focus!" Mercutzio snarled "Now pay attention to what I'm going to do."

The Night Lord took out a small dagger, and knelt in front of Ogodei's brother. The Marine didn't seem to even notice that there was someone in front of him, his eyes were rolled back, and blood spilled from the gag he was wearing. Mercutzio took the dagger, untied the hands of the Nomad letting their feet still chained up together and gave them the knife, kneeling beside him.

"You cut him. I won't get you today" The Chaos Marine spoke loudly so both prisoners could hear him clearly "Don't cut him and I'll give the knife to Ogodei and ask the same"

Ogodei's brother looked at him, and he seemed to gain some sort of consciousness back, his eyes widening as he saw the sergeant of the 5th kneeling beside him, covered in wounds and bruises. His hands shook, conflicted as to what was the right thing to do. The Marine looked down at the dagger, then back at Ogodei, who had a pleading expression on his face.

"Well, you have until I count to five or I'll give the dagger to Ogodei and make him cut you instead. I don't know if you noticed, but our little sweetie has been suffering I'll say a bit more than you have....maybe he doesn't shy away from breaking skin, do you?"

The brother of Ogodei gulped, his hands trembling.

"One..."

The Marine shook his head, and he moved forward, ready to grab the dagger.

"Two..."

He looked at Ogodei, pleading for the other forgiveness, wishing he understood why he had to do it. The dagger raised up high.

"Three..."

He moved to strike, closing his eyes.

"Four-"

He brought down the blade.

There was a gasp, and then a coughing fit. The Marine opened his eyes to find Ogodei left arm extended, the blade deep inside it, piercing through muscle and flesh. The blood dripped from the wound, as Ogodei winced at the pain. Mercutzio clapped, delighted by what he just witnessed.

"Oh my, Ogodei, we got some real son of the Emperor here!" Mercutzio snatched the knife from the Nomad’s arm, pushing the stunned Marine to the ground and forcing Ogodei to grip the handle of the knife that now was dripping with his blood "Your turn!"

Ogodei clenched his jaw, his teeth gritting as he stared at Mercutzio. The pain radiating from his arm was nothing compared to the humiliation and rage boiling inside him. He wanted to lunge at the Night Lord, free humself, free his brother, flee from the ship and never look back, but he knew that was just a fantasy. It was futile to think of it.

"Your turn," Mercutzio repeated gleefully, as if he were a child waiting to watch a puppet show. The Night Lord stood up, towering over Ogodei's prone form. Mercutzio grabbed a fistful of Ogodei's hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. "Cut him, or I'll make you watch as I do," he hissed, pressing the bloodied knife against Ogodei's jugular. "Choose quickly, my love."

Ogodei's brother, still dazed from the earlier events, watched helplessly as his sergeant was forced to make an impossible decision. The pain from the wound in his arm throbbed mercilessly, a constant reminder of the price he'd already paid. Ogodei's eyes met his brother's, and he saw the same despair and resignation reflected back at him.

"I can't."

"You can and you will" The Night Lord was biting his large nails with his teeth

"I can't!" Ogodei roared "Kill me if you like, but I will never do this!"

Mercutzio's face twisted into a malicious grin, his yellowed teeth bared in a cruel smile. "Oh, but you have before, Nomad."

Without warning, Mercutzio slashed the knife across the Marine's throat. Blood spurted from the wound as the Marine clutched at his neck, gurgling and choking on his own blood. Ogodei screamed in anguish as he watched his brother's life drain away, his own wound forgotten as the horror of what he'd witnessed sunk in. He lunged forward, foolishly trying to hold his brother. Mercutzio backhanded Ogodei brutally across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor in a daze. The Night Lord stood over the fallen Astartes, his face twisted with sadistic glee as he watched the life fade from the Marine's eyes.

"That's right, scream for me," Mercutzio cooed, kicking Ogodei's side. "I love to hear you sing, my sweet little songbird."

Ogodei struggled to push himself up, his vision swimming and his ears ringing from the blow. He watched helplessly as his brother's body went limp, the last vestiges of life slipping away

"Why?!?!?! What is the point of all this?!?!" The Nomad shouted in rage.

