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ghouldump · 8 months ago

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hi your fics are so amazing!!

if you’re open to requests, i was wondering if you could write a lestat x louis x reader fic that takes place during their huge fight in the townhouse? i can imagine the reader being a mother figure to claudia and trying to protect her during it and getting hurt in the process of trying to break up louis and lestat. i’d love to see how the reader deals with the aftermath of her and louis’ injuries as well as claudia taking care of the two of them.

sorry if its confusing😭 i thought of this while rewatching s1

For The Love Of A Daughter | Lestat x Reader x Louis

ෆ out of fear, lestat does the unimaginable and has to try his hardest to win his family's trust back, but it may be too late

the comparison of s1 vs s2 of this scene had me on the edge of my seat 🥺 ⚠️ THIS IS S1 E5 ‼️

How did your once beautiful family go to ruins? When Claudia was created? When she rebelled? Or when she left? Your daughter, you would go to hell and back for her, yet, you couldn't convince her to stay.

Lestat was cruelly strict with her, invading her privacy by reading her diaries, not considering the fact that she was trapped in the early stages of puberty for an eternity. She couldn't help that she was a young girl stuck in this body, and he never let her forget or made it easier on her.

Louis, he'd always been passive, about your companionship, as well as his role as a parent. He wanted to keep the peace and harmony. If that meant allowing Lestat to discipline her, then he’d turn his head to not have to watch out of guilt.

Then you, Lestat often complained that you spoiled her too much. You never raised a finger to her, nor your voice. You hadn't been brought up that way, and so you did the same with her. You still remember the night she left. Packing only a few things, while you and Louis tried convincing her to stay. Standing her ground, she gave you both a hug, letting the wind carry her away.

Seven years flew by, silence made its way into the house that no longer felt like a home. Louis nose-deep in book after book, Lestat leaving going god knows where, while you remained secluded, drawing, reading, and sometimes staring at the wall.

Tonight was a rarity, Lestat wasn't running off, and Louis sat on the sofa, reading, while you sat in a chair, your head lying on your arm, taking in the soft jazz music.

Hearing the door open, Claudia entered, setting her suitcase on the floor. Rushing over, you wrapped your arms around her, rocking back and forth. Pulling away, your heart broke as Louis hugged her tightly. He too had been taking it so hard, since she had been gone. Abruptly, the music stopped, Lestat glaring at her.

“The prodigal daughter”

“I've come to apologize, I put all of you in a bad spot, I wasn't right in my head. I am now,” she said. You couldn't put your finger on it, but there was something different about her, a certain brokenness, she was trying to shut away.

“Apology not accepted,” Lestat said.

“How was college? Magna cum? Summa cum? Phi Beta Kappa?” he continued.

“I've read a lot of books. Started with Persia and Babylon, the old gods who longed for blood. A lot of it was popcorn, but a few old tomes. A Romanian tract on vampirs. A strange old Hungarian text, ‘Masticatione Mortuorum,’ the chewing dead. I plan to leave for that part of the world as soon as I can,” she told him. You and Louis shared a look, sensing that this wasn't headed in a positive direction.

“So, quick stop home to do laundry before you fuck off for good,” Lestat spat.

“A quick stop to pick up my mama and Louis,” she told him. Your hand went to your stomach, trying to control the unsettling nervousness building up. Lestat glanced at the two of you, before glaring at her in disgust.

“Oh, Perused a few folklore anthologies, and now you're going to cross the ocean and take on a society of monsters,” he said, slowly making his way towards her.

“If what I've read is lies, then tell me what's true,” she told him, but he only continued to stare at her as if she was beneath him.

“Seven years and what’s changed, other than you need a housekeeper?” she sneered. He slowly approached her, and as you were about to step forward to intervene, Louis grabbed your hand, discreetly shaking his head.

“The vampires out there…are vicious. Oh, but you've learned that already. Who did you meet out there in the American hinterland? Read her,” Lestat looked at the two of you, walking away. Staring at her, you quickly wiped the tear from your eye, you couldn't imagine what she had been through all on her own.

“That’s it, keep 'em scared. That's his way,” she said to you both.

“The vampires in Europe are much, much worse”

“But I think he's scared,” she spoke over him.

“I never asked, how did Charlie taste? Like the love you'll never really know,” he said, trying to get under her skin.

“And when he's scared, he ridicules”

“She was a destitute little girl, destined to live an inconsequential little life,” he said, approaching the both of you.

“And we took it from her, we cursed her,” Louis said, making the smug expression drop from his face. Looking at you, his frown deepened, seeing you gaze at her, the bloody tears moments from seeping out.

“Come with me!” she called out, both of you staring at her.

“Come with me, mama, Louis”

“Louis, Y/n,” Lestat said, becoming angry as neither of you looked at him.

“I thought I could live without either of you, but I was wrong,” Claudia said, her eyes pleading for you to come along.

“Y/n, Louis”

“Louis, Y/n,” Lestat continued, raising his voice.

“His love is a small box he keeps you both in, don't stay in it,” she said, as you glanced at him.

“A thousand nights of sulking, and the first sight of her, you are just gonna up and leave me?!” Lestat yelled.

“Please, come with me! Let’s be vampires worth of your love!” Claudia screamed before Lestat surged, choking her.

“Get off of her,” you said, going to shove him off of her. However, he was much stronger, gaining the upper hand, his fingers wrapping around your throat, he looked unrecognizable.

“You, always choosing her,” he spat, before Louis charged over, tackling him.

As they fought, Claudia screamed, panicking, as you tried to keep up with them. Throwing Louis in the living room. Lestat straddled him, punching him in the face.

“Lestat, stop it,” you cried out, jumping on his back, but he easily slung you across the room, as you smashed into the wall, you could feel your arm already broken.

“Claudia, stay down here,” you told her, rushing to the bedroom.

“Stop fighting,” you screamed, as they continued tackling each other.

“Let him go,” you hear Claudia crying.

“It’s alright, you stay where you're at,” Louis told her, as if he wasn't completely bruised up.

“You're going to choose her too? Leave me for her when she left you both, I’ve been here,” he told you, as you slowly backed away, unsure of what he'd do next.

“Lestat st-

“Do not tell me what to do,” he told you, wrapping his hand around your throat, and pulling you close. His nails were in your skin, with your airway completely blocked.

Dragging both of you downstairs, and outside, you could hear Claudia running.

“I fought myself a million times, fought my nature, controlled my temper. I never once harmed either of you,” he said.

“Let him go,” you cried, hoarsely, trying to claw at his hand, while reaching for Louis.

“Silence,” he told you.

“Uncle Les”

“It's Uncle Les, now suddenly?”

“Let them go, they didn't do nothin’, let them go, it's me you want,” you could hear her steps approaching.

“Listen to me, and listen very carefully my infant death, it was never you. No matter how much your mama made you think otherwise,” he spat, crushing your throat, and dragging you both out into the road.

“I chose you, and you, given you the dark gift and you've betrayed me,” he said, biting into your neck, draining almost every ounce of blood from your body, before throwing you, watching as you flew into the backyard, colliding with bricks, you could feel your rib cage shatter.

However, as you stood up, you quickly fell to your knees in pain and fear for Louis’s life, watching as they flew into the sky to the point where they were no longer seen.

“Mama, are you alright?” Claudia ran to you, reaching for her hand, your other hand on your throat. You couldn't speak, Lestat’s nails had managed to pierce through. Claudia gasped, as you coughed, blood spilling out.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“I’m okay, we just need to get Louis,” she said, helping you stand, however, just as you stood, Louis fell from the sky, hitting the ground. Limping over, you were afraid to touch him, the slightest touch looked as if it would break him even more.

Crying, you looked up, staring into Lestat’s eyes as he flew over you all, not saying a word. You couldn't say it, but from your expression, there was no way you could easily forgive him after this.

Healing was a struggle, not just from the physical damage, but any previous trust was gone. While you managed to bounce back within a few months, Louis had a long way to go. Lestat skipped town and hadn't bothered to show his face.

You avoided thinking about him, altogether. Dedicating yourself to Claudia and Louis, from coffin-bound to limping, every day was progress. Louis was slowly getting better and you both worked on strengthing your bond with Claudia. Then the calls started coming.

All of this time, you managed to push through the soreness and pain, but the moment he called you hid away, licking your eternal wounds. He was a completely different person that night, the things he said, the things he'd done. After Louis fully healed, you were no longer opposed to the idea of leaving for Europe with Claudia.

Hearing the doorbell ringing, you turned your head, watching as Claudia went outside. You could hear his voice, he had gifts, and he wanted to talk, to apologize. Louis went upstairs, throwing his coffin out of the window, you couldn't help but snicker.

“There’s your answer”

“And where is Y/n? I know she would enjoy these paints, they are rare. I paid quite a price because I knew she would make the most beautiful-

“My mama ain't got nothin’ to say to you, like you said, she betrayed you, choosing me,” she told him, shutting the door, and locking it.

Coming back to the living room, she glanced your way before to Louis, who came from upstairs. As Louis sat next to you, you pulled him close.

“You okay?” you asked him.

“Getting there,” he mumbled, smiling as you kissed his cheek.

Lestat didn't show his face anymore, but the gifts never stopped. Each time more spontaneous than the next, and while you knew, Louis was becoming weaker, you wished you could say the same for yourself.

“Emily Dickinson is not a vampire,” Louis said, as you laughed.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because she is dead,” you pointed out.

“How do you know?”

“She got a grave,” Louis said.

“And a tombstone,” you added.

“So do you,” She told Louis, all of you laughing, afterward.

As you crossed the streets, the driver honked their horn, as they slowly came to a stop in front of you. Opening the door, Lestat climbed out, smiling at you all. Rolling your eyes, you simply looked the other way.

“25 horsepower Rolls-Royce six-cylinder engine and a front end they call a coffin nose, is that rich? This one’s yours, mine’s back at home in blue,” he said, showing off the new car, and tossing the keys to Louis.

“I know how much you despise driving, so I got you other things, the finest fabrics, books, art supplies, and music, waiting for you at home, I'm back in town permanently,” he continued, looking your way, but you just stared off to the side, as if you didn't see him.

“Were you gone?” Claudia asked him.

“Across the river, in Algiers,” he said, you could still feel his eyes on the two of you.

“You know who lives in Algiers” Claudia said to you, as you clenched your jaw.

“I don't know what possessed me that night,” he said.

“Three years ago, that night, three years ago, he means,” Claudia corrected him.

“I was someone I don't want to be anymore. I've changed. Let me prove it to you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nothing without any of you”

“If you want me to go away, just say so. I’ll obey you. I’ll leave your lives forever. This silence is cruel, all I ask is that Y/n looks at me. You haven't spared me a glance since I've been here. Neither of you were ever cruel, don't let our situation change you,” he said.

“Just look at him,” Louis pleaded.

Turning to face him, he cleared his throat, straightening his posture. You didn't say anything, emotionlessly staring at him.

“You look stunning as always, ma chérie,” he complimented, his heart breaking as you looked away again.

Taking the keys, Claudia threw them, before scratching the car, reaching for your hand, walking away.

Six years, came and went, and more gifts flooded the house. It was unspoken between you and Louis that you both missed him. Although it looked different, Louis wanted him to come running back, each extravagant, but sentimental gift was tugging more and more at Louis’s heart. You preferred the distance, reminiscing on the past, before that night. You didn't think you could have that back, now, you secretly enjoyed every time he saw you, or wrote to you, begging that you would acknowledge him.

Unexpectedly, it happened, the record came in the mail and was immediately played. The song meant to win you both back while pissing you off, a song sung by his affair partner. Louis was seething, grabbing the record, and ran out of the house.

“You're not going with him?” Claudia asked.

“They will be back,” you mumbled, knowing his plan worked, he got through to Louis and would be coming back.

“Rule number four-

“Kill Antoinette”

“Antoinette is my own private-

“Affair,” Claudia said.

“Said child, interfering in the romantic lives of her parents,” Lestat said, wanting one of you to stop her. She had been sharp with him since the moment he stepped into the house.

“She will be 33 soon, far from a child,” you reminded him, rolling your eyes.

“It’s a lick and a promise in vampire years,” he shrugged.

“Maybe, but I am not your child anymore, that's rule number five,” Claudia said, catching his attention.

His eyes shifted from her to you, your interlocked hands. She had you, wrapped around her fingers, taken from him. Louis was more willing to work on the broken relationship, but you had shut him out, choosing your child.

“I’ll be your companion, your sister,” she told him, as he scoffed.

“It's not as simple as choosing a new family configuration, now I'm your cousin, now I'm your aunt, I am your maker,” he told her rudely.

“I’m going to bed,” you said, standing abruptly, he looked into your cold eyes, searching for any emotion.

“Will you not lay down your rules, as well?” he asked, sarcastically.

“Good night,” was all you said, turning away, going upstairs.

“She needs time,” you could hear Louis say.

Did you need more time? You didn't go through nearly as much as Louis and he managed to forgive him, why couldn't you? You were never maternal until Claudia came along, perhaps it came with being a mother. The way that he treated her, turned you against him. As much as you loved him, thinking back to the times you were spoiled, lavished as if you were royalty, you couldn't bring yourself to open up.

Hunting became insufferable. Louis began drinking human blood, it was supposed to bring everyone closer, hunting as a family, but you kept your distance. He knew he'd wounded you, his choice of words hurting you just as bad, and he'd have to be more persistent to win you back.

“I wished you’d look at me, the simplest glance would help me a great deal,” he said, following you, sighing in relief as you faced him.

“Happy?”

“You have my heart at your will, your precious words command me, and I would do anything you ask of me,” he said, trying to fight the tears, as you slowly approached him.

“Take up your heart, I wouldn't want you to feel betrayed when I don't choose you,” you said, turning around, leaving him to stand there and try to gather his emotions.

“Could you at least try to compromise?” Louis asked you, as you looked through the different fabrics in the store.

“I am-

“No, you're not, you put your coffin in Claudia’s room, and the other night, whatever you said, he cried himself to sleep”

“Aw, poor baby,” you said, placing the fabrics into Louis’ arms.

“You agreed that we would work things out, everybody is compromising trying to work through our problems, we need you too,” he said, pouting, as you approached the cash register.

“Fine, I hate when you give me that look,” you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“Thank you, I love you,” you grinned.

“I love you,” you laughed, pecking his lips.

Later that night, after putting away your things, and changing into your nightgown, you were about to into Claudia’s room, when you stopped. Huffing, you went to your shared bedroom, opening the door.

“Did she say anything? I left a note, but she never responds,” Lestat grumbled.

“I talked with her, but it is up to her to make a decision,” Louis said.

“I hope you don't expect us to squeeze that coffin,” you said, making both of them face you.

“We could always sleep in the bed,” Louis offered, both of them approaching you.

‘Thank you’ he said, as you faced Lestat.

“Will you keep that stupid look on your face, or will you speak?” you asked.

“I didn't know it was okay for me to do so,” he chuckled.

“Y/n is willing to compromise, she hasn't said it verbally, but she does still love you,” Louis spoke, as you stared at the two of them.

“Ma chérie, if I could take back what I've said, what I’ve done-

“But you can't”

“I can't, and I will have to live with the burden of knowing I hurt you and Louis both, your role in Claudia’s life was never a problem, I am sorry, my love,” he said, walking to you, falling to his knees in front of you. His head laid against your stomach, and he continued to apologize profusely.

“To have you look at me, after months of refusal, even if it is a look of anger, is to see heaven,” he said, looking up at you. Reaching for his hand, you helped him stand, pecking his lips. Holding your hand out for Louis, as soon as he was close enough, your lips were on his soft skin.

Pushing Lestat onto the bed, you straddled his lap, rolling your hips, as Louis stood behind you, kissing your neck. Leaning down, you wrapped your hands around his neck.

“I’ll forgive you, but if you ever do anything remotely similar, I’ll make sure you burn in the sun, and I’ll wear you as makeup,” you said, making him smirk.

“Anything you say, although the thought of me being on your face, arouses me greatly,” he said, watching as you pulled Louis onto the bed, moving over to him.

Your nearly decade-long monogamy had now come to an end, sharing the night with Louis and Lestat. You had forgotten how spontaneous he was, managing to pleasure both of you.

‘Have you taken him back, like Louis?’ Claudia asked.

‘For now’ you thought, as Lestat kissed along your shoulder blade.

‘Do you think Louis will help?’

‘He will’

‘Do you think it will work?’

‘I don't know, my child, but we will try’

‘We can do it, mama, he wants to keep you and Louis for himself, he hates me and would probably kill me if it meant having you both alone’

‘I know’

Now lying in bed, Lestat in between you and Louis, both of you in his arms.

“I hope you will allow me to continue to prove myself to you, and I am lost without either of you, I feel empty without you both here with me, I love you,” he spoke, you couldn't deny the way your heart fluttered.

“Then it is official, we will kill Lestat’

‘And if our plan doesn't work?’

‘Then we escape to Europe, we find other vampires, and we rebuild our lives there, does that sound okay?”

‘It sounds perfect’

‘Great, good night mama’

‘Good night, my child’

Looking up at Lestat’s face, he lay peacefully, his eyes shut, face relaxed. He was incredibly handsome, you didn't dare tell Claudia but coming to this room, you were just as weak as Louis. Would you be able to kill this beautiful man, the love of your life? Or run away and live an eternity with your daughter? You couldn't decide anymore, only time would tell.

brotha eughhh, this was so mid

#lestat de lioncourt x reader #lestat x reader #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac x reader #interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #louis x reader

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ophelieverse · 9 months ago

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This is the first time that i send in a request,but I’ve been your fan for quite a while now🥰🥰I love your blog and your content,especially your writing,so can I please ask you to write something about Daemon x niece!reader where she is the daughter of Aemma and Viserys and he’s obsessed with her?It can be whatever you want!Thank you so much!🫶🏻

⋆ ˚｡⋆little bird

Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

-Summary:Daemon is in Harrenhal and he’s tormented by the memories of the only woman that he had ever loved:his niece,the long gone princess Y/n.

-Warnings:death of character,incest,age gap,Daemon never married Laena,reader has valyrian features,reader died of childbirth,reader is mother of twin girls(you can decide if Baela and Rhaena),mental torture(?)sexual thoughts,Daemon being himself,Alys tormenting Daemon and him losing his mind.

•-aww thank you so much for your words and support,also thank you for requesting and let me know what you guys think,sending love🩷🫶🏻

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The palate is a treacherous bastard,a vile traitor.The palate,the tongue,the teeth,the throat:damned monsters,damned stabs in the shoulders.

They rebelled and tortured Daemon intimately,as well as the strawled murmurs of soaking whispers in the dark and lonely castle,as well as the murmurs of that nameless woman.Everything bothered him,in that world built by the blood-stained hands of false and courteous murderers,and the raw truths of the tormented men were no exception.

After all,he should have known - and he knew it, he knew it and he had not stopped,he had become crazy! -that once he tasted the most precious wine of the Seven Kingdoms his mouth would detest any other drink.His primordial instinct and his spirit of survival had tried to warn him,to make him understand,to make him glimpse the inexorable fate in which there would be a before and there would of course be an after.

Because any other flavor would never have been as sweet as the taste of her.

And nothing more would have been the same, nothing would make sense anymore.Daemon had only really understood it after kissing her:it had become impossible to even look at another woman.

He could still remember the first time that he had kissed her,before going to win the war in the Narrow Sea in her father’s name.He had only kissed her once and it had been like savoring the mouth of a fucking divine gift that fell down from heaven,kissing a promise of grace and eternal damnation.An inexperienced,sweet,innocent mouth.

His,Y/n was all his.

