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fiber-optic-alligator · 10 months ago

Note

Hello! I’ve always been curious about the “human in a space shuttle somehow ends up on a cybertronian ship and all the bots are trying to figure out what this random metal this is while the human is terrified” plot.

It would be interesting to see it played out with any character, but for the sake of direction, I’d like to request this with the Lost Light Crew?

It could be vore if that’s what you feel like wrong at the time, but I’d also go for some good ‘ol fearplay.

I apologize if this is too vague, have a good day/night and I love your writing!

Thank you for the request Glitch! I hope this is up to your expectations! I hope you don't mind that I picked specific members of the Lost Light crew to include in this story. Feedback is always appreciated! Have a great day/night as well! :D

Doctor’s (And Scientist’s) Orders

Pairing: IDW Ratchet, IDW Perceptor, and IDW First Aid x Human Reader

Word Count: 3115

Summary: You are a teacher who is being sent from Earth to a colony on Mars. A new life as an educator for the red planet’s children is on your horizon…until you are thrown terribly off course and end up in the bowels of the Lost Light. All seems lost for you when you find yourself injured and cut off from human society, at the mercy of the three Cybertronians who end up finding you and taking you in, whether you want them to or not.

The first thing you hear when you come to is the horrid screeching of your ship's alarms.

You groan and sit up. Smoke and flickering emergency lights greet you when you open your eyes. Electricity sparks from the stasis tank you were asleep in. Gas spurts from the ceiling, and everything is strewn about with the chaotic air of a tornado that just tore through an entire town.

“Warning,” your ship’s AI urgently alerts. “Breach detected. Damage is collateral. Warning-warning-” It sputters and fizzles out.

You rub the back of your head and feel something warm and sticky coat your palm. When you pull your hand back to take a closer look, you see blood.

Shit. That’s not good.

Standing up makes you feel like you are going to puke. Your head throbs and every breath you take sends piercing pain through your chest. Dragging yourself out of the stasis pod takes longer than it should while black spots dot your vision as you stumble to the dashboard and press your hands against it. “Run ship diagnostics,” you manage to rasp. The voice that struggles to exit your mouth is one you hardly recognize. It is thin and strewn with violent coughs. A metallic taste coats your tongue. More blood.

The AI glitches as it attempts to answer you. “Severe damage to hull. Severe damage to engines. Severe damage to thrusters. Life support online, but rapidly depleting. Escape pod offline.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “Try contacting Earth control.”

“Communications systems offline. Attempting self-repairs. Current status…5%.”

“How long until repairs are complete?”

“Estimations indicate repairs will be completed in…5 days.”

Not good. Not good at all. You push yourself away from the dashboard and take in all that has happened. This was not how the mission was supposed to go. When you were chosen to be sent to Earth’s Mars colony as a teacher for the young children growing up on the red planet, you thought it would be a smooth seven month trip with you peacefully slumbering away in stasis. You were supposed to be woken up by fellow human beings, not a devastating crash resulting in your ship being decimated. Something must have thrown you off course. A freak asteroid strike probably. Which begs the question…where exactly are you?

Ignoring how much pain you are in, you hobble through the remains of the vessel and head for the airlock doors. They remain tightly shut when you make it to them, hiding the knowledge of where you are from view. “Open the doors,” you call out to the ship.

“Warning. Remaining onboard is strongly recommended. Current exterior environment is unknown.”

“Override. Open the doors.”

The doors whoosh apart. You know there’s oxygen outside. If there hadn’t been, the ship would have prevented you from even entering the airlock chamber in the first place. Stepping off, you expect to see the barren landscape of Mars, or the alien environment of some other planet you might have ended up on. Part of you thinks you might still be on Earth; perhaps something went wrong with the ship before you could even break the Troposphere.

What you see surprises you. You are in some sort of…massive cargo hold.

Gigantic metal crates surround you, most of them exuding a pinkish glow. There are lights on the ceiling far above you, but they are dim, and serve little aid in giving you an estimate of just how large this place is. Turning in a circle, you feel awe fill you. “Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “The ship definitely didn’t crash on Mars.”

Speaking of your ship…you take in the damage. It's an absolute mess of warped, crippled metal doomed to remain collapsed on its side until self-repairs are complete. It would take days, maybe even weeks, for damage of this caliber to be fixed beyond the communications systems. With no way to contact Earth or Mars, you truly are stuck.

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. Calm. You are calm. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Yes, your ship is destroyed. Yes, you are suffering from critical wounds. Yes, you are in an unknown place with seemingly no way out. But you're alive. That’s what matters. And now you just have to survive for five more days.

You hear thumping in the distance.

It takes you a moment to register the pattern of heavy steps that are coming towards you. It’s something alive, you realize with dawning horror. Wherever you are, you have obviously made quite a racket, and now this planet’s local faunal residents are going to seek you out. There’s no way for you to know exactly what sorts of animals live here; any technology you might have used to your advantage is directly connected to the ship. With the ship offline, thus go the tools as well. You are completely in the dark, relying only on the little information about alien lifeforms you have to keep you safe.

You don’t need that information to know you have to hide right now.

You scurry back into the ship, biting back a shout of pain. God, there’s pain everywhere. How have you not passed out yet? Adrenaline does wonders for the human body, you sourly think to yourself when you have to lean against the wall to catch your breath. A hacking cough swells within your chest. When you cover your mouth with your elbow and release it, blood is splattered over your suit sleeve.

That’s when you hear the growling.

It’s unlike anything you have ever heard before. You’ve studied a multitude of animals. You’ve heard big cats roar, wolves howl, hyenas cackle, and birds screech. This is not a growl you can associate with any of those. It…holds similar qualities. But there’s something about it that remains blatantly off.

It sounds strangely like the growl of a machine.

You look outside of the airlock doors, and something huge lumbers out from behind a stack of crates. The first things your brain registers are its red and white armor platings, its bright blue eyes, and the horn-like finials extending from its forehead. It’s humanoid, yet possesses qualities that remove it from any such grouping. This thing is definitely not like you in any sort of way beyond having a face and walking on two legs.

“It’s…a robot,” you whisper. It’s a giant fucking robot moving all on its own, and looking none too happy to be here.

The mechanical creature snarls, lips upturning to reveal sharp canines that are probably longer than your arms. It hasn’t noticed you yet. Its focus is trained on the datapad it holds in its hands. Your mind is blown. This is obviously a member of a clearly intelligent race. Have you just discovered a new extraterrestrial species?

The robot looks up. At first, its eyes scan the crates around you, and it doesn't seem to notice the little ship nestled between them. You remain still, prey instinct taking its course and demanding you freeze where you are. Hopefully it will just move on…

It backtracks, and to your utter horror, it makes direct eye contact with you.

Fucking shit, you think.

The robot stares at you with an expression of pure shock. You stare right back with an equal amount of terror.

It steps towards you. That’s all it takes for you to scream at the ship. “Close the airlock doors! Close them now!”

The doors slam shut. You hear a shout from the robot, and everything shakes as it thunders forward. You stumble and fall with agony ripping through your poor body when you make contact with the floor. The cry that leaves you is riddled with pain.

“A-Activate self-defense protocol!” you order the ship.

“Self-defense protocols offline,” it says back.

“Well, how long until they are online?!”

“Estimated time equals…ten hours.”

“That’s not enough!” you scream rawly.

A gentle tapping echos from the other side of the doors.

You push yourself back, heart pounding as you listen to the robot move all around you. It’s growling softly to itself, and you can hear it touching the ship, running massive mechanical fingers across the walls that act as the only barrier between you and potential doom.

You don’t know what to do. Panic makes you frantic and you desperately try to think of how you can get yourself away from the monster outside. You have no way to defend yourself. You can’t even run. This thing wants you out, and you know it has the power to rip your ship apart in order to get to you if it wishes for it.

Suddenly, everything rocks. Your stomach drops when the entire ship shakes and you feel it being lifted into the air. Realization of what is happening hits you: it’s picking it up. If it can’t get you, it’ll just have to take everything.

“Nononono!” you cry out. The ship tips a little, and you slam into a wall with a grunt. “Stop!” You bang your fists against the metal. “Put it down! Put it down now!”

The robot simply growls in reply. You don’t even know if it hears you. There’s nothing you can do to stop this. You slump back and cover your face as hot, helpless tears finally begin running down your cheeks.

“What exactly is it?” First Aid asks as he peers down at the mangled hunk of metal sitting before them on the medibay berth.

“It’s a ship,” Perceptor flatly replies with a silent “What else would it be?” evident in his tone.

“This is a ship?” First Aid looks horrified. “But it's completely destroyed! How could it have gotten here?”

“It must have crashed during our last refueling.” Perceptor lays his servos over the top of the ship, examining it closely. He huffs and straightens, looking at Ratchet. “Where did you find it?”

“The cargo hold,” the medic replies. “I was down there searching for some extra medical supplies I know we have stored. I wouldn’t have seen it if it hadn’t been for what’s inside.”

“There’s something alive in there?” First Aid gasps.

“A human,” Ratchet replies. “It locked itself inside when it saw me.”

“Impossible.” Perceptor shakes his helm. “Humans are an endangered species that only occupy a small sector of a primitive solar system. They don’t have the technology to make it this far out in space.”

“Well, clearly they do. I know what I saw. These old optics aren’t that far gone.” Ratchet raps his knuckles gently against the ship. All three mechs have to lean in close so they can hear the soft squeak from inside.

“How do we get it out?” First Aid asks. “It could be hurt!”

“It is hurt,” Ratchet answers. “I saw it before it hid itself away. I don’t know how severe the injuries are, but I know it's in pain.”

“Then what are we waiting for? We need to help it!” First Aid presses his forehelm against the ship and whispers softly. “Hello, little human? Please don’t be afraid! We aren’t going to hurt you!”

A whimper is all he gains in reply.

Perceptor crosses his arms. “I can force it out, but you won’t like how I do it.”

“You can’t hurt it,” Ratchet sharply snaps. “That would be cruel.”

“I’m not going to hurt it,” the scientist bites back. “I’m simply going to pump a nontoxic gas into the ship that will cause it to eventually lose consciousness. It will have no choice but to come out, and then we can go on from there.”

“Are…are you sure?” First Aid wrings his servos nervously. “I don’t want it to be scared of us.”