Mercutzio laughed, a chilling sound that echoed off the cell walls.

"The point, my sweet Ogodei, is that there is no point. Not for you, not for me, not for any of us. We are all puppets dancing along to what the Gods or the Emperor wants! Don't you get it? He does not care about you; he doesn't care about any of us! So why the fuck should you keep on playing the hero of Mankind if you are nothing more than a puppet!"

He knelt down, his face mere inches from Ogodei's. The stench of decay and blood was overwhelming, and the Nomad gagged. 

"You say you can't kill a fellow Astartes, that they are your brothers. But you've already done it, my sweet little songbird. You've already killed so many, even if you don't admit it. You've killed your brothers, your cousins. And for what? A half-dead Emperor who doesn't give a damn about you? A God that left you to rot in endless war?"

He grabbed Ogodei's wounded arm, twisting it viciously. "This pain, this suffering, it means nothing in the grand scheme of things. You could cut off my head right now, and the universe would not give a single shit about it!". Mercutzio stood up, leaving Ogodei to writhe on the floor in pain and anguish. The Night Lord's words echoed in the Astartes' mind, each one hitting him like a physical blow.

The Nomad stood there, in silence writhing about his wounded limb and holding it tightly so the blood loss wouldn't become severe. He closed his eyes, stirring himself again to calmness, thinking back and attempting to steady his pulse again only to be kicked in the chest and getting the wind knocked out of him. Ogodei gasped for air, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. Mercutzio loomed over him, his face contorted into a frown.

"No, no, no don't go spacing off on me! We are here, right now, you and me! This is the greatest moment in your whole life and you are off to remind yourself of teaching that DON'T. WORK." He crouched down, gripping Ogodei's chin roughly and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me, you spineless worm! I killed your brother! I made you choose between your loyalty and his life! And you couldn't even do that much! You're nothing but a coward, clinging to some false sense of honor that no longer exists!" His grip on Ogodei's chin tightened, pain shooting through the Marine's jaw. "So, hate me, yell at me, let all that rage come out for once! Drop the act of fucking nice guy and just be what you know you are, a weapon of the Imperium to use and discard as they see fit!"

He released his grip, standing up and pacing around the cell. Ogodei spat out a mouthful of blood, forming a weak little smirk.

"You idiot," he snarled, his voice rough and ragged. "You sick, twisted poor idiot. You talk like all...of what we do is kill each other...of mindless slaughter and all...what, you are so high up in that speech that you forget there's more than war out there? That we build, we live, we do more than just being in this mindless war? Come on, think a little...this was never about killing you; it was about defending them from the freaks like you"

Mercutzio paused in his pacing, his eyes narrowing as he studied Ogodei's battered form. The Nomad's words hung in the air between them, a challenge thrown down amidst the blood and anguish. The Night Lord's lips curled into a sneer, his yellowed teeth glinting in the dim light of the cell. This was different, an open challenge to the theory that time and time again history had proven him it was right.

"Humans? You speak of them as if they matter, as if their lives have purpose beyond being cattle for the Imperium." He inhaled deeply, pointing a finger at the Nomad. "They live and die, breed and toil, all for the sake of maintaining the machine running."

Before he could get another word in, Ogodei raised a battered hand to shut him up, his eyes flashing with defiance despite his weakened state.

"You do not get it, do you?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "They dream, they love. They make this universe worth fighting for, it was what you were made to do; defend them, not kill for the sake of them. Your Primarch was really stupid if that is all what he got out of the Emperor's orders"

Mercutzio's eyes narrowed, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He reached out, grabbing Ogodei by the throat and slamming him against the cell wall. The Night Lord, once, twice, three times. Blood trickled down Ogodei's. His vision swam and his ears rang from the repeated impacts. Mercutzio's grip on his throat was like a vice, cutting off his air supply. The Nomad's lungs burned and his head throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat.

"You dare speak ill of us like that?!?" The Night Lord snarled, his face inches from Ogodei's. His eyes were wild with rage and something else, something dark and twisted. "To hell with your precious humanity, to the darkest pits of the Warp with all of them!"