She was still a girl at the time,two years younger than her older sister Rhaenyra,just a naive girl that stug with two skinny legs and without even a woman's shape,the silver-haired doll,the trained King's Landing little bird that squeakes and chirps in the shade of her father's words and actions:Y/n, stupid and spoiled princess,daughter of the Long Summer,had let herself be kissed by him and had not stopped him,she had not pushed him away.

Crazy him and crazy her.Or maybe just him, or maybe just her.Who went crazy first,who did? Who had it been?Daemom didn't remember the fucking way those damn events that had folded him in two,disintegrated his entire soul.Killed him not once but a hundred,a thousand,a thousand and again a thousand times.

Who went crazy first?Who?Daemon has started to believe it was him.

It’s been years since the last time he had kissed Y/n,years since he last touched her warm skin,looked into her bright lilac eyes,that he had saw her with their daughters in her arms.

Yet,that night,in the dark and anguish halls of Harrenhal,his little bird had shown up to him.The ghost of Y/n imagine had suddenly appeared in a corridor in the west wing yard like an evanescent appearance,like his worst nightmare and had resumed chirping the same nauseating and tormenting phrases she cunningly gave to all her lords,to all her knights.

She had chirped her thanks,the beautiful words she used to tear from the verses of her beloved romantic ballads,which she used to steal from the fairy tales narrated with placid fervor from the endless rows of her old and decrepit Septas.

She had chirped and chirped and chirped.

Daemon hadn't listened to any of her melancholic sentences and hadn't even paid the slightest attention to her,nothing at all.So the deities and that witch then must have decided to punish him and mock him.They had taken their revenge on all his blasphemies and on all the lives he had snatched with joy.

The pale light of the moon had begun to inflame Y/n long silver braids,braids knotted in a bushy tangle,shaped into circles of blood rays that made her hairstyle look like the one of a small child.The young and innocent girl she once was before Daemon had touched her.A stupid hairstyle that she persided - with a pout - to make her maidens intertwine just like her mother did when she was just a small child.

The red dress that wrapped perfectly around her body,the one that she had wore at the tourney for her last Name Day as a maiden,seemed made of pure liquid blood.Daemon was lost.The red had become fire,it had turned into copper,it had melted into wine.A crown of thorns and autumn leaves in the cold wind of the godswood.

Y/n rosy mouth had stretched out in a brief,false smile,yet what was really false about her?And her elusive purple eyes had reminded him of reality.

The reality where she no longer existed,the one where now he was married to his older sister.He just wants to use her.Everyone uses everyone.He remind himself,he could never love her,not in the way he still loves Y/n.

Suddenly Daemon had realized the existence of his foolish thoughts,he had awakened by the torpor in which her sweet and familiar scent had induced him,and he had understood that he was behaving like a little child that had just woken up from a bed dream,an inexperienced young boy,he looked at her hair,looked at her ephelids,and didn't focus on those small stall tits and her flat,tight belly,and then he thought he had to fix it,that he had to prove to himself that he was a man.

Not the silly man who secretly watched the tears entangled in the eyelashes of a little girl who still slept with the dolls,squeezed in his little embrace,but the real man who fucked women in brothels and got rid of all his most itchy desires. Not the man who trembled in front of a little girl's gaze,but the man who fucked the women quickly and impatiently,without even looking them in the face,fulfilling his needs and his morbid needs.

The man that Daemon was before devoting his life,heart and soul to Y/n.

These thoughts had clouded his soaky mind with vulgar images,they had made his body drunk and frenny.Then he had stretched out towards Y/n, almost staggering,and had devoured her face. Mouth to mouth,he had eaten her lies and her breath.Was it really her,the spectral and little figure that had hunted him since he had step in Harrenhal?Was it really her,the cold and young body he was holding in his arms?He didn’t cared,he needed to feel what he once called love.

His little girl still tasted good,just like he remembered,something sweet,extremely pure. Snow and honey together,what an absurd madness of the senses.Y/n had closed her mouth,her lips soft and eyelids tight,but she had done nothing else.She hadn't disappeared from his touch just like the night before,his rough hands that had begun to mess up her hair and squeeze her thin throat like they used to.

They had kept both eyes closed and he had thought that she was beautiful even in the dark of the dull and worn lights,even in the black of the lowered eyelashes,under the Sun or under the Moon.

Y/n was still as beautiful as the day he had lost her.

And now that she was there,real or not,Daemon had kissed her with a disturbing need and Y/n mouth had moved on his without opening,without granting him anything more.Nothing more of what he already had when she was flourishing with life.

In that moment a cold wind had crept all over his back,until it even caressed his neck and wet cheeks.When did he started crying?Too late he had realized that it had not been a cold wind that had appeased his burns.

«Y/n,my Y/n.»Daemon had murmured«My little bird of the summer,my frightened little bird.»he kept talking on her lips.

«Uncle.»even her voice sounded like she was still that young girl he used to watch run to him,blushing when he would bring her a gift from one of the cities he had visited.

She had caressed his pained face and kissed him like a little girl who can't even imagine that there is anything else after a kiss on the lips.Like a sweet child that still dreamed and hoped for a bright and long future ahead of her.

Maybe at that moment Daemon must have said her name again,because the figure in his arms smiled«Y/n,my little girl,Y/n.»like a prayer.

«Do you still desire me,uncle?Do you still think about me?»her voice,a soft whisper,that cut into his heart.

How naive and stupid,stupid little woman.

He could have turned her like a worn sock,lifted her skirt and possessed it in any dark corner of the castle,stretched her on the floor and forced her to open her legs for him.For him,only for him. First the knees,then the thighs,until he devour her with his hands and tongue,until he fuck her all.

That little creature who didn't even know the thoughts that animated the minds of the men around her,the minds of all animal men just like him.He could have done anything to her,anything unimaginable and unpronounceable,and continued to devour her for whole hours,years and centurie, millennia and other millennia,to the point of satisfying her every repressed need and even more.

And Daemon did it,fulfilling his duties as a husband that resulted in the living love that took form in their twin daughters and son.

He enjoyed her,eat her,mark her at every possible point.He could have done anything for her even now.But Y/n had placed a hand on his heart and more snow had fallen into his chest,appeasing his every pain,every craving.

«Or is my sister crown that you lust over now?»Y/n sharp tongue managed to open another cut in his chest.

Yes,he wanted Rhaenyra crown but it was her he wanted to make his Queen.It’s always been like that,in his deepest dreams,to rule by her side,to pass the throne to their son and be with her forever to the end of his days.

«It’s always ever been you and i’m sorry that this has costed your life.»Daemon words were half stuck in his throat.

Stupid little girl,stupid.She was too good for him.She was pathetically pure.She will never be able to survive in this world,she would become food donated to dogs and worms.Another dead flesh left danging on the spades of this rotten and corrupt castle from the slimy foundation.Another head detached from one's body and turned into a trophy to show to enemies.

Another life that he had ruined.

The images of these elucubrations of his had scared him so much was he afraid?Was the burning in the pupils and ribs fear of seeing her dead or desire to kill or even a fever to possess her?To push her away from his arms,from his belly outstretched towards her.

Daemon had already lost Y/n once,in their old shared chambers of the Red Keep,drenched in sweat and blood.Screaming in fear and pain,just like her mother,as she gave birth to their son.A life for a life,the child survived and the mother died without being able to meet each other.

And now she was there,after so many years,Daemon had only glimpsed at her wet lips and red cheeks,then started yelling at her to leave.It wasn’t real,nothing of this was,his wife,his Y/n was dead,ashes in the wind.

«Go away.Get away right away or you'll regret it.I'll make you regret it,I swear to you.I'll make you regret anything you've ever done or thought if you don't leave now.Go away!»Daemon was screaming like a mad man,but his words were not directed towards Y/n.

His crude and harsh words were echoed only for the silent witch that lived in that old and empty castle.

He must have insulted her,or he had cursed the bastard witch back.He didn’t cared because now Y/n had escaped from his head and eyes with every new sip of wine that he took once he walked back into the dark halls.

Her ethereal figure disappeared at each red bottom of a cup he had swallowed in an attempt to forget the circles of her damn braids.A new cup of wine at every turn of the silver locks and then a hysterical laugh every moment he saw the lilac eyes of that damn girl in the accusatory ones of the witch who sat next to him.

«You are rather unrequited tonight,your grace.What’s bothering you?»Alys Rivers was her name and her voice was as enchanting as her looks.

A punch against the table at every drop of watered down flavor,at every cup of all those lousy drinks that she had given him to help him sleep.A mediocre taste that made him miss better flavors - the taste of him.

Almost as she could read his mind«In love?You?»Alys sound surprised.

And a thud in the heart as every second passes,at the stroke of the hours,at the slow formation of a nebulous wall of chaos inside him.Honey,snow,sweet salt of tears never shed. What was happening to him?What was going on in his head,in his sternum,between his legs?Had Alys poisoned him?

«Y/n.»she spoke again«The little girl that you used to bounce on your knees,the woman that died to give you an heir.»she taunted him,the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Daemon felt his heart shatter in his chest,pain at every breath.His hands burning like the rest of his body,the wine down his throat ready to choke him with all his guilt.

«Where is she?»he asked then,turning to look at the woman next to him.

Where is Y/n?

He had screamed at her out in the gardens and she was gone,she had flown away.

«Where is she?Tell me.Tell me where she is!»the cups on the wooden table crushed on the floor,the cold stones now painted of red wine.

«Where is Y/n?»Alys asked calmly,not even getting up from her chair as his grace thrown everything around«The little girl is far away.But she’s not unreachable,you will see her again soon.»she answered him.

Daemon had was spinning,he felt the nausea coming up from his stomach.He tried to walk and a gag forced him to kneel on the ground,to throw his head against the floor.

«Y/n,my little bird,Y/n.Y/n where are you?»he choked out.

She was there,he had seen her just a few moments before and the other previous nights that he had spent in Harrenhal.He held her,kissed her and it felt so real.She didn't run away,she didn't cry,she didn't even lower her head.Nothing,nothing of nothing.She just looked at him for a second and then she left.

Now she was gone,again.She was gone,Y/n,was gone and Daemon wanted her back,like he had always wanted her,he couldn’t breathe,Y/n come back to him.

Come back,stupid little girl,come back here right away.One moment,he needed to touch her,to kiss her,to have her,just another moment to share with her.His little girl,his little bird.His,his,his,she had always been his.Come back,he needed to hold her and protect her.He would protect her from anyone,even himself if she was so afraid.He was scared too.

«Your grace?»Alys voice was distant,loosing itself in the air.

Daemon crawled on the wet floor,getting up«The little bird.I have to find,I have to find...»the world became dark and dyed of red.There was laughter around his body and someone sneering his name.

«I have to find...»he repeated.

He had to look for her.He hadn't been able to resist her,he hadn't slept even a minute.He had walked around the castle like a mad man,reaching his chambers only to find her inside.

The room looked like the one they lived in the Red Keep,warm and familiar.A small figure appeared,wearing a old white nightgown drenched in blood,pale hair wild on her head in the same that she had died in.

Y/n was there,holding to her chest a child wrapped into a blue blanket like a present.Their son,the joyful and smart boy that looked exactly like his mother and that she had never even seen before closing her eyes forever.She was sitting and crying .He had felt like he was dying and had taken a few uncertain steps.His eyes had moved frantically and they had glimpsed the blood-stained sheets,the stained dress on her thighs, the hands holding the child.

As soon as Y/n had seen him,with shiny eyes, huge tears on that small face she had brought her red fingers on her lips,as if to ask him to be silent as she rocked her baby.The smell of iron had never disgusted him,never shaken him,not until that moment.The little girl's legs had continued to drip and form spots on slippery spots on the floor.

«You always wanted a son.»Y/n voice was paralyzing«I should have know that this would have been my end.You can never surrender to your desires.»she didn’t looked at him,calmly holding the cloth in her arms but he knew she was accusing him of the same sin his brother had committed.

He had never hated blood with such despair,never hesitated before his duties,never thought of spitting acid on his oldest loyalty«I should have…i should have saved you.»he breathed.

Y/n smiled softly«No,this is the price you have to pay for taking what isn’t yours.The throne,the crown…me.»her empty eyes burned his flesh«You will die here,uncle,and you will loose everything.»she warned him.

Daemon vomited until he almost fainted,almost suffocated in his own vomit.Tears mixed with the pain and guilt on his face and his arms suddenly gave in.He felt hands on his neck and lips near his ear.He hit his head against the floor again and rocky voices pronounced his name more times.

He tried to crawl but threw up again,and then again and again.He couldn't stop anymore.He tried to grab a the chair next to door,but the world began swirling to turn and he lost himself in meaningless images.Before closing his eyes Daemon only saw pale silver birds with broken necks and torn wings.

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gremlingottoosilly · 10 months ago

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Monster!König with Spitfire Bunny!Reader who’s constantly trying to make him take her seriously as a soldier, but he can’t because…look at you? König desperately wants to break her bubble that everyone else who seems to be so accepting of a ‘weaker’ creature being among their ranks are simply just trying to cozy up to her and get in her pants. (May have accidentally sent this twice so please ignore if you see this again)

You are accepted as a supply runner for one simple reason - they all wanted to look at the way your ass was shaking as you desperately tried to keep up with predator hybrids, and they liked giving you orders that made your face twitch in that adorable little expression. It made you look fucking adorable, and Konig loved seeing you all sweaty and tired after a good mission. Well, as good of a mission as he let you take. Nothing too dangerous for his fluffy princess, of course, just some easy human work. Even rebels tend to soften at the sight of fluffy ears and twitching noses, and it was usually the last mistake they'd make. You're not letting anyone get in your panths though! Even as your bunny heat comes closer and closer and you're starting to rub your twitching, juicy pussy on every corner of the base table in Konig's office, you still refuse to cave to your instincts and let the nearest hybrid mount you until your belly is full of little hybrid bunnies. You're trying your best to appear cool, professional, your face isn't betraying your emotions even as Konig was spending his days playing and squeezing your tail as if it was his stress toy. Oh, but when your heat does come...Konig, as a good commander and an example to his men, decided to take the responsibility of ensuring that your sweet bunny hole is stuffed with his tentacles. Who needs a whole team of monsters to satisfy your breeding urges when you have your colonel, ready to fuck you through the days, until you're absolutely spent and stuffed with his eggs? Konig is excited to give you a new, very important role in the squad - being his little stress relief, a bunny-shaped fucktoy and an incubator to his eggs. His bloodline is so strong as an eldritch monster, you wouldn't want it to be over, right? Like a good girl, you should spread your pretty legs for him every time he wants and make sure all of your holes are available.

At least now Konig lets you nap in his office and won't let your former squadmates make fun of your new status as a sex relief...although the base is just quite salty that the cutest bunny girl out there was taken by the colonel himself, without a chance of him sharing with his fellow man. At least they can still see how cute your tail looks every time Konig uses it as a leverage to fuck you even harder.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #monster!konig #tw: monster fucking #bunny!reader

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retroactivebakeries · 2 years ago

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It is almost five centuries ago, and the girl who will one day be a swordswoman is lying in the red-tinged mud. She can't get up—broken bone? severed tendon? She can't tell. She's yet to cultivate her palate for pain. Her enemy towers over her, a cataphract mailed in screaming steel and poisoned light. His warhammer falls, and it is death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable.

"No," says a part of her. She is not even seventeen years old. Her body is mangled and broken, wound piled upon wound piled upon wound. A dull kitchen knife is her only weapon, though she lost that in the mud the second her grip faltered. Her enemy is no thing of this earth. And yet—

"No. It is not death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable. It is only a hammer, falling. It is only 'an attack.'"

And the girl understood.

~~~

It is the better part of three centuries ago, as best the swordswoman can reckon, and she is beset on all sides by foes. They are not monsters—just mountain bandits, or highland rebels, as one cares to see it. But they outnumber her by dozens, and even an exceptional swordswoman might struggle against but two opponents of lesser skill.

From in front of her, beside her, behind her they advance, striking from every angle with spears and blades and axes. Others fill the air with arrows, sling stones, firepots. It would be effortless, to parry any single blow. It would be impossible, physically impossible, to defend against them all.

"No," says a part of her.

"You are not outnumbered. You do not face 'multiple' foes. It would be impossible to defend against every attack — but there is no 'every' attack. Only one."

"Oh," the swordswoman said. And it was, in fact, effortless.

~~~

It is eighty years ago, or thereabouts. A coiling spire of stony flesh and verdigrised copper throbs like a tumor on the horizon, coaxed from the earth by spell and sacrifice. It is the tower of a sorcerer-prince, and a birthing place of abominations.

Seven locks of rune-etched metal are opened with her single key. Wretched shapeling beasts, grown by sorcery in vitreous nodules, flee wailing from her, absconding before she even draws her blade. Demons sworn to thousand-year pacts of service find the binding provisions of their agreements unexpectedly severed.

These things dissatisfy the sorcerer-prince. He waxes wroth. He makes signs of power and chants incantations. With a flask of godling's blood, he draws the binding sigil inscribed upon the moon's dark face. With cold fire burning in his eyes, he speaks the secret name of Death. It is a king among curses, all-corrupting, all-consuming, and it falls from his lips upon the swordswoman.

"No," she says, and she turns it aside with her blade.

The sorcerer-prince's brow furrows. How did she even do that?

"Parried it."

But—

"With my sword."

No—

"See, like this."

Stop—

"Well," the swordswoman finally says, "I figured that if I just...looked at it right, and thought about it, and construed your curse as a kind of attack...then I could block it."

That's not how it works at all!