“Whether it’s scared of us or not doesn’t matter,” Ratchet says. “It’s injured, and if we don’t do something, it’ll succumb to those injuries. It’ll understand we don’t want to hurt it after we patch it up.” He nods to Perceptor. “Go ahead, smoke it out.”

The scientist’s right servo transforms into a syringe. Ratchet watches with anxiousness churning in his tank as Perceptor presses his left index digit against the side of the ship and presses a small hole straight through with little resistance to stop him. A terrified shout from the human within causes First Aid to whimper.

Perceptor sticks the upper part of the syringe into the hole, pumping gas into the ship and pulling it back out after a moment, wisps of vapor trailing from the tip. A few seconds later Ratchet hears a string of weak coughs from inside. There is a tense moment where all three of them stand there, and then the doors open and you stumble out with a cloud of gas nearly enveloping your tiny form. You wheeze into your servos, then notice the mechs staring at you and try sprinting right back into the ship. Perceptor cuts you off, slamming his servo down and pinning you under his digits before dragging you back even though you yelp and thrash. You squirm one last time in his grip before suddenly going limp.

Perceptor gently shifts you to lie in the center of his palm. For a terrifying moment, Ratchet thinks you are offline when he sees how still you are with your optics closed. But then his sensors pick up on the rapid beating of your organic spark, and he relaxes. Not dead. Just simply unconscious.

“Give it here.” He holds out a waiting servo. Perceptor hands you over; you are given a quick look-over as Ratchet scans your body. There is a nasty cut on the back of your helm, and your vents are gravely bruised with terrible red marks. “Internal bleeding,” he mutters. “As well as external wounds. The crash really messed it up.” He curls his digits lightly over you and brushes his thumb over your forehead. “Doesn’t have a fever though, which is good. Damage is minimal, nothing life threatening. I can have it fixed in a few hours.”

“You know how to heal organics?” First Aid questions.

“I’ve been around for a long time. War changes you. I’ve had my equal share of saving Decepticon-ravaged planets inhabited by organics as well as machines.” Ratchet walks over to another berth, being careful not to jostle you too much. “First Aid, go grab the restrainers. We’ll have to keep it still so it doesn’t accidentally hurt itself when it wakes up.”

“You’ll have to keep it sedated too,” Perceptor says. “I can help with that. Just a little puff of the gas will keep it asleep.”

“Thank you,” Ratchet says, then pauses. “Listen. Don’t tell anyone about this yet. I don’t want everyone flocking into the medibay and stressing it out. We could accidentally scare this thing to death if we aren’t careful.”

“I won’t.” Perceptor nods. “Just…make sure it heals properly. I don’t doubt your expertise, but…” He looks down at you, and his optics soften. “It hurts my spark to see something so small in so much pain.”

First Aid returns with the restrainer. It’s a small mechanism that runs on magnetic power, created by the Lost Light’s resident mad scientist, Brainstorm himself. Ratchet places it directly over your lax form. With a quiet beep, it presses lightly over your midsection, and magnetic bindings weigh down your ankles and wrists. Seeing you trapped like this makes him feel guilty. This obviously isn’t going to be something you will like when you wake up. But there’s no other way for this to go. You won’t understand his good intentions until he heals you. Until then, he has to keep you still.

He grabs a small serum of glowing blue liquid and bends over you, gently pinching your little fleshy cheeks and working your intake open. “C’mon little one, drink up,” he whispers when he carefully forces the liquid down your throat. He sees your faceplate tighten with discomfort, but your throat pulses as you subconsciously swallow. “There you go. Good human, good human.”

“What are you giving it?” First Aid asks.

“Something I learned to make back in my early days,” he replies. “It heals from the inside. Works on both organics and machines.” He pats your cheeks praisingly and draws away. “There. That should help with the bleeding. It’ll be fine now. I’ll continue to monitor it over the next few days.”

First Aid exhales a relieved sigh. Perceptor reaches out a tentative hand and brushes your hair away from your closed optics. “It’s so small…so soft…”

“We have to be careful with it,” First Aid frets. “We don’t want it to break.”

“Listen.” Ratchet’s tone hardens authoritatively. “I said this before, but I’ll say it again. We have to keep this between the three of us. Don’t tell anyone about a human being in here.”

“But what about the captain?” First Aid asks. “Shouldn’t he know?”

“The captain can’t know. If he finds out there's a human on the ship, he’ll go nuts with excitement and probably end up accidentally crushing the poor thing. Until I confirm it’s not going to drop dead at any moment, we keep it a secret. Got it?”

Both bots nod. Ratchet nods with them. “Alright. I’m going to stay here and make sure it’s condition remains stable. You can come back tomorrow to check in on it and see how it’s doing.”

Perceptor dips his head and leaves without another word. First Aid lingers, optics never leaving you.

“It’ll be fine,” Ratchet reassures him. “I’ll take care of it. Go recharge.”

It takes a lot for the other medic to step back and exit the medibay. Ratchet watches him go, then sighs and drags a servo over his faceplate. Becoming the caretaker of an injured organic lifeform was not something he had planned for today. Primus, how the hell am I going to tell Rodimus?

A soft noise drags his attention away from the alarming thought of what might happen if the extroverted captain learns about his new “crewmate.” He looks down at you and startles a bit. Your eyes, foggy and unfocused, are staring right at him. There’s a fatigued expression of utter terror on your face that once again has his spark feeling like it's been ripped from his chassis and stomped on.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispers to you. “I promise.”

You close your eyes and let your helm loll to the side. Ratchet watches the soft rise and fall of your chassis for a few moments longer, then dims the medibay lights and returns to his previous work on the other side of the room.

Never do you stray far from his mind.

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fushipurro · 5 months ago

Text

The Nature of Depravity

Masterlist

☆ Synopsis: You were an angel, a saint, one of the most profound icons worshipped by mortal kind. There wasn’t a soul in paradise or the fire below that didn’t know your name. It seemed that everywhere you went, you left behind a trail of all things good.

You were one of the best heaven had to offer ─ up until the day you fell from grace and into the hands of a sinner.

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, AU - fantasy, religious imagery, mentions of blood/violence, implied murder, biting, creampie, scratching, p in v, foreplay, angst, everyone's bad at feelings, true form sukuna, tonguefucking, loss of virginity

☆ Word Count: 10.7k

It wasn’t like one day you woke up and decided to rebel against the heavenly utopia.Rather, it happened like any other day while you were making your rounds to several war-torn villages recently burnt to ash. You sought to aid in the recovery of those lucky to survive, but unbeknownst to you at the time, a group of demons were awaiting your arrival.

With one precise throw, they managed to impale one of your wings with iron weaponry, effectively knocking you from the sky. From there, everything that followed seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, and the next thing you knew, you found yourself here ─ bound in chains, brought before the King of Demons.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Otherwise known as the Fallen, or the Disgraced One, Sukuna was once a proud angel of similar status to your own. It’s unknown how his departure from Heaven came to be. Some claim that he was the bastard child of an unholy couple, while others claim he was never an angel to begin with ─ merely a forked-tongue creature living under the guise of your virtuous ways. At the end of the day, he shed his wings and took over the hellfire realm with unyielding strength.

You stand before him, trapped to an iron pole that burns you to the touch. The metal rod from earlier still marring your wing ─ no doubt broken as it lays flat at your side, oozing with golden, angelic blood.

“What do we have here?” The voice of king stretches across the room, inciting the demons that brought you here to bow in his presence. Something you already have no choice but to do. The intense pain and your lack of energy from the earlier fight affects you greatly now, killing any hope of refusal.

“My lord, we’ve capture this angel we now offer to you.”

“That much is obvious,” Sukuna responds coldly, rolling his eyes. He presses a bored fist to temple. “So what? You’ve come here seeking something from me, haven’t you? Go on, spit it out.”

The demon at your side sputters with nerves before another takes over, “This is no ordinary angel we’ve brought you,” he says, stating your name to the demon king, “We desire your protection, and means for our survival. Our families are poor and struggling to keep those foul humans out of our land.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the sound of a cruel laughter meant to mock the demons uttering such filth.

“My lord?”

“Quiet,” he commands with no such amusement from moments ago. “If you’re too weak to fight then you deserve to lay down and die. Your kind is meant to be chewed up by the strong.”

“But Sir–“

A flick of his finger, and blood sprays out in all directions, some of its droplets even landing across your face. In the next second, that demon’s head rolls into view. The others behind you gasp in fear, a few even daring to step back only to meet the same demise.

“You’d do well to remember that everything you have belongs to me. Your homes, your land, your lives.” He laughs again. “All of it belongs to your one true king. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind on letting the rest of you live.”

The demons leave in a hurry, and all that remains is both you and the devil.

Sukuna approaches you slowly, like a predator cornering their prey, uncaring that he has to cross a puddle of black demon blood to reach you. With two fingers, he lifts you by your chin, allowing you to drink in the sight of someone who used to be just like you.

Black ink binds to his skin, visible across the expanse of his body from what you can make out. With four arms, and a set of eyes growing from the side of his face, he’s the textbook definition of a demon by human standards. But as an angel, well… you’ve seen more unique creations in the first sphere of your celestial hierarchy. Different doesn’t always have to mean repulsive.

“Such a pathetic sight,” he murmurs, moving your head as though you’re a fruit being examined for its quality. “A broken, pitiful excuse of an angel in my domain.” A grin appears on his face, ripe with his malevolent nature. “How the so-called mighty continue to fall.”

You should bite back. You should be saying something, anything to defend heaven from the one who for whatever reason forsake it, leaving it all behind to become the enemy of virtue. Yet, you’re unable to come up with anything like all your peers would.

Sukuna appears to be studying your expression carefully, finding himself perplexed by your lack of animosity.

“You’re not afraid?” he asks with a hint of curiosity, though his face remains neutral.

“Should I be?” you respond, and without much thought or consideration for the position you’re in. He could do whatever he wants with you, and it would as easy as it is for him to take a life.

He laughs again, letting it echo throughout the throne room.

“Most creatures tremble in fear before me. You even got to see what happens to those who annoy me.” He pauses, revealing sharpened fangs as his grows wide. “And yet, you ask me if you should be afraid. Well, I think the answer is quite obvious, don’t you agree?”

“If it is my fate to die by your hands, then so be it.” As you tell him those words, you feel your strength slipping. The weight of your head sinking deeper into his touch. Even your sight is starting to cloud with black spots.

