#forced to murder tw

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Chapter 58: Research

TWs in the tags (be safe!)

Previous

Masterlist

Next

“What do you think of Ethan?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s your name. Or what you’re going to go by, at the very least.”

“Right, right. It says it means ‘firm, enduring, strong, and long lived.’ Oh, this website says it means optimistic, too. Solid and permanent.” You pause, rereading. “This website says it means safe.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a really common name.”

“Are you wanting a more rare one?”

“I don’t know.” You type ‘names that mean safe’ into the search bar. None of them stick out to you. “A lot of these start with Sal. Maybe I can go by Sal.”

“You could.”

Diya is not being very helpful.

“I think I like Ethan.” You say.

“Awesome! I think it’s a nice name, Ethan.”

It feels weird, but not in a bad way. The name doesn’t feel like yours, but you know it will after being called it for a while.

“I want to be able to go by the name I had before, eventually. I don’t want to let her take it permanently. But for now, Ethan will work.”

“Sounds good to me. How do you plan on getting comfortable with your old name?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. I don’t want to try yet. I want to… rest, for a little.”

“I understand.”

You can tell that ey does really understand. Which is funny, because you’re not even sure you understand how you’re feeling. But Diya does. Ey squeezes your shoulder.

“Barron’s going to get clothes for you, today. You can also borrow any of ours that you think might fit you.”

“…Thank you.”

“How are you feeling? I know this is all a lot.”

“I’m… relieved, about finding a name that fits without the huge trauma reaction. I…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain everything swirling inside you. Diya waita patiently.

“Please be honest. Does Barron hurt you?” You whisper.

Diya frowns. “Why would it hurt me?”

“I don’t know. Why would it protect you?”

“Because it’s a kind person? Barron’s my friend. It’s just doing what it can to make the world a better place.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“The answer is no. Barron doesn’t hurt anyone. Neither does Greg, and neither do I.”

Your hands shake. “Please just tell me. I can’t do it again. I just don’t want it to be a surprise.”

Diya’s eyebrows furrow. “No one here is going to hurt you.”

“…Okay.” You don’t think you believe em. You don’t know. You just want to feel safe. “Can we talk about what Jane is? All four of us. I feel ready.”

Diya looks doubtful.

“I want to get it over with.” You correct. “I want to find out if there’s any way to stop her for good, and if there is I want to know it as soon as possible.”

“Fair enough.” Diya claps excitedly. “Oh! We should make it all comfy. We’ll make hot chocolate or tea and get you a bunch of blankets, and we can play some calming music, and Barron can go down its list of questions, and you can answer however you want. Like if you want to write it down instead of saying it out loud, or draw it, or… do interpretive dance? Or you can just say it. And you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. How does that sound?”

“…That sounds nice.”

“Perfect! Do you want to go get comfortable on the couch? I’ll go get the others and make some drinks. What sounds good to you?”

“Anything is fine.”

“Right, but what sounds good to you? What will help you feel safe and stay in the moment?”

“I don’t… do you have anything minty?”

“Yeah! Do you like peppermint tea?”

You nod.

“Alright, go get comfortable. I’ll have Greg bring you some blankets and pillows. They can also help get music set up, if you want that.”

Diya doesn’t wait for you to get up, ey just heads off to the kitchen. You wish you were clever enough to figure out how to take advantage of this brief moment alone with a computer, but you’re not. You have no idea what to look up or who to contact or anything, so you head back to the living room curl up on the couch under the weighted blanket that’s still there.

Shit, you should’ve tried to use the computer to figure out where you are. It would be nice to know, if you did decide to leave. You could be on the other side of the world and you wouldn’t know.

Greg enters the living room and plops three blankets on the ground in front of the couch. “Did you decide what you want to be called?”

“I think I settled on Ethan.”

“You think?”

“Diya said it was okay if I changed my mind later.”

“It is.”

Greg stares at you. You retreat deeper into the weighted blanket.

“Thanks. For the blankets.”

Greg grimaces. “Diya said to ask you if you wanted music.”

“I think I’ll be okay.”

Greg nods and leaves the room. That was… uncomfortable.

You try to prepare for what questions Barron might ask. It’ll probably ask about what powers Jane has, which you don’t think will be difficult to talk about. You hope it’ll tell you about different kinds of creatures so that you can try to see what fits best.

It shouldn’t be too bad. Barron doesn’t have any reason to ask about punishments and stuff like that. It’ll be fine. You can talk about her abilities without talking about what she used them for.

Barron steps into the living room. It’s holding a notebook and pencil. Is it going to take notes? It sits down in a seat near the couch.

“I hope Diya isn’t freaking you out.” It says gently. “Ey really wants you to be comfortable, but I doubt this will be a super intense conversation.”

You nod. That’s what you anticipated, but it’s still a relief for Barron to say it.

Diya enters the room with a mug, and Greg trails behind. Diya wordlessly hands the mug to you. It’s warm and it smells nice.

Diya and Greg sit on a beanbag in a corner. You’re glad they’re here.

“Is it okay if I write down your answers? I have issues with memory, sometimes, and I think this is something important to be able to remember.”

“That’s fine.”

Barron opens the notebook. “You said the monster’s name is Jane?”

You nod. Barron writes something.

“What abnormal abilities have you witnessed Jane using?”

It takes you a moment to understand the question. “Um… she can teleport. You knew that. She can teleport objects, too, and keep them in her void. We know that because she can make things disappear by touching them, and make those things appear later. She moved the whole house once. She can stay in her void too, if she wants, and she can watch us. Which I already told you…”

You take a sip of the tea Diya made you. “She’s immortal. I guess that’s not something I’ve witnessed, but Kitty said they’ve seen her survive things that should’ve killed her. And she talks about it all the time, and I was there for a year and she didn’t visibly age at all, I don’t think her hair even grew. I’ve never seen her sleep, and I’ve barely ever seen her eat. She…”

You’ve spent every second of several days with her, before. In the basement. You know that when you were too exhausted to think and too hungry to move, Jane was still cheerful and wide awake, despite going as long (if not longer) without food and sleep as you.

“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. Do you want me to ask the next question?”

You take a deep breath and stare at the mug in your hand. You don’t have to share that part. They get the idea.

“I… yeah. Well, she’s also really strong, but that’s all I’ve noticed. So you can ask the next question.”

Barron talks as it writes. “Alright. Have you ever witnessed Jane preforming mage rituals?”

“I don’t think so. What would that look like?”

“Right, you wouldn’t know! Mage rituals can have a lot of variety, it depends on what spell you’re preparing. Generally, a mage ritual involves spell words, some sort of object, and specific movements. Which is pretty vague, I know. Did you ever see her do anything like that?”

“…Saying words, using an object, and moving are things I’ve seen her doing, yes.”

“It would look strange. The large, large majority of spell words wouldn’t sound familiar to a non-mage, the object would have magical significance, and the movements would be very clearly rehearsed.” It pauses. “Any object can have magical significance, but usually it’s something closer to nature, something less… refined, or processed. It will often have runes drawn on or carved into it.”

You nod, finally understanding. “I’ve never seen her do anything like that. She would disappear for days at a time, sometimes, so it’s possible she was doing that stuff and I never saw.”

Barron writes with impressive speed. “What do you think she does when she disappears?”