"If you insist," says the swordswoman, shrugging, and decapitates him.

~~~

It is now. It is the end. Death couldn't take the swordswoman, not when she'd spent all her life cutting it up. At times, Death might sidle up to one of her friends, or peer down into a grandchild's crib, and she'd just give it a look. That's all it took, by then.

Heartache couldn't take her, either. Bad things happened to her, and they hurt, and she lived in that hurt, but if it was ever more than she could take...she'd just, move her sword in a way that's difficult to describe. And she'd keep going.

Kingdoms fell, and she kept going. Continents crumbled and sank into the sea. Her planet's star faded and froze. She started carrying a lantern. Universes were torn apart and scattered, until all that had been matter was redistributed in thermodynamic equilibrium. With one exception.

But now it is the end. There is no time left; time is already dead. The swordswoman has outlived reality, but there is simply no further she can go. This is not a thing that can be blocked. This is the absence of anything further to block.

"No," says the girl who will one day be a swordswoman. "This isn't the ending. And even if it was, it's not the ending that matters."

The swordswoman looks back at who she was, at the countless selves she's been between them. She looks forward, at the rapidly contracting point that remains of the future. She grasps the all of linear time in her mind, and sees that it is shaped like a spear.

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all-with-angel · 17 days ago

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𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍. •°. *࿐

Summary: A year after your death, they get to see you again. But it isn't you, but a monster in your skin. Or JJK Characters deal with the fact that you're possessed by Kenjaku, and it isn't pretty.

Pairings(separate): Satoru Gojo x kenjaku!reader, Suguru Geto x kenjaku!reader, Sukuna Ryomen x kenjaku!reader, Shoko Ieri x kenjaku!reader

Content. Angst with a capital A, death, gore, cannibalism, injury, self-inflicted injury, yandere(?) sukuna, kenjaku is an asshole, swearing, Shoko gets a panic attack, kenjaku!reader, gn!reader !DARK THEMES!

w.c. 1.4k - 2k each MINOR AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI. smau masterlist

❥ SATORU GOJO "You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same."

Blood paints Shibuya in cruel streaks. Satoru Gojo stands in the ruined station, boots crushing glass and bone fragments as his breathing comes sharp, shallow. The air is thick with the rot of battle—gunpowder, charred flesh, the sickly-sweet scent of blood seeping into the earth. Bodies lie twisted in impossible angles, and in the midst of it all, standing beneath the flickering, dim station lights, is you.

Or what used to be you.

Satoru knows better. His mind screams the truth even as his heart falters, staggering against the weight of a curse wrapped in flesh, your flesh. Kenjaku smirks through your lips, tilting your head with mock amusement. Those same lips that Satoru oh so hoped to kiss again, to watch as you smiled at him with love, the image itself was destroyed by this thing, this monster in your skin. The stitches marring your forehead are like a grotesque parody of a crown, a mark of possession, of desecration.

A reminder that you were a corpse. A corpse that Satoru had cradled in its last moments.

Gojo exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists. But he hadn't moved yet. Couldn't move yet. His mind was rebelling against the truth his six eyes were showing him. Every cell in his body screamed that this was you. The way your hair still framed your face, the way your body moved, the little mannerisms Kenjaku didn't care to suppress.

But you were gone, his heart and soul knew that. You were gone.

The face was the same—the one he had memorized in quiet moments, the one he used to trace with his fingertips in the dim glow of city lights. The same eyes, but empty now, soulless, swirling with a mockery of life that was not your own. Kenjaku tilted your head to the side, a smirk curling lips that had once whispered his name with affection. No, something trying to fake it.

"What's wrong, Toru?~" Kenjaku mocks with a faux pout, rolling your shoulders as if adjusting to the weight of your body, your body that moves in all the ways it shouldn’t. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The worst part is, you’re not there at all. There's no sign, no trace—nothing in your stance, your voice, not even a flicker in your eyes. Satoru has never known true fear until this moment, until the raw, gaping realization that there is nothing left to save.

“Get out of them,” he snarls, voice like broken glass, but Kenjaku only laughs—a cruel, mirthless thing that stretches your lips in a way they never would have in life.

"Now, now," Kenjaku muses, flexing your fingers, cracking your neck, treating your body like an outfit to be worn. "We both know it’s too late for that."

Satoru already knew. Of course he knew. The moment he saw you, he understood—you were gone. There was no saving something that had already rotted, no bringing back someone who had already left him behind.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The ghost of muscle memory lingers—his hands know your weight, the curve of your shoulders, the rhythm of your movement. He hesitates. And in that moment, Kenjaku capitalizes.

When Kenjaku struck first, a flicker of your movement—your rhythm—was enough to send something splintering through his chest. The years spent learning your body, memorizing the cadence of your breath, the slight hitch of your shoulders before you struck—it all came rushing back. His mind screamed at him to move, to counter, but his body froze. He felt helpless, small.

A fist slams into his rside, another against his jaw, rattling his skull. His brain lags behind, barely processing before your foot collides with his stomach. The force sends him crashing through steel beams, debris collapsing around him in a deafening roar. His vision flickers; his head throbs.

Why is infinity off? He asks himself. He knows the answer, hidden in the recesses in his mind, his body remembers you. And his body knows that around you, infinity never had to be on. Panic and pain surges through him, his throat drying up and seizing him as he realizes he had let his infinity down on instinct.

Let his infinity down in front of you. Something so easy as breathing that he couldn’t even catch it. Because your touch was never cruel, never meant to hurt. His body remembered that, knew that you would never hurt him. But this thing wasn’t you. No matter how much it smiled, it never reached your eyes, was never filled with the softness you’d look at him with.

Kenjaku lands softly, tilting their head, watching. "Oh?" They step closer, deliberately slow, savoring it. "You’re holding back?"

Satoru doesn’t answer. Can’t. His chest heaves, fingers twitching with the urge to tear, to destroy, to make sure Kenjaku never uses you again. But when he looks up, all he sees is you—your silhouette framed by firelight, your stance, one he’s seen a thousand times in training, in battle, in life.

The thought of hurting you—no, not you, but the body that once held you—felt like pressing his own hands into the grave you'd already been buried in.

"You're pathetic," Kenjaku sneered, leaning forward, your breath—your breath—ghosting against his face. "The great Satoru Gojo, hesitating like a love-struck fool. Is that what you are? Still in love with a corpse?"

Satoru bared his teeth, his breath coming sharp, fast. He couldn't afford this. Wouldn’t afford this. He had to move.

The next time Kenjaku lunged, Satoru struck back.

His fist connected with your ribs, a sickening crack splitting the air. The body reeled, staggering for only a moment before laughter—high and taunting—spilled from your lips. Kenjaku straightened, rolling your shoulders with a wince, but it was the expression that sent bile rising in Satoru’s throat. Satisfaction.

"Oh, there you are," Kenjaku purred, wiping the blood trailing from your mouth. "For a second, I thought you'd lost your nerve completely."

“Hmm.” Kenjaku inspected your hands—his hands now—and flexed the fingers experimentally. “You know, this body is surprisingly resilient. But I suppose that’s to be expected, considering how much you cared for it.” His lips curled into something wicked, something cruel. “I wonder… how much of it are you willing to see destroyed?”

And then Kenjaku did the worst thing yet. They smiled. And with deliberate cruelty, they drove their own fingers into your gut.

Satoru's breath locked in his throat as he watched you—your hands, the same ones that used to trace his jaw, the same ones that used to comb through his hair— tear into your own flesh. Blood gushed in a grotesque waterfall, soaking into torn fabric, staining the floor in a deep, spreading pool. Kenjaku groaned, tilting their head back in a twisted mockery of pleasure.

The sound was deafening—bone snapping, tendons ripping, flesh giving way.

“Oops.”

Kenjaku twisted your arm back, far beyond its natural limit, until the skin tore and the bone jutted out at an unnatural angle. The scream never came. The body didn’t react in pain, in fact, you– No, Kenjaku was relishing in it. But Gojo felt it, deep in his marrow, an agony that had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the image before him. Everything to do with you.

The sickening crunch of breaking ribs echoes. Blood drips from your lips. It’s a performance. A slow, methodical desecration. Kenjaku isn’t just killing you. He’s making sure there’s nothing left to mourn.

“I think I’ll tear out the heart next,” he murmured, reaching for your chest.

Satoru let out a scream, broken and hoarse not from overuse but from the guttural pain that this sight had caused him. It barely sounded human, it was something raw, something from the depths of his soul. His cursed energy sputtered pathetically, his body moved before thought, faster than even Kenjaku could track. His hand closed around your throat, squeezing tight, crushing the windpipe beneath his fingers.

Kenjaku let out a breathless chuckle. “There you are.”

Gojo didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His heart was hammering, his blood roaring in his ears. The grief, the rage, the helplessness that had been suffocating him for the past year coalesced into something dark and all-consuming.

But before he did it—before he ended this—he allowed himself one last moment. He pulled you close, let his mind fool him for a moment, and succumbed to sweet, sweet lies. Held you the way he used to, the way he had longed to for so many nights since your death.

And then, softly, almost reverently, he kissed your lips. There was no warmth. No love. No trace of the person he had cherished.

Only death. Only a goodbye.

It’s nothing like before.

Nothing like the nights he held you, whispering sweet nothings against your lips. Nothing like the lazy mornings spent tangled in blankets, your laughter echoing against his skin. Nothing like the desperate kisses before battle, when you’d swear you’d come back to each other, no matter what.

When he pulled away, his fingers tightened around your throat.

“You don’t get to have them,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

And then he crushed your windpipe, snapping the fragile bones beneath his grip.

Kenjaku gurgled, eyes wide, mouth twisting into something unreadable—maybe pain, maybe amusement, maybe something else entirely. It didn’t matter. Even as he grinned as if winning this time.

Gojo was already driving his cursed energy through your skull, obliterating everything inside. It was a mercy, he told himself. Fast. Efficient. His Infinity shattered through what remained of you, ripping Kenjaku apart from the inside out. The body in his arms spasmed, a sharp gasp escaping bloodied lips before the light in your eyes flickered, dimmed, died.

The body twitched. Shuddered. And then it was still. Kenjaku was gone. But so were you. The body in his arms was nothing more than a corpse now—limp, broken, empty. Satoru held you as you went limp.

He stayed there, kneeling in the filth of Shibuya Station, cradling what was left of you. Your body was ruined. There was no saving it now, not even the illusion of preservation. The warmth seeped away from your skin too fast, leaving you cold. Stiff. Dead.

His hands trembled. His fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes, the blood staining them no longer just his own. Satoru fell to his knees, still holding you, still unable to let go. His vision blurred. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps. There was nothing left.

Nothing left but him. But he too, felt hollow as if you took all of him with you. You did, in a way.

Satoru laughed, cruel, to himself as tears pricked at his eyes and dripped on your body. Tears mixing with your blood. The tears didn’t stop, they never did. Similar to how Satoru will never, never stop loving you.

He’ll never stop mourning you, either. Not until he joins you.

❥ SUGURU GETO "Our last goodbyes were never said, but they were felt."

Suguru Geto has spent years carrying a corpse inside of him.

Not just a corpse—your corpse. Suguru had devoured you whole.

Not you, of course. You were already long gone. You had died years before, and he had felt that loss carve itself into his bones like a brand. Changed how he thought of the world, made him see the truth– the problem with the world. What he consumed was nothing more than a curse, a facsimile of you, a grotesque mockery wearing your skin.

Suguru Geto never thought he’d see you again.

Not like that.

Not years later, not with your body defiled by stitches on your forehead, not with your soul gone and a disgusting brain in its place. He had mourned you once, let the grief carve itself into his ribs until he could no longer breathe without feeling the sharp ache of your absence. He had imagined, in his loneliest moments, what it would be like if you returned to him, if some cruel god rewrote reality and placed you back in his arms.

But Kenjaku was not a god.

Kenjaku was a defiler, a scavenger who pried into corpses and made puppets of them.

Your voice came first. A whisper in the dark, laced with mockery. "Suguru~," Kenjaku had crooned, using your lips, your voice, your goddamn face. "Miss me?"

He had nearly been sick.

But Kenjaku was arrogant. He had thought himself untouchable. He had planned to use you, your body, your hands, to kill Suguru, as if he wouldn't recognize the curve of your movements, the way you once breathed, lived.

He should have killed you then. Should have exorcized the thing wearing your skin before it had a chance to land the first blow. But he couldn't. Instead, he had done something selfish, something desperate. With the practiced ease of a master sorcerer, he had cast his technique, letting you and the brain inside of you dissolve into thick, black smoke and a condensed ball. He had stored you deep inside him, tucked away beside his heart, in his veins, beside his very soul.

He always thought you were the sweetest, but swallowing you was bitter. Bittersweet, maybe.

It was foolish. It was useless.

But it meant your body wouldn’t rot in the dirt, wouldn’t be used for Kenjaku’s amusement. No one could touch you. No one could defile what remained.

Even knowing you were nothing but a curse now, even knowing that your soul had long since withered into dust, he had refused to let you out. You would remain with him, tucked away, unseen. Safe, at the very least.

For years, Suguru has carried you with him, a silent, undying weight pressing against his bones. He has never used you, never called upon the monster that had taken you away. And as his body crumbles beneath Satoru’s gaze, as his blood spills onto the cold concrete, he realizes this will be the last time.

So now, years later, standing before Satoru Gojo, Suguru realized it was finally time to let go.

Blood dripped from his lips, his stump of an arm, pooling in the crevices of the ground beneath them. His right shoulder was nothing but a gaping, jagged wound—his arm long gone, torn from his body like an afterthought. His vision blurred, the weight of his own body growing unbearable.

He could already feel death creeping in.

Suguru smiles.

Not because he’s winning. Not because he’s survived. No, this is a losing battle. He has always known how this would end. But it’s fitting, isn’t it?

To die by Satoru’s hands. To feel his curse technique rip through him, as he has done to so many others.

As his vision blurs, Suguru releases a shuddering breath—and summons you.

The curse tears out of him like a wound being ripped open, the familiar shape of your body forming in the dark mist of his technique. You land on the ground beside him, your chest rising, falling, breath shuddering with stolen life. But it isn’t you. Not really.

Kenjaku—wearing your face, moving your limbs—stretches, rolling your shoulders with a smirk.

"Well, well," Kenjaku muses, flexing your fingers as if testing the strength of your borrowed flesh. "I was wondering when you'd let me out."

Suguru coughs, something thick and hot dribbling from his lips. His body screams, but he ignores it. "Just this once," he mutters. "Just so we can die together."

He’s tired. So, so tired. His heartbeat pounds sluggishly in his ears, a dying drumbeat, the rhythm slowing with each passing second. But even now, as his body fails him, he doesn’t regret it.

Satoru inhaled sharply, fingers curling at his sides. “Suguru—”

“I know,” Suguru murmured. “Just give me a moment.”

There was no battle left to fight. He could already feel his cursed energy fading, his vision narrowing, his body collapsing in on itself. He had always thought he would die alone. But maybe this was better.

Satoru’s energy flared. Suguru didn’t move. Didn’t brace himself. Didn’t fight. The attack struck your body first.

You crumpled. The force sent you slamming against him, dead weight against his already failing form. Suguru grunted, barely managing to keep you upright. He let himself slide down onto his knees, pulling you with him, until the both of you were resting on the cold, blood-slicked ground.

Your head lolled against his chest.

He exhaled, letting his fingers brush over your hair. Remembering many nights where the two simply sat in each other's presence, softly pressed against each other, content. He remembered mornings where you would brush his hair, style it into his signature style as the girls ran around clipping bows and clips in his hair. You would fix their hair next, little braids and bows adorned them as they giggled about being princesses, and you, their mother, his queen.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

His hand, the one that remains, lifts weakly, brushing against the stitches on your forehead. The violation of them sends something sick curling in his stomach, but still, he presses his lips against your temple, a final, chaste kiss. It was grotesque, this mockery of intimacy, this final moment with nothing but a corpse.

You were warm, unlike a corpse.

You shouldn’t be. Suguru knows that and yet he holds you the same way he almost did. Gentle, as if you were glass. Reverent, as if you could save him from his upcoming doom. Loving, as if you were able to love him back.

He sighs as he closes his eyes.

Maybe, in another life, things could have been different.

Maybe he wouldn’t have walked this path. Maybe you wouldn’t have died. Maybe he wouldn’t have spent years trying to justify atrocities while clinging to your body like a ghost.

But there are no maybes. Only this.

Satoru exhales, the sound sharp, pained. “Suguru.”

Suguru lets his fingers tighten around you, even as his mind starts to drift away. He barely even feels the pain anymore. He lets himself be fooled, lulled into a false sense of warmth and comfort as you lie limp in his arms.

He envisions a different night, one where the air is not thick with the stench of death, one where your body is curled against his in the way it used to be. He can pretend this is a quiet night in a dimly lit room, where your breaths are even and soft, where your body is draped against him because you trust him to keep you safe. He can pretend this is still you. He imagines your fingers curled around his own, your breath warm against his neck.

He imagines a world where you are still alive. Where you never left him. Where this is nothing but another quiet evening spent in each other’s arms.

If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend.

The pain fades. The sounds of his heartbeat are slow and dull.

There is only you. Only the warmth of your body, only the softness of your breath, only the feeling of peace settling over him.

And for the first time in years, Suguru Geto smiles genuinely.

“Do it.”

When you two are buried, it is side by side. Whether out of respect or guilt, Satoru ensures it.

No one speaks of it after. No one asks why Satoru took the time to retrieve your bodies, to make sure the two of you were laid to rest together. No one dares to question the way his hands shook as he watched the two of you get placed in the ground.

It doesn’t matter. Suguru Geto is dead, and so are you.

❥ SUKUNA RYOMEN "This world doesn't matter without you in it."

Sukuna had always known rage. It curled beneath his skin, coiled in his sinew, and burned in his marrow like a disease. It had shaped him, made him a god of slaughter, a king of monsters, and a curse whose name alone choked the world in fear. But this, this was something worse.

It was beyond anger, beyond the simple, seething fury of a beast denied its prey. It was a sickness, a rotting wound in the depths of his chest that pulsed with something he refused to name.

Because you were there. Standing before him, twisted beyond recognition. No, you weren’t. Your body was the same, every hair and fiber was as it always was. But your soul, the very one that Sukuna had watched fade from this world, was absent.

He had slaughtered thousands, torn through flesh and bone like paper, but nothing—nothing—had ever made his blood run so cold as seeing your body move again.

The weight of it crushed him instantly, an unbearable, suffocating sensation that clawed at his insides like rot creeping through a corpse. His chest ached as if something had been ripped from within him, something vital and raw. His grief. His loss. His love.

You were dead. You were dead.

Your body, the same body that he had once held, once touched, once loved was nothing but a puppet now, an unholy marionette manipulated by the most putrid hands to ever defile this earth. Kenjaku smiled through your lips, the same lips used to kiss him awake even as he complained and lied that it was annoying.

Kenjaku had taken you. Desecrated you. Turned you into something wrong.

"You look displeased," Kenjaku said, tilting your head at an unnatural angle, wearing your face like a mockery of life. "Did you love this one, Sukuna?"

Love.

The word was bitter. A lie. A weakness. And yet, it lodged itself in his throat like a bone, cutting, bleeding, hurting.

Sukuna didn't answer. He couldn't. Words were useless things, insignificant against the storm tearing through him. His hands itched, claws curling, his mouth dry with hunger. Kill. Destroy. Devour.

Kenjaku chuckled. "Oh? Nothing to say? I had thought you of all people would appreciate this—having your beloved returned to you, in a sense."

The mockery in that voice, the sheer audacity to speak through your mouth, made something inside him snap. Something break.

He had not moved on. He had not healed. There was no healing. There was no healing from your love, nothing to bring him back from loving you.

He hated it. He hated that word, hated how you always whispered it to him every day and every night, no matter how much he despised uttering it himself. He hated that during nights you were asleep, where nothing but the flickering candlelight accompanied him, he’d whisper the words back to you, a softness in his voice reserved only for your ears. Listening or not.