“Fate? Hah! Don’t make me laugh.” He leans down, mere inches from your face. “You’re just like the rest of your kin, always preaching the gospel of a false king. Your paradise is nothing but a garden of lies.”

You can’t help but wonder from Sukuna’s words what happened to birth such hatred for your shared homeland.

“Being scared would do me no good. In my current state, I pose no threat to you,” you point out. “What reason do I have to fight you?”

He scoffs, “There’s a war going on, and you and I are on opposite sides.”

“That’s never mattered to me.”

He clicks his tongue, swapping the fingers under your jaw with his whole hand. His nails dig into your cheeks, but you can hardly feel it. You can hardly feel anything but coldness.

“I understand if it’s my time; do as you will with me.”

“You speak as if your life holds no value.” He seems to be evaluating you again, tracing his lower set of eyes across your broken wing with scrutiny in his gaze. The other two remain locked with yours. “I wonder if your dear paradise would even allow your return… you may as well be one of the fallen now.”

His words barely register before everything goes black and you succumb to the darkness swelling around your form. You’ve held the hands of many humans on their way into paradise, and many speak of death’s embrace being so warm and inviting.

But all you feel is cold.

So, so cold.

“Sleep well, angel. I’ll be seeing you again soon enough.”

Slowly but surely, everything starts falling back into place. Reality returning to your lifeless form as you awaken from your slumber.

With a tired groan, you open your eyes to an unfamiliar room. Nothing about where you are screams paradise, and in fact, it’s more of the opposite. Currently, you lay atop a large bed, surrounded by red silk sheets and pillows. The room itself is especially decorated with lavish details and portraits bordered with gold, its imagery ranging from acts of debauchery to icons painted with blood. Something about those specific paintings raises an unsettling feeling in the back of your mind.

“You’re awake,” a voice calls from the doorway. The richness of his voice makes it obvious without turning your head that you’re not actually dead, but still within Sukuna’s castle of sin. “How are you feeling?” he asks, though his demeanor remains calm, devoid of any underlying concern or true empathy.

You try and sit up, but quickly fall back from the pain, almost forgetting the trauma you had been through. You only realize now the number of bandages wrapping your body, the majority contorting your wing into a makeshift sling.

“You saved me?” you ask with disbelief in your tone. You thought for sure your time was up, yet your heart still beats, quicker now in Sukuna’s presence. “Why?”

“Yes, I saved you. And as for why…” He crosses his arm, maintaining his cold stare. “Let’s just say I have my reasons.” A subtle smirk appears.

“Whatever the case may be, thank you, for not letting me die.”

“Don’t mistake my kindness for charity,” he says bluntly. “In due time, you’ll be fulfilling your usage to me. That is the only reason you’re still alive.”

You raise an eyebrow at his words. “What use would you have of me?”

That devilish grin makes a reappearance on his face as he strides closer to the bed, towering over you. “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, you need only to focus on your recovery.”

So much for getting any answers or having any chance of leaving.

“Charity or not ─ I still thank you,” you say back to him, smiling all the while despite the fact you’re now akin to a bird confined in a gilded cage. Better than an iron cell, but not the same as the freedom that calls to you. At the end of the day, however, and for whatever reason he has, he still chose to help you.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he chuckles, eyes darkening. “It’s far too early for that.”

Sukuna’s amusement fades as the doors to your room open, revealing a white-haired servant holding a tray of sorts.

“My lord,” they greet, bowing to the King of Demons.

“Good, you’re here, Uraume. See to her recovery now that’s awake. I have work that needs to be done,” he announces, stepping out of the way for the one called Uraume to approach. Sukuna eyes fixate on you again as their servant helps you sit up. “I’ll warn you now, angel. You’re in my domain.” His tone is stern, full of unspoken promise. “If you so much as try to escape, I’ll clip both of your wings and leave you to rot this time around.”

You can’t help but laugh at the irony in his words. “Don’t worry, I think we both know I’m in no condition to leave. Nor do I plan on trying either.”

Despite the humor of it, one look at your wing is enough to question what life will be like for you from now on. There’s a question that when you recover, will you ever be able to fly again? You can’t help but feel off about the dull coloring of your wings now.

All angels radiate a celestial glow across the span of their perfectly white wings ─ like light scattered through a prism in every hair and fiber. That glow is seemingly gone from yours, and you think you spot some gray forming at the base. To be absent of that symbol of your connection, one can only assume it to be a sign of what’s to come.

“See that you don’t,” he remarks, turning away to let Uraume work.

Uraume makes careful work of changing out your bandages. They work quick and with deft fingers, trying their best not to aggravate your wing further. All the while, you face away towards the head of the bed, hiding your now exposed chest with your arms. You feel them pause, tracing a finger down your back. In your mind, you assume it to be one of the many marks left behind from the demons that captured you, and thus, you don’t focus too much on it.

You fail to notice Sukuna’s gaze transfixed on you from the doorway. Although silent, a darkness looms over his features. He exits the room moments later, shutting the door with more force than necessary, making your body jolt.

It’s a while before Uraume finishes, and they leave you with some fresh fruit to dine on. While you’re supposed to be resting, you find it difficult, especially after learning you’ve already been asleep for several days. That knowledge is precisely why you ditch the sheets to walk out onto the veranda connected to your room.

The moon is high in the sky, basking the courtyard garden with its sheer, red-toned light. Down here in the realm of fire, it’s as though the moon forever mirrors the flames conjured up from demons. That, or it reflects the many pools of blood from a millennium of suffering.

“Don’t you look like a broken bird,” Sukuna comments from behind you. For someone of his stature, it’s a wonder you didn’t hear him approaching.

“In a way, I am,” you muse, moving your eyes forward again. “One that flew too far from her nest.”

“Fallen from the nest and into the hands of a monster, how your precious fate seems to curse you.”

“Monster?” You snap your head in his direction with an incredulous look. “I hope you’re not referring to yourself with that comment.”

“You would deny what I am?” His voice is tinged with arrogance as he comes up beside you, not bothering to spare a glance. “I am the King of Demons, the most despised of life’s creation. How am I not a monster?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” you respond, tilting your head. “Whatever the case may be, you chose to let me live, and even saw to the treatment of my injuries. You could’ve kept me in chains, plucking my feathers one by one, but you didn’t. You even have me in a room made for royalty.”

He scoffs, but you don’t let it stop you from continuing.

“Your title aside, I don’t assume anyone to be a monster ─ only a victim of circumstance. Is someone truly born evil, or is evil nurtured?”

Sukuna appears mildly surprised by your speech, giving you his attention. You spot the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. “A victim of circumstance, you say?” he repeats with an added air of mockery. “You raise an interesting point, but that doesn’t make you any less of a fool. Tell me, do you believe that because you’re an angel, you’re exempt from the original sin?”

“Not at all,” you answer quickly, and full of conviction. There’s not a drop of fear or hesitation as you openly speak your mind to Sukuna. “All of us ─ angels, demons, humans… we’re all doing what we can with the lives we were given. Angels rise and fall; some sinners beg for forgiveness while others let it define their nature. What’s important to me is how you treat others.”

“By that logic, what of the demons that maimed you? What of me, who has already killed in your presence?” Sukuna refutes. “Most would agree those to be the act of monsters.”

“Does being a demon mean you automatically deserve to be punished for the title you brandish? Does one act define your whole being? The demons who brought me before you sought help and protection ─ for that, I cannot blame them for their actions upon me. What difference is there between heaven and hell if I’m blinded by namesakes instead of looking at all the good and evil that can come from anyone, even of my own kind?”

Sukuna appears almost at a loss of words from your rambling. In truth, he wasn’t expecting such philosophy from someone so high in the celestial hierarchy, but he can see now why the humans would think to praise you as a saint.

“You make it sound so simple… so noble.” He’s looking at you now a deeper gleam in his eyes, intrigued enough to forgive your bold speech to him of all people. Most beings would never get away talking to him like you have after all. “So you would say there’s no difference between you and me after everything you’ve witnessed? How many in heaven would even agree with you?”

“I believe morality is a wild card that’s been muddied one too many times. There’s good and evil in everyone, even the almighty creators that chose to allow lesser beings to suffer in order to achieve growth. I can’t say I know many who would agree with me, but I understand their feelings and I’ll continue to trust in the potential for good.”

“You speak with a passion despite your predicament,” he huffs amusingly. “Still, I must admit, you have a unique way of thinking for an angel that’s uncommonly seen.”

You acknowledge his words with a hum, drifting your eyes to your wings lying flat at your side. “Most likely why heaven doesn’t seem too keen on my return,” you murmur, referencing the missing glow. “In return for saving me, I’ll see if I can be of use to you.” You’ll need a new purpose if you are to fall from grace.

Sukuna chuckles, the sound almost sinister. “An angel, offering her services to a demon. How… poetic.”

Silence takes over as you both admire the red glow of the garden. All that can be heard is running water from the fountain pond, and the occasional splashing of its scaled inhabitants.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You may,” Sukuna responds with one of his lower eyes pointed your way. “Whether or not I’ll answer is a different matter.”

You choose your next words carefully. This back-and-forth debate has been an unexpected treat after the pain you’ve endured to get here.

“You were an angel once too, yes? What happened that led your fall?”

His jaw clenches from the sudden inquiry. “There was a time I too preached the seven virtues; as for how I came to become the monstrosity I am today is a long, dark story.”

After telling you this, Sukuna starts to walk away.

“I see… I hope one day I’ll have the chance to hear it.”

He scoffs, giving you a sidelong stare over his shoulders. “I’ll consider your words, but it’s best now you return to your quarters and rest. Don’t go flying off anywhere.” His twisted laugh echoes from down the halls, and despite the cruelty of it, you can’t help but smile.

Days pass, and while you’d like to say you’ve gotten into a routine, even an angel like yourself isn’t immune to going stir crazy. To be grounded like this for as long as you have now is unnatural, and as your feathers seem to darken each day ─ so do your thoughts on the situation.

Currently, you’re seated out on the veranda again, admiring the servants working from afar to keep the courtyard clean and the shrubbery trimmed to the king’s liking. There’s a feeling that bubbles from within at the sight of those taking to their wings to reach the heights of certain trees, or cleaning along the palace rooftops. A feeling you aren’t sure just what to call as of now.

“Bored, are you?” That familiar tone reappearing. His arrival is the only bearable part of your stay as he forces you out of your own mind.