The Night Lord's words dripped with venom and madness, his grip tightening on Ogodei's throat. The Astartes struggled weakly, his strength waning as the world around him began to dim and fade. Mercutzio's eyes bored into his, the twisted depths of the Night Lord's psyche laid bare in that terrifying gaze.

"Did...I...strike a nerve..." Ogodei choked out, his voice little more than a rasping whisper. "With...so...little...'Sweetie'?..."

Mercutzio's laughter was harsh and grating, a sound of pure malice. "Oh you...you are just too precious," Mercutzio sneered, giving Ogodei's throat a final squeeze before releasing him. The Nomad crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath and massaging his abused windpipe.

The Night Lord inhaled and exhaled deeply, fixing his hair after the heated argument passed. Mercutzio straightened up, smoothing down his bloodied armor with a manicured hand. The Night Lord's carefully maintained facade was cracking. His usually composed demeanor was now a jumble of rage and uncertainty. He paced the cell like a caged beast, his movements erratic and unpredictable.

Growling in frustration, he slammed the side of the cell-door and walked away slamming the door behind him.

Sighing and hissing; Ogodei allowed his body to rest from the torture, his eyes glittered with satisfaction. He may have not got closer to getting out of that place, but this was certainly a win he would treasure for the upcoming days or weeks until Mercutzio showed up again. For once the silence felt welcoming.

[marvellousimagines]

TW: Implied torture, blood and bloodloss, Cazador being Cazador

You tensed as the door to your cell opened, but let out a sigh of relief when you saw the familiar white curls of a particular elf vampire spawn.

“Astarion!” you called his name in surprise and relief, though not so loud as to draw attention. “You found me.”

“Of course I did, my dear,” Astarion replied. “Unfortunately, it took a lot out of me to just get here. Would you mind if I had just a little bit of your blood, help me get an edge over Cazador for our escape?”

Something didn’t seem quite right. Astarion seemed off, but that may have just been from hunger. This was the first time he’s directly asked for some of your blood since that first night when you woke up with him hovering over you. It had to be bad if he was asking again.

“Yes, of course,” you reply, tilting your head in invitation, the scars from Astarion’s previous bites on full display.

Astarion smirked, coming in close and biting down. You felt the usual pain, then numbness, as Astarion began to suck your blood.

He didn’t stop when he normally would.

“Astarion?” You prompted, giving him a nudge. You felt your extremities go numb, your vision tunneling. “Astarion, that’s too much!” You tried to push him off but the blood loss had you weakened. You blinked heavily, struggling to stay conscious and alert.

You heard a chuckle from Astarion, but it was not his voice. As he pulled away, the illusion magic faded, revealing Cazador in Astarion’s place.

“You are quite the willing morsel. I just had to see for myself how quickly you bare your neck for a bite,” Cazador taunted, running a finger down your throat. You were too numb, feeling too hazy to do much of anything except stare at your captor in fear.

At some point, Cazador had left. You weren’t sure how much time had passed as you drifted in and out of sleep.

By the time you recovered enough from the vampire lord draining your blood to just feel the usual post-bite wooziness, muffled sounds off in the distance caught your attention. You couldn't be sure, but it sounded like a fight, you swore you heard shouting and the sound of metal clashing.

After the sounds faded, your cell door opened and again Astarion stepped through. You flinched away, unsure if this was another trick.

“Hey, Y/N, darling, it’s just me,” Astarion said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Is… is it really you, Astarion?” you asked, afraid now of Cazador taking advantage of your trusting nature again.

A familiar, warm voice outside the cell behind Astarion answered for him. “Who else would it be, Soldier?” Karlach asked, and you flinched as you thought of the answer.

Astarion looked at you with sympathetic understanding, your reaction apparently telling him everything. You felt the familiar squirming of the tadpole that signaled a link to another and opened your mind to it. Flashes of panic, worry, as Astarion realized who took you from camp. His determination to get you back eclipsing the fear he felt marching right up to Cazador’s door. The blood of the vampire lord as Astarion stabbed into him while your other companions watched his back. Then finally, you as seen through his eyes, relief that you’re okay.

As you came back to your own mind, you saw anger on Astarion’s face, though not pointed at you. You were sure that, through the tadpole bond, he had seen Cazador's trick of using his image to lull you into a false sense of security. “Cazador’s dead now. We’re safe from him.” He held out his hand.