“…I try not to think about it. I know that money was never an issue. I assumed she was doing stuff connected to that. And I knew there was always a chance she was just watching from her void, waiting for us to mess up.”

Barron nods and keeps writing. “Are there any abilities that you’re positive she doesn’t have?”

You wish Kitty was here. They could explain it better. “I can’t be positive, but I think she couldn’t be in multiple places at once. If we knew she was in the basement, we could break rules, and she wouldn’t punish us for it. So I feel pretty sure she can’t be in my multiple places at once. And she couldn’t read minds. Kitty said they’ve thought things they know they’d be punished for if Jane could read minds. I don’t know what that would be, but I believe them. And I don’t think Jane would keep it a secret if she could read minds. She’d taunt us with it.”

Barron writes for a minute before asking its next question. You drink more tea.

“Did Jane ever mention or associate with someone with similar powers to her?”

“She didn’t. If she knew about others with her powers, she never told us. Or, never told me. Puppy would probably know more, but she also probably wouldn’t tell you what she knows.”

“I see. Did she ever refer to herself as a different species, or something like that?”

“She would call us mortals. Say thinks about how ‘mortals will always be mortals…’” You trail off, remembering her whole monologue about immortality and living long enough to be a villain. Your jaw hurts.

“Anything else?”

You can’t talk, it would hurt your jaw. You don’t want to move your head either. Your ribs are starting to hurt, making it hard to breathe. She’s going to break every bone in your body. She said she’d break every bone in your body.

“Let’s take a break.” Diya says, getting up. “How are you doing, Ethan?”

Ethan? Oh, that’s what you decided to go by. You’re with Diya, you’re safe. You’re in the basement being beaten with a crowbar.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?”

You obey instantly, you don’t want to get hurt. You take a deep breath through your nose.

It smells like peppermint, not blood. Your ribs don’t hurt worse. You take another deep breath. Peppermint. Peppermint, because you’re drinking peppermint tea, and under a weighted blanket, and no one is hurting you.

You focus on the warmth of the mug and the smell and the softness of the blanket. The pain in your body recedes.

“Sorry.” You mumble. “What’s the next question?”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Are you sure you want to keep going? We can be done for today.” Diya says.

Barron nods. “The information you’ve already given me is very helpful. A great starting point for research.”

“…I just want to get it over with.” You’re embarrassed at how weak your voice sounds.

Diya seems thoughtful. “Why don’t we take a break for lunch, and then come back to this?”

Lunch does sound good. You nod.

Diya claps. “Perfect! Let’s make sandwiches.”

Despite it being a relatively simple lunch, it ends up taking a full hour. Diya gathers up every possible ingredient in the cabin that can be used on to make a sandwich, and directs you, Barron, and Greg to make several different kinds and cut them into quarters, which Diya piles up on a plate.

“You can just take what you want from this plate and put it on yours!” Ey says. “And then eat it.”

You didn’t need the clarification. Maybe it wasn’t for you.

The four of you chat as you eat. Well, Diya and Barron chat, and you and Greg make small comments every once in a while. You finish your tea and eat more sandwiches than you planned on, and you feel much better.

Greg volunteers to take care of dishes, and the rest of you head back to the living room.

“Are you still wanting to keep going?” Barron asks.

You nod.

“Do you want more tea?” Diya asks. You shake your head and pull one of the non-weight blankets onto your lap.

“Are there any materials that Jane avoided touching? Any type of metal? Holy water?”

“…I never noticed anything like that. Maybe.”

“Was there any time of day or night that she seemed more powerful?”

You shake your head. Barron marks something in its notebook.

“Any time of day or night that she seemed less powerful?”

You shake your head.

“Did any of her behaviors seem… compelled? Some species have things like that, like vampires needing to count things. It would be something she clearly didn’t want to do, but couldn’t stop herself from doing. I guess it could be something she enjoyed, too, but it’s harder to tell if it’s compelled that way.”

You shake your head again. “She always said she was doing this because she wanted to. I don’t think any of it was compelled.”

“You probably would’ve already mentioned this if so, but just in case: did she ever change her appearance, or does she always look like a little girl?”

“She always looks like a little girl.”

“You said you rarely saw her eat. When you did, what kind of stuff did she eat?”

“Just whatever we were eating. I figured she got bored of just watching us eat, sometimes, so she’d fix herself some.”

Barron furrows it’s eyebrows. “There’s only so many immortal creatures, and I don’t know of any who fit that description. I believe you, of course… Do you think she could’ve tricked your friend into thinking she survived fatal wounds when they weren’t actually fatal? It would open up the posibilites a lot if she was just ageless.”

“I told you before, I can’t be positive about any of this. She’s a liar, and she’s definitely capable of tricking people into thinking she has abilities she doesn’t. That’s why I told you why I think she was what powers, so you can judge for yourself if it’s strong enough evidence.”

Barron nods. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. This gives me a lot to look into. I’ll ask my coworkers if they know of any creatures like that, too.”

You feel strange. You were hoping Barron would know immediately, and be able to tell you exactly how to get rid of her powers or get rid of her. But you’re still hopeful. Barron knows a lot about magic. Probably. It’ll figure things out.

You don’t trust that everything is as it seems here, but since you can’t leave, you might as well enjoy this before the other shoe drops, and hope it won’t be as bad as living with Jane was.

~~

Kitty keeps forgetting where they are. They see things, in the dark of the blindfold, and they don’t like those things very much at all. Often, they wonder if Jane sends sound through the headphones. They hear screams and drills whirring and crying, and they don’t know if the sounds are coming from their head or not.

Their heart pounds and pounds. Something is crawling up their leg, something is crawling into their nose- all they smell is blood, blood, blood. Why can’t they move? They can’t feel anything, they’re feeling every possible emotion and sensation at once.

They’re nine years old and sobbing because they had the thought “what if my parents are wrong?” and they can’t get it out of their head, get it out get it out- sin wriggles on their skin like germs but you can’t get rid of sin by washing your hands-

They’ve just killed someone for the first time, at Jane’s order. They don’t remember what she threatened, anymore, but they remember the blood and the screaming and fear, fear so encompassing that they thought it was all there’d ever been, all they’d ever be. They didn’t know their heart could beat that hard, didn’t know fear could puppet your body that way, coward coward coward. They can never wash it off, never fix it-

They’re 15 years old and they’re in class, talking about a story from their scriptures where God orders a follower to kill to prove their loyalty (their scriptures have several stories like that, but in this one the victim was innocent). Kitty (that wasn’t their name-) says that they would never kill an innocent person just because someone told them to, even if that person was God. Their teacher said that everyone is at different points in their faith, and Kitty looks around the room and at their peers who look at their lack of faith with pity, and sees fully for the first time that they’re in a fucking cult.

(They would walk that observation back, later. They still went back and forth on whether or not they were in a cult for years after that, and they had for years before, but that moment sticks out in their mind as the tipping point, where they went from “a believer who struggles with doubts” to “a non-believer who’s trying to believe again”)

Jane has ordered Kitty to kill someone again, but this time she didn’t give them a weapon. Kitty looks at her in confusion, and she repeats the order, and Kitty feels the same world-turning-upside-down feeling as back then when they realize she wants them to kill this person with their bare hands.

The person begged. “No, no, no, please! I have a family, I have kids!” Kitty pressed all their weight onto the strangers throat until they stopped moving.

“Don’t worry.” Jane said. “They were lying. I don’t take people who have people who would miss them.”