“I have the gift of life; I could never be bored,” you state, not taking your eyes off the demons that cling to the skies. “I am however… longing, I’d say.”

Sukuna’s eyes find you, moving from your face down to your wing. You’ve gotten to where you can feel his burning stare at times, even when he’s not around. While it may come off as intrusive, you find it a comfort.

“You miss it, don’t you? Being up in the skies, untethered from the earth.” he asks with understanding, but also that same recurring hint of his typical mockery.

“The wind between each feather, the sights you can only see from above…” You can’t help but sigh at what now feels like a distant memory. You’re certain your wing will recover, but whether you can maintain flight is a mystery in itself until the time is right. “Will you tell me now what purpose you have in keeping me around?”

Purpose is something you need right now to stave off the thoughts.

“Impatient, are we?” He holds your gaze silently for a moment before continuing. “I have my reasons, but I’m not ready to divulge them. For now, let me make it clear that you’re too valuable of a prize for me not to keep around.”

“A prize, huh?” You ponder the thought, leaning your body against one of the columns for support. “Am I even worthy if my connection to paradise has been severed?” you mumble on instinct, not intending for him to hear such thoughts you never knew you had.

He does though, and it leads to him furrowing his brows, and averting his stare to elsewhere in his domain.

“Who cares about heaven?” he starts, keeping his voice low and full of what you believe to be spite. You wouldn’t be surprised if he rolled his eyes as well. “Even if they abandoned you, your existence still holds value to me. Fallen or not, you’re a walkingcontradiction that’s piqued my interest. As far as I’m concerned, heaven was holding you back from your true potential.”

Moments like these are why you’ll argue with him for as long as necessary to prove he’s more than what he makes himself out to be.

“Is that so?” You smile. His eyes flicker back to you at the sound of your giggling. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Sukuna finds himself grinning as well. “Am I?” he questions while reaching to your feathers, running his fingers along them with a delicate touch. “And what would that be in your eyes?”

“The best way I can explain it is that you’re simply you ─ Sukuna.” You lean back one hand, gesturing with the other. “You try and present yourself as some monstrous demon that burns everything you touch, but here you are treating me with such care. I don’t doubt your strength, but I believe there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“You’re a perceptive one, I’ll give you that, angel.” A beat of silence, and the flash of what could be read as vulnerability in his typically guarded demeanor. “But remember, I’m still a demon. My nature is not a kind one, so don’t go forgetting that detail.”

You chuckle, “I won’t, but I stand by my point. It’s my nature to see the good in everything that shares the same life as me.”

“Sounds tiring,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. He removes his hand from your wing, tucking it back into his robe.

“Tiring? Oh contraire.” You smirk, feeling a spark of confidence ─ and maybe some defiance. “Do you only see the bad in everything? Always assuming the worst of others and thus feel the need to extinguish their life before they have a chance to bear their fangs? That to me seems tiring if you must always need your guard up.”

His face darkens considerably, and you realize too late that you’ve struck a nerve.

“You know nothing of what I’ve been through or why I do the things I do, so don’t pretend that you do,” he spits. The underlying wrath in his tone has your feathers puffing up. “Power is all that keeps me alive and keeps me going in this god-forsaken world. When you’ve been betrayed and hunted like I have, you learn quickly that you can only truly rely on yourself and not to trust others, especially not an angel.”

Guilt pangs in your chest alongside hurt from his choice words. You don’t regret what you said, but you maybe regret the timing of it, or not having considered his feelings before letting it all out. Life isn’t as fair to everyone as it might’ve been for you, but his anger has shown you the likelihood that his lifestyle was something nurtured ─ not the nature of sin one might argue.

He couldn’t have been born evil. It had to have been the acts of others that left him no choice but to become the embodiment of said evil.

And you can’t blame him for it, nor can you turn back time to right all of the wrongs. Fate must have brought you here for a reason, and in time you hope Sukuna realizes he doesn’t have to suffer alone. Even if he never pleads for forgiveness, you’ll show him that life is more than the negatives.

“I apologize if I upset you.” You stand up from your seat, tipping your head. A sudden act of submission even he can’t argue with. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning to my quarters now to rest.”

His glare seems to soften, if only a slight change. “…Fine. Go rest,” he quietly sighs, shifting back towards his garden view.

You take your leave, unknowingly leaving behind one of your fallen feathers in your previous spot. Sukuna notices this, lifting it to the moon’s light, watching it filter through the hairs. He kisses his teeth before stalking back to his own quarters across the yard.

You don’t see Sukuna much after that, almost like he’s trying to avoid you. Is he really that upset with you? It begs the question whether he still wants you around, or if his anger outweighs your worth enough to kill you and be done with it.

It’s another night where you find yourself out in the garden, enjoying the semblance of freedom it offers. You no longer have a bandage around your wing ─ which now is half covered in shade coloring ─ and Uraume has instructed you to begin stretching it to work back into a routine of physical therapy.

It can’t hurt to see if you can at least lift yourself off the ground, right?

So, you stand at the center of what appears to be Sukuna’s training grounds, as it offers plenty of space to move. With the moonlight against your back, you stretch out your wings in full, covering a good portion of the area around your body. You feel nervous yet eager to fly, enough to push past the dull pain you feel when you finally begin to lift yourself up off the ground.

Already you’re sweating ─ so out of shape from rest ─ but you don’t want to give up. It’s too soon and knowing now you can be off the ground makes you hopeful that this is the day you can take to the skies again. Only you don’t realize how much strain you’re putting on yourself, and how your unharmed wing must compensate more fiercely.

“Come on…” you strain, flapping harder than before when a sudden jolt of pain pierces through your wing, sending you crashing back into the dirt with a yelp. It only gets worse as your weight ended up landing on your recovering wing.

“You idiot!” Sukuna appears, shouting with alarm as he comes up to your side. His usual calm demeanor having been replaced with both anger and concern. “You’re not fully healed yet, what were you thinking?” he snarls, forcing you to sit up off your crooked wing.

You start to tear up from the pain, feeling a wave of emotions crashing into you all at once. Feelings you never knew existed outside humanity. You let it all out by sobbing into the dirt, and out of sheer frustration, you begin clawing at it too, angrily flapping your wings like a child throwing a tantrum.

Sukuna is surprised by your sudden outburst. The sound of your tears and the flapping of your wings is like a desperate cry for the freedom you once felt. He grabs at your shoulders, commanding you with his voice, “Cut it out, you’re only making it worse.”

“It’s already worse!” you shout back at him, surprising him yet again with this new side of you. “Let’s face it, Sukuna ─ my wing is ruined, I’m falling into ruin, there’s nothing left of me!” Your cracked voice tears through the garden, its serenity now clouded in the anger and hopelessness you feel.

This is the first moment of your life you’ve ever felt suffering like the mortals you’ve guided, and for the reason to be something as selfish as self-loathing… it shows how far you’ve fallen from grace.

“Stop being dramatic,” he growls. “If you don’t give yourself time to heal, then how can say for certain you’ll never fly again?”

You throw yourself into Sukuna’s front, unsure how else to cope with the weight of your emotions. An angel seeking comfort in a demon. You may be free falling into sin, but you have to agree with the poetry of it like Sukuna suggested.

He wasn’t expecting you to suddenly cling to him, but besides the mild annoyance he feels, he doesn’t make any moves to push you away. His awkward embrace is warmer than you would’ve thought, but this is the ruler of flames we’re talking about.

You don’t feel as cold as you have when he arms shield you from the world, and the depths of your mind.

When your tears settle and your breathing mellows, Sukuna lifts you from the ground with ease. He carries you back to your room, placing you gently down onto the edge of your bed. His hand moves with practiced care to your wing, feeling for any discomfort. You wince of course, and he lets a frustrated sigh after a minute of testing.

“I’ll send Uraume in to deal with this,” he tells you, and you notice his tone lacks the usual authority or contempt. He shifts his gaze from your wing to your face, reading for any signs of life in your distant eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, and it’s the truth. As an angel, you were designed to only feel emotions such as humility, kindness, patience… but now you don’t know what to label yourself with, or how to get through it. “What’s wrong with me?” you ask, not daring to look up from your knees.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” One of his hands comes up under your jaw, lifting your chin to meet his crimson gaze. All four eyes staring into yours with the visage of understanding. “You’ve lost your light is all.”

Your light, your home, your paradise.

“I’ve lost everything.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” His thumb traces your skin.

“Is that even worth it anymore? I’m no prize in this state, merely a broken bird like you had claimed.”

He furrows his brows, annoyed that you’re using his words against him as you wave the proverbial white flag with your voice.

“Don’t talk like that,” he snaps ─ harsh, but a necessary evil. “If you had no value, I would’ve killed you long ago. You have the mindset I’ve only seen in one other of your kind, and your knowledge and resilience are quite admirable in my eyes.” He lets go of your chin, stepping away from the bed. As he moves to leave, he stops, and without turning to look at you he says, “In time, you’ll realize how worthy you are.”

You weren’t sure if it could get any worse, but as the days continue to pass, you feel yourself sinking deeper into the abyss that is your psyche.

Uraume has been hovering around more often than not, urging you to stay in bed and rest, but you hate it. You hate this feeling of being powerless, of being empty, of not being able to live as you once had. From the moment you could fly, you were wandering the human realm, helping everyone you came across from the largest of creatures to the smallest of insects.

It’s your nature to help others no matter the cost. What’s not is putting yourself first. But now, everything’s changing ─ faster than you could have ever imagined.

You think this is what humans would refer to as fear, and what an unpleasant feeling it is.

Sukuna comes by every day, sometimes more than once to check in on you, and each time he finds you in the same, curled up position with your face buried in the silk.

He’s had enough of this slothful behavior.

“You need to eat, angel,” he says firmly, tapping his finger loudly on the bed post.

“’m not hungry,” you respond, though your voice is muffled and weak.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, and the force he puts into tapping his finger threatens to crack the wood. “You can’t just ignore your needs forever,” he retorts, “You need to eat, now.”

“Why do you care so much?” You don’t mean for the words to sound as harsh as they do, but luckily Sukuna is a patient man, most of the time.

“I didn’t save you just to watch you die in such a pathetic, mortal way.”

“Haven’t I always appeared pathetic since the day we met?” Bound in chains, bloodied with no celestial shine. Weak, broken, a pitiful excuse of heaven’s most revered angel. Complete, and utterly pathetic.