Kenjaku—the thing inside you—tilted his head, feigning curiosity.

"What? No warm welcome? You look like you've seen a ghost."

A ghost. A ghost? Sukuna would’ve laughed.

No, no. This was a defilement.

A mockery.

A sacrilege so unforgivable that Sukuna's own flesh felt sick.

He took a step forward, his foot splashing into the blood-soaked ground. He hadn't even realized he'd begun bleeding from his claws, from the sheer pressure of how tightly he had curled his fingers. He wanted to carve Kenjaku open. He wanted to rip him apart piece by piece—to drag that wretched brain from your skull and crush it beneath his heel.

"Ah, I see. You're upset."

Kenjaku laughed, voice smooth, playful. But the face that smiled at him was yours. And that—that was the next thing that broke inside him. The first thing that broke him was you, then the loss of you. Then this.

The rage faltered for just a moment. A fraction of a second. Just long enough for something else to creep in. Something ugly. Something weak.

You had always been his. Not in the way mortals belonged to each other. Not in the way pathetic lovers claimed each other with whispered promises and fleeting touches. No. You had been his in a way that surpassed all reason. In the way a beast belonged to the wild. In the way blood belonged to the body. In the way the sky belonged to the earth.

He had devoured you in every way a man could devour another. And yet, you had still been taken from him. His voice came slow, thick with something unfamiliar, unwelcome, cold.

"That isn't yours."

Kenjaku chuckled. "Oh, but it is now."

Sukuna moved before thought could catch up.

The ground split under his feet as he lunged, claws gleaming, fangs bared. The first strike sent Kenjaku flying, body crashing through temple ruins, stone crumbling like brittle bones. But Sukuna didn't stop. He was on him again in an instant, slamming a foot into his stolen ribcage, feeling the satisfying crack beneath his weight.

His claws sank deep, puncturing the soft flesh of your throat, his grip tightening. Your windpipe collapsed beneath his fingers, and Kenjaku gagged. Sukuna wanted to crush him, crush you, crush the entire world until nothing remained but silence.

"You took what was mine." His voice was guttural, primal. "You used their body like a puppet."

Kenjaku wheezed, the amusement still glinting in those now unfamiliar eyes. "And what would you have done, hmm? Buried them? Let them rot? Is this really so different from what you would have wanted?"

Sukuna’s vision blurred. His fingers trembled where they held your throat. His mind filled with the sound of your voice—your real voice.

"Sukuna, you’re impossible." "I’ll always come back to you, one way or another." "Don’t look at me like that. It makes me feel like I’m something you’re afraid to lose."

He ripped your head off.

Right then and there, he ripped the stitches that connected your skull to your face, fingers gruesomely squelching into your head as he ripped the cursed brain out of you. Not with slow reverence, not with careful, grieving hands—but with raw, brutal hatred.

Hatred for you. Hatred that he could never have you again. Hatred that you came back, just like you said, but not as yourself. You clever, conniving wretch. How dare you?

It wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough when it came to you; When it came to how much Sukuna loved you, it was brutal and all-consuming.

He tore deeper, his claws sinking into your torso, peeling away flesh, delving into the warmth of what had once been yours. Kenjaku's technique tried to resist, but nothing could resist him. Organs spilled from his hands, viscera dripping from his mouth as he sank his fangs into your ribs, your skin, your lungs—

And for the first time in centuries, Sukuna wept. Not in the way mortals did. Not in soft sobs or shaking shoulders, not in gasping breaths or trembling lips. He wept in the only way he knew how—by consuming you.

If he swallowed you, if he devoured every piece, there would be nothing left for the world to take. No corpse for another parasite to defile, no remnants to rot and wither under the weight of time. You would exist inside him.

And if he could not have you in life, then he would keep you in death. He chewed slowly, deliberately, raw flesh sliding down his throat, warm and thick. It was nothing like he remembered. Nothing like you had been before. But his hands did not stop. His teeth did not stop.

The world around him faded, dimmed, collapsed. And for the first time since you died, Sukuna felt human.

The hunger burned through him, carving out something hollow and endless in his chest. He dug deeper, cracking bones with his teeth, tasting the last traces of you. His hands were drenched in blood, his lips parted with ragged, animalistic breaths. The last bite was your heart.

It sat in his palm, still warm, still soft. Still yours. Sukuna stared at it for a long, long time. His stomach churned, something bitter and foul curling in his gut. This was love, wasn’t it?

Twisted. Wrong. Disgusting. But fit for him. Did it fit you, though? He wondered in cold contemplation before coming to a conclusion: No. It didn’t. But you loved him anyway. He would never understand how.

If he could, he would have swallowed your soul, too.

Sukuna looked down at what remained. Nothing but crimson-stained bones, gnawed and shattered, the last fragments of you disappearing into his mouth. His fingers trembled as he wiped his lips, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

And then, he smiled. A slow, bloody thing. Content, crazed. Because he had won.

The world could never take you from him again.

❥ SHOKO IERI "Why do I have to see you dead again?"

Shoko Ieiri had spent years dissecting bodies, peeling back flesh to learn its secrets, unraveling the mysteries of life and death with steady hands and a sharp mind. She had been the first to see the broken corpses of friends and strangers alike, her scalpel carving through the silence of the morgue with clinical precision. She had long since stopped believing in miracles.

But right now, she really hoped the world proved her wrong more than anything.

Because the moment Gojo steps into the morgue, Shoko already knows.

It's in the way his shoulders are too stiff, the way his lips press into a thin, bloodless line, and the way his Six Eyes—limitless, boundless, all-seeing—refuse to meet hers. It’s in the way the air around him crackles with restrained fury, his cursed energy screaming even as his face betrays nothing.

But most of all, it’s in the body he’s carrying in his arms. Your body.

Again.

The first time had been bad enough. The first time, Satoru had been quiet in a way that wasn’t him, the weight of loss settling on his shoulders, pressing him down in ways his limitless technique could not counter. The first time, Shoko had stared at your body on the metal table and thought, this isn’t real. But it had been real. You had been gone. And she had failed you.

But now? Now it was worse. Now, Satoru’s face was twisted in something far darker than grief as he placed you on the slab once more. Your body was ruined, flesh worn and rotted in places it shouldn’t be, eyes sunken and wrong. You had been moving days ago. You had been speaking, fighting—but it hadn’t been you.

Kenjaku. A parasite in your skin. A thief wearing your face.

She should have stopped this. She should have done her job right the first time.

"I’m sorry," Satoru said, voice cold, hollow. He knew that if he let anything else slip, they would both break at the loss of you.

Shoko couldn’t look at him. She knew if she did, she’d see that same grief, that same pain, reflected in his stupid, infinity-shielded eyes, and she couldn’t take that right now. Instead, she focused on the body—your body, but not you—and forced her fingers to move. She reached for the scalpel, but her hand shook.

No.

She took a breath, tried to steady herself, but the tremor wouldn’t stop. She curled her fingers into a fist, nails digging into her palm hard enough to hurt.

"You can leave," she murmured.

Satoru didn’t move.

"I’m not leaving you alone with that thing," he said. His voice was sharp, but there was something else underneath it, something raw.

Shoko swallowed hard. "Satoru."

"Shoko."

She turned her head just enough to glance at him. His hands were clenched into fists, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to crack. He wasn’t just staying for her sake. He was staying because he needed this, because he had to watch. Funny isn’t it? How Shoko herself wished to be a million miles away from this, to never even know it happened.

Fine. It’s fine. She can work fine with an audience.

So Shoko didn’t argue. She turned back to the table, setting her tools in order with more force than necessary. The sound of metal against metal was sharp, loud in the too-quiet room. She swallows down bile, no mushy food left to puke out after she had vomited all of it out hours ago, when she first heard of your ‘return’ and how Gojo had to… Had to kill you this time. Fuck, she cried out then, why again?

A part of her is still crying it out. Maybe all of her.

Shoko stood over you, scalpel in hand, her fingers trembling so hard that she could barely keep the blade steady. She exhaled shakily, setting her jaw tight, but it did nothing to stop the nausea curdling in her gut.

You looked almost peaceful. That was the worst part.

If she ignored the unnatural stillness, the wrongness of the body on her table, she could almost pretend you had just fallen asleep. Could almost pretend she could shake you awake and hear your voice slurring something oddly optimistic through exhaustion.

Shoko pressed the scalpel down, her grip white-knuckled, and made the first cut. She could only imagine your laugh as flesh split open under her hands.

Her hands shook. She clenched her jaw, breathing through her nose. The trembling didn’t stop. She was a doctor, she was a mortician. She had done this a thousand times.

But never to you.

Never to someone who had once leaned against her shoulder on long nights, who had laughed at her dry jokes, who had stayed with her even as so many others left. Even a year ago, when you were first presented cold and dead on her table, she couldn’t do it. And that's why you’re here again. Your body, atleast.

She forced herself to keep going. To focus. But her vision blurred, her breath catching in her throat as she slid the scalpel deeper. Muscle and tissue parted beneath her blade. Blood welled up, too red, too fresh. It wasn’t like dissecting a corpse. It was like killing something. Like killing you.

Except you were already dead. You had been dead for a year. She was just fixing her mistake. Shoko swallowed hard, her stomach twisting as she reached for the bone saw. She had to do this properly. Had to make sure there was nothing left for Kenjaku or anything else to crawl back into.

Pain flared sharp and sudden.

Shoko hissed as the blade nicked her palm, warm blood dripping onto the metal table. Her vision swam for a moment, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

She was falling apart. No. She couldn't. Not now.

Shoko stared at the thin line of red beading against her skin, feeling utterly disconnected from herself, from everything.

“-oko.”

A strange sound clawed its way up her throat—a strangled, broken laugh, thick with something that wasn’t quite hysteria, wasn’t quite grief, wasn’t quite anything at all.

“Shoko.”

Gojo’s voice was firmer this time, maybe desperate, pained, coming from somewhere in the room. Where was he again? In the corner? Beside her? She couldn’t focus on anything, not when you were right in front of her. Dead.

Her breath came fast and shallow, and she realized belatedly that her hands were shaking harder now, her entire body wracked with tremors she couldn’t control. She wiped the blood from her palm with the back of her sleeve, smearing red across white, staining it, ruining it.

There was nothing left. Not you. Not your warmth, not your laughter, not your presence.

Just this—this grotesque act of erasure, this second death, this final, awful thing that she had to do.

She sucked in a breath, but it didn’t reach her lungs, got caught somewhere in the hollow, aching space in her chest where something important had been ripped out. She braces her hands against the table, shoulders hunched, lungs heaving as though she’s just resurfaced from drowning. Her fingers dig into the cold metal, nails scraping against its unforgiving surface. She needs to move. She needs to finish this.

She was drowning in it—in the sterile scent of antiseptic, in the smell of iron and decay, in the memory of your voice, your touch, the way you used to call her name, the way you used to look at her—

A blur moved past her before she could protest. Gojo.

He’s there, solid and warm, arms wrapping around her shoulders with a quiet kind of certainty. No words. No meaningless platitudes. Just warmth, steady and grounding. Her body resists at first. She wants to shove him off, tell him to leave her the fuck alone, tell him that none of this will change anything. But she doesn’t.

Because the moment she lets herself lean into it, she shatters.

A ragged breath. A full-body tremor. Her fingers twitch against the edge of the table, grasping at something that isn’t there. She presses her forehead against his chest, against the soft fabric of his uniform, and squeezes her eyes shut.

“I should have—”

Her voice cracks, Gojo tightens his arms around her.

“You did what you could,” he murmurs.

The words are gentle. Meant to be comforting.

They are not.

She shoves at him, not hard enough to push him away, just enough to make space, to breathe. Her pulse is erratic, panic clinging to her ribs like a vice. She's angry, she's crazed, she's mourning you.

“Don’t.” Her voice is hoarse. “Don’t fucking say that.”

Gojo watches her, gaze unreadable behind his blindfold. But he doesn’t argue. She steps back, fists clenching, nails biting into her palms. Her breathing is uneven, ragged, her head pounding from the weight of it all.

She should be used to it. She should be—

But she isn’t.

She swipes the back of her hand across her face, breathing through the sharp hitch in her throat.

“Let me finish,” she says, voice steadier than she feels. Gojo nods once, Shoko refuses to look him in the eyes, fearing she’d see a reflection of her own pain. But he doesn’t leave.

Her hands are still shaking.

She doesn’t stop.

A.N. OKAY. I think thats enough angst for me now. Jfc this hurt omg. Anyway let me know if yall want this with Nanami or other characters!!

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sunderwight · 9 months ago

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Thinking about SV demon culture as one struggling under the weight of imperialism, a violent ruling class with a might-makes-right mindset, and a lot of warfare.

I really don't like fics that imply that Luo Binghe's conquest of the demon realms just automatically improved living conditions there. I think both versions believed that they could conquer things, establish a new regime, and fix a lot of political issues in the process, I just don't think that would actually be the result of a violent takeover on the part of a cultural outsider with a patchy understanding of the actual multitude of demon cultures involved, whose only asset was an extreme capacity for physical violence and resilience against death.

Like, no wonder Bingge was always putting down uprisings and "rivals" for power -- a lot of his empire was probably actually being run by the demon wives or families of the demon wives he favored most, like Sha Hualing, or by preferred subordinates like Mobei Jun, who very probably pursued their own interests just as doggedly as they had prior to his rule. Only, this time they'd have been doing so with the added leverage of Luo Binghe's violence answering anyone who "rebelled" against "his" authority.

Demons in SV have myriad subtypes and subcultures. It seems really likely that a lot of them have been persecuted by others, that there are demon communities who have been subjugated, muscled out of ancestral homes, enslaved, wiped out, etc. This would probably even explain some "invasions" by demons into the human realm -- I'd imagine numerous cases across history of refugees being taken for (or described as) marauders by cultivation sects, or human communities unprepared or unwilling to deal fairly with visibly inhuman "monsters" and answering their approach with violence, or even displaced demons who did in fact become bandits and such in the fallout of various conflicts causing problems.

But there also would probably have been demons that succeeded in making their way in the human realm, and disguising what they were well enough that the sects never even knew. After all, most of the methods for alerting the sects to the presence of demons involve demons doing something violent (like the Skinner demon) or people seeing demons and going "ahhh!" about it. A demon or a family of demons uninterested in serial killing and only looking to get by and avoid the violence would likely not attract that kind of attention, just so long as they could pass as human too.

I do wonder if the reverse has ever happened as well. Human wars driving humans to seek refuge in the demon realms. It would conversely seem a lot more dangerous (demons are physically tougher than humans, and the demon realms are notoriously harsh), but in some cases it was probably like, well, life is hell already, at least the things trying to kill us in the demon realm are straightforward about it?

There are probably way more half-demons out there than just Luo Binghe, and even more demons with human ancestry or humans with demon ancestry. I wouldn't be surprised if demon ancestry actually played a roll in some humans being cultivation prodigies compared to others -- demons seem to have a natural physical power that most humans don't, and while their cultivation uses different energy, it would make sense of some aspects of things like a physical inclination to store, accrue, or manipulate energy in general could benefit even predominately human descendants of mixed blood.

But anyway, back to politics.

Tianlang Jun didn't seem to be a terribly proactive ruler either. Which on the one hand can be a good thing (he wasn't a tyrant, wasn't interested in waging wars or conquering others, didn't much care to throw his weight around), but someone was actually ruling in his absence. Conflicts were still happening, and being resolved. Tributes or taxes were still being paid to him, for him to live any kind of lavish lifestyle, which means they were being collected, rates were being determined, enforced, etc, which does beg the question of who was doing it. Not Zhuzhi Lang, certainly.

In Bingmei's time, the person actually running things is Shang Qinghua, which means also Mobei Jun is actually running things to some extent too. Shen Qingqiu loves demonic beasts but doesn't seem like he could care less about politics, and Luo Binghe only got this job in the first place because he was trying to impress him, and the post-canon extras would seem to indicate that they check out of the process as often as possible.

Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua's rule probably makes things pretty hard for the southern demons who are traditionally loyal to the Heavenly Demons. I mean, apart from not being able to beat Luo Binghe in a fight, self-serving ambition would definitely be a motive for Mobei Jun to throw his lot in with him as soon as possible, right? "Give" the emperor your palace, your service, your resources, etc, and the emperor basically becomes Mobei's own tool to reinforce his sovereignty. In PIDW he even uses him to do that in a more immediate sense by bringing him to the fight with his uncle. In SV he decides Shang Qinghua is more suitable, which, symbolically, is even true. The cost of wielding Luo Binghe's authority is having to submit to it, but Shang Qinghua has elevated Mobei Jun even without that.

No wonder the southern demons couldn't get on Tianlang Jun's side fast enough when he reappeared. Given both Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua's bias, the North has probably been running rampant with their own interests while the South gets hamstrung and dealt crumbs by comparison. Sha Hualing's clearly been trying to get on Luo Binghe's good side with minimal success ever since he got out of the Abyss. Unlike in PIDW, where she's a major player, here she's just an underling desperately playing catch-up and accidentally offending him all the time.

I wonder how that's impacting the complex arrangement of political alliances, cultures, and conflicts among the various factions in the demon realm. It'd probably be like if the remote and somewhat isolated North and Winterfell in ASOIAF/Game of Thrones suddenly became the new capital of the empire, and White Harbor became the main trade hub, while all the southern lords struggled to even get a foot in the door with the new king and kept pissing him off all the time. And every time they try to break free or rebel or kill him, it doesn't work and they get personally murdered by him. Meanwhile the northern lords are making off like bandits, with the current Lord Stark gay married to some inhuman warlock who does all his paperwork and somehow knows all your embarrassing secrets.

...That comparison got away from me. But I mean, it's kind of fascinating? A huge mess and likely miserable for a lot of demons, but still. The implications...

#svsss #long post #scum villain #scum villain's self saving system

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therandomfandomme · 3 months ago

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We're all going feral over the whole "Mercy? Mercy?" which is so valid of us, but the way mercy comes back as a theme in this final saga is really interesting to me, because before this, Odysseus is asked for mercy, for forgiveness:

"Old king, our leader is dead

You've destroyed the serpent's head

Now the rest of us are no longer a threat

Old king, forgive us instead

So that no more blood is shed

Let's have open arms instead"

"No"

He has become Poseidon, the one that first forced him into believing that mercy isn't something he can afford ("Look what you turned me into"), which is made doubly poignant with Eurymachus echoing the open arms of Polites ("Greet the world with open arms"). Now I'm not saying he should have forgiven the suitors for what they were planning on doing, however, this interaction directly informs this one later:

"Throw down those weapons

And I ensure you'll be spared"

"After seeing what the king will do to us

We wouldn't dare"

Because Odysseus doesn't show mercy to Eurymachus, Melanthius doesn't want to take the risk when Telemachus extends mercy to them, which then leads to the starting interaction.

When extending mercy and creating a kinder world is discussed again, it's by Athena. She is the original god, who pushed him towards a lack of mercy, who found that a warrior of the mind is one that showed not mercy and Odysseus believed her during the war, even threw a baby of a roof about it, and it wasn't until after that he rebelled her teachings only to be forced into it by other gods (Poseidon and Zeus most specifically). To which this is said:

"If that world exists, it's far away from here

It's one I'll have to miss, for it's far beyond my years

You might live forever, so you can make it be

But I've got one endeavor, there's a girl I have to see"

"Very well"

"Father, she's waiting for you"

I especially want to highlight that Odysseus says it is beyond his years. He has become that monster and he can't undo that in the years he still has. If this is to happen, then it must be the future generations that Athena has to influence to make that world. Having her reply to that getting interrupted by Telemachus is very purposeful to me. Because he does still extend mercy, he is the new warrior she trained and she trained him differently because her belief changed.