Kitty is 17 years old and wondering if it would be better to kill themself or run away. Something has to change. They can’t do this for one more day, so something has to change.

They know their limits better, now. They’ve been forced to keep going when they thought they couldn’t so many times. If they’d just gone back to bed, they’d still have people who cared about them, even if it hurt, and Jane would’ve never taken them…

Kitty keeps forgetting where they are.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

[drgnflyteabox]

the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

<3

[weirdo-from-bonesborough]

Somebody has definitely said this before but au where bruce kills the joker and gets arrested by the un (can the un arrest people?) so when dick get back from space he finds his brother’s dead, his dad’s an international criminal, and the batman is a 13-year-old boy.

[radio-writes]

I'll go with:

"You win"

"Why should I stay?"

"And what will you do? Run from me?"

It Seems the Devil and I Walked Hand in Hand

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Forced cannibalism, gore, murder, stockholm syndrome

Tags: Alastor x reader, GN reader, yandare, reader goes insane, dead dove do not eat

MDNI

A humid breeze blew through your hair, the putrid stench of Hell carried with it. Somewhere in the distance, something—whatever it may be this time—exploded, prompting usual screams of terror.

But your heart fluttered, eyes fixated on your friend next to you. You sat side by side with them, on a random hilltop the two of you stumbled upon. It was quiet, but barely out of the chaos of the main pentagram. 

"What? What is it?" They laughed as they finally called you out on your staring.

You almost swooned as their warm brown eyes met yours. "You just have the prettiest set of eyes in all of Hell, that's all."

You had been so proud of that. So happy about how smooth you were at the delivery. Giddy about the blush that crept onto your friend's face.

The same warm brown eyes—Hell's prettiest, as Alastor so kindly reminded you—stared back at you now. 

Unseeing.

Without its owner's head anywhere near.

On a plate placed before you.

Your blood felt like ice as you hung your head low. Unable to think. Unable to feel. Unable to breathe, maybe, you weren't really sure anymore.

"Afraid I might have gotten carried away, dear. I was absolutely starving since you stood me up on our lunch meeting." Alastor's tone was as bright and cheerful as it always was—you could almost argue that it was even happier now. "Of course, I did save you their eyes. I knew how much you just loved them."

He continued on, sighing and swooning about this and that. How it had been a while since he had such a satisfying meal. How it was all thanks to you for leading him to it. How he can't wait to meet more of your friends—if you ever managed to make any after the show he put on for you.

But you sat still, mind unable to comprehend what actually sat in front of you. Alastor might as well have been talking from three rooms away for all you heard from him. His voice almost sounding like it came from underwater, barely able to pierce through the fog in your head.

It was only when the demon who sat across from you stabbed a fork through an eyeball on your plate, did your senses come back. Like a flipped switch, you could hear well again, in time to hear the disgusting squish of the organ, blood and fluids spilling as it was stabbed.

"Don't let it go cold now, my dear. I went through so much trouble to get them intact and still warm for you." Alastor smiled as he sat across you.

One of his elbows rested on the table, hand cradling his cheek as you met his gaze. The gleeful, cold red eyes sickened you much more than the gore he held up. He raised the fork to you. Your friend's eye at the end of it. "Say Aaah~"

You pressed your lips together. Whether to resist the cruel torture, or to keep the bile from coming out, you were unsure. 

Like a stubborn child, you shook your head, arms pushing against the table to get up from your seat. Alastor was behind you in seconds, dissolving and rematerializing through shadows faster than you could blink.

"Nuh uh, dearest. We don't waste good food in this Hotel. What would the papers say if they find out we throw away such scarce resource?" He pressed his body against the back of your chair, securing you back at the table with an easy push.

He leaned over your shoulder, long arms reached around you. You stared as his clawed hands planted themselves on the table in front of you, caging you in, framing that horrid plate.

You felt his breath by your ear, that horribly familiar static prickled your skin, before you heard him speak. "You know, I'm starting to think you like how your friends taste."

You swallowed against your dry throat, eyes wide. Every breath you took was shallow as you tried to shake your head only to be met with a mocking laugh.

"No? Come now, why lie, my dear? It's only us here." Alastor leaned closer over you. The heat of his body inescapable. "This is the third friend this month. Even a child would have learned by now." 

"I'm all you need, darling. Everyone else is just cattle." His voice distorted as he spoke, a threat, a promise, you knew from experience that he'd deliver on.

Faintly you could feel the weight of metal around your neck. It wasn't physically there, no. After all, it's been a while since you've given him a reason to summon that chain. But it never really ever felt absent, specially at times like this.

You sighed in resignation, and braced yourself for that familiar horrible taste. Your hands clenched into fists on your lap—a sight that delighted the demon behind you.

"You win." You said softly. Numbly, you parted your lips, mind wandering away as you let Alastor slide the fork into your slack mouth. You ignored what it was you were chewing, letting your body function through the motions as you fought to keep your thoughts else were. 

You felt a large hand pat your head, bringing you back to the present in time to hear Alastor's praise. "What a good pet you make, my dear."

The plate before you was empty now, Alastor's looming figure having retreated away from your shaking one, back in his seat in front of you.

The horrible rotten taste still lingered in your mouth, but you didn't bother to ask for something to wash it away. You simply stood up, ready to run to your room and force yourself to throw up—again.

"Hm? Running from me now, are we?" Alastor's brows raised as he watched you. "Not that you can, I own you, after all." 

You suspected his words were less of a reminder for you, and more on just him loving to say them.

"And why should I stay?" Your words seemed argumentative, but your tone and the hunch of your shoulders were anything but. "I've already finished my punishment."

"I would say it was more of a treat, really. You have no idea how much I wanted to eat those." He laughed, not really minding that you just stared back blankly at him.

"Besides, you've yet to pay me back for leaving me waiting at Rosie's. So come, sit." An invitation to most, an order to you.

So sat you did. You ignored the smudges of blood on the plate still in front of you. You ignored the bitter taste the that lingered in your mouth. You ignored the growing numbness spreading from your chest to the rest of your limbs.

You ignored yourself.

Mindlessly, you nodded along to whatever gossip Alastor had, almost immediately, began sharing with you.

Alastor's hold on you had tightened in the past few months. Not only had he pulled you away from the people at the hotel—you were apparently terribly ill, contagious, but fine under his care—but he had also confiscated your phone and TV.

The window in your room was also simply magicked away. He didn't want you getting any funny ideas of leaving him again, after all.

At first you were fine with it. You had a few books in your room, anyway. But after the first two weeks, you've already finished most of them.

Still, they kept you entertained for a little longer after that; you didn't really mind rereading them—for the fourth time, you think.

But then you had that fight with Alastor. You had asked for your phone back, desperate to know what was going on outside your room. Desperate to listen to your music. Desperate to hear another voice aside from your own.

Alastor merely waved off your concern. He let you keep his radio after all. You could simply listen to him. He talked about current events, and played music, and broadcasted all sorts of screams voices. You didn't need anything else.

He didn't quite take it nicely when you had spat that it wasn't enough.

In the fray that followed, your books were lost. Torn to shreds in seconds.

But no matter, you had thought. You still had some paper, a pencil, some paint. While you weren't the best artist around, you doodled the hours away, anyway. Coloring, sketching, filling out every plain, empty gap on the papers you had.