He kisses his teeth. “You’ve had your moments, but if you weren’t so busy feeling sorry for yourself, then you would see all that you are. All that you can be now.”

You’re silent for a few moments as you ponder his words. His unrestraint in speaking his mind may not always be a virtue, but it’s a comfort you’ve come to welcome all the same.

You turn your head his way and ask, “Was it like this for you when you fell from grace?”

“I wasn’t moping like you are, if that’s what you mean.” He then sighs and takes a seat along the edge of the bed, cautious in avoiding your sprawled out wing ─ which has become increasingly black as the days pass by. “But yes, I too had to overcome human emotion to get where I am now. It won’t last forever, I assure you.”

“You were right before,” you murmur, staring past Sukuna into your view of the garden. “I don’t know all the struggles you’ve had to face, or anyone for that matter. It doesn’t matter if I’ve visited one village or a thousand burnt to ash. Until now, I’ve never truly felt pain like this in my heart.”

Both set of eyes look down at you, but not in the sense that you’re beneath him. His gaze is understanding, regretful even for how he spoke to you before. You’ve stirred up Sukuna’s emotions without realizing, forcing him to come to terms with how he feels.

“What you’ve seen in the past has always been the aftermath of war. Until you’ve faced suffering yourself, you never would understand the pain behind it.” There’s a bitterness lacing his words as he remembers that period of his life prior to becoming king.

The moment that changed the course of his life forever.

“For whatever you’ve been through, I’m so sorry.” Tears rush down the side of your eyes, collecting into the sheets. “I always believed heaven had everyone’s backs, even those who hadn’t redeemed themselves, but I was wrong, so wrong. I’m just as guilty as every other celestial being for turning a blind eye and letting you suffer.”

Sukuna’s demeanor softens up at your apology, and he reaches a sharpened nail out to catch one of your tears. “Your apology is unnecessary… but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

The two of you sit in silence as you let the tears flow freely. The only sound aside from your own being the windchime Uraume had put up along the garden doors one evening. It’s the normal glass bulb shape, but the papery sheet that catches the wind is black, with red-spider lilies painted across. The flower’s coloring continuously reminds you of another with that same hue painted four times over.

Your stomach eventually disrupts the scene, cueing what you both were already aware of.

“Sounds like someone’s hungry; are you going lie again?” he teases, now poking his finger into your back.

“I guess I could try and eat something,” you playfully reply, moving to sit up. You feel discomfort immediately in your head, your vision darkening in turn from how long it’s been since you’ve last had a proper meal.

“Rest,” he orders after noticing your grimace. “I’ll have food brought to you immediately.”

Before he gets too far, you call out to him, “Sukuna?” He turns, giving you his attention. “Thank you,” you tell him, the moonlight hitting your face just as you smile. Its red glow is accentuated by your glossy cheeks, almost like a blush.

“You’re welcome,” he replies gruffly, but with the hint of his own smile hidden buried under his scarf.

From there, the days only get easier. Resting has felt less of a routine, and with Uraume’s help, physical therapy has been going well. There’s plenty of new growth in the form of pinfeathers across your wingspan, and the oldest of such white at the very tips still. It appears your broken wing will forever remain deformed ─ no thanks to the stunt you pulled ─ but you find yourself embracing the change.

The same can be said for many things now in your new life, such as how you’ve come to enjoy the night over day. The moon’s light is a comforting touch, as is the serenity felt in the late hours. You let that light guide your fingers across your wings, preening the darkened feathers to look your best.

Another change you’ve noticed are the appearance of marks stemming from the center of your back. According to Uraume, they were present at the time of your arrival, but since then have grown to wrap around your body in a filigree type pattern. You’re reminded of Sukuna’s own markings as you examine your body, and you’ve begun to question if this is how heaven marks their fallen.

Reaching the feathers closest to that part of your body is a challenge, and one you’re struggling to overcome. Angels typically preen each other’s wings in a show of chastity, and companionship. You’re certain Uraume would help if you ask, but the idea stirs a sense of intimacy now for whatever reason.

“Having trouble there?” Sukuna’s voice cuts through the night from behind you as always, making you jolt in surprise.

“Oh– uhh, yeah, just a bit.”

“It’s not an easy task reaching those feathers on your own, is it?” he muses with a snickering laugh. His footsteps are silent as he comes ever closer to the edge of the veranda.

“It isn’t, but I’m positive there’s feathers there ready to be unfurled.” You have a focused look on your face as you try once more to bend your arms in outrageous ways to try and reach.

“Let me help,” he says, brushing your hands away.

Sukuna doesn’t wait for your response before his fingers deftly land on the center of your back. His touch sparks a shiver down your spine, arching yourself upright. Your wings have never felt this sensitive before and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep them steady for him to work.

There’s a sudden influx of emotions you don’t recognize bubbling up, and a heat that pools in the base of your body. At times, it feels like Sukuna is purposely working slow to make your feathers all nice and pretty. His knuckles brush you in a way that hitches your breath.

He hums closely by your ear, “Your wings are quite sensitive here, aren’t they?”

Has his voice always sounded so melodic? So intoxicating? From the way he laughs at your reaction, you can tell he’s enjoying himself. Like he knows what’s going on in your mind.

He does.

You shoot up from your position with sudden urgency. “T-thanks for the help Sukuna, if you’ll excuse, I’ll see you later and I hope you have a wonderful rest of your night!” you stammer out with the hurry of a freefalling eagle, retreating back into your quarters before he has any chance to respond.

Sukuna can’t say he wasn’t caught off guard by this, but at the sight of your reddened face and eyes desperate to avoid his ─ he’ll forgive you.

On the other side of your folding screen door, you fall to your knees in a near pant to catch your breath whatever that was about. Temptation has never looked so good than in the form of Ryomen Sukuna, for all that he is. And while you came so close to the edge of a decadent abyss, you realized something.

You’ve grown fond of Sukuna, and in ways that can only be described with one word.

Sin.

From the window view of his study, Sukuna catches you out of the corner of his eyes stepping out from your room and into the courtyard. He doesn’t think much of it having gotten used to you being at the core of his picturesque view night after night. The moment he realizes you’re heading towards his training yard, however, is the same moment he ditches the scroll he was reading to follow..

He’s aware Uraume has given you the all-clear to attempt flight, but that was but a few hours before now. Truthfully, he should’ve known better. Of course you’re going to start right away.

Leaving his study, he makes haste to catch up, hoping to avoid what happened last time. He stands at the edge of the arena stealthily, watching as you stretch your now fully black wings to their limits. The first few flutters betray the confidence you showed in your steps to this place. He can tell you’re fighting a battle in your mind, but to Sukuna ─ those thoughts are useless.

“Why did you stop?” he asks, closing the distance after watching you deflate to your knees into the dirt.

“What if I get hurt again?” you confirm his inner thoughts with that meek voice. Foolish angel.

“What if you do?” he retorts, blunt as ever. “Are you just going to stay grounded forever because you’re afraid of a little pain? You’ve come this far; it would be a shame to give up now.”

“I don’t want to be on the ground ─ hell, I’ve been waiting for this day for so long and now that it’s here…” Your voice trails off, falling back to the low, despairing tone. “I’m afraid it won’t be the same.”

“It won’t be the same,” he says with an added huff. If anyone is in the position to give tough love, it’s Sukuna. “You will always carry that scar”-he gestures with a pointed claw at your wing-“a reminder of your fall, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fly. You won’t know until you get back up in the air.”

“But if I can’t, then what use could I possibly be?”

Sukuna crosses his upper pair of arms, leaving his lower pair to hang off his waist, one finger tapping away at the fabric at his hip. You’re in despair, and your main concern is whether you’re useful or not?

If you were anyone else, he wouldn’t think twice about making you his next meal. The weak are meant to be chewed up, but why can’t you see the potential you have already? (It’s standing right in front of you after all with a scowl on their face.)

“If wings were the defining point of who you are, then would you claim me to be useless?”

The day Sukuna fell from grace was the same day he tore his own wings from his back, tossing aside the last reminder of that accursed realm to embrace his demonic half in full.

“Of course not!” you refute with the same fire he saw when you argued how he isn’t not a monster. You’re not a lost cause yet if you can still manage that passion.

“Then get up and show me what you’re made of,” he commands. “You’re an angel ─ albeit a fallen one. Not the same broken bird you were before.”

Your eyes flash with realization, and with newfound determination, you’re back on your feet.

“Okay,” you breathe. “I just need to return to my roots.”

“Return to your roots? What exactly do you mean?”

“You said it yourself,” you casually say in passing, walking over to where the courtyard backs up against the edge of a cliff overlooking Sukuna’s domain. “I may be damaged, but I’m still a bird, aren’t I?”

Sukuna’s eyes widen.

“And where exactly are you going with this, dove?”

You can’t possibly be doing what he thinks you’re going to do. He doesn’t want you to get hurt, but he also wants you to see this through. Impressive, angel. A manic grin appears.

“Sometimes all a bird needs is for their parent to push them from the nest. Dive right in, even if you’re too afraid to try.”

You spread your arms out with your wings, backing off the edge and into freefall.

Sukuna’s at the cliff’s edge in a fraction of a second, his heart beating uncharacteristically loud in his chest as he watches you fall. It’s a harrowing sight, even for him, but the relief he feels when you manage to catch the wind between your feathers is unlike the emotions he felt before your arrival. Since that day, it’s like he’s had to fall from grace all over again with you, only that much harder this time around.

His smile doesn’t falter either, morphing from smug arrogance to a proud shine. The way you’ve taken to the skies is like you never left. If Sukuna’s domain is fire, then yours is the air that fans the flames in a mesmerizing dance. With a heavy thrust, you push yourself up ─ higher than his palace and the mountain’s peak before diving back down, returning to Sukuna’s side.

“I did it,” you mumble victoriously, a crazed grin of your own that Sukuna loves to see. “I did it!” you repeat, this time turning that smile towards Sukuna, with eyes brighter than any glow a halo could muster.

“See what happens you don’t give up?”

You lunge forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. “Thank you, Sukuna,” you tell him breathlessly.

He finds himself liking this moment better than when you soaked his robes with tears.

“For what?” he asks, placing a hand on the crown of your head.

“For the care, the healing, the late-night conversations… for everything. For saving me.” Your arms tighten almost possessively around him. “You’ve shown me a kindness like no one before, and I am forever in your debt.”