You took his hand and pulled yourself up. Your vision tunneled slightly at the sudden shift of position and you swayed a bit. However, you let yourself fall forward slightly, wrapping your arms around Astarion’s shoulders in a hug and burying your face in his chest. “Thank you.”

“Of course, darling, now let’s get you out of here,” Astarion said gently. Once it was clear you couldn’t make it out under your own power, Astarion carefully lifted you into his arms to carry you out of Cazador's dungeon.

[timberline-falls]

tw: execution, violence, suffocation, gore, violent death, stress vomit

Alt Prompt #3

The ranger landed facedown in the mud. Something heavy and rough as stone held her in place, its weight placed squarely on the top of her head. The taste of mud and the sensation of it moving up her nostrils incited her instinct to thrash against her bonds. Thelinia could hear the muffled protests of her companions as her face was pressed deeper. No angling of her shoulders or straining of her arms was making a difference.

The weight withdrew. A ruthless pull of her hair lifted her from the mud, letting her gasp for air while inhuman laughter surrounded her drowned the stifled cries of her two remaining friends. She spat mud as it ran from her nose.

"You should not have left." Hot breath hit her ear just before he tossed her forward again.

The hooves beside her calmly stepped past her, and she yelped as the wiry tail whipped her cheek as he left. The ranger swallowed, and looked across the small mud pit to her horror.

Among the bodies, two still lived. Bound like game, they laid prone and struggling, mouths gagged with the same rope that tied their arms behind their backs. They had already taken a beating from the intial struggle, and she saw fresh blood painted both their faces. Yet, though the trampled remains of her fellow bandits laid in the dirt around her, Stern and Dorse lived.

Then her heart sunk as Gryhurn stood between them. He turned to face her again, casually kicking mud in Stern's face. Cold eyes regarded both humans. "I am going to ask question, human Raine."

Her sunken heart poured adrenaline into her veins, but fear had frozen her. Stern and Dorse continued to struggle.

"Your friends dead," the towering centaur proclaimed with pride. "But I have mercy for you."

She was silent.

Gryhurn snorted. "Your mates. You decide.. One." To illustrate his intention, he lifted a hoof, hovering it for a few terrifying seconds over each man's head. It outsized their skulls to a horrific degree.

Hooves approached from behind her, and the rope wrapped through her mouth fell from wordless lips.

With a deep growl, Gryhurn slammed his hoof into the dirt close enough to Stern to catch his hair painfully beneath it. "You decide, or both die! NOW!"

Something bubbled up from her throat, and a pathetic sound preceded bile. A small amount spilled from her mouth only to be carried away by the mud still dripping from her face. She heard Gryhurn's laugh, dark and resonant.

"Fuck you," her hoarse voice growled.

In a flash, Gryhurn swiveled and bucked his back hooves into Dorse. The force sent him rolling into the mud in front of her, and they shared a panicked look of pain.

"Jus' kill me, you fucking coward," Thelinia hissed. "Let them go, Gryhurn!"

The centaur roared, and flung Stern into Dorse's back. He had to lift his head to breathe, and looked to her with resignation. She glanced between them both over and over, seeing each with the same plea in their eyes:

Forget me. You can save him. Just live.

Again speechless, Thelinia eventually pulled her gaze away to admit fear to her captor. "Please. I'll stay'ere with you. I'll do anythin' y'want."

Desperate protests from both men.

"Last chance," Gryhurn snarled as he stomped forward, the centaur's patience dangerously thin. Excited murmurs from the rest of the clan circled the scene.

"Gryhurn, you CAN'T! Jus' KILL ME INSTEAD--"

The centaur roared, rearing up to his terrifying height.

And his hooves crashed into the backs of the men she loved. Despite the rope between their teeth they both howled in agony, the sickening crush of their spines penetrating her bones. She hadn't realized she was screaming. The hooves rose again, and again, until only one human voice remained.

Blood and mud drenched her. Scalding bile climbed her screams, and she gagged violently as neither act would cease. She shut her eyes against the image of their bodies trampled into red mud, but it was seared into her mind.

All the while, centaurs cackled over the grand finale.