You were quickly running out of material, though. You'd repeatedly ask Alastor to get you more paper, another pencil, even an eraser, every time he came by. But all he kept saying was that he forgot to fetch some, and that he will surely do so next time.

You were always disappointed, but knew better than to start another fight. You didn't want to risk destroying what little paint you had left, after all.

You had began to doodle on your walls. Counting the little details on the wallpaper, even each and crack along your way. You had drawn everything you ever knew existed; from characters you used to liked when you were alive to a freaking sock on the floor. 

The friends he made you eat.

Hastily covered with a drawing of a deer.

By his next visit, Alastor was appalled by the state of your room. He didn't quite appreciate your vandalism. He promptly snapped his fingers and the walls were replaced. Your drawings gone, the wallpaper gone, even the cracks were gone. It was now just a smooth red surface. 

He had taken away the paint, not that there was much left at that point. You thought it was fair anyway, considering you did draw on the walls like an irresponsible child.

You tried cleaning too, just to keep your mind going, your body moving. But no, no, no. Alastor couldn't have his dear friend, and a valued hotel guest, doing such menial labor. 

He easily cleaned the room for you, not a speck of dust left. Barely any furniture left too—he had found them tacky, apparently.

At that point all you had to look forward to were Alastor's visits. Constant, they were. He insisted he brought you your food personally, of course.

You had been suspicious about what he was feeding you, even once outright questioning what you were eating.

He had laughed. "Unless you made any new friends from this room, I can assure you, you aren't eating any sinners, my dear."

You weren't sure how much his assurance was worth, but food was one of the only two things you actually had here. You didn't feel like giving that up, too.

You hated him. Hated him for keeping you here. Hated him for ignoring all your pleas to be let out.

You hated him, but still found yourself jumping from your bed as soon as you heard the door handle rattle. 

You hated him, but him coming to visit meant you had something to do.

The radio by your bed, and Alastor's frequent visits were all you had left.

The isolation was driving you insane, broken only whenever Alastor wanted to.

Alastor was driving you insane, but without him you were completely isolated.

Your sanity felt like a candle burning at both ends, melting far too fast for you to keep it together. You didn't know anymore which torture you preferred. Alastor's presence or absence?

At least, that was a few weeks back.

Because it wasn't like you needed to choose now.

Your food had been appearing on your side table every meal time, instead of coming in carried by the familiar demon.

The radio beside you had been silent for a long while now. Not one terrified scream, not one jazzy tune, not even empty static. 

And of course, Alastor himself hadn't come in to see you in weeks.

You think it's been weeks, at least. He took the clock with him last time he cleaned.

No, there was no need to pick your poison anymore. Alastor had chosen for you.

At first, you had been bitter. How dare he ignore you—or did he forget about you? God, no, he wouldn't. Right? —how dare he not even check in to see if you were even still alive.

How dare he not visit.

And then, you were worried. It was one thing for him not to pop in on you, another thing entirely to miss his shows. He'd never miss an opportunity to broadcast fear over Pride Ring, but your radio had been quiet this whole time. What was keeping him, then? Was he hurt? Was he okay?

Then, and you think it was the worst of them all, you started to miss him. From the moment you woke from restless slumber, your eyes fixated on the door handle, begging it to turn. Your chest ached, praying to hear his silly staticy voice again, even if it was just senseless gossip.

You felt like screaming, begging, pounding on the door for him to visit you. But you knew he wouldn't like that. No, if the others in the hotel found out, Alastor would likely never visit you ever again. 

So you kept to your bed. Your days spent glaring down at the door in desperation, switching only to the radio to do the same, for hours on end. Every little shift you made, the sheets moving under you, felt so deafeningly loud in the empty room.

It was almost maddening.

"My dear, I have a task for you." Alastor's cheery voice spoke up by your ear.

Your eyes snapped open, greeted by the sight of the demon leaning over your head.

"Nothing too difficult, just a little grocery shopping." He continued on as if he hadn't left you to rot.

You didn't care, nor did you register what his words meant. No, the first thing your body jumped to, your mind went to, was that Alastor was here.

"Al!" The glee in your voice unrestricted as you pushed your sheets away and threw your arms around him. The relief, the absolute refreshment, of feeling another warm body against you again was almost heavenly.

A soft hand patted at your shoulder as he awkwardly stayed there. "Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart." He laughed.

You sat up, eyes wide as you leaned away and took him in. Unmistakably, a very welcomed sight.

He told you about the chore he needed done, truly very simple. Just a literal grocery list. But you held onto every word, every charming staticy syllable falling from his lips as if he was preaching your religion. 

You were determined to memorize it all, not just to complete the task but to simply engrave his voice in your head.

You were so thankful to finally hear something other than your creaky bed. To finally be having a conversation again. To feel human.

It hadn't even click for you that you will finally be heading out.

You were quick in getting the task done, determined to get back to Alastor as fast as you could.

You hadn't notice how your skin thawed in the outside heat compared to the icy room you've been locked in. You hadn't paid mind to everyone's greetings around you. You didn't care for all the flashing lights, and tasty smells, and loud music and laughter and screams around you as finished you little assignment.

You wanted to get things done so you could be by the familiar demon again. His presence almost felt like a drug you've been deprived off for so long, that it physically irked you to be away.

And that's how it was from then on.

You were given a new room at the hotel. Alastor had replaced all the books he destroyed because he just felt so guilty. He had also finally remembered to buy you all those papers and art supplies you asked him to get you. And he had even returned your phone and television to you.

Not that you cared for any of those. You've spent most of your time in Alastor's room anyway, unable to stand a second without hearing his voice. 

You'd cling onto every word he'd say, attentive, obsessed.

Your eye would twitch every time he'd mention someone, anyone. Part of you irritated that he had spent time with someone else other than you. Even more so that he cared enough to remember their name. To say their name.

Soon you not only clung onto his words, but onto him as well. Unable to stand that others spent time with him when you could not. You'd miss meals, miss sleep, drop whatever you were doing to follow him wherever he went. To stay by Alastor's side. 

When he forbade you from doing so, you would follow in secret, or have your own little ways to spy on him. To know what he was doing.

The few times you were away from your owner's side, you could be found standing over a dead sinner. Maybe someone who touched him, maybe someone he mentioned, maybe someone who simply glanced at him for far too long for your liking. Regardless, they were all equally deserving of death in your eyes. How dare they.

Alastor knew of these, of course. And while he was quickly growing suffocated by your constant overbearing presence, he hadn't really bothered to say much.

He still preferred this—this grotesque reflection of his own affections for you—over your defiant little attitude before.

His last straw, however, was now. When you stood over yet another sinner. The light gone from their eyes as you still, repeatedly, shot at their corpse.

The green chain appeared in his clenched fist for the first time in a long while. The collar snapped shut around your neck, but you hadn't even noticed until he gave it a harsh yank.

You were pulled to the side, stumbling over the body by your feet. You looked up, confused, to see Alastor snarling down at you.

"I needed him alive, dear." He said, his annoyance barely kept under control.

"He touched you." You merely replied, as if it was the worst offense, worst sin, in Hell.

"Because we were making a deal, you stupid pest!" Alastor hissed through his teeth, but you merely blinked at him as if you didn't see his point still.

You stood up straighter, keeping your eyes on him. Always on him.

He was so beautiful, so perfect. Everything you needed.

Why had you ever wanted to find anyone more?