Sukuna brushes his hand from your hair down to your jawline, tilting your head upwards. Something about the way your eyes shine from his doing makes his cold heart feel that much warmer.

“What kind of saint or angel are you to find kindness in a beast like me?” he mutters, lowering his head closer to yours.

“Like you said ─ a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless.” His face now a mere breath away from yours. “And like I’ve told you ─ I see you only for what you are, demon or not. To me, you’ve always been just Sukuna.”

The moment your lips meet is when the cord connecting you to paradise officially snaps, thrusting you into an unholy matrimony. You feel a burning sensation come along the markings that brandish you, but it doesn’t hurt. Right now, all that runs through your blood is one thing, and one thing only.

Desire.

As your body rises in heat, so does the intensity of your kissing. You’re doing whatever feels right, and most of all good. Sukuna feels this, just as you feel his lips smiling against your own. His tongue dips into your mouth and for the first time in your life, your body lets off a moaning sound.

It drives Sukuna near feral hearing it, and with his lower pair of arms he tugs you close to body, enough to feel his own desire straining for relief. His mind is quickly becoming a mess of both need and longing.

He pulls you down with him to the ground, settling you over his hips with your legs at either side. Those same hands now driven with lust roam your body in tangent with yours that have found their way to his chest, feverishly working to unveil his body. He grows tired of the struggle, and in a split second he severs your robes clean off, and his to follow. Only now do your lips part, leaving a string of drool to keep you connected.

The moon offers the perfect glow needed to highlight your features. He leans back onto his elbows, admiring the rise and fall of your heated chest, the red hue clinging to your feathers, the half-lidded stare revering his own sculpted figure… there’s only one word that comes to mind when he sees your soul laid out before him.

“Beautiful,” he says breathlessly and in full confidence. His upper set of hands trace your sides before coming into contact with your chest. He brushes the padding of his thumbs over each nipple. His other two hands holding you by the hips, pulling you down deeper onto his core. “Oh, so beautiful, my sweet angel.”

You gasp at the feeling of something twitching below you ─ or rather, somethings. The sound makes Sukuna groan again with pleasure, the slit along his stomach opening to reveal a second mouth before your very eyes. To others, this would be enough to incite fear. But for you, it only ignites a fire between your thighs.

“Come here,” he demands, rhetorically it seems as he pulls you right over the freshly parted maw. A thick tongue flicks upward along your sex, frazzling your mind with symphony of whines. He groans again ─ much deeper this time ─ feeling his four eyes roll back into his head. “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you would be the most divine tasting meal I’ve had to date.”

Sukuna finds himself struggling to keep you still as his tongue enters your body. It’s at this moment the veil of your chastity is no more, your purity claimed by the King of Demons.

Your body continues to squirm as his tongue shifts around your velvety walls, your wings continuously twitching and fluttering when it taps your sweet spot.

“So sensitive,” he laughs with that familiar mocking sound, but his eyes show only a carnal need with how pleasantly you respond to his touch.

“Feels s’good,” you mewl, a breathy sigh staggering out. You try to balance yourself with your hands, digging into his shoulders with talon-like grip.

“Yeah?” He continues to toy with your breasts, pulling one into his mouth. The feeling of his teeth grazing your flesh ─ eager to mark ─ has you gasping once more. “I know it does, you needy girl.”

“I need you,” you confess with a depraved stare that’s only heightened by the glow of the bloodied moon. It’s so close to mirroring his own, like your soul has already been claimed by the devil himself. After your purity, that’s the next step in this journey of love.

He chuckles, slithering his tongue back into his mouth. “Let’s see if you can handle me then without breaking.”

You’re confused at first what he means until suddenly you’re lifted into the air, watching as he pulls both cocks from his hakama. You knew they were big, but you had thought it was due to how they stacked over the other. How wrong you were to not expect the nine-foot-tall demon to be as equally blessed below.

“What do you think?” he teases, tilting his head to the side slightly.

“Why don’t you let me show you what I’m made of? I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

“Good girl. That you are,” he praises, helping you align yourself with one of his cocks. “I look forward to seeing you worship me with your body.”

It doesn’t take much for you to sink down onto him in full, your cunt a dripping mess thanks to his saliva and your freshly discovered arousal ─ like an untapped spring now bursting forth. There’s little pain that follows from the stretch, your body instead erupting with pleasure. It’s as though you were made for him. That your purpose in life was always to please him in every way possible. Everything you experienced so far was to bring you to this very moment in time.

“Embrace your instinct,” Sukuna says as he guides your starting motions. “Let it fuel your potential.”

You work with his motions, eyes fluttering shut at the incredible sensation. “I’m so full,” you sigh, and he chuckles.

“You’re doing so well; I knew you had it in you,” he purrs. “Soon enough you’ll be taking both in one hole. Would you like that?” You clench hard around him at that, and he can tell you’re getting ever closer.

“W-w-what is this feeling?” You move your hand downwards with unknown purpose to where his body meets yours, fingers gliding along his upper shaft, down every vein, and even rubbing it against your own clit for more of that wonderous sensation that’s building.

Using his own dick to pleasure yourself? My, how far you’ve fallen into his sinful embrace. The primal need he has for you is exceeding what he thought possible. How perfect you are for him ─ a match made in hell.

“It’s euphoria, my dear. Heaven,” he mutters gruffly, hissing with pleasure. “Let it break you and I promise you’ll feel better than ever before.”

“I need you, ‘Kuna.” Your voice comes out as a pleading whine that hitches his breath. The words a desperate plea for something you’re still learning to embrace.

“Tell me what you want, angel,” he growls, his eyes searing into yours. A set of hands glide upwards, one over your breast, the other at the base of your skull. “Say it,” he commands this time, pointed nails digging into your flesh, pushing even deeper into your body.

“I want you ─ no, I need you, Sukuna,” you declare with such staggering force to match your desire.

“Then you’ll have me. All of me,” he responds in turn, flashing his canines greedily. “So take me, angel. Take me for whatever you need.”

That’s all you need to feel your inhibitions slip away. You lean forward until his back is against the ground, kissing him from his lips down to his neck, feeling an urge like no other to sink your teeth into his flesh ─ to mar him as yours.

“More,” you mumble, moving your hips faster, intent on reaching that cascading high. “More, more, I need all of you, ‘Kuna.”

“You’ll have it all. Everything,” he promises in the form of a whisper, so close to your ear. “As much as you need, as much as you desire. I’ll give you everything the world has to offer if you stay by my side.”

You dig your nails into his body as your own begins to unravel before him. Waves of pleasure crashing down with all its might as you preach his name for all to hear. Tears slip from your eyes as you curl in around him, and he soaks each one up with his tongue as you ride out the high.

“Fuck, you’re so… divine,” you purr a sinful tune. “Nothing ─ not even in paradise ─ has ever made feel this way.”

Forget being an angel. In the state you are now, Sukuna believes you could put a succubus to shame. You feel and look so incredible on top of your new throne. Divine as you put it.

“You feel like heaven yourself,” he claims through ragged breaths. “Everything about you is addicting; you’re a drug I can’t get enough of. Mark my words, I’m going to indulge myself in your soul for all eternity.”

“Take me then. Claim me, ruin me, I don’t care so long as you make me yours.”

Fuck, if you knew the power you have over him.

“You’re already mine,” he hisses, and before you can blink, your positions are swapped. His figure towering over yours. “But incase that wasn’t already obvious, I’ll prove it to you here.”

Sukuna leans his head down, kissing you on the lips. The calm before the storm that’s to come.

“I’m going to claim you and make you completely and utterly mine.” He pulls his hips backwards, leaving only the head of his cock inside you. “…and I’m not going to stop until you’re completely wrecked, completely mine.”

Sukuna thrusts forward, slamming his hips into you. There’s no second to spare, no second to adjust before he does it again and again, forcing you to cry out to the heavens how good he’s making you feel. It serves them right for abandoning you, leaving him to pick up the pieces. It’s the only thing he’ll thank that pathetic realm for, because you truly are one of the most divine creations to have existed alongside himself.

It isn’t enough for you yet it seems, no matter how rough he’s being. Your legs try and wrap around him, but you’re only hindering yourself. So, with two arms, he lifts your legs to your chest, placing his knees at your side. This new position allows him to reach even deeper, fulfilling what he knows you need.

He lowers his forehead to press against yours, sharing the air you command like a goddess those beautiful, encapsulating wings of yours. If you can’t wrap your legs around him, you at least try it with your wings. Like a moth’s cocoon, making this moment in time all your own. So selfish; it’s exactly what he’s wanted to see.

“Who’s making you feel this good?” he asks, his hips refusing to slow. If anything, they’re only getting faster ─ more erratic in nature.

“You are!” you cry out.

“And who do you belong to?”

“You!”

“Say it,” he growls, and you know exactly what he means.

“I’m yours, Sukuna! Only yours!”

“That’s right,” he chuckles darkly, drawing out his words. “You’re mine. Mine to do with as I please, mine to claim and take forever.” His voice is strong, carrying his decree like the word of the gods. “Do you see now the prize that you are to me?”

You nod your head feverishly, scraping your nails along his back. Your wings flutter with frenzy at the incoming high you both are flying so close to reach.

“So. Damn. Divine,” he groans between thrusts, almost threatening to truly break you if he isn’t careful. “You’re going to take every last drop of me, aren’t you?”

“Please, please, please, I want it all,” you plead and whimper, drool spilling out the sides of your mouth. “I want all of you.”

He bites down on your neck before stilling inside you, a rush of warmth hitting you both inside and out. You open your mouth in a silent scream at the force your climax hits you with. Desire overwhelming you from the depths of your being. Near the end, Sukuna slowly rocks his hips into you, fucking his seed back into you before leaning back to admire the view of your stomach painted in white.

As he does, you notice the blood trickling from his mouth is black in color. No longer the same angelic gold it once was.

“I love you, Sukuna,” you confess, making him smile with that all too familiar arrogance you’ve come to love, just like him. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life until now. I’ve found purpose again with you.”

“I told you that in time your worth would be realized.” He pulls out from your body, casually pushing his seed back inside with hand. His stomach mouth opens, splaying out his second tongue to clean himself off the front of your body. “You have the makings of a queen ─ one who could stand by my side through the end of time.”