"Release her." Gryhurn dismissed the scene with a swish of his tail and departed, shaking gore from his legs as he did. "She stays."

[cyberneticatoms]

no way is that NEPTUNE JONES..they’re a 36-year-old SYNTH notoriously known for being CODEPENDENT & DISTURBED but there are some people who have seen them being FAMILY-ORIENTED & OPEN-MINDED. if you ask me, they remind me a lot of clothing speckled in paint stains, metallic fence under your fingers, and blasting music late at night, but that could just be because they’re considered the TECHNICAL PACIFIST around town. just keep an eye on them  &  see if their true colors shine through..

↳ 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙵𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚂

NAME: Neptune Lane Jones NICKNAMES: Po, Poseidon, Broseidon DATE OF BIRTH: October 14th (36) HEIGHT: 5'11 AFFILIATION: Citizen Uprising OCCUPATION: Private Investigator at Jones and Jones Investigations FACECLAIM: Max Thieriot

TW: death, murder, kidnapping, mental manipulation, abuse

↳ 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳

❖ Neptune's parents were murdered when he was around 8 years old, after which the murdered kidnapped him. During which he was constantly reprogrammed to love his captor. There are blanks in his memory due to this, and at the time frequent parts of his body would become dead weight due to his captors lack of skills. ❖ Eventually he was rescued by police one of which adopted him. He was in therapy to work out what memories were false and which were real, due to this he still struggles with dissociating. While they were able to repair much of the damage done to his physical body, he still needs frequent check ups as his nerves occasionally shut down. Not enough to make his limbs go dead like they had, but where he stops feeling touch all together, regardless of it's pain or pleasure. ❖ He later bonded with a runaway named Clara, who eventually was also adopted by his parents. Her becoming his older sister and helping him through his therapy. ❖ Later he joined the NAVY when he was unsure what else to do for work and wanting to make his parents proud. He eventually became a NAVY seal. ❖ Once when coming home to his apartment, he found a 15 year old Karma hiding out. After letting her spend the night, he brought her home to his parents, the family fully adopting her not long after. ❖ Neptune is incredibly protective of both his sisters, idolizing Clara and seeing Karma is his person. Which is why once he finished his service he joined the investigation agency wanting to support his older sister.

↳ 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲

• Actively dislikes going to the doctor and strangers touching him, however he's very affectionate with people he considers to be his people. • Currently has two tattoos, one on his left arm of a chameleon in multiple colors when Karma couldn't pick one. On his right arm is an arrow that tapers off into flames for his other sister Clara.

[rpxgifs]

[ hailee steinfeld | she/her ] Another face is seeking safety in New Orleans. Make sure to welcome GEMMA MIKAELSON to the home of the resilient. Rumor has it that they are an 19/24 year old VAMPIRE/WEREWOLF, who is one of the SACRIFICED but we’ll keep that a secret. They are said to be ARGUMENTATIVE, but that’s all a façade to cover up their MAGNANIMOUS nature. We’ve heard that they can be found listening to INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS by NATALIE JANE, which sums them up pretty well. Let’s hope that they can find a way to survive this harsh new world. 

NAME: Gemma Reign Mikaelson NICKNAME: Gem AGE: 18/22 BIRTHDAY: SPECIES: Vampire/Werewolf hybrid GENDER: Cisfemale PRONOUNS: She/Her SEXUALITY: Pansexual FACECLAIM: hailee steinfeld HAIR COLOR: Brown EYE COLOR: Hazel FAMILY:

Declan Bishop ( biological father )

Autumn Pearson ( biological mother )

Freya Mikaelson ( adopted mother )

Keelin Malraux ( adopted mother )

Briggs Mikaelson ( adopted brother )

Billie Mikaelson ( sister-in-law )

All the Mikaelsons are extended family. You know the ones.

tw: murder, kidnapping, torture

HISTORY:

Gemma’s parents had her at a very young age and tried their best to care for the young wolf, but ultimately fell short. For the majority of her young life, Gemma was left to fend for herself as her parents were working non-stop just to be able to keep a roof over their head. But she didn't really mind. She grew up to be independent, maybe growing up a little too fast.