"But he still held your hand."

"I'll touch who I want to touch. Do not forget who holds the leash here." His eyes narrowed, chain pulling taught between you.

You smiled at him, loving the way his voice sounded when he was getting angry. It rarely happened now considering how good you were for him, but oh, did it sound like music to you.

Your hands lifted to softly run your hands through the chain by your neck. "You do, of course. I don't question that."

"I need you, Al." You added, soft, almost loving expression on your face as your adored his furious red eyes. "And while I can't force you to stay with me, alone. I can simply just get rid of everyone else. I can be your only one, if I'm the only one left."

"So you've finally flew off the handle, dearest?" His question seemed genuine, not at all in jest.

But you laughed anyway, as if it was the funniest thing ever. "And what if I have?" You grinned at him. "What will you do? Run from me?"

Your fingers gripped the chain suddenly, yanking yourself forward, closer to him. You feel his pull against the chain as well, not to bring you close but simply to keep hold of it. To keep hold of his control over you.

Your eyes lowered, admiring him from up close now. The flicker of uncertainty in his eyes was new, and you couldn't wait to see more new things from him now that you're so devastatingly devoted to him.

"You own me, remember? I'm here forever."

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Been a hot minute, my friends, and I'm sorry for that.

This is something that has been sitting in my drafts for a bit and with how long it's been taking me to get other work out, I figured why not even if I'm not fully pleased with it.

I hope you enjoy regardless 💛

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 910

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapping, Forced relationship, Murder (mentioned)

Please be nice, I don't write for this man often

“May I ask you something?”

It was a simple question, but one you regretted the moment it left your lips because of how it silenced the room.

Gone was the soft scratching of pen against paper as Chrollo looked toward your seated position, his expression thankfully that of neutrality mixed with a hint of slight intrigue.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap. Better than annoyance, you supposed.

“I just… I can’t stop thinking about it, and I have to ask...” Your fingers picked at the frayed ends of the couch while your graze returned to his. “Why me?”

He arched a brow, amusement creeping into his eyes. “Why you?”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Yes.” You replied with a little more conviction in your own tone this time. “Surely keeping one person alive when the rest were doomed to die is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Are you saying that you would’ve preferred to have shared the same fate as the rest of your fellow party go-ers?”

Your cringe followed by a beat of silence was more than enough of an answer, but you felt obligated to continue since you were the one who started this conversation in the first place.

“...No.” Your teeth found your bottom lip while you tried to gather your thoughts in a way you hoped would make sense, all while pushing the memory of the fundraiser-turned-bloodbath out of your mind. “I’m saying I don’t understand.”

Chrollo leaned back in his own seat, still looking directly at you. “You’re here to keep the police from doing anything foolish.”

“I know that!” The frustration in your chest made itself known. “But you could have taken anybody. One of the sponsors of the damn thing, or even some other random woman, yet you kept me alive. I want to know your reasoning for it.”

He didn’t seem upset by your outburst, if anything it just served to increase his growing interest in the conversation.

Likely because these were the most words you had ever spoken to him at a given time.

Bastard.

“I liked you.”

Such a simple answer, and one you did not expect from someone who typically played their cards so close to the chest. It threw you off whatever balance you mentally had, and you recovered with a scoff.

“You liked me?”

“Yes.”

A twitch went through your eye when he didn’t expand on that - the sound of pen on paper filling up the room once more. You refused to let the conversation die there.

“I don’t believe you.”

That was a lie, but one you were willing to risk if it meant bringing the topic back to life, and boy did it work.

Not only did he stop writing, he set the pen down on the desk in front of him and turned his whole body to face you. “Oh?”

Shit.

“I mean, I don’t know how you could decide using something like that in a situation that was such a spur of the moment.”

“What makes you think any of what I do is ‘spur of the moment’?”

That made you pause. He had a point there. In the short time that you knew him, he had proved himself to be anything but impulsive…

Your temples throbbed with a quickly encroaching headache.

“If it wasn’t, then what? Your choice was made before the bloodshed started?”

The words were spoken sarcastically, but you had no idea just how right you were until you saw his expression change from amused neutrality to one of…

Come to think of it, you had no idea what to call the look on his face. Admiration came closest to mind, but that didn’t feel right.

“You catch on fast, well done.”

You made a face, not a fan of the condescending tone. “So, what? If I’m not sacrificed to the cops in a hail of bullets, you’re going to keep me as some kind of pet?”

Amusement crept back onto his face. “Is that what you think?”

“If it is, I hope you know I’ll fight that with every fiber in my being.”

He hummed lowly, your promise of violence completely brushed to the side. “As intriguing as the notion is, I have no intention of doing such a thing to you.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

A small smile appeared on his face, but he didn’t answer, allowing you a moment to draw your own conclusions.

When you did, you frowned.

“Not a chance.”

“Why?”

You gave him an indignant look. “You can’t seriously expect me to willingly be with you after everything that has happened.”

“I don’t, hence your current circumstances.”

Silence filled the air again after that. A nice reminder that whatever outcome you could’ve hoped for during this exchange, you were doomed to lose regardless.

All you could do was shake your head in malcontent and pick at the frayed ends of the couch again, unable to come up with anything further to say.

More amusement flickered across his face. “You do not wish to be my pet, nor to be my lover.” He sat back ever so slightly in his chair. “Tell me then, what do you wish to be?”

“Free.” You replied without a sliver of hesitation, locking eyes again with him once more. “But we both know that will never happen, will it?”

Chrollo threatened to genuinely smile at your answer and he shook his head once.

“No. It won’t.”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2023. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.  

[captainhysunstuff]

That anon ask has haunted me with visions of Light Yagami in the nun outfit.

Your ask has haunted me with the vision too:

Not sure if being a satanic nun is the best move to convince the task force of your innocence, Light...

A saucy extension below the cut:

...but a sexy satanic nun flashing some gartered thigh might be even more questionable! Well, no one's ever accused Light of being sane. I'm sure he could successfully rationalize his way into making this choice make sense in his goal of manipulating the task force (or at least L).

My reasons: I've seen too many sexy nun!Alastors, so Light has to channel that, too. XD

[femalefemur]

1. Captains and Cabins.

warnings: mentions of child abuse, mentions of child death, mentions of murder, mentions of dead bodies, mentions of skeletons, mentions of desecrating graves, mentions of piss, please let me know if I missed anything!

word count: 1.2k

synopsis: Kyle, Simon, Johnny and you have volunteered at a summer camp, you've arrived a week early to help with preparations, what could go wrong?

A/N: I am aware that summer camps are not a thing in the UK, I'm also not American so I have no idea if this is accurate, summer camps are also not a thing where I live but camping with other groups are.

“There’s a legend that the camp is haunted, they say that the guy who originally owned this place went crazy and killed all the counsellors one night while they were asleep. Snapped, just like that” Johnny snapped his fingers to emphasise his point as he spoke, a grin spread across his handsome face. 

“Shut up, he did not, that’s just a story kids tell to scare each other” Kyle rolled his eyes as he carried a box into the hall and placed it down with the others. 

“He did too! How else do you explain them all disappearing?” Johnny frowned as he crossed his arms and pouted at the taller man. 

“They probably just got lost in the woods, probably went for a hike and didn’t stay on the path or something. These woods are huge so it’s pretty easy to get lost in them even now, imagine back then when they only had paper maps” Kyle rolled his eyes as he mirrored Johnny’s stance. 