When he’s finished cleaning you off, he helps you up onto your knees. You then take to embracing him in your arms, and even your wings just to hold him close to your heart. “I never realized how constricting the heavenly principles were until you set me free. Thank you for showing me how life should be lived.”

Sukuna tightens his four arms around you, feeling that same possessive desire in his chest that goes beyond carnal need. There’s pride in his eyes to know what he’s taken from those bastards above. Nothing compares to you.

“You don’t need to thank me; you were made to be free. True paradise is removing all restraints to live as you please under no guiding order. Strength is power, and you’ve found it at last.”

“This right here is better than any paradise I’ve seen.” Sukuna feels your smile growing against his chest.

“Damn right it is,” he laughs, grinning like the devil he is.

And who would’ve imagined that heaven’s most revered angel, the guiding saint of humanity, would have fallen from grace, and into the hands of the sinner you love more than life itself now.

Fate is a fickle thing, and you know that now.

In the days that followed that night to remember, new changes began sprouting up. Symbols of your life renewed, risen from ash.

For starters, your wings have taken on an iridescent glow ─ like a black devil boa. No one, not even Sukuna has ever heard of such a thing happening to a fallen angel, but it’s become just another feature that makes his proudness of you show.

You’re one of a kind, and entirely his.

Your old room and clothes are no more. Now, you wear only the best money can buy, tailored perfectly to your form. Sukuna’s hoard contains many riches on top of gold, including a stockpile of gems he’s taken to adorning you with. All are reminiscent of his ruby red eyes ─ perfectly fitting with you. He’s a king in every way, always eager to indulge in the pleasures life has to offer.

You trot through the halls of his palace, making way to his throne. You’re eager to be reunited after a morning spent dancing in the skies, your heart tugging you to his side. He’s hosting an audience by the looks of it, but that doesn’t stop all four of his eyes from landing on you as you enter.

“Perfect timing, angel.” He smiles wickedly, displaying his vampiric fangs in full. “Come and take a seat, the show has only just begun now that you’re here.”

At his words, you come bounding up the bone-riddled steps, arriving before him. Sukuna’s hand reaches out, guiding you to rest atop one of his thighs. That hand remains on the small of your back, with another resting on your own inner thigh ─ his thumb rubbing shapes into the plush.

“You remember these demons, I’m sure?” You turn your head and look down, finding the very demons who had brought you here in the first place. They don’t dare meet your eyes as their gaze bores into the marbled floors. “You see, they’ve come demanding a meeting with me. They seem to be hoping I’ll reward them now with something other than their lives for bringing you to me.”

“Is that so?” you muse, ultimately ignoring their presence as your lips meet Sukuna’s with passion, your hands resting on either side of his jaw. “What do you think of that, my king?”

He chuckles, “I think they were foolish to try and demand me to do anything for them.” Sukuna snaps his fingers once, filling the room with an intense warmth. Fire has never looked more beautiful than when it reflects into yours from the depths of his eyes. The weight of his soul, resting between the palms of your hands.

“Wouldn’t you agree, my queen?”

You do, because all that matters now is one thing, your purpose, pleasure, and every depraved feeling in between ─ Sukuna himself.

☆ Notes: got inspired by a sukuna c.ai bot by @ vittovitto with a similiar premise

I like to imagine that as angels who live by the 7 virtues, that when they fall, they go through like an awkward werewolf kinda phase like I’ve detailed where they start to feel each of the 7 sins. Kinda liked a fucked up puberty with all the hormonal changes idk, I thought it was cool when I thought of it.

Overall though, I had a REALLY fun time writing this. I’ve always loved the idea of fallen angel Sukuna but writing about biblical stuff throws me off a bit. Hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did while I force myself to get back into my other five ongoing series!!!

song inspo: heaven's a lie - lacuna coil | parade's lust - granblue fantasy (i'm horny for belial, what can i say)

#jjk #jjk au #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna smut

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ereardon · 1 month ago

Text

Summary: After four years of marriage, you find out that your husband, Bradley Bradshaw, has cheated on you with your best friend.

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

WC: 1.4K

Warnings: Cheating, slight smut, reference to pregnancy, alcohol. Sorry to all my Bradley girls this one is gonna hurt!

You woke up in a sweat, eyes flying open, hand stretching out to the other side of the bed.

And where you had expected the warmth of your husband, instead you found the cold emptiness of sheets that hadn’t been laid on in days.

You laid back, eyes brimming with tears.

In the living room, only ten feet away, separated by a thin door, Bradley laid on the couch with his eyes focused on the spinning fan on the ceiling. He felt sick to his stomach. There was a knot that had buried itself deep into his stomach and wouldn’t unfurl, no matter what he did. Bring you sandwiches at work, flowers before dinner, kisses when you least expected it. He lived with doubt and fear riddled in his very bones. Every time your phone buzzed or you checked the screen, he felt every muscle in his body tense. And then you’d turn to him with the sweetest smile in the world. And his heart shattered into pieces again.

You were the love of his life. And you were about to be the one that got away.

***

It was a mistake. Or at least, that’s what Bradley told himself. The first time he saw her out, it had been an accident. He was at the mall, searching through Sephora and trying to find the lipstick you had sent him to buy. Bradley was too big for small aisles, and he knocked into someone, then went sputtering the other way into a display case of perfumes, brown eyes wide as he held his breath, waiting to hear bottles crash to the ground. Instead, a hand shot out, righting the triangular shaped bottle that was rocking and saving it from cascading to the ground.

“Shit!” he muttered.

June looked up, eyes wide. “Bradley?”

He grinned. “Hey there.” He had known June as long as he had known you. The two of you were a packaged deal. She was there the first night the two of you met, on the other side of the bar, egging you on. She was standing on your other side of the altar as the two of you kissed in the drizzle that unexpectedly rainy Saturday in June. And here she was, saving Bradley’s ass in a Sephora.

She cocked her head. “Y/N sent you on errands?”

He nodded. “I’m on a quest for,” he paused, looking down at his phone, “Charlotte Tilbury Pillow Talk.”

She smiled. “Follow me.”

The Sephora trip turned into an impromptu lunch that parted with a friendly hug. When Bradley got home, you praised him for finding everything and even picking out a gift – a new perfume from Jo Malone – and he didn’t have the heart to tell you that June had chosen it.

A week later, when he saw her struggling with a case of seltzer water in the grocery store parking lot, he lifted it out of her arms with ease and she smiled at him in a way that made Bradley feel fuzzy around the edges. And so when she touched his arm he let his mind wander for a moment. How long had it been since you had looked at him like that? Like he was your savior.

They went on like that, running into each other here and there. Del Mar was a small town. You and Bradley had chosen to buy your first house there to get out of San Diego, away from the crowds and the hustle. You liked quiet, a good book on a Friday night with a glass of wine and a blanket over your toes. It was Bradley who wanted more – more lights, more energy, more attention.

So when you went out of town for work to New York, Bradley found himself nursing a beer at the local pub. And when June sat down to his right, it wasn’t long before they were five drinks deep and she was pulling him on the dance floor.

And before Bradley knew it, his hand was wrapped around her neck and her eyes were screaming fuck me, and he leaned down and tasted her.

They fucked in the car, fast and dirty, Bradley’s head hitting the window of the side door, his pants barely unbuckled as his cock slammed into her and she moaned beneath him like a porn star. He was drunk, and with his eyes closed he could almost forget that it wasn’t you. But then she ran her fingers down his cheek – you kept yours short, most nurses do – and sighed so breathy he almost stilled inside of her before she wrapped her legs around his waist, milking him to completion by rolling her hips with a gasp.

They vowed to never speak of it again. But everywhere he went, Bradley felt like June would be there. He ignored her calls the rest of the week you were gone. And when you called, tired after a full day of medical seminars, he forced himself to swallow the truth that threatened to burst from his lips.

“I love you,” you whispered into the phone.

Bradley choked back a sob. “I love you too, baby.”

***

You didn’t know. At least, you didn’t think you knew. It was just a hunch, a suspicion.

The first clue was when you got home from New York. The house was spotless. Normally, Bradley was a slob. A jersey hung over empty dining room chairs, tupperware piled in the sink, beard trimmings along the granite countertops in the bathroom. This time it looked like a forensic team had swooped in.

And then the way he looked at you. Sad, soulful eyes. Usually, Bradley greeted you like a dog at the door. Eager, blissfully ignorant.

This time, there was something hovering beyond the watery irises.

And when you called June to ask if she thought you had any reason to worry, there was the sharp inhale on her end of the line. You had heard that inhale before. Sophomore year at Vanderbilt. Your roommate had cheated with your boyfriend of two months. And when you asked her why there was a condom in her trash can, she sucked in a breath, eyes darting around the room, refusing to make contact with your own. And then the next time you saw her with your boyfriend in tow at the dining hall, you knew. The way they looked at each other. There were secrets hiding in plain sight.

So you invited June to dinner. And when she showed up in a dowdy dress, luscious hair pulled back into a bun, you felt your stomach drop to your toes. And when Bradley wouldn’t meet her eyes, you knew.

***

You promised." Bradley's eyes filled with tears. He went to touch you, but you stumbled back, out of his reach. "I only asked you one thing. Not to break my heart. But you did it anyway. And with her."

"I never meant to hurt you," he said, the strain in his voice evident. His voice, normally so deep, was raspy, as if he was gasping for air in the desert. "Baby. I love you. I fucked up and I'm so sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore, Bradley," you whispered.

He frowned. "Of course it matters. You matter. It all matters."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. Bradley felt his heart plummet in his chest, stretching for his feet, shattering every rib bone along the way as it cascaded out of his chest. He had never hurt anyone the way he had hurt you. "It doesn't, because it's over."

"You can't just say it's over," he replied. "I asked you to marry me. You said yes. We got married, Y/N. You can't just call quits on that because of one small thing."

"One small thing?" He winced as your voice rose. "You fucked her, Bradley. My best friend in the whole world. You fucked her and you lied to me about it."

"I don't know what to tell you other than I am so sorry. I regret it with every fiber of my being. I hate myself for it. Is that what you wanted? Will knowing that make you happy? That I hate who I've become? That I hate the person who could do that to you?"

"Well I hate him too," you said, the anger whipping through your teeth. "I hate you, Bradley Bradshaw. I wish we had never met."

"Don't say that. Baby, I love you. You're my wife and I love you."

"We're leaving. Don't bother trying to come after us."

"We?" Bradley's brown eyes squinted.