But I also think having her show Odysseus her face with the lightning scar as she agrees is very telling. When she pushed Odysseus to be ruthless she had not been on the other end of no mercy, which is what makes Odysseus turn against her ("Unlikе you, every time someone dies I'm left to deal with the strain"). She now has been on the other side of it by the hands of someone Odysseus also faced and they were both shown the same lack of mercy. For Odysseus that was his final turning point where he chose no mercy, while Athena did chose mercy.

And in the end, she did get some mercy from Zeus in response from it. Zeus also learned from her, from the lesson Odysseus taught her, which was taught to him by Polites. And that mercy gets paid forward allowing Odysseus to get home (yes, I'm emotional about Polites helping Odysseus get home in the end). Almost every time mercy is shown, his journey progresses (Lotus eaters, Aeolous, Circe, Zeus).

Athena has been through not receiving mercy, but she still believes, is still working towards that future. And while she accepts Odysseus words about him being beyond such a world, she doesn't agree with him. Her reply feels more like accepting a dismissal rather than an agreement. And Telemachus shows up as a reminder that she is more correct than Odysseus in this, and he leads them into Penelope.

God, I love Penelope. With her, Odysseus tells someone yet again that he has changed ("I am not your kind and gentle husband") and that he would understand if she did not love him anymore. And then we get this banger:

"Only my husband knew that

So I guess that makes him you"

Penelope shows him mercy in this. She has asked him what he has done and she is given the option to not want him anymore after hearing about the monster he's turned into, but she doesn't. She forgives him. He asks for forgiveness and she grants it. That is mercy.

Not only that, but she also affirms that he is still him. The usage of husband here is important to me, because he says he's not her husband, who was gentle and kind, and she tells him that he is. He believes him beyond that world where people are empathetic and kind, but the roots of that world he created in Ithaca and with Athena allow him to come home. He isn't a monster beyond redemption, he is also a part of that kinder world, regardless of what he has done.

And then you have the music echo the Just a Man melody when Odysseus sings:

"I'm just a man who's trying to go home

Even after all the years away from what I’ve known

I'm just a man who's fighting for his life

Deep down I would trade the world to see my son and wife

I'm just a man"

He is brought back to who he was when he was still just a man, before he became a monster. He did trade the world to see his son and wife and that makes him just a man.

The whole musical asks the question when a man becomes a monster and I think while it is never explicitly answered, that the answer is: when he isn't shown mercy. And that by showing someone mercy, you can reverse that. That it isn't permanent. I really love the moral question of mercy vs. ruthlessness in that Epic has, so it was really interesting to see how it came back in the end :D

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skiesuconn · 1 month ago

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Scream First, Flirt Later | ONE-SHOT

pairing: paige n azzi notes from author: hey! it took me a while to get satisfied with how it would go, but i'm really happy with how it turned out. i'm working on the laundry mat mix-up idea i had, but it's going to take a bit of time. i'd love if anyone sent me some prompts; i already have a few requests, but it’s okay. you can also expect chapter 3 of ''wdftl'' soon. happy reading. wc: 6k

The cold wind whipped against Azzi’s face as she stood at the entrance of the corn maze, shivering just enough to make her wish she'd put on something heavier. She tugged at her cream beige hoodie, pulling it tighter around her body, wishing she could find some warmth in the chill of the evening. Her white cream cargos swished with each step she took, and the sound of her Uggs crunching against the gravel was oddly comforting, grounding her in a moment that felt so different from the controlled routine she was used to.

Azzi tucked a curl behind her ear, feeling the weight of it against her cheek. Her hair was wild and chaotic, and she knew the moment she walked into the maze, all those untamed curls would probably draw a few too many glances. Her natural brown curls, the ones she tried to tame and hide under beanies and hats, always seemed to have a life of their own, and she hated the way they looked like they were trying to rebel. But tonight, they stayed out. Tonight, she’d let them roam free, just like her mind.

Madeline was bouncing around in her thick scarf, giggling with Rory, who was adjusting her glasses for the third time. Azzi caught the end of their conversation, the sound of their laughter mixing with the cold air.

“You’re going to love it,” Madeline said, grinning at Azzi, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose. “A night away from all your studying? You deserve this.”

“I think you both have more confidence in me than I do,” Azzi said with a dry smile, shaking her head. “But fine, I'll give it a try. This whole thing does seem kind of fun.”

Rory nodded solemnly, her plaid coat swaying as she adjusted her scarf. “Trust me, we need this. A bit of chaos to shake things up. You know, like real life.”

Azzi laughed softly, but her eyes scanned the maze again. The event organizers were there, wearing creepy costumes to set the spooky vibe for the maze, and they were handing out pamphlets to each group. One of the organizers, dressed like a grim reaper, waved them over, the cold moonlight reflecting off his white, skeletal face.

“Welcome to the maze!” he said in a voice too deep and ominous for Azzi’s liking. “You will find clues along the way, some hidden, some very much in plain sight. Beware of the monsters though—they’re tricky. Oh, and we’ve had a few… surprises before. Stay alert.”

Azzi’s stomach tightened. For a moment, she considered turning back to the warmth of Madeline's apartment. But she didn’t.

“Okay, okay, we got it,” Madeline chirped, her eyes sparkling. “We’re going to find those clues, I’m telling you. Come on, Azzi, let’s go! I think there’s a clue to the left.”

Azzi nodded and gave Madeline a small smile, walking with them into the maze. The three of them wandered through the twisting pathways, their voices mixing with the rustling of the dry corn stalks. Azzi’s eyes flitted over the terrain, but she couldn’t seem to relax. This wasn’t her world, not really. She liked control. She liked order. She liked knowing what came next.

But something about the maze, with its towering corn and winding paths, made her feel like she was on the edge of something… new. And that thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Eventually, Madeline and Rory disappeared around a corner, leaving Azzi standing in the soft, shifting light. The wind tugged at her beanie, and she brushed her curls behind her ear again, but her mind was elsewhere—distracted by the eerie quiet. Then, she saw it: the scarecrow, standing tall in a patch of moonlight.

The scarecrow’s presence made her heart skip a beat. It was too lifelike, its eyes too real in a way that felt unnatural. She took a few steps forward, curious, but her feet were hesitant, as though something was urging her to keep away. The paper stuck to its chest seemed like an invitation—and her mind, always overthinking, couldn’t help but reach for it.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the paper, and that’s when the scarecrow moved.

Azzi gasped, stumbling backward, the wind picking up as the scarecrow jerked, its head snapping toward her in a way that felt far too human.

But before she could react, something strong and solid gripped her waist. The warmth of the body that pulled her back against it sent a jolt through Azzi’s chest.

“Whoa, hey, I’ve got you.” The voice was low and teasing, and Azzi immediately felt the strength of the arms around her. She was pulled against the chest of someone tall and broad, and for a second, she just froze.

When she looked up, her heart did an uncomfortable flip.

The woman grinning down at her was tall—so much taller than Azzi—and she carried herself with an athletic confidence that was hard to ignore. Paige’s blue eyes twinkled in the dim light, her lips curved in a cocky grin. She was wearing a tight flannel shirt, rolled-up sleeves revealing toned forearms. Her arms, muscular and strong, held Azzi steady, and it took everything in Azzi not to notice how solid her body felt.

"Got a little scared there?" Paige teased, her smirk only widening. She let go of Azzi slowly, just enough for Azzi to regain her balance but not enough to feel like she had any space.

Azzi blinked, disoriented, her pulse quickening. "I… I wasn’t expecting that." Her voice came out shakier than she'd intended.

Paige chuckled, giving her a half-shrug. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point of a scarecrow, right? Thought I might as well do a little bit of scaring.”

Azzi stared at her a second longer than she should have, her mind scrambling for a response. Her gaze flickered over Paige’s strong arms, the way her muscles shifted beneath the flannel, the faint hint of a tattoo peeking from under her sleeve. Confidence radiated from her in waves.

Paige tilted her head, as if she could read Azzi’s thoughts. “You alright?” she asked, her voice softening just a touch.

Azzi blinked, momentarily lost in the way Paige looked at her. “Yeah,” she stammered, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Just... startled. That’s all.”

Paige chuckled, but this time, it was quieter, more self-aware. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. I’ve scared people before, but you—" She waggled her eyebrows. "You really got me thinking I went too far.”

Azzi’s heart skipped. “I’m sure you have some wild stories,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” Paige grinned, leaning in just a little. “Like the time I made this guy scream so loud, he dropped his entire drink.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “Not my fault he didn’t see the creepy skeleton behind him.”

Azzi snorted despite herself, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I’m sure you’re so proud.”

“Hey,” Paige raised an eyebrow, “I’m a professional. It’s a gift.”

They stood there a beat longer, the maze spinning around them, but Azzi couldn’t help noticing how alive Paige seemed. It was like she didn’t care what anyone thought—she was just here, and she was going to have fun. Azzi wasn’t sure what that did to her chest, but the pull was undeniable.

“So, what happens now?” Azzi asked, suddenly more aware of how tightly she was clutching her paper.

Paige smirked. “Well, for starters, you don’t need that paper anymore. Trust me,” she said, her grin widening. “I can show you the way out.”

Azzi hesitated, her fingers still tight around the paper before she finally let it drop.

The cold air bit at Azzi’s cheeks, but she barely noticed, still replaying the way Paige had smirked at her like she had all the answers to the universe. They walked toward the exit, the dim lighting of the maze casting long shadows that flickered with their movement. The warmth of Paige’s presence next to her made Azzi forget the chill in the air. Or maybe it was the way Paige carried herself—like she wasn’t just walking, but sauntering. Confident. Azzi couldn’t help but steal glances at her.

Paige was talking, her voice playful. “You should’ve seen this guy. Six foot five? Built like a linebacker. I pop out from behind the corn, full scarecrow stance—arms stiff like this.” She demonstrated, making Azzi giggle. “I let out this awful groan, like—” Paige dropped into a deep, eerie growl that made Azzi jump, before she burst into laughter. “Dude screams. Not just a little yelp, like he’s in a horror movie. Drops his phone, turns around, and just bolts. Leaves his girlfriend behind.”

Azzi gasped, covering her mouth. “No way. What did she do?”

“She straight-up dumped him on the spot.” Paige’s grin turned wicked. “Told him if he couldn’t handle a haunted corn maze, he couldn’t handle her.”

Azzi shook her head, grinning. “I mean… valid.”

Paige chuckled. “Then there was this guy who tried to fight me. Swung his arms like he was battling a demon. Had to break character and go, ‘Dude, I work here.’”

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. “Wait, do you ever feel bad scaring people like that?”

Paige tilted her head as though pondering the question. “Nah. That’s what they’re here for. The only people I don’t scare are kids. I love those little guys.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You? A six-foot-tall menace in flannel? You like kids?”

Paige smirked. “What? You don’t think I look like a ‘likes kids’ type?”

“Not even a little bit,” Azzi admitted, watching Paige carefully. “I figured you’d say you scare them for fun.”

Paige placed a dramatic hand over her heart. “You wound me, woman.”

Azzi ignored the flutter in her chest. “So what do you do instead?”

Paige shrugged, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Make sure they’re having fun. High-fives for the ones who make it through. If they’re scared, I just wave 'em past.”

Azzi didn’t mean to stare, but it was... kind of adorable. A tall, cocky scare actor with a soft spot for kids? That contrast was unexpectedly endearing. Paige caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Azzi said too quickly, biting back a smile. “It’s just... cute.”

“Oh, so now I’m cute?” Paige shot back, leaning in just enough to make Azzi’s breath hitch. “Wasn’t so cute when you were clinging to me like I was your last hope for survival, huh?”

Azzi shoved her lightly, heart racing. “Shut up.”

They reached the exit, and Paige slowed her steps. “Alright, here’s the deal. I need to change out of this.” She gestured to the scarecrow getup. “If I walk around like this, someone’s gonna rat me out. And I’m probably not supposed to be escorting guests through the maze.”

Azzi smirked, her dark eyes glinting with playful amusement. “You think?”

Paige grinned, completely at ease. “I need about five minutes. Meet me by the coffee van?”

Azzi nodded, a faint smirk still lingering. “Five minutes.”

Paige jogged off toward a small booth near the staff area, peeling off the scarecrow jacket as she went. The jacket dragged behind her, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to look cool—she was just trying to get out of the costume. All she could think about was the way Azzi’s smile made her chest feel tight, a kind of tightness that made her wonder just how long this connection was going to haunt her.

She changed quickly, swapping the scarecrow outfit for something that felt more... her. Ocean-blue jeans that fit perfectly, hugging her thighs and tapering down to her ankles. A dark coat with deep pockets, filled with everything she needed—snacks, her phone, maybe even a rogue basketball for later. The beanie she grabbed from a random table completed the look. Paige didn’t care that it was messy. It only added to her charm.

She glanced at her reflection in a car window before heading back outside. Not bad. Maybe even... kind of good?

Azzi was right where she said she’d be, standing by the coffee van, hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized hoodie. She looked effortlessly warm despite the cold, as if she hadn’t just spent hours in a scarecrow costume herself. Paige felt that familiar tug in her chest again. Maybe it was just the night air... Or maybe it was something more.

Azzi looked up as Paige approached, her lips curving into a small, teasing smile. “Took you long enough.”

Paige’s eyebrows shot up in mock offense. “Excuse me?” she said, giving Azzi an exaggerated look of offense. “Had to make sure I wasn’t smelling like hay.”

Azzi wrinkled her nose, the slightest hint of amusement dancing across her features. “Good call. I’m not into hay, personally.”

Paige smirked and closed the gap between them, unable to resist teasing Azzi further. “By the way,” she said casually, “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Azzi blinked, her smile faltering for a split second. “Oh. It’s Azzi.”

Paige furrowed her brows. “Wait, spell that for me.”

Azzi’s lips curled into a quiet laugh. “A-Z-Z-I.”

Paige squinted dramatically, like she was deciphering a hidden code. “Damn, that’s tricky. Sounds like an old head name.”

Azzi gasped in mock offense, her hand flying to her chest. “Excuse me?”

Paige just shrugged, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’m just saying. That’s an old-school name. Bet you were out here settling the frontier or something.”

Azzi nudged her playfully, but the smile on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes. Paige staggered a little in the cold. “Shut up. You just can’t spell.”

“Listen,” Paige said, laughing, “that might also be true, but I still think you’re an old head.”

Azzi threw her hands up, trying not to laugh. “Bet. I’m officially washed. You figured me out.”

The exchange left Paige with a grin she couldn’t shake. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something so easy about being around Azzi. Something so natural. Even the way she laughed felt comfortable, like a sound Paige could get used to hearing every day.

The warm steam from their mugs curled around them, mingling with the crisp night air. The scent of autumn—damp leaves, the earthiness of the season, and a trace of pumpkin spice—lingered, settling in the spaces between them. They stood near a lamppost, its soft glow illuminating their faces, casting a quiet, intimate light over them. Paige caught Azzi’s gaze and held it just a moment longer than necessary, her heartbeat quickening. Azzi’s deep, doe-like brown eyes were magnetic, and there was something in the way they looked at her that made Paige feel like she was falling into something more than she’d bargained for—something too easy to lose herself in.

Azzi broke the silence first, her voice warm with a quiet amusement. “Okay, that was actually perfect. I’m not usually a hot chocolate person, but this... this was surprisingly good.”

Paige raised her mug, her fingers curling around the warmth of it. “Told you,” she said, her voice low but confident. “I’m practically a hot chocolate connoisseur. It’s one of my hidden talents.”

Azzi smirked, clearly amused. “Hidden talents? You’re telling me you’re also a hot chocolate expert?”

Paige let out a soft laugh, a flicker of mischief dancing across her features. “Oh, absolutely,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of seriousness that made Azzi’s lips twitch into a smile. “I take it very seriously. Ready to be impressed?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but intrigued. “I’m not so sure. You’ve got a lot to prove.”

The air between them shifted, just slightly, as their easy banter deepened into something more. The playful teasing hung in the space between them, but the undercurrent of something unspoken—the quiet tug in their chest—was undeniable. Paige took another sip, her eyes briefly meeting Azzi’s, her chest tightening in that familiar way. They didn’t need to speak for the moment to stretch just a little longer than expected.

Then, just as the atmosphere grew heavier, a voice from the coffee van cut through the tension, a touch too casual, like something from a romcom.

The barista, a scruffy guy with a beanie perched too confidently on his head, leaned out of the window, scanning them both with an amused grin. “So,” he said, his voice dripping with teasing curiosity. “Are you two, like... a couple or something?”

Paige choked on her drink, sputtering out a laugh as she quickly wiped her mouth. “What? No,” she said, a little too quickly, her voice stumbling over the words. “We’re just... two people with a mutual appreciation for hot chocolate.”

Azzi glanced at her, the flush creeping up her neck. Her voice was quieter, almost to herself, as she mumbled, “Yeah, definitely not a couple.”

The barista raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but gave them an exaggerated wink. “Sure, sure. I’ll leave you two... lovebirds to it.”

Azzi’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and Paige couldn’t hold back her smile any longer, the teasing edge of it laced with something else—something a little softer. “Guess we’re a couple now?” she said, her voice low, amused but carrying that thread of warmth she couldn’t quite ignore.

Azzi smacked her lightly, her face still flushed with a mix of embarrassment and something else. “Shut up,” she muttered, but the smile tugging at the corners of her lips was telling. She hid behind her mug, still not quite able to cover up the warmth that had taken over her expression. “You’re impossible.”

Paige smiled softly, watching Azzi with a fondness that caught her off guard. There was something undeniably endearing about her—the way she tried to hide the softness in her laugh, the way she lit up over something as simple as a hot chocolate. It was the kind of sweetness that felt rare, and Paige found herself drawn to it more than she cared to admit.

A couple? Paige wasn’t sure about that. But whatever this was between them, it was something that had been quietly occupying her thoughts lately. --

Paige stood, extending her hand with a playful, dramatic flourish. “Let’s go. I’ll show you how it’s really done.”

Azzi hesitated for a beat before standing and following Paige toward the small pumpkin patch set up nearby. The distant crackling of a fire pit added an intimate warmth to the cool night air.

They settled onto a bench, pumpkins scattered between them. Paige handed Azzi a carving knife, her grin a mixture of confidence and something else—something a little more flirtatious.

“I’ll warn you now,” Paige said, settling beside Azzi with a casual ease. “I’m basically a professional at this.”

Azzi chuckled, her voice laced with teasing doubt. “Oh really? I’m sure you are.”

Paige’s hands moved with practiced precision, the knife cutting through the pumpkin effortlessly. Azzi tried to follow her lead, but her grip felt awkward, the knife hesitant. It wasn’t going as smoothly as she’d hoped.

“I swear, I’m the worst at this,” Azzi muttered, frowning as she worked at the pumpkin’s face.

Paige leaned closer, her breath warm against Azzi’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

The proximity was startling, and Azzi’s pulse picked up when she felt the heat of Paige’s body just behind her. Paige’s hand brushed against hers as she took the knife, the touch brief but electric. Azzi swallowed, her focus momentarily faltering as the space between them seemed to shrink.

Paige’s body leaned in closer, their sides brushing as Paige’s steady hand guided the knife with a practiced ease. Azzi’s breath caught as the warmth of Paige’s body pressed against her back, the sensation far too intimate for a pumpkin carving session.

For a split second, everything around them seemed to fade. The sounds of the night, the crackling fire, even the cold air, all became distant. All Azzi could focus on was the pressure of Paige’s body behind hers, the way her breath seemed to slow and draw in sync with Paige’s.

Azzi’s hand slipped, brushing the inside of Paige’s thigh, and she froze. A wave of warmth rushed to her face as she quickly pulled back, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

Paige’s response was soft, almost amused. “It’s fine, Azzi. You don’t need to apologize.”

Azzi’s cheeks darkened. “I wasn’t—ugh, I didn’t mean to—”

Paige smirked, her voice smooth and teasing. “Accidental hand placement is an art form, really.”

Azzi let out a nervous laugh, but her heartbeat was still racing. She tried to focus on the pumpkin, but it was impossible to ignore how close Paige was—how her warmth lingered just behind her, settling into Azzi’s bones.