* . ⊹  THE TRAUMA:

When Gemma was only 13, tragedy struck and it was a day that would change her and her outlook on life forever. It started off as any normal day, but quickly took a turn for the worst when her parents were brutally murdered right in front of her. The intruder believed it to be just adults in the house, but when she came out of her room wondering what was going on, she saw the whole thing and they turned on her. But their plan was much more sinister for the young teen and everything went black.

When she came to, she was locked in a dark, nondescript room. And in that room, in that house was where she would stay for the better part of two years. She was provided food and water, she was let out of her room occasionally. There were even a handful of times that she was allowed to leave the house. But it was always under supervision and she always had to wear some sort of hat and glasses. By the end of the first year, she knew better than to act out; she had learned the consequences.

While she wasn't acting out as much, she was slowly and calculatingly coming up with a plan of escape. Her werewolf temper created a fire within her that was only fueled with each passing day. At the age of 15, she had enacted her plan of revenge, waiting for a moment that her captors' guard was down on one of her days out of confinement. It wasn't without a fight, but she wasn't about to let a year worth of planning go to waste. She triggered her curse while escaping, but she escaped nonetheless.

Found wandering the streets, someone noticed her as a missing person, called the authorities and she was taken to the hospital. This was were she met Keelin and formed an immediate bond (think Vanessa Morano's character and Meredith Grey in that one episode of Grey's). She was lucky that Keelin and Freya were willing to take her in and eventually adopt her when she needed safety and comfort the most.

* . ⊹  THE HEALING AND THE TRANSITION

The next few years took a lot of work, but Gemma eventually learned to cope with her trauma, learned to control her werewolf side with the help of Keelin. She would never be the person that she was before, but she was okay with that. She took the time to heal what was needed, bond with her new family, and figure out who she was as a new person.

One weekend she and Hope went out on a girls' weekend to just get away for a while. But, now being a Mikaelson, nothing could ever be easy. The pair were ambushed by a group of hunters who claimed to be part of a "movement". A movement that would eventually become the OEA. The pair put up one hell of a fight as they had been taught to. But they were no match for the wolfsbane laced bullets and arrows coming from every which direction. While Hope had managed to take down most hunters, forcing the others to retreat at the power of the tribrid, Gemma had gotten hit with a couple bullets, the shrapnel getting lodged in her heart. There was no way she was going to make it to any semblance of help before it was too late. In that moment, Hope knew was she had to do and fed Gemma her blood just before her heart had stopped. And just moments later, she was successfully in transition.

* . ⊹  THE BETAYAL

Coming from the family of vampires, Gemma had no problem with her transition. She had plenty of people with plenty of experience around that she could lean on. But the party wasn't quite over.

A few years later, when Gemma was coming home, she was ambushed by a group of witches and tortured, wanting to have some fun with her before she was sacrificed and sent to the prison world. Right before she was sent, she learned of the reason. The witches wanted to get back at Freya for not following them and the best way to do that was to attack her family, starting with her children.

— ☆ — ONE YEAR LATER — ☆ —

After everyone was released from the prison world, Gemma took some time to get acclimated to real life again. In this time, she learned of the passing of her biological grandmother. She had been absent her entire life, the hybrid had never met her. But she still had her Gemma's biological mother listed in her will. Being the next of kin, that money went to Gemma.

Having a large sum of money in her pocket was burning a hole in her pocket and the last thing she wanted to do was stay in New Orleans with everything that was going on. So she took that money and spent a year traveling to wherever her little heart desired. Though she kept in touch with the important people, she was more or less a stranger to the rest of the world.

With her Roxy being on tour with Sebastian, Jagger, and Riley, Gemma would often meet up with them whenever she could under the guise of wanting to support Riley. But it was undeniable that when Jagger was on stage, she couldn't look away, a smile plastered to her face until the last round of applause. Their meetings usually ended with the pair getting a little two close, falling into some old habits, and a few hook ups here and there. But each time Gemma found herself falling under his spell, she knew it was time for another trip, separating herself from the group. Yet she kept coming back, his magnetic pull with her undeniable.

With funds running lower than Gemma would like and the promises off free drinks at the ball, Gemma made her way back to New Orleans, slightly nervous to see what she was coming back to.