“Whatever,” Johnny rolled his eyes back and turned his attention back to you “don’t listen to him bonnie, the guy definitely went crazy.” “Sure,” you laughed as you looked at them both “I have to say Kyle’s story sounds more plausible than a guy suddenly went crazy and killed everyone” you shrugged as you left the hall to bring in another box, the two men trailing behind you and bickering about what really happened.

The Camp that they were arguing about was the very camp that you were currently at, Camp 141. You had been hired as a camp counsellor for the summer along with your three best friends, Kyle, Johnny and Simon. The three of you were inseparable since you had met in high school and that friendship had carried over into your adult years. 

The four of you had been through it all, helped Simon leave his abusive home, been there for him when his family died, held his hands at the cemetery as he cried at his mother and brother’s grave. You had all watched him piss on his piece of shit father’s grave that very night, hell you’d even helped him smash the headstone and every one after that until they finally stopped replacing it. You’d all been there when Johnny’s family kicked him out for coming out as bisexual, taking him into your homes with open arms, just as you’d all taken Simon in. Been there when Kyle started feeling the pressure of getting into a good university. You’d reminded him to sleep and eat, dragged his fingers away from his mouth when he’d started to bite his nails down to the quick from the stress of it all.

You’d all moved in together into a flat half-way between Oxford and London when you had all finally graduated high school, free to finally escape your small town and leave behind the bad memories. Kyle’s rigorous studying had paid off and he’d been accepted into Oxford University, and Simon, Johnny and you had been accepted into various universities across London. None of you minded the commute as long as it meant you could stay together, your little found family. That all led to the present, you had all graduated university a good few years ago, settled into your jobs and moved together into an infinitely better flat, now that you all had a much better and stable income. 

It was Simon’s idea to volunteer as camp counsellors for the summer, he’d said it would be good for you all to get away from the city for a bit and be close to nature. Though you suspected that he wanted to do something for the children, the camp was for children aged thirteen to fourteen which placed them around the age that Simon’s brother was when he passed. After the three of you had sat around the dining table and looked at every inch of the brochure you’d all happily agreed, not that any of you needed convincing, not with the way Simon’s face had lit up when he talked about the camp. So you’d all taken time off and found yourselves packing into Johnny’s 4WD for the long trip up north to the camp, arriving a week before it was set to open to the children to help set up. 

The camp director hadn’t been there when you’d all arrived, but he had left a note explaining that he’d had to make a trip into town for some last minute hardware supplies. He had also left instructions to bring in the boxes from the storage shed and into the main hall, along with where your counsellors' cabins were and told you to make yourselves at home. You’d all worked tirelessly for the whole afternoon, bringing the boxes in and unpacking the various supplies and activities from them, the thought of children happily following along with the activities making you smile. Your childhoods may not have been the best but you sure as hell could make these children’s childhoods a good one, even if it was only for a couple of weeks. 

“Where do you think the director is?” You had sat down outside on the steps up to the main hall, a cold bottle of water in your hands as you relaxed. 

“Who knows, should have definitely been back by now” Simon frowned as he glanced at the setting sun on the horizon, shades of pink and orange painting the sky as he leaned back on his arms and tapped his boot against yours, a silent “I love you.”

The director still hadn’t returned by nightfall and you’d all made yourselves right at home, settling into the cabin before exploring the kitchen and making dinner. You’d finally settled in for the night, showered away the grime and sweat of the day before slipping into a comfortable pair of cotton sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Kyle. It had already been oversized on him and on you it was even larger, it also somehow still smelled of him no matter how many times it got washed, the warm scent of musk, honey and oud clinging to the fibres of the fabric. 

“You know they say he used to be a SAS Captain” Johnny spoke as he lay on his bunk bed and scrolled on his phone before Kyle smacked it out of his hand and onto his face.

“Stop talking about that, we really don’t need to hear about a murderous camp director right before we go to bed at said camp” Kyle scowled as he was hit in the face with Johnny’s pillow. 

“Someone scared?” Johnny teased him as he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “He’s right, it’s just unsettling to hear about it right before bed” You huffed as you watched the two play wrestle and laugh, snuggling in further under the covers while Simon joined in on the wrestling. 

“Am just saying that he could have snapped, probably saw a lot of shit as a Captain, and it could have gotten to him” Johnny shrugged as the three of them lay sprawled out after the wrestling. “Probably knew how to kill them quietly and hide the bodies too” he kept speaking, “maybe they’re buried under the floorboard” Johnny laughed as your pillow hit his face.

“Please shut up, I don’t need to think about sleeping on top of literal dead bodies” You frowned at him as you picked your pillow up and tucked it back under your head, closing your eyes in hopes that you would fall asleep soon and not dream of skeletons or murderers. Failing to notice the shadow that passed by the window behind the men.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

btw i saw a post that talked about the criticism on spop’s portrayal of war and the person basically said that “war isn’t the main theme of the show, it’s the emotional conflict”. and like?? the creators didn’t have to bring war into it then. you can write stories about emotional and interpersonal conflict and the cycle of abuse, without having to make it about war. and a story can focus on multiple issues at once, if the writers are competent enough.

if spop wasn’t about war, the creators could have just made it a normal highschool drama or something. there was no need to make it a she-ra reboot, especially considering the fact that they insulted the original and changed everything except for the character names. if you don’t want to focus on a specific theme, you don’t write it into your story. simple as that. it’s like writing a dystopian novel with no critique on real-world social issues. that’s what dystopia is all about, you can’t just say “well my story focuses more on the characters than the dystopian world they’re in”. just don’t write dystopia then.

and this is WAR we’re talking about. it’s not a fantasy trope, it’s a very real issue. if you’re going to include something like that in your narrative, you have to be prepared to address it with the seriousness it deserves, and not make light of it. acting like war is just this petty little pillowfight is irresponsible at best and outright insensitive at worst.

[dead-air-radio]

Sigh thinking about cults. And my religious truama tw.

Just imagining being super depressed and very emotional and having someone come into my life that is so normal and unassuming at first. Slowly they become a part of my everyday life and their little gestures make me trust them more and more and they are so caring that I become so codependent on them so when they start asking for weirder and weirder things I don't think anything of it. They start managing my diet but I assume they're just trying to help me and they know I want to lose weight even if they feed me weird things.

Or they start having me wear a certain thing almost as a claim. Before it turns into me being so dependent on them I'd do anything and so when I get so sad and sleepy but have the urge to cut I don't see it as a problem when they offer to do it for me. Slicing at my legs before kissing them. At this point they're so friendly and guiding they love to brush my hair and give me things and do things I'd usually do by myself like bathe me. Until I'm just some little lamb for them.

I'm so trusting of them when they say they have smth for me I think nothing about why I need to dress in the white gown they got me and all the jewelry they got me in the past as well as eat a piece of bread thay hes me woozey. And how they want me to wear bows in my hair and be bathed in a certain soap they like until we get into their car and they blindfold me for the surprise it's already Evening when we leave and once we get their they carry me to the surprise.