Paige’s voice shifted, lowering, taking on an almost intimate quality. “Alright, let’s fix this,” she said, taking the knife from Azzi’s hand. “You’ve got to trust the knife,” she added with a wink, her breath warm against Azzi’s ear. “And trust me.”

Azzi leaned back slightly, doing her best to ignore the heat from Paige’s body radiating into hers. But the subtle brush of Paige’s breath against the back of her neck had her pulse surging again. She could hear the steady rhythm of Paige’s breathing, close and intimate, sending shivers through her spine.

“See?” Paige finally pulled back, holding up the pumpkin with a proud grin. “The secret to pumpkin carving? You’ve got to let go and have a little fun with it.”

Azzi blinked, staring at the finished carving. “That’s… actually impressive.” She couldn’t help but smirk. “I might start calling you the pumpkin whisperer.”

Paige took a dramatic bow before plopping the pumpkin on her head like a crown. “Behold, the Pumpkin Queen,” she declared with exaggerated grandeur, striking a playful pose.

Azzi snorted, unable to stifle her laughter. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

Paige shot her a cheeky grin. “Starting a trend. You’ll thank me later. I’m basically setting fashion history.”

Azzi doubled over, clutching her stomach as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably. “You’re ridiculous,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “But also? I can’t stop laughing.”

Paige removed the pumpkin and gave it a playful spin in her hands. “You’re welcome. It’s all part of my charm.”

Azzi wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling. “Honestly? You just made this night a hundred times better.”

Paige’s playful smirk softened into something more genuine, her eyes meeting Azzi’s with a quiet intensity. “That’s the goal.” --

They stepped out of the maze together, the city lights flickering in the distance, mingling with the faint hum of passing cars. The cold air nipped at Azzi’s cheeks, but the warmth in her chest lingered. Maybe it was from laughing too hard, or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the girl beside her.

Paige stretched her arms behind her head, tilting her face up toward the sky. “You know, I really outdid myself this year,” she mused, flashing Azzi a sideways smirk. “Scared a solid ten people into screaming. Three ran. One even tripped and fell into the corn.”

Azzi scoffed, but a smile tugged at her lips. “And you’re proud of that?”

Paige chuckled, nodding. “Oh, absolutely.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly between them as they walked through the city, neon lights reflecting in the puddles on the pavement. Azzi found herself completely caught up in Paige’s stories—each one more outrageous than the last. There was a warmth to Paige’s voice, a way she animated her words, her hands cutting through the air with each ridiculous tale. Azzi barely noticed when their shoulders brushed or when Paige’s fingers accidentally skimmed the back of her hand.

Azzi caught herself when Paige leaned in a little too close, her voice dropping into a low, teasing whisper as she continued her story. “And then, this one dude, biggest guy I’ve ever seen, looked me dead in the eyes and—”

Azzi’s breath hitched when Paige’s hand brushed lightly over her arm. It was a brief touch, but it sent a jolt through her chest, a weird mix of electricity and something else she couldn’t quite place. Paige had a way of taking up space—of just being there—that made Azzi suddenly hyper-aware of every little movement, every brush of skin, as if something was shifting between them that neither of them had planned for.

By the time they reached Azzi’s apartment, the night was winding down, but there was an energy between them that still buzzed. The soft glow from the porch light cast a warm halo around them, and Azzi found herself lingering in the doorway, wishing she could keep this feeling going just a little longer.

“That was... fun,” Azzi said, shifting on her feet, suddenly unsure of herself. She gave a soft laugh. “Not what I expected, but in a good way.”

Paige tilted her head, studying her with that grin of hers, half-smirk and half something else—something softer. “Yeah? Glad I could keep you entertained.”

Azzi’s fingers nervously tugged at the hem of her hoodie, her heart racing in her chest. She glanced up at Paige briefly, then quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing. “And… thanks. For walking me home. You didn’t have to.”

Paige’s lips curved into a soft, teasing smile, her eyes still glimmering with amusement. “You insisted,” she teased, her voice warm and low. “Said you wanted to get here safely.”

Azzi’s shy smile tugged at her lips, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her hoodie, fingers twisting the material as her stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. “I did.”

Paige took a deliberate step closer, closing the distance between them, her presence overwhelming. Azzi’s breath hitched as she felt the magnetic pull of Paige’s nearness. Her body responded instinctively, drawn in by the heat radiating from Paige. The warmth of Paige’s breath caressed Azzi’s skin, and the air between them became charged, thick with unspoken desire.

"So," Paige’s voice was low, husky, with an undercurrent of something more intense. “If I asked if I could kiss you right now, what would you say?”

Azzi’s breath caught in her throat, the question settling into her chest like a weight, both thrilling and terrifying. Her eyes flicked between Paige’s lips and her eyes, the unspoken emotions swirling between them. Without thinking, she closed the gap, her body instinctively gravitating toward Paige. The world around them faded into the background as Azzi’s heart pounded, the pulse of it syncing with the rapid rhythm of her breaths.

Paige didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, and when their lips met, it was like everything snapped into place.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was fierce, hungry, as if they had both been waiting for this moment far too long. Azzi’s hands flew to the thick lapels of Paige’s coat, pulling her closer, desperate to feel more of her. The coat slipped off Paige’s shoulders, discarded carelessly onto the floor as the kiss deepened. Paige’s strong hands moved over Azzi’s body, every touch sending a wave of heat crashing through her.

Azzi’s chest pressed against Paige’s as she felt her hands trail down, exploring the curves of her waist and hips. Her breath became shallow as Paige’s hands cupped her ass, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Azzi gasped, her body weightless in Paige’s hold, the sensation of being held like that sending a jolt of electricity through her. She instinctively wrapped her legs around Paige’s waist, clinging to her as they moved. Every inch of Paige’s body felt solid, strong, and warm beneath her hands.

The heat between them was unbearable, each moment pulling them closer to the edge. Azzi’s hands roamed over Paige’s chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt, unable to steady herself as her body reacted to every touch.

They stumbled forward, the pressure of their bodies pressing against one another as Paige backed them toward the apartment. Azzi could feel the metal railing near the stairs, but before Paige could react, her back collided with it. The impact made Azzi burst into laughter, breathless and giddy, the tension momentarily breaking as they stood there, still tangled in each other.

Azzi’s eyes sparkled with amusement, her voice breathy with laughter. “Oh my God, you’re a mess,” she teased, her hands resting on Paige’s chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt.

Paige rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Shut up,” she murmured, leaning in again, this time kissing Azzi harder, more urgently. Azzi’s body responded immediately, her chest pressing into Paige’s, her hands sliding down to grasp the waistband of Paige’s jeans.

Azzi’s fingers brushed over the fabric, teasing the edges, and Paige groaned against her lips, her hands pulling Azzi closer, almost desperately. Azzi’s body hummed with anticipation, her chest heaving as she pressed herself into Paige, every touch sending waves of electricity through her.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Azzi pulled away, eyes catching something in Paige’s hair. She reached up, fingers gently grazing through the soft strands, her lips curving into a playful smile when she noticed the small piece of pumpkin still tangled in Paige’s hair from earlier.

Azzi’s laugh bubbled up, warm and teasing. “You’ve got a little something,” she murmured, her fingers delicately brushing the pumpkin out of Paige’s hair.

Paige blinked, looking confused for a moment before realizing what Azzi meant. A sheepish grin spread across her face. “Seriously?” she muttered, shaking her head, though there was something endearing about the way she was still so caught up in the moment. “Guess that’s what happens when you carve pumpkins and kiss me all in one day.”

Azzi giggled, the sound light and carefree, before her hands slid up Paige’s chest once again, teasing and lingering. “Guess so,” she said, voice heavy with desire. Her lips met Paige’s once more, but this kiss was deeper, more frantic. Azzi was overwhelmed, every inch of her burning with need as she pulled Paige closer, not caring about anything else.

The heat between them intensified, their kisses becoming more desperate as they fumbled for the apartment door. Azzi’s fingers trembled as she reached for her keys, every inch of her skin hyperaware of the closeness, the desire surging through her. She managed to unlock the door, but Paige’s hands gripped her waist, pulling her back into another kiss before she could step inside. The intensity of it made Azzi dizzy, but she wanted it. Needed it.

Azzi pulled away just enough to breathe, her hands still gripping Paige’s shirt. “Wait,” she gasped, voice thick with lust. She quickly kicked the door shut with her foot, closing off the world outside as she pressed herself into Paige’s embrace.

Paige smirked, hands sliding down to Azzi’s hips, keeping her close. “Good,” she murmured, her lips brushing against Azzi’s neck, the heat of her breath sending Azzi’s body into overdrive. “Because I’m not done with you either.”

Azzi laughed softly between gasps, her fingers tangling in Paige’s hair as she pulled her closer, unable to get enough. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Paige just shrugged, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Maybe,” she said, voice thick with desire. “But you love it.” --

Paige’s lips were on Azzi’s again, breathless and desperate, but then she pulled back just slightly, her forehead resting against Azzi’s. They both stood there, bodies tangled, hearts racing in sync, as if they were suspended in time. Azzi’s hands were still tangled in Paige’s hair, the pulse of their kiss still echoing through her chest.

Azzi breathed out a shaky laugh, her lips curving into a smile despite the heat that still burned between them. “You’re right,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “you really are insane.”

Paige smirked, her hands still at Azzi’s hips, holding her close but with a gentler touch now. “And you love every second of it,” she teased, her voice low and assured.

Azzi didn’t respond immediately, just looked at Paige with that same intensity in her eyes, a little smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t sure how they had gotten here, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

She closed the gap between them again, but this time, the kiss was softer, quieter, as if they were savoring the moment rather than rushing forward. Paige’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in tighter, and Azzi melted into her, allowing herself to feel the heat, the connection, the undeniable pull that had been there all along.

As they paused for a moment, their breaths mingling, Azzi’s fingers gently trailed down Paige’s arm, lightly grazing over the surface of her skin. Her gaze dropped to Paige’s hand, and she slowly reached out, her fingers brushing over the cool metal of the ring Paige wore.

She played with it absentmindedly, twisting it gently around Paige’s finger, her touch soft and playful. Paige's breath hitched slightly at the feeling of Azzi’s delicate fingers against her skin, but she didn’t move, letting Azzi explore at her own pace.

Azzi’s fingers brushed lightly over the back of Paige’s hand, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she flicked her eyes up to meet Paige’s. “You know,” she started, voice low and laced with mischief, “this ring’s kind of cute. But I think it might be getting in the way.” She let her fingers trail over Paige's hand, giving the ring another little twist, before her touch wandered down to her wrist, brushing the fabric of her sleeve.

Her voice dropped into a whisper, playful and suggestive, “Maybe we should just take this off too...” Azzi’s gaze flickered briefly to Paige’s lips, a slow, teasing grin spreading across her face.

Paige froze for just a second, her mind racing at Azzi’s words, before her hands moved instinctively, squeezing Azzi’s ass, pulling her closer into the kiss as if on cue. The move was bold, firm, but undeniably tender—sending a rush of heat through both of them. Paige’s thumb brushed the curve of Azzi’s cheek, moving a loose curl out of her face as if it was the most delicate thing in the world. Her touch was soft and intentional, the care in her fingers making Azzi’s heart race.

Azzi melted into the touch, her body practically vibrating with need, her breath hitching as she felt Paige’s hands on her, so strong yet gentle. The brief moment of tenderness only made the tension between them even more electric. The weight of Paige’s hands on her ass, pressing her into her warmth, sent a jolt of heat through her. She was sure Paige could feel her pulse beneath her fingers, racing as fast as her heart.

They pulled back for a second, breathing heavily, but the room around them felt like it was closing in, the air thick with the anticipation of what would come next.

Azzi’s voice was low, teasing, but with an edge of uncertainty. “I think we’ve both got some things we’re ready to take off…” Her fingers brushed the hem of Paige’s shirt, almost daring her to do the same, to take the next step.

Paige’s grin widened, but there was something wild in her eyes now—something they hadn’t let themselves get lost in before. “I like the way you think,” she murmured, her lips brushing Azzi’s once more, more urgent this time, more needy.

Azzi tried to guide them deeper throughout the apartment, but in the haze of desire, her hand fumbled for the door handle. She found it, but before she could open it, Paige held her back, her grip tightening on Azzi’s waist, pulling her into another kiss.

Azzi sighed into the kiss, half-laughing against Paige’s lips. “Seriously, we’re gonna get lost in here again,” she muttered, a teasing note to her voice.

Paige paused, her lips still hovering just above Azzi’s. She shushed her softly with a mischievous smirk. “Just stop talking for a while,” Paige whispered, her voice husky.

Azzi blinked, her heart pounding as she processed the command. She didn’t know what to make of it, but the intensity of Paige’s touch and the fire in her eyes left no room for hesitation. Azzi simply nodded, surrendering to the pull between them.

Paige brushed the curls away from Azzi’s face, her touch gentle but deliberate, as if the act itself was an intimate declaration. Her hands lingered for a moment, tracing the soft curve of Azzi’s cheek. With her thumb, Paige delicately tucked the stray locks of hair behind Azzi’s ear, the motion so tender, so careful, that it sent a shiver down Azzi’s spine.

Azzi’s breath hitched as she felt the warmth of Paige’s touch, but her lips parted in a soft smile, still burning with desire, and with a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured, “I think... we’re both ready for more, right?”

Paige’s grin widened, but there was a dark, teasing edge to it. She leaned in close again, pressing her body against Azzi’s, the heat between them radiating. “You’re damn right,” she murmured, lips brushing over Azzi’s ear. “But this time, I’m not letting you get lost again.”

Azzi's hands slipped down, her fingers brushing over the waistband of Paige’s jeans, her eyes gleaming with mischief. But just as Paige’s hand moved to grip her waist, ready to push them both forward, Azzi’s voice dropped again, low and dangerous, “Unless... you’re ready for me to take control.”

The air between them thickened, electric and charged, and just as Paige went to respond, everything froze. The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Azzi’s eyes flicked to the door.

The moment was broken.

#wbb #wbb fic #paige bueckers uconn #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #uconn huskies #pazzi #azzi fudd #ncaa wbb #paige x azzi #pazzi fics #paige and azzi #uconn women’s basketball #uconn #uconn wcbb #pazzi fic #fiction #fanfics

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mayullla · 1 year ago

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Title: Creature's Infatuation

Character(s): Doppelganger (Unnamed character/original work) Summary: The servants didn't know that their abusive noble was switched for a monster that looked like him. You forced to marry him knew tho, that he created everything to have you in his arms. Tags/Warnings: Yandere!monster, fem!reader, yandere!monster x noble!reader, general yandere themes, manipulation, brainwashing, blackmail, forced feminization, noncon pet play, forced intimacy, imprisonment, tentacles, 1.2k words

Author's Note: This is an old one-shot of mine that I didn't post for a long time inspired the yandere viscount so it is similar to it.

You didn't know how dangerous monsters could be… that some could turn into humans and blend into the crowd and you would be none the wiser.

If you were wiser… if you knew what would happen to you… you would hesitate even just a little, even just a second to help anyone who you saw in need. Maybe then you would not be locked up in this horrible mansion after selling yourself to pay off your noble aristocratic family debt.

You were nothing but a slave to him, with his affection and sick love, he kept you by his side. Nobody could know what happened here when everything was covered by thick curtains and dimmed lights. The servants here were nothing more than puppets. Their minds, which this monster had eaten just a little bit, placed itself, done just to get ever so closer to you and keep you locked here. He manipulated their thoughts while letting them think that they were still human.

You glared at the mansion, you glared at him who had caused you this suffering. Yet for the sake of something precious, you would give up that aristocratic pride, swallowing it down as you begged him to spare your family from their downfall. You said that you would give him anything he wants.

And all he wanted was you.

He told you that he would give you everything when he only did the opposite. What he said was nothing more than food that was taken away from you the moment you rebelled over the fantasies he had in his head.

He made you wear many costumes, dresses, and outfits, each and every one an arrow to your pride as he held your waist from the back dreamily looking at the mirror of you and him, telling you his disgusting and vile thoughts he was imagining when he first saw those clothes, how he imagined them on you.

The dresses that you usually wore were taken away the first day you signed the contract that you would be forever his. "Boring and lackluster," he told you. He would dress you with finer fabrics and silks that would make him excited to see, unlike the “dull and humble” dresses that you wore. It was unbefitting for you, he told you the first day, but you did see them later locked in a chest. Why he kept them, you didn't even want to know, not after you realized how perverted he was.

Gems and pearls of all kinds of accessories were also sewn into your new clothes. You were sure they would make a duchess or even a princess green with envy. He had gotten you almost all the latest trends that he fancied, which was almost all except the ones where much was covered.

Maid clothes that were more flamboyant, more revealing with a shorter shirt too short to even be appropriate. He had a particular fondness for lacy details, the more delicate the better.

Sometimes he would make you wear dog ears or cat ears, making you wear a collar as he cooed condescendingly, stroking your hair as he ordered you to get down and put your chin on his knee or forced you to sit on his lap.

Sometimes having you wear costumed shoes with heels too high to walk on. Barely able to walk on them, he would carry you, dreaming of how this was how a prince would carry his pretty princess. You wanted nothing more than to rip them off your feet, but with thick buckles and locks, it was practically impossible to take them off unless you chopped your feet.

To him, you became his pet, maid, princess, and whatever else perverted thing he managed to think up. Everything that happened in the mansion would never go out. The maids and servants didn't seem to care much about you, nor did they ever realize that the noble they served and some adored was a monster.

That the person they once thought to be him was long gone, rotting in some ditch as the monster took on his role just to make a situation that fits.

All they cared about was that their master had changed for the better, so in love with his wife that he shopped for all the violent acts he had done in the past. Not understanding that this was all wrong. Not knowing that he had control over their minds, that in reality, they were nothing more than lifeless husks made to believe that they were alive and that whatever he was doing to you was nothing more than normal.

From how he would lock you in a room as punishment, or how he would force you to feed him on his lap with overly revealing attire unfit for a noblewoman as he continued to be so fond of you.

Some days he would ask you if you loved him, loved him as much as he does to the point of obsession. The hurt in his eyes as he held you tighter asking what you wanted that would make you happy, "Why don't you love me as much as I do?" He would ask, as you watched tentacles move around the desk writing papers that were related to work. Tentacles that were connected to his back.

He pulled you closer to him, arms holding your waist tight, already forced to sit on his lap against your chest to touch his, which forced you to look up at him, unable to look anywhere else. Even if you were able to, it would be a bad decision to do so when he got angry.

Just as much as he loved dressing you up, you also have watched him morph many times, into something or someone else to make whatever fantasy even more real. The doors locked so that no one could come in, the windows shut so that no one could see through, and the lights but only from the flickering candle. "Do you want me to look like your lover? Would you love me more if I looked like him?" He asked, pulling your thigh closer to him, as you watched him morph, becoming nothing more than black goop to the man who you once loved.

The soft smile on his lips and the brightness of his eyes made you think that he finally loved you. It fluttered your heart but also sent shivers down your spine, as you knew that this wasn't your crush.

He was desperate for your love, yet at the same time, he was sadistic, forcing you to love him. There were days when he threatened you to stay by his side, unless you wanted to go out of the room or mansion naked, or face something worse. Your only choice was to stay there or hold his arm like a love-sick wife who loved him just as much as he loved her.