At first I assume we are just having a little romantic fire in the woods. I can hear the crunch under their feet from the leaves and the birds and other wild life. And the crackle of fire and the heat as we walk past it and I'm placed on smth like stone. When my blindfold is taking off I'm on an altar of sorts and there's a fire ahead of me as well as a bunch of people in masks. Of course I'm frightened holding onto the person I came with arm before they shush me. There's candles and statues around me as well as flowers and by the atlar is a bowl for offerings. The person sits beside me unphased as I cling to them, scared of what's happening. And they address the people. Not realizing he's a leader of the cult and all the jewelry and clothes they've been giving me are actually not only from them but his people as well. All their followers have known a out me for a long time giving them offerings to give the cult leaders little pet, his lamb. When he's done speaking to them he turns to me telling me to lay on the altar stone as he gets on top of me as the watchers look on. He cuts open my wrists while I whimper and shake and push against him confused. He cuts his wrists as well mixing his bleed with mine before licking at his wrists and he puts his wrist by my mouth for me to lick up as well.

Some of the followers that are dressed differently go on to give a spot of sermon as if I'm not whimpering behind them as the leader continues to assualt me and push up the white gown. The sermon is about needing to view the leader take what's his and have smth resemble the lamb and religious symbol of their cult and how I'm the image they should look up to cause the leader has chose me as his lamb to mark infront of them to make me his forever. Him cutting me open by carving his name into my stomach as he fucks me on the altar while his people watch

[bunnieswithknives]

*kills you to death*

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 31 (Headache/Migraine) - @badthingshappenbingo

Red X for posted, white X for requested! Send in your requests! If you don’t see a prompt here that you already requested, please send it again!

~

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Contents: sick fic, past captivity, unsure of reality, past forced confession, past offscreen murder of a child, self-hatred, past hallucinations, past murder, fear of taking pills, so much angst

~

The cloying sensation of pain reached Gavin through heavy waves of nausea and exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced as the pain sharpened to a hot, pulsing point behind his left eye. A chill shuddered over his shoulders, down his spine, back up into the tight muscles of his neck. His own clammy fingers pressed against his forehead in a feeble attempt to relieve the pain.

There was no relief, down here in the basement.

He was a little warm, at least, under the three blankets he had earned with his confessions. They hadn’t been wild and desperate, like the confessions pried out of him by the drugs or the razor-sharp edge of Schiester’s knife. Each one had been deliberate. He had known the bargain he was making with each one.

“My coming back was my fault. Not theirs. I… I sh-should have died. It wasn’t their fault.”

“I… I shot Gray. In the chest. Back when I was… when I was still fighting them. I shot them in the chest and left them to die.”

“Wh-when I was sixteen, my mother offered me a child… I see it was a test, I see that now, but at the time I just saw a plaything that I knew I should – that I knew how to hurt. I… I killed her. Quickly. I—”

Schiester had backhanded him across the mouth before he could finish the sentence.

Each confession had been worth it. Each one had come with a beating that had left Gavin screaming in pain, but each was worth it. He had confessed his crimes to someone who would punish him for them, and properly, not with easy forgiveness. And what was more – each confession earned him a blanket that held off the cold. Still, despite the blankets over him, he shivered with cold sweat.

He didn’t try to raise his head or look around. He simply lay still, frozen in place with the pain, trying and failing to cease to exist. Terror was a steady thrum alongside his heartbeat, as he knew at any moment his tormentor would return and use this agony against him. There was nothing he could do to stop that now. He could no sooner stop the pain than he could stop the sluggish beat of his own heart, matching the dull thud within his own head. Each breath whooshed softly into his nose, huffed softly out of his mouth. His body was a heap of mechanical processes that carried on, even as his every reason for living had abandoned him here. His life was simply a serious of moments extended by the sadistic whims of the man still keeping him alive. Schiester made his commands, and his body obeyed. Nothing would stop the pain. There was no such thing as relief in this basement. There was no ice, no rizatriptan, no mercy.

Isaac had stopped looking—

“Gavin.”

Gavin cried out and flung himself upright. Isaac stood at the side of the bed, one hand outstretched and almost touching him. Gavin quaked with each panting breath as his arms shook under him and finally collapsed. Pain seared behind his eyes as he stared up at Isaac, who was starting to blur with tears.

“Are you alright?” Isaac murmured.

“You… g-got me out,” Gavin croaked. His mouth was so dry. His left eye felt like it was starting to melt out of his head.

Isaac sat carefully on the side of the bed, hand still outstretched. His fingers gently brushed through Gavin’s hair – Gavin realized then that it was soaked with sweat. “Yes,” Isaac said heavily. “I… I got you out, Gavin. Bad dream? Or…?”

“Migraine,” Gavin said, and pressed his face against the pillow. “Isaac, I—” He shoved a hand against his own mouth and dry heaved.

“Gray brought your rizatriptan,” Isaac said, rising again. Gavin groaned as the bed jostled. “Let me go get you some.”

“A-and water,” Gavin said weakly. “Please.”

“Sure,” Isaac said as he left the room.

Gavin trembled and clutched at the pillow beneath his head. As much as it pained him, he forced himself to look around, to take in the sight of the room – the peeling paint on the walls, the curtains lit by the sun slanting into the windows, the warmth of the light, the size of the room. It looked nothing like the cold, dark basement that had been his prison for what had felt like months. It felt nothing like the cramped, cruel cell where he had been kept. When Isaac entered the room again with a glass of water and a pill pinched between his fingers, the tears in Gavin’s eyes spilled over.

“N-not fucking going back,” he rasped. He dropped his head and muffled a sob against his pillow as Isaac sat beside him once more.

“No way,” Isaac said, every word sounding strained. He held the pill to Gavin’s lips, and Gavin took it, willingly.

Schiester could have drugged me this way.

The thought was a brick in Gavin’s stomach. He could have put it in my food. He didn’t have to fucking… inject it. But… An entirely different thought crossed his mind that brought a chill to his heart. This could all still be a hallucination. This could just be how he’s keeping me drugged.

As Isaac tipped the glass of water to Gavin’s lips, Gavin hesitated. Isaac froze with the glass still held out. “You alright?” Isaac rasped.

Gavin trembled as he raised his gaze to Isaac. Isaac’s eyes were brown, not blue. And he hadn’t hurt Gavin at all. Not yet. But Schiester could be playing the long game. After all, he’d been playing the long game by letting Gavin think he had escaped to the north safely back in May. This could all just be another fucking joke to him, like faking the hanging after he murdered Lucy and Topher.

Isaac swallowed hard. “Gavin?” he said softly. “Is… What—”

Gavin raised a shaking hand and dug the pill out of his mouth. It was already beginning to disintegrate and leave a gritty residue on his tongue. He stared at it between his fingers, then looked back to Isaac again.

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together. “Gavin, what are you—”

“What happens to me if I don’t take this?” Gavin breathed. Light pulsed on the left side of his vision.

Isaac’s eyes widened. “What happens…? Nothing, Gavin, nothing happens to you. Except maybe your migraine doesn’t get much better. I don’t…” He reached out to gently stroke Gavin’s cheek.

Gavin flinched at the contact. Isaac jerked his hand back like Gavin had bitten him.