You felt gross, so vile, by this monster parading as a human and also forcing you to love him. But he didn't care, as long as he could see that you loved him and were by his side, playing by whatever whims he had in the bedroom or office. You were the person he had fallen in love with when he sneaked into the town of humans. You were kinder than anyone he had met. He had fallen in love with you that day and would do anything to keep you with him. He would even kill and take over the body of a noble just to get closer to you.

So long as you belonged to him.

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phossiii · 3 months ago

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｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter four

synopsis: you and phosphorus cover for flag. and your "other personality" pays a visit.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, gore, blood, demon shit, reader might be a bit op but who cares.

"Are they fuckin' killing each other?" you scoffed, incredulously, as you pressed your pointed ear against the door with G.I Robot.

"Not too far off from what you sounded like an hour ago, sunshine," Phosphorus teased, reaching out to touch you.

"You wanna lose that hand?"

Instantly, your tail whipped up, its sharp edge pointing directly at his throat, Weasel letting out a whimper at the sudden movement.

The four of you were outside the bathroom, waiting for Ilana to finish patching up Flag's injuries.

Though, as made evident by the aggressive, obnoxious moaning, they seemed to have gotten side-tracked.

'Typical...'

Nodding, Phosphorus raised his hands in defense, smirking—unbeknownst to you.

"Message received."

"Have you seen General Flag?" Alexi asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

The four of you glanced at each other, before turning to face him with indifferent expressions.

"Uh, yeah, why?" Phosphorus shrugged.

"Because he should be informed that two of your teammates have left the grounds."

Your eyes widened, slightly, brow raising with confusion.

'The Bride... and Nina?'

You knew the Bride didn't give a shit, but you were surprised that Nina went along.

You never thought she would rebel, seeing as she seemed terrified to step a single webbed-toe out of line.

Not to mention, she had her little goody-two-shoes thing going on.

"Yeah, he's, uh, in there..." Phosphorus stood up straight, pointing his thumb toward the door.

But just as the captain was about to move forward, you stopped him, pressing your reddened palm into his chest plate.

"You don't wanna do that," you sighed, attempting to spare him from the sight of his princess in such a... compromising position.

"Maybe you should just give him thirty seconds," your skeletal partner agreed.

Alexi raised a brow, suspicious.

"I mean, you've seen the princess. I don't know how he could hold out for more than thirty seconds, do you?"

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as Weasel let out a soft squeak.

"Ah, you got a point, Weez," Phosphorus nodded, thoughtfully resting his hand on his chin. "He's an older guy... probably has a lot of experience. Give him a full minute."

"This is not funny. Why are you smiling?" Alexi ignored.

"Slow down, bigot," Phosphorus scoffed, pulling open his lab coat. "I'm a freaking skeleton. It looks like I'm smiling even when I'm not."

"You are not smiling?"

"Oh, I am... But you can't tell that."

Punctuating his sentence, the sounds of banging echoed from the door, followed by Rick and Ilana's moans

It went on for an uncomfortably long minute, but once it was over, Alexi let out a sigh.

"May I knock now?" he asked.

Phosphorus held up a finger, forcing him to wait as they started up again, only louder, the sounds making you want to smash your head into the wall.

'I was better off at Arkham...'

After Flag cussed you both out for waiting to tell him that the Bride and Nina had escaped, Task Force M left to go rescue them from Circe and the Sons of Themyscira.

But after you arrived to find that neither of them had been horribly harmed, everyone quickly realized their real objective was to leave the princess without protection.

Which is why all of you hauled ass back to the castle, and why all of you were currently charging into the battle-filled courtyard with Alexi's super-powered, armored truck.

Zooming forward, he mowed down a Son that was about to toss a grenade at the royal guards, dismembering the bastard on impact before coming to a complete stop.

The Bride exited the vehicle guns blazing, as well as Flag and Alexi, shooting down five of the Sons right out the gate.

With a sigh, you cracked your neck, exhaling deeply out of your mouth.

"My body is mine... it belongs to me... Shall Mahalat come running... I will force her to flee," you muttered under your breath, repeatedly, as you kicked off your boots.

'Arkham shrinks... don't let me down.'

Out of the team of psychiatrists tasked with keeping you mentally sane, one offered a simple, catchy mantra to help you keep your "other personality" under control.

Whenever you thought Mahalat was going to show herself, or forcefully take over, you were supposed recite it, as the words would keep her at bay.

It worked well enough in your cell—but, then again, you were heavily medicated, anyway, so it was hard to say for certain.

Rushing forward, you dodged the oncoming barrage of bullets from the group of Sons in front of you, completing forward flips, handsprings, and round-offs to build momentum before launching yourself in the air.

There, you attacked, using your tail to slash the eyes of the man in front of you before kicking him into another, the force so powerful that it smashed their skulls together.

Landing on the ground, you turned quickly, shooting a small beam of fire from your finger tip and meeting the oncoming bullet heading for your shoulder, completely destroying it as well as burning a pea sized hole within the man's brain.

Using your speed, you got in close to the three grunts next to him, punching the first one in the face with a flaming fist as your tail twisted the neck of the second.

When the first one tired to shoot, you swirled around, using the second as human shield while you kicked the third in the nuts, forcing him to his knees and thus low enough where your legs could reach.

Using your feet, you grabbed his face and the back of his head before violently jerking, snapping his neck all the way around.

But before he could fall, you ran up his face like a wall, using it to flip yourself back around as your tail let go of the second man's neck.

Landing on the first one's shoulders, you ignited your hands in flame, slamming your fists down on his head with a sickening thud and caving in his skull.

Though, you had little time to celebrate, as the raining bullets from the castle began to increase, forcing you to leap away and duck behind the fountain with the others.

"Are these Nazis, General?" G.I asked from his place standing up, seeing as he was bullet-proof.

With a smirk, Flag turned to him, giving an affirmative nod.

"Yeah, G.I... these are Nazis."

Breaking out into a wide smile, the robot retracted his arms and replaced them with guns, opening fire on the Sons of Themyscira with a look of absolute glee.

Though, it came to a surprise for everyone when his torso suddenly detached, some sort of hover technology allowing him to float high into the air, where two additional guns were added to each arm.

"Hit the deck!" Flag exclaimed.

Quickly, G.I began to spin, his bullets utterly dismembering every Son of Themyscira in sight.

'Holy shit!'

He looked so happy, so utterly relieved to kill Nazis.

It was adorable, and even you were fighting off the smile rising to your lips.

That is... until Circe appeared, completely destroying him.

"G.I!" Nina screamed as he exploded right before her eyes, his parts raining down on the ground below.

"Well, that's enough of that," Circe scowled, looking down upon you all before shooting a large beam of destructive, purple magic.

Quickly, you all dove out the way, just barely avoiding the attack as chunks of the stone fountain shot into the air.

"Is that magic I smell, o' pitiful flesh?" a terrifyingly familiar voice grinned within your mind, turning your blood to ice in an instant.

'No... no, no, no, no, no! Not now! Not today!'

"My body is mine, it belongs to me. Shall Mahalat come running, I'll force her to flee," you muttered, frantically, screwing your eyes shut with fear as you pulled yourself into the fetal position, hugging your legs. "My body is mine, it belongs to me. Shall Mahalat come running, I'll force her to flee!"

"(y/n)! Snap out of it! What's wrong with you?!" Flag barked as he glanced over his shoulder, shooting at a couple of the straggling Sons as he noticed you were laying down in the middle of a battle.

"Is she having a mental breakdown in the middle of a fight?" the Bride asked, going back to back with the general.

"I was told she was cleared for the field!"

"Stupid girl. You know better than I such a weak incantation cannot keep me at bay..."

"Shut up!" you spat, sharply, as you clutched your head. "My body is mine! It belongs to me! Shall—!"

"Enough."

With a choking gasp, she silenced you, forcing your body to float into the air.

Like countless times before, your pupils shrank to the thin slits of a snake, the others watching with awe and confusion as your limbs fell limply to your sides.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

Your voice seemed to dubbed over by another, more malevolent one, and after the words were spoken, you burst into hellish flame.

Within this flame, large, red, pointed wings sprouted from your back, your horns growing larger, fangs extending, claws growing, and clothes tearing, leaving you in the tattered remnants of your leather pants and top.

Though, when you turned to Rick Flag, you were no longer you.

But rather the thing that's been haunting you since you since you first opened your eyes in this world.

Mahalat.

"Where has the witch gone?" Mahalat asked, her voice dubbed over yours.

Utterly speechless, both Flag and the Bride pointed toward the castle, where Circe had flown to attack Ilana.

With a bone chilling grin, the demon turned around, her large, strong wings propelling her quickly as she zoomed toward the princess's broken, bedroom window.

Free for the first time in years, Mahalat had only one thing on her mind.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

When she reached the two, Circe had her magical orbs drawn, ready to destroy an already beaten up Ilana.

In an instant, Mahalat flew forward, grabbing Circe by the neck with a sharp, burning hand.

She fought back with a scream, hands frantically clawing at the demon's arm as her throat began to cook.

"I wonder..." Mahalat smirked, her sharp nails drawing blood with her harsh grip. "Is the flesh of a witch as delicious as I remember?"

With a sick grin, she lifted the woman higher, allowing a few droplets of her blood to drip onto her face.

"It's been a millennium since I've had one in my clutches..."

With a malicious chuckle, the demon sank her fangs into Circe's shoulder, the sorceress letting out a blood-curdling scream as the meat was torn from her bones.

Muscle, tendons, and all.

Taking a moment to enjoy her new snack, Mahalat threw Circe out the window with impossible force, leaving her to fall onto the concrete below.

Out the corner of her eye, she glanced at the princess, who looked absolutely horrified, before flying after her dinner.

As Circe attempted to scramble away, Mahalat landed harshly on her back, the sharp claws of the demon's feet digging into the witch's flesh and keeping her in place as she was absolutely mauled.

Any available skin was up for the taking, Mahalat's claws and fangs destroying anything they could reach with a delighted grin.

And as she went to town on Circe's back, Phosphorus approached, lifting Circe's chin with—what everyone could tell—a sick grin

"I always love a good barbecue."

Pressing an irradiated hand into her face, she let out another bone-chilling scream, unable to do anything but sit there as her face was cooked alive and her back was torn to shreds.

From the distance, Flag watched, wide-eyed and thoroughly disturbed as the two before him tortured the sorceress, the realization donning on him pretty quickly that the both of you had gone incredibly easy during your fight in the kitchen.

"You wanted monsters... you got monsters," the Bride smirked, standing knowingly by his side.

"Kunus matez ka'am aluk baa nat su da (y/n)!" your voice finally managed to break through, stopping the demon in her tracks.

Pupils dilating, you snapped out of it in an instant—your wings slowly returning into your back, your horns shrinking, fangs receding, and claws disappearing—while still leaving you in your torn up clothes.

Quickly, you threw yourself off the witch, chest rising and falling rapidly as you snapped your head around, frantically touching yourself to gauge if it was really you, while also covering your practically bare chest.

That was the first time she'd taken over in over three years.

You hoped it would never happen again.

'What did I do?! Who did I kill?! Oh, God, I can taste blood?! Who did I eat?! Why did I—?!'

"Hey," Phosphorus's voice broke through your spiral.

Out of instinct, you flinched, but when you looked up at him, you realized he was holding out his lab coat.

Your eyes widened slightly, surprised by his kindness, and you couldn't help but stare at him with suspicion.

What was the gag?

Where was the joke?

Why was he being so... chivalrous?

"Unless you wanna walk around with your tits out," he shrugged, standing up straight with a grin. "I mean, I'm not complaining—"

Quickly, you took it from his hand, throwing it over your shoulders and crossing it over your chest, avoiding all eye contact.

You weren't sure how or why... but he was doing you a solid, so you wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Thanks," you muttered, standing up.

"You don't understand what you've done!" Circe awoke from her pain induced fainting with a gasp, glaring up at you all as Weasel, Bride, and Flag reconvened.

Your eyes widened even further at her injuries, a little sorry.

It was nowhere near the worst you'd done to someone... but still.

Attempting to gather her breath, she turned her sights on Flag, brows furrowing harshly.

"You've doomed the world!"

#creature commandos #creature commandos x reader #dc #dc x reader #dcu x reader #doctor phosphorus #dcu #doctor phosphorus x reader #dr phosphorus #dr phosphorus x reader

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kathryn-maraudersversion · 19 days ago

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Serpents and Stars Part 5

Summary: You’ve run from them. You’ve fought them. You’ve denied everything. But you have one last card to play if you push them away hard enough, maybe they’ll finally give up on you. Maybe you’ll finally be safe. (Spoiler: You won’t.)

Pairing: Poly!Marauders (James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin) x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

Warnings: One sided arguments.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9

Run. Run far away.

That was the thought screaming in your head.

If you ruined this, ruined them before they could ruin you, then it wouldn’t matter what you felt.

It wouldn’t matter that James made your heart race.

It wouldn’t matter that Sirius made your skin burn.

It wouldn’t matter that Remus made your chest ache.

So, you did the only thing you could. You sharpened your words into knives, and you stabbed them where it would hurt most.

You caught them in the Gryffindor common room after dinner.

James was sprawled on the couch, laughing as Sirius tossed a pillow at Remus, who barely looked up from his book.

They looked so at ease. So right and something in you snapped.

James noticed you first. His expression lit up. “Sweetheart, what-”

“Enough,” you cut him off.

The warmth in his eyes flickered.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, love?”

You took a breath. Don’t let them in. Don’t let them see.

“I need you to stop,” you said, voice cold. “All of you.”

James sat up. “Stop what?”

“This. The flirting. The pet names. The stupid, constant presence in my life.” You forced a sneer. “It’s getting pathetic.”

Silence.

Remus finally looked up, his amber eyes carefully blank.

Sirius’ smirk faltered for the first time.

James just stared.

But you weren’t done. You looked at James, aiming for the one thing you knew would cut. “I will never love you.”

James actually flinched. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was trying not to reach for something. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” You crossed your arms. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, arrogant Gryffindor who thinks he can have anything he wants just by flashing a smile. But you can’t have me.”

James opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You turned to Sirius.

“And you.” You let your gaze rake over him in disgust. “You act like you’re some charming, irresistible rebel, but deep down, you’re just a scared little rich boy desperate for attention.”

Sirius went completely still.

Your stomach twisted. You knew how much he hated his family. You knew what that would do to him. But you needed them to hate you. You forced yourself to keep going.

Finally, you turned to Remus.

And for the first time, you hesitated.

Because Remus was just looking at you.

Not angry. Not hurt. Just knowing.

So, you made your voice cruel.

“You’re the worst of them all,” you said, your tone ice. “Because at least James and Sirius are obvious about what they want. But you?” You tilted your head. “You hide behind quiet words and kind smiles, like you’re any better. But you’re just as selfish. You think you can make me feel safe? Make me trust you?”

You let out a cold laugh.

“You’re just a monster waiting to show his teeth.”

The words hung in the air. The fire crackled.

And for the first time in forever, the Marauders had nothing to say. You had done it. You had won. So why did you feel like you had just lost everything?

You avoided them. Properly this time.

No stolen glances. No hesitation.

You ignored the way James didn’t smile in the hallways anymore.

You ignored the way Sirius wasn’t everywhere like he used to be.

You ignored the way Remus had stopped looking at you like he already knew the truth.

You ignored everything and for three days, you thought it was over.

Until, on the fourth day, James Potter cornered you in the empty Transfiguration classroom and everything fell apart.

Authors note: I might have possibly put a frozen reference in here. Also sorry this one is kinda depressing the next couple are too.

Tags: @amatoanima @flaviaandbooks @nymanas @maraudersgirlsposts @yvessentials @bridkesby @treefairy-28 @navs-bhat @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @zoleea-exultant @hermionelove @starmaniii @kitcat912 @hopperbopper

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tokoyamisstuff · 25 days ago

Note

listen I LOVED another chance at love, but I need it darker. like WAY darker. pretty please?

sighs and cracks knuckles alrighty then...

Psychosocial

Sinister! Mark x gn! Reader

Warnings: graphic description of violence and death, forced relationship, manipulation, yandere trope, cannibalistic tendencies, not proofread

"Emperor..."

The sound of your voice was the only thing able to dring through to Mark during his homicidal fury, eyes lighting up in almost manic joy as he shifts his attention away from the mangled carcasses in front of him. His torture had them succumb to their injures minutes ago, and yet that didn't stop him from contunuing to vent his anger on their lifeless bodies.

Their excruciating deaths should serve as warning example of what awaits whoever dares trying to take you away from him.

Not even two hours had passed since those rebels abducted you, hoping that taking you hostage would serve as means of negotiation - though some of them argued about whether or not punish him for his crimes by making you suffer.

Even if they intended to kill you, that brief interaction with 'normal' people was a welcomned diversion from your lonely existence in the Emperor's golden cage.

Of course there was no reasoning with this man - if anything, their actions had only further fueled the hatred and aversion he felt for those 'inferior creatures'.

From the very start you knew that their hopeless ambitions would cause dire consequences even for the uninvolved, but were unable to convince them of abandoning their efforts. You claimed that you were insignificant to the Emperor, merely a disposable plaything he would kill himself eventually. It was only half a lie...

...but after all this time of being succumbed to his madness, you stopped fearing your death, yearned for it even.

Invincible kept telling himself the same damn thing, trying to convince himself that his little infatuation of his was nothing more than a feeble fascination he would soon overcome.

However, the moment he realized you had disappeared from his chambers, he saw red.

Because the opposite was the case: You were the last thing that kept his mind somewhat intact, the only person to bring forth the last remnant of humanity he wasn't even aware he possessed until he met you.

Without you, he'd burn it all down.

"Y/N!" he cheered, not a hint of having gone berserk earlier left in his tone. He let the corpse of the latest enemy he busied himself with drop onto the floor, and you winced at the disgusting sound of bloodied flesh hitting concrete. Your stomach turned, not due to the horrific slaughter unfolding in front of you, but because all you were able to feel right now was relief that you weren't on the receiving end of his wrath.

That doesn't mean you're safe just yet. Your punishment may just have been postponed due to his relief to see you unharmed, and his delusions making him belief you returned to him out of your own volition.

But the truth is you had simply given in to your fate long ago.

"You okay, doll?" Yes, a doll. A toy. That's all you are. Victim to his whims, used and tossed away...or broken. Whatever happens first. "Those savages didn't hurt you, right?"

Your eyes were glued on one of the enemies that was still - barely - breathing, his limbs twisted in unnatural positions and writhing in unbearable agony.

"Hello?" Mark cannot stand your attention to be on anyone else than him - your hero and savior, after all - trying to make you snap out of it by flicking his fingers in front of your face. "Look. At. Me." His voice remained smooth as honey as he spoke, but there was a subtle threat to the deliverance of his line.

He was a wolf in sheep's clothing, nothing more but a monster that adapted a human performance in order to lull people into a false sense of security.

You knew him better than that, learned to read every shift of tone, microexpression or movement of his. It's an act of self-preservation that helped to redirect his erratic nature before it could hit you.

But this...was just too much to be worrying about yourself.

"Please..." you choke on your own sobs, rooted on spot in the middle of carnage. "Put him out of his misery."

Your saddened, almost disappointed expression hit his chest harder than any punch of his father ever could. He wasn't able to feel guilt for his actions, not really, but that doesn't mean he's completely callous - as much as he wants to be.

Mark's emotions are just different than most: Dulled, incomprehensible, easily overshadowed by the Viltrumite propaganda that was drilled into his brain through inhumane methods.

And right now, he feels...damn, he can't even put it into words.

But he can show you.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and you can almost feel him roll his eyes behind the black goggles as he wryly scoffs "You're such a killjoy."