“Gavin,” Isaac said, realization crossing his face. “No. This isn’t… come on, Gavin, this is—”

“Prove it, then.” The words barely made a sound as they passed Gavin’s lips. He reached over to the nightstand and rolled his fingers together until the sticky pill dropped onto the wood. He nearly threw up then, just from the effort of holding himself up with his head pounding so ferociously. Shaking, he returned his gaze to Isaac – or the specter that could be wearing Isaac’s form. He braced for the collapse of the illusion: the sneer of contempt, the flash of violence in Isaac’s eyes, the snap of his fingers as he ordered the guards who must be currently outside of Gavin’s vision to step into the cell with him and hold him down and hurt him—

Instead, a horrible, guilty brokenness crawled across Isaac’s face. The lines around his eyes deepened, and a terrible sadness tugged at his mouth. He held his hands out, at his sides, empty and harmless. His eyes swam with helpless tears.

“I… w-won’t make you take anything you don’t want to, Gavin,” he said weakly. “I was just trying to help.”

Gavin’s throat tightened, and he could feel nothing but heat and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and grasped at the relief of the momentary darkness. Then, he blinked his eyes open and reached for Isaac. Isaac’s shoulders fell, and he let Gavin take his hand.

“P-please,” Gavin whispered. “Please, I just…” He sobbed weakly and whimpered when that only ratcheted up the pain in his head.

“Here,” Isaac said, tears falling down his own cheeks. He guided Gavin to lay down again and stretched out beside him. “No… no pills. Just… I can just be with you. And hold you. Would that be… would that… help?”

“Yeah,” Gavin croaked, his throat still tight. He could barely see out of his left eye, and every heartbeat was agony. Still, Isaac was here. Isaac had his hands on him, and was pulling him close, and was holding him. He buried his face in Isaac’s chest and let out another broken sob.

Even as he shivered and twisted in Isaac’s arms from the pain, his heartrate slowed. The Isaac holding him was solid and real, even nothing else in the world was.

Something prickled in the back of Gavin’s mind. He swallowed hard, swallowed back the terror and pain that quivered beneath his skin; the Isaac holding him was real, because Daniel Schiester would never, ever have allowed Gavin Uriah to say no to him. The pill lay on the nightstand beside the bed still, beside the untouched water glass.

Continued here

@womping-grounds ​, @free-2bmee ​, @quirkykayleetam ​, @walkingchemicalfire ​, @inpainandsuffering ​, @redwingedwhump ​, @burtlederp ​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog ​ , @whatwhumpcomments ​, @whumpywhumper ​, @stxck-fxck ​, @whumps-the-word ​, @justplainwhump ​, @finder-of-rings ​, @inky-whump ​, @orchidscript ​, @inkyinsanity ​, @this-mightaswell-happen ​, @newandfiguringitout ​, @whumpkitty ​, @pretty-face-breaker ​, @pebbledriscoll ​, @im-just-here-for-the-whump ​, @endless-whump ​, @grizzlie70 ​, @oops-its-whump ​, @kixngiggles​, @1phoenixfeather ​ , @butwhatifyouwrite ​, @carnagecardinal , @whumpifi , @squishablesunbeam

[genderkoolaid]

The Transgender Welfare Equity and Empowerment Trust (TWEET) Foundation, which runs Asra Shelter Home in Gurugram's DLF Phase 3, said that a police inspector from Uttar Pradesh barged into the shelter home wearing his uniform on 1 September at around 12:15 pm. Accompanying him were his wife, his elder son, and two unknown persons. The phones of Sehgal and Gomes were also snatched and they were not allowed to contact their lawyers or other officials associated with the non-governmental organisation (NGO). Put in the vehicle, the transmen were also beaten and "threatened," as they were asked to reveal the location of the police official's son. They were then taken to DLF Phase-3 police station and beaten there as well, TWEET alleged. They also said that the local police did not do anything to prevent the four men from thrashing the transmen.

[serafimo]

To seek revenge may lead to Hell; everyone does it, though seldom as well... As Sweeney... As Sweeney Todd... The Demon Barber of Fleet Street! Josh Groban in the title role, 2023. @theriddletrades' master.

[queerbauten]

Also, vaspider acknowledging that Israel created Hamas yet treating Israel as. like. an innocent little guy is just. that is what nationalist psychic rot will do to you.

[pamgkrthwrites]

Hi! I'm curious about LMK yanderes x reader in a scenario where they have kids, but like after some time passed kids are teenagers and start to date, especially daughters, what would be daddy's reactions? Would reader be able to stop them from making the potential boyfriend dissapear? :3

Wukong, Macaque, Nezha, Red Son, Mk

This took me two days and one church service to finish. My head hurts from the amount of Pepsi I've had.

Support me here

Warning, the following content has disturbing/triggering themes such as; Yandere Themes, Unhealthy/Abusive Relationships, Mentions of past Forced Pregnancy, Stalking, Bodily Harm(Breaking legs), Kidnapping, Burning/Arson, Murder, Mentions the Dugger Family(from 19 Kids and Counting/Counting On), and others. I do not support or encourage these themes or actions, they are merely written fictional events for entertainment. The character(s) depicted within this post are over the age of 20.

Wukong

As I've alluded to this in past posts, Wukong only has children with you so he can have control over you.

But once one of your children starts having a romantic interest?

There's something that snaps inside of him.

He suddenly becomes extremely overprotective of your children, growls are their partners and will tell the love interest he doesn't approve of them dating his baby princess/prince.

If you are able to stop him following after your child while they are on their date, he will be grumbling while you rub his head.

Macaque

Similar to Wukong, something will snap deep inside of him.

"Your- Your boy/girlfriend?"

Will stalk your child on their date, will stalk the romantic interest back to their him, will learn everything about them.

If he finds out that the partner does anything, even something small like not washing their hands after going to the bathroom, he will tell your child they aren't allowed to date them.

It is extremely hard to get his permission to date any of his children.

MK

It will fly over his head when he first learns of it and does the slowest double-take.

Will be like days later when he's shopping as his smile just drops from his face as he goes "Wait hold on-"

Rushes home(after paying of course), barging into the house with tears in his eyes "MY BABY IS DATING?!"

Is actually rather supportive, just makes sure his baby isn't going to get hurt.

OH AND IF THEY EVER BREAK UP THEN THE EX WILL HAVE BROKEN LEGS.

Red Son

Tries his fucking best to keep himself sane.

One the outside, he seems rather cold about the situation. In reality, he has a burning rage regarding.

Better pray for whoever is dating your child cause the moment he even heard his child being upset about something the other did, it's death.

They will go missing, they will be burnt alive, and their teeth will be removed from their body.

"Sorrows sorrows prayers."

Nezha

I don't think Nezha will ever be ready for any of their children to have a romantic life. Emotionally, anyway.

I think Nezha would have a rule where their children aren't allowed to date until their coming-of-age ceremonies(Apparently it's called The Guan Li for men and Ji Li for women and from what I can tell the ages are between 15-20).

Are you aware of the Dugger family? If you are, you might be aware that the father has a quiz the would-be sons-in-law have to do before they can date his daughters. I feel as if Nezha would do this too. However, if there is even one answer he doesn't like then it's a no.

Nezha will insist on sitting through all the dates to make sure their little lotus is safe and happy.

Unlike the others on this list though, if the child expresses to Nezha that they really do like the person and want to date them, Nezha is going to let go and let them date. They watch from afar and make sure their child is safe, but they will let their Lotus bloom.

[pareidolla]

// tw abuse rant (nothing angry just moreso exasperated)

i'm going to admit that while i'm enthusiastic for the pristine cut, i'm also a little concerned canon will politely dismiss the tower's abusive elements, and if that happens then i might?? scream????