Nonetheless, he presses his boot on the poor fella's skull, and you hear an audible crack before it scatters into a million pieces of bone and brain matter. He takes a second to admire his handiwork, at least having the decency to wipe his hands clean on his cape before approaching you. "The things I wouldn't do for you, amirite?"

You stand there motionless, hugging yourself as you watch the crimson pulp, a sole tear escaping your eyes despite your best efforts to present yourself like he expects.

"Ah, c'mon. Don't be a crybaby. You've seen me do worse." A condescending smile decorates his face as he towers in front of you, petting your hair in a both warning and appreciating manner. "Aaaaand...?"

"...and I love you either way" you wrung out the empty, repeated words he wanted to hear, and instantly Mark grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in for a searing kiss. His canines sink deep into your bottom lip, a sensual sigh escaping his throat as he savoured the taste.

"Why do you care about those lowlives anyways?" Your breath hitches when he strokes your cheek in a mockery of tenderness, always anticipating pain. "Be-because I'm one of them."

Silence.

You fucked up.

Why do you always provoke him, you both think in unison. It would be so much easier if you'd just go against your true feelings and continue acting like a doting partner.

Well, sometimes the heart speaks it's truth faster than the reason can catch up on.

Mark clicks his tongue in contempt, his palm still lingering on your neck becoming painful as his fingernails dug into the skin. He hates being remembered of this blemish that is your relationship...

...that he's in love with someone that's so beneath him, that he can never be the man you could truly, genuinely want let alone deserve, and especially knowing that your life will be over in a fraction of his own.

"Sweetheart" he spat, voice laced with honeyed venom that made your skin crawl. "You just don't see the bigger picture yet." But he'll make you see...just like he made you see that you were made for each other.

He forcefully takes ahold of your chin, eyes boring into yours and you could clearly see the storm raging beneath. "You are not like them. Not at all. Because I chose you, elevated you to be more than the pathetic worm you were destined to be-"

Blood was rushing so loudly in your ears, you didn't even notice reinforcements arrive and opening fire until Mark had to release his grasp on you. The bullets hitting his back aren't enough to do so much as tickling him, but it was you he worried about.

A manic grin splits across his face as he swung an arm around you to shield you with his body, while at the same time disarming the small group with an effortless strike.

Weird.

You were sure he'd kill all of them instantly.

He dwells in people's misery, but not at your extent, and currently you were close enough to get into harm's way. And he never misses, so why are there survi-

No.

"Don't-" But Mark silenced you with a glare as he grabbed the two survivors by the throat, lifting them up with ease. His cogitous hum turned into a demented cackle, as if a metaphorical lightbulb had just lit up in his head.

So he spared them intentionally.

"You probably thought you survived up until now because you're special or some bullshit..." his pressure on their windpipes increases, taunting them with his hauntingly calm voice, "But you were simply not worth killing. It was way more fun seeing you writhe, hiding in the dirt and knowing theres nothing you can do to stop me. But this..." He points over his shoulder to where your trembling self has to observe all of this. "That crossed a line. I don't like others touching what's mine."

Eventually, Mark turns around to face you again, his facial features encouraging, innocent even. "Choose" he orders, exhilarated with this new game he invented for his entertainment.

This is no new situation, really. Yet it never fails to break apart your soul, taking something from it that you can never regain.

Usually he makes you wittness him committ atrocious deeds, just to make you tell him rehearsed affirmations of your love afterwards. He wants you to see him at his worst and stay either way as if you had any choice at all.

This time however, it wasn't enough. Never is.

He wanted to actively involve you.

"Y/N, darlin'..." the Viltrumite chants lovingly, quite amused as he watched the rebels helplessly claw at his arm, struggling against his sheer tremendous power. "I said choose. Who dies, the man or the woman?"

You softly cling onto his back, tug and punch weakly at the fabric of his cape as you bury yourself against his unrelenting muscle. "I-I can't...please do-on't make me..."

"Do. It." he urges, an irritated crease forming on his forehead. "Or I'll kill them both."

All your pleading and crying is to no avail, and soon it's drowned out by those people's choking and gasping, echoing against the walls of their destroyed hideout.

Ultimatively one of the two manages to signalize you his dying wish, glancing frantically over to his female companion before his eyes roll far back into his skull, close to passing out. Sadly, you understood immediately.

"The man!" you scream at the top of your lungs, shortly before life left their eyes completely...

...just for Invincible to bury his hands into both of their abdomen, balling a fist inside them before pulling out their intestines. He licks his lips as their blood splatters across his face, grimacing at the foul taste. Yours is so much better.

Oh, how much he wishes it was you instead. He wants to eviscerate you, nestle in your chest cavity right next to your heart.

"Why..." You fall to your knees, defeated whimmers soon turning into angered yells. "WhywhywhywhyWHY?!"

Aw, it's so cute when you're upset. It's gotten harder to lure a reaction like this out of you recently.

"A gift" he explains, shooting you an unapologetic look as he caged you in between his arms. "I know you too well. You would've blamed yourself for the choice either way, but like this you don't have to." That probably makes sense in his disturbed sense of logic. A sign of his wicked sense of affection.

He should do this more often.

It always bothered him that you were so...good. It made you incompatible.

But Mark...he slowly but steadily molded you. Soon you'd be perfect.

"You're the fucking best!" He exclaims, as if he wanted to shout it across the world, to let everyone know that just how amazing you are and that and you're his.

"Deep down you're just as fucked up as I am" Mark then chants, clearly pleased with himself. He boops your nose, leaving a blood red fingerprint. "And I just helped you realize that. Embrace it."

You refuse to respond to that, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. And yet the worst thing is that deep down, he might be onto something.

Of course you had no other choice. Of course you played along to survive. And even if you didn't comply, he'd have methods to make you...

...but in the end he didn't even have to try. You were just so damn tired of it all, grew indifferent to a degree that frightened you.

Maybe you weren't all that different after all. Not anymore at least.

"Let's go home." Mark curls you into his arms as gently as he was capable of, securely keeping you in place as he rose into the sky. The air was filled with dust and smoke, a perfect excuse for the tears dwelling beneath your lids, shall he ever acknowledge them.

You close your eyes, trying to dissociate and shun out the heartbreaking reality and yet their screams were haunting you even after you had been too far away to hear.

Subconsciously, you cuddle up against Mark, hearing an almost shy chuckle rumble in his chest. You tried to warm yourself in his embrace, however the coldness you felt was far from physical.

"You've been through a lot" you hear him whisper, an unusual concern present in the way he speaks. "I'm sorry for not protecting you better." It's the first time he apologizes, and it's not even because of his own actions.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, seriously..." Much to your surprise his voice cracks in genuine anguish at the mere thought of losing you, but he's quick to put up the confident front again. "Don't worry, next time I won't be this merciful with anyone that dares trying."

Your head falls in defeat and you lean your ear against his sternum, allowing the tears to run free while you listen to the drum of his heartbeat. It was constantly slow and surreal calm, beating erratic only in the few occasions that you were not with him.

"Shh...don't cry. I'm here, I got you." Mark's lips grace your cheeks, savouring the salt of your tears as he kisses them away. "I love you...and I won't let anyone take you from me ever again."

His gentleness is almost harder to bear than his cruelty.

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #sinister mark #sinister mark x reader #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #oneshot

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nebulablakemurphy · 13 days ago

Text

The Star-Crossed Lovers Of District 12 (Part 2)

Prologue | Part 1

Haymitch Abernathy x Wife!Reader

Summary: Now settled in district 13 with the rebel who claims to be her husband, Y/N’s memories of days gone by begin haunting the narrative. Disturbing imagery, potential SOTR spoilers.

Y/N jerks against her restraints, the metal clanking with her movements.

“Shut up and don’t move,” a voice hisses through the vent, near the baseboard.

“Johanna?”

“If they know you’re awake, they’ll come to your room.” Johanna warns, “you don’t want them to come.”

“We’ve gotta get out of here.” Y/N begins surveying the room. Pristine white walls, barren, save for a table in the corner, prepped with surgical equipment. Her nightlock pill is gone with her suit, leaving only a flimsy hospital gown. Shit.

“I said shut up. They’re coming.”

“How do you know?” Y/N asks, now panicking in earnest. The deafening wail that pierces her ears is all the confirmation she needs. Peeta. Despite Johanna’s warning, she calls out to him. Telling him it will be alright and that she’s there. She’s right here and there’s not a damn thing she can do to help him.

“Hey.” There is a hand resting at the base of her skull.

Out of a compulsion she doesn’t understand, Y/N lifts her head, slamming it back into the pillow again.

“Don’t do that.” The man at her bedside is not Haymitch.

“Finnick?”

“You remember little old me?” He cracks a grin, “I’m honored.”

“We used to see each other all the time in the Capitol, of course I remember.”

“That’s half true.” Finnick tells her.

“Where’s Haymitch?” She asks, pathetically.

“He’s a few floors up, with the kids. Just take a deep breath.”

“I need him.”

“Listen,” Finnick sighs, “I know you. Probably better than you know yourself right now, so believe me when I say, Haymitch is exactly where you need him to be. Taking care of your kids, they mean more to you than anything.”

“Fine,” Y/N crosses both arms over her chest. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”

“Middle of the night, mama bear.” He motions to the clock. “Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you up?” Y/N wonders.

“You’re not exactly a sound sleeper and I’m right next door. Luckily Peeta and Katniss were undisturbed.”

“Are they ok?”

Finnick cocks his head to the side, you remember more than you think you do. “Peeta attacked her, now they’re both out cold.”

“They tortured him.”

“Yeah.”

————————————————————————

Y/N goes to them the next morning, the boy and the girl, in turn.

Peeta.

She puts a face to the voice which haunts her dreams. He looks small here, curled in on himself in his hospital bed. Y/N doesn’t fight the urge to take his hand in hers.

‘Good to meet you, Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark.’

Y/N wills her mind to focus, on that tiny shard of recollection which shapes a larger picture. Peeta meant something, Katniss meant something. She squeezes her eyes closed against the ache in her head.

You did this to yourself. Y/N has no one else to blame, not the rebels, nor President Snow. This suffering is a monster of her own making, to protect these people from whatever the Capitol wanted to turn her into.

I live in the Capitol designing clothing. I am very happy here.

Y/N hisses, pressing the heels of her palms against her eye sockets. Lies.

The rebels destroy everything that is good.

Lies, lies, lies!

“Get out of my head!”

“Y/N?” The boy startles awake.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

“Where is she?” Peeta demands, “where’s the mutt? Did she hurt you?”

“Who?” Y/N’s nervous eyes scan the corners of the room. Prepared to protect the boy against any threat.

“Katniss.”

“You used to scream for her, when we were…in the tribute center.” Y/N tells him. “I don’t think the people here want to hurt us. Sometimes I think we were reprogrammed to hurt them.”

Peeta is silent after that, mulling it over. “The star-crossed lovers of district twelve.”

The title feels significant, like it had meant something to her once. Now nothing more than an ugly reminder of all they’ve lost. “Get some rest. I’ll be back to see you soon.”

Katniss’ room is not far from his. She lies staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Katniss.” Y/N says, softly, “it’s me.”

The girl blinks in acknowledgment, her neck brace prevents her from doing much else.

“Do you want some water?” Y/N asks.

Katniss rolls her eyes, reaching for the pen and pad of paper in her lap. ‘My arms work fine.’

Y/N chuckles at the words, scrawled down. “Clearly.”

‘What do you want?’

“I assume we were close.”

‘We were.’

“Look, I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/N admits. “I don’t know what I want. But I am trying to figure it out, and you’re a big part of that. You and Peeta.”

‘I want to see him.’

Y/N nods, “I’m sure we can figure that out too.”

‘Thanks.’

“You’re welcome.” Absently, she reaches down, passing a hand over Katniss’ hair.

The mockingjay eyes her warily.

“Sorry,” Y/N pulls away.

Katniss huffs, taking up her writing utensil once more. ‘Muscle memory. It’s a good sign.’

“I’ll see you later, ok?”

‘Don’t forget.’

“Katniss, I’m here now.” She murmurs, “I won’t forget.” Y/N returns to her room, opting for a nap. Whether it’s the nightmares or the head injury itself, her little outing was exhausting.

Tick tock. The sand is falling.

‘I don’t want to look at you!’

Tick tock. The arena flips.

‘Just a little pinch.’

Tick tock. The sand is falling.

‘We’re raising a lamb for the slaughter.’

Tick tock. The arena flips.

‘You’ll get where you’re going a lot faster if you learn to play the game.’

Tick tock.

‘I’ll do whatever it takes to stay right here with you.’

Tick tock.

‘This year’s tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors.’

Tick tock.

‘I want to break the board.’

Tick tock.

‘You never get off this train.’

Tick tock.

“It’s a clock!” Y/N springs upright, fighting to catch her breath. Just a dream.

“Actually, it’s an hourglass.” A familiar voice tells her.

She turns to see her district partner in all his mangled glory. The bones of his shin sticking through broken flesh, the blood sucking worm mutt attached to the opposite thigh. “Tyson.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“You’re not real.” Tears cascade over her cheeks. I wish you were.

“You know that’s not a very nice thing to say, Y/N. He did throw his axe to give you your best chance.” Maysilee, blonde hair stained crimson. Her vocal chords visible through the gaping holes in her throat, made by the birds in the arena.

“Please, leave me alone.” Y/N closes her eyes.

“You’re afraid of being alone, remember?” Tyson coos, “climbed to the top of that stupid hill to die holding your hand, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

“I should’ve died.”

“You can’t die, remember?” Maysilee cocks her head to the side, producing a fresh trail of blood from her wounds. “It’s time for the parade.”

“What parade?” Y/N stumbles from her bed.

“Everyone will be there, chanting your name.”

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

The chorus of voices crescendo as she opens the door.

They line the halls, all twenty-six tributes she couldn’t save. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

Chaff and Seeder. Cecelia, Mags and Gloss. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

President Snow is standing at the opposite end of the corridor, rocking a black, wooden horse.

“Oh, Horn of Plenty. One Horn of Plenty for us all. And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we should never falther. One Horn of Plenty for us all.”

The little boy on the horse squeals in delight as he moves slowly out of reach.

“Wait!” Y/N chases after him. “Wait!”

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

She runs faster and the fallen watch, with broken bodies and missing limbs, as she collides with something. Another ghost. “Ahhhhhh!”

“Shh,” the apparition hushes her, “it’s me. It’s just me.”

“Madge,” Y/N sobs.

Madge buries her face in Y/N’s shoulder.

“They took my baby.”

“Daisy’s safe.” Madge promises, “Haymitch has her.”

“No, they took him.”

Him. “Everest?” Madge shakes her head, “he’s at school.”

“I need to see him.”

“Ok,” Madge takes her hand, leading Y/N from the hospital wing to the elevator. Neither of them notice the nervous stares from thirteen’s general population. Hospital patients are rarely paraded around in their gowns.

When they reach Everest’s classroom. Y/N jabs at the access panel, until the automatic doors open. There are only three children inside, and one is hers. “Where are all the kids?”

Madge cups a hand over her mouth, directing the sound to Y/N’s ear. “District thirteen had a nasty epidemic a few years back, this is all that’s left of the children Everest’s age. I think Arista has seven kids in her class.”

The teacher watches the sisters, dumbfounded. “Mrs. Abernathy, what is the meaning of this?”

“I wanted to see my son.”

“Mom?” Everest frowns. “Are you ok?”

Y/N blinks at him, arranging her hair behind her ears and straightening out her hospital gown. “I just needed to see you.” You’re scaring him.

Everest squares his little shoulders, pushing away from the desk.

“You should get back to your lesson,” Y/N smiles.

The boy keeps moving toward her, his eyes equally parts hopeful and uncertain.

And when he hugs her, she holds him back just as tightly. Y/N is sure the life she knew in the Capitol did not exist. No longer will two worlds be at war in her mind, only this is real. If that is all she ever remembers, it will be enough.

“You are my real mom.”

“How do you know?” Y/N wonders.

“This is the way my mom hugs me.” Everest lets out a watery laugh.

Y/N pulls him closer, cradling the back of his sweet head. My baby.

“I knew you would come back.”

“I love you so much.” She doesn’t know how or why. Doesn’t remember his first words or steps, or what he likes for breakfast in the morning. But she does know that he is hers, her blood, sweat and tears. Her pride and joy. I will be your mom. In this life and every one after, please let me be your mom.

“I love you too.”

————————————————————————

The head doctor, Aurelius, holds Y/N in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation over the next two days.

“After a thorough examination, it is my finding that you are not a danger to yourself or others.” The man tells her, “we will continue monitoring the swelling in your brain-”

“What about my…episode?” What about all the dead people?

The doctor sighs, “you suffer from complex post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Shouldn’t I stay here then, until it goes away?”

“It did not come with the injury, we can’t expect it to go with it either, I’m afraid.”

“So that’s it? I’m messed up forever?” Y/N scoffs.

Dr. Aurelius stares down at her file. “I know you don’t remember this, but you were my patient before your injury. I do not think you are ‘messed up.’ I think you found good in a world that was incredibly unfair to you. You created joy and harmony in places and people where they did not exist. You are a remarkable human being, and that is my expert opinion.”

Y/N nods, against her better judgment. “Ok.”

“These are your standard issue uniforms.” Aurelius holds out seven of the dingy jumpsuits. “We’ve washed and repaired them for you.”

“Uh, thanks.” I hate them.

“Welcome back.”

————————————————————————

Y/N paces in front of the quarters labeled ‘Abernathy.’ She raises her fist to knock, noticing the print reader as she does. Curiosity gets the best of her and she presses her index finger against it. Will you open for me?

The door slides open to reveal Haymitch, cooing at the infant in his lap. Wiggling her little toes as she giggles happily.

“Someone’s ticklish.”

Haymitch jumps at the sound of her voice, startling the child who begins to wail, immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N keeps her distance, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Haymitch sucks in a breath to steady himself, “you aren’t. This is your place as much as it is mine. You’re allowed to be here, welcome even.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“I didn’t know you were getting released today.” Haymitch grumbles, “I would’ve been there.”

“I know, it’s ok.” Y/N clutches her chest, suddenly damp. She thought the milk would’ve dried up by now. The baby, Daisy, continues to cry.

“Hand me a bottle.”

“Aren’t I the bottle?” She motions to her leaking breasts.

“You want to nurse her?” Haymitch’s brows furrow.

“I’ll try,” I don’t want her to cry.

“Ok,” he works the top of her jumpsuit open.

Y/N’s eyes widen at his brazenness.

“Sorry, angel.” He shrinks farther into the mattress.

“I’m not used to you undressing me yet.” Y/N waves her free hand, dismissively. Taking a seat beside him to stroke Daisy’s cheek as she nurses.

“You used to do that.”

“I know. I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

“Should’ve told me,” he motions to her chest. “I’m sure it’s been bothering you.”

“Somehow telling a rebel soldier, who may or may not have been trying to kill me that my boobs hurt wasn’t at the top of my list.” Y/N admits, “but now that we’re past that, I guess I’m allowed to tell my husband that my boobs hurt.” She lifts a shoulder, “just slipped my mind.”

“There’s a lot going on. I don’t want you to feel any pressure to-”

“There were holes in it.”

“Hmm?” The springs of the mattress creak beneath Haymitch as he repositions himself.

“My life in the Capitol,” she says, “even before you came. I tried to talk to the doctor about it once, but she told me that I hit my head when the rebels bombed the arena during the Quarter Quell. She said that trying to fill in the gaps was making the headaches worse. I think you fill the holes.”

“Me and the clones?” Haymitch raises his brows.

Y/N nods, “this one’s different. She doesn’t look like me or you. She looks like me and you. Almost like we had a baby or something.”

“Funny how that works.”

“When Madge and I were growing up, my mom wasn’t always…”

“I know.”

“So if these kids think I’m their mom, I’m gonna be there for them.” Memories or not.

Haymitch rests his hand over hers.

“And if you still think I’m your wife, then I’ll be here for you too.”

“You are my wife.” Haymitch murmurs. “You are brave, and you are selfless, and you are kind. Nothing has changed.”

“What if I did?” Y/N stares at him for a long while, willing memories to return. A joke between them, a simple conversation, even a fight would be better than this nothingness. The only part of her that appears to have any recollection of him is her stupid heart, an endless aching. Yearning for this stranger. “I do want to remember.” I want you to fill the holes.

He cups her face in his hands, mindful of their daughter between them. “For now, just be here. Stay right here with me and we will figure it out.”

Y/N swallows against the lump in her throat. “Ok.”

Part 3

#haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #thg haymitch #moves & countermoves #the star crossed lovers of district 12 #the hunger games fanfiction

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