"I'm pregnant."

A/N: Yes, another blurb with this bc I'm angsty tonight!!

#bradley x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley fic #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster fanfic #rooster smut #rooster fanfiction #rooster #rooster top gun #bradley angst #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw angst #top gun angst #rooster angst #top gun smut #miles teller

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moonstruckme · 11 months ago

Note

Hello love, I just found your blog and I must say that I adore your writing!! I’ve been looking for some new marauder content and couldn’t be happier with what I have come across here! 🫶🏼🩷

Can I request a counterpart to Dizzy? Where the reader comes home super tipsy and roommate James has to deal with their affection and sloppy behavior :)) I think that might be a fun change of perspective for those two.

If not, no worries! Thank you for your amazing work 🥹 take care 🫶🏼

Hi gorgeous, thanks so much! Apologies for the wait, this got a bit long haha. Hope you like it <3

cw: drunkenness

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 2.2k words

James hears the front door open and close, a painful sounding series of thumps, and not much after that.

He sets down his late-night snack of melon he’s been sneakily eating from the bowl you’d cut it up in earlier, leaving his fork sticking out of a piece. “Hello?”

Your reply is quiet, barely echoing down the hallway to reach him. “James?”

He gets up and goes toward the door. You’re slumped against it, cast half in shadow from the lamplight that filters through the window to fall upon one side of your face, brows bunched as you toy clumsily with your shoelace. You look up at his approach, and your expression clears.

“James!”

James smiles; he can’t help it.

“Hi,” he says, with nearly as much enthusiasm. “Did you have fun tonight, sweetheart?”

You nod happily. “I brought you something.”

He feels his eyebrows raise. “Something for me?”

“Mhm.” You twist onto your side, mouth screwing up concentratedly as you lift your bum to fish around in your back pocket. “Here!” You pull out a squished mars bar, looking rather pleased with yourself. “Those are your favorite, right?”

“They are,” he agrees, taking it from you, “thanks. Where’d you get this?”

“A man was giving them out on the street.”

James blinks. “Just giving them away?”

“I know, very suspicious.” You nod sagely. “But I already had mine, and it wasn’t laced with cocaine or anything, so I figure it’s fine.”

Right, then. James will just have to check on you in the morning to make sure you’re still breathing.

“Well, thank you for the gift,” he says, and is rewarded with your gargantuan grin.

“I’m glad you like it,” you reply, eyes full of an earnestness so sweet it makes James’ chest hurt. “I never get to do anything for you, and you’re so nice to me.”

“You do tons of stuff for me,” he scoffs, but you look prepared to argue, and he doesn’t want that. He gives your shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Hey, wanna get some water?”

You go quiet, considering this. “Can I have it on the floor?”

James laughs. “You want to drink your water sitting on the floor?”

You smile like you don’t quite understand what’s so funny but are happy to go along with it anyway. “The floor is good,” you say, as though it’s a simple fact of life.

“Alright.” James weaves his arm under yours, hoisting you up. “Sure, sweetheart, you can have it on the floor.”

He all but carries you into the kitchen, your feet barely touching the floor as they stumble inelegantly over each other and your one undone shoelace. You make a small sound as he eases you down on the floor next to the fridge, looking decidedly worse than you had over by the door.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks, keeping a wary eye on you as he fills a cup from the tap.

You hum noncommittally, waving him off. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Sorry, you can’t stop me,” he replies teasingly, crouching in front of you to pass you the water. He can’t stop himself. “Do you think you’re going to be sick?”

You make a face, mouth twisting in disgust. “God, I hope not.”

A nervous laugh escapes him. “Okay well, uh—here.” James grabs a nearly empty bread bag from the counter, taking the last two slices out and setting them on top of the toaster. He passes it to you. “Just in case you do.”

You give him a soft look, as if he hasn’t just handed you a vomit bag. “Thanks, Jamie.”

His heart sputters. You never call him that, and certainly never while looking at him the way you are now. He has the sudden urge to squish your face between his hands.

“Course,” he says quickly, looking down and getting to work on the shoelaces that were giving you trouble earlier. You’d double-knotted them and evidently forgotten. The action of prying the knot apart feels good, giving his body something productive to do.

For a while, you only drink your water quietly. James disentangles the laces and slips your shoes off, setting them next to each other on the floor. You put your feet in his lap, and he lets you. When you gasp, he looks up, alarmed.

“What?”

“James.” Your eyes are wide and glossy. “James, I just remembered the most wonderful thing.”

His heart calms slightly. “What’s that, love?”

“I cut up cantaloupe earlier. We should eat it!”

James grins, taking your ankles to move them out of his lap. “Great idea. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He stands, ignoring your confused puppy sound at his leaving.

Your eyes light up when he returns a moment later, bowl of melon in hand.

“Oh my god, you’re the best,” you gush, reaching for the fork he passes you from the drawer. “Where were you hiding this?”

“In my room,” he admits, sitting beside you. “I know you don’t like it when I eat right out of the bowl, sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t mind so much anymore,” you wave him off, forking a chunk of melon and taking a bite out of it. “That was a new-roommate thing. I didn’t want your spit in my food, you could’ve had herpes.”

A laugh startles out of him. “Did you think I had herpes?”

“I didn’t know!” you defend yourself, and it’s ridiculous how endearing he finds it that you’re comfortable enough to talk with your mouth full around him. “You’re a very pretty man, James Potter. For all I knew, you had a steady rotation coming in and out of your room whenever I wasn’t home.”

James guffaws, bumping your shoulder with his reprimandingly. “Wow, thanks for that. At least you think I’m pretty.”

“Just the truth,” you say into your cup, voice somewhat quieter than before.

He looks over, and you’ve gone a bit bashful, shoulders pulling up towards your ears as you down the last of your water. James thinks that he’s lucky you aren’t like this often. It’d be very hard to keep things platonic between you if you were this sweet and open with him as a habit.

“I wasn’t sure about you when you first moved in either,” he says to lighten things. “The first time I opened the cottage cheese and saw peaches inside, I almost moved out.”

You turn to him with your mouth agape, hand coming up to grip his bicep in offense. (He presumes he’s supposed to be intimidated, but all he can think about is how you never touch him like this, usually. It’s nice.) “You said it was good when I made you try it!” you accuse. “You liked it!”

“It was okay,” he allows laughingly, letting himself cover your hand with his under the pretense of loosening your grip. “It was just off-putting at first. That was a lot of weird right out the gate, sweetheart. Sirius wanted me to call the police.”

His plan backfires, and you drop your hand. Your chin, too, giving James a deadpan look through your lashes. “It’s not that weird. Tons of people do it.”

“Sure, sure,” James says, patting your shoulder placatingly when you seem like you could argue more. “Feeling like you might be ready for bed?” You seem to have eaten your fill of melon. Your fork lies discarded in the bowl, swimming in juice.

You deliberate for a moment before humming in affirmation. He stands first, taking both of your hands to help you up and marveling at the fact that you let him. When he turns to walk towards your room and you link your arm through his, he begins to worry he’s dreaming this whole thing.

“James,” you whisper up towards his ear. “Jamie-Jame. I have a secret to tell you.”

Definitely dreaming, then. A secret? He wonders what you could have thought of to tell him at this hour, in the state you’re in. Surely a good friend wouldn’t let you spill your guts when you’re this out of sorts. It could be something serious. Anything you’re not willing to share sober, he shouldn’t want to hear.

“What is it?” he asks, hating himself.

“I’m not going to take off my makeup before bed.”

A giggle bubbles out of him, so ridiculous he’s glad you’re not in your right mind to hear it. “Wow. Dire measures, huh?”

You nod somberly. “I’m gonna be so upset with myself tomorrow. I’m gonna wake up with crusty-eye and a million new zits, but I just want to go to sleep so bad, you know?”

“Mm, I think I see where you’re coming from.” James tries to sound like he’s giving it due consideration while he sets you down on your bed. You scoot back to the side, making room for him to sit beside you. He does. (Who is he to refuse an invitation like that?) “Yeah, you’ve just gotta prioritize comfort sometimes. You’ll make it up to yourself, I’m sure.”

You level him with what seems to be your best approximation of a stern look. It makes you look extremely cuddly. “You can’t hold it against me when you see my skin tomorrow, James. It’s going to be atrocious.”

He has to bite his lip to match your seriousness. “I guarantee I will not mind. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never not looked lovely.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t get it.” You flop back onto your pillow, disconsolate. “You’ve probably never had a zit in your life.”

“Actually, I went through a fairly bad stint in year eight—”

“That’s not fair,” you groan.

He smiles at you patiently. “What’s not fair, sweetheart?”

“You’re not fair.” You gesture vaguely in his direction as if to make your point. “You haven’t gotten zits since eighth year, first of all. Then on top of that, you smell nice. And you have really long eyelashes, which no boy should ever have. There’s no way you appreciate them as much as they deserve. And you call me sweetheart—what’s up with that?” James blinks, but you’re not done. “And you’re way too nice to me! It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Right,” James says, considering. “So all I have to do is start getting zits, stop showering, and…trim my eyelashes, and then you’ll be satisfied? Justice will be restored?”

Your lips curve, and you nod magnanimously. “Yes, please. Straightaway.”

“Cruel.” He sets a hand on your knee, giving your leg a teasing little shake. “Should I stop calling you sweetheart as well, then?”

You go shy again, looking just to the side of his face as a faint blush colors your cheeks. “No, that’s okay.”

James has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamp down the full force of his smile. “Okay. Alright if I continue being nice to you as well? I’d feel like a bit of a prick if I stopped.”

You give it a few moment’s consideration. “Fine,” you say, as if this is a large allowance and he really is on thin ice. James lets loose his smile. You copy him, your own grin lopsided and goofy. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Can I have a hug?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The word tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, warm fondness oozing from every syllable. “Of course, come here.”

Despite his own words, he goes to you, crushing you to his chest with perhaps a touch too much eagerness. You don’t seem to notice, drooping against him with your arms banded around his middle. He thinks he hears you breathe in.

“Still feeling okay?” he asks gently, rubbing your back. You hum. “Ready to go to sleep?”

“Not if you’re going to leave.” Your voice is muffled against the fabric of his pajama shirt. The skin beneath grows warm from your breath. “I like you so much, Jamie. You’re so nice to me, you know?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” He smiles to himself, palm sweeping over the bare skin of your upper back and the material of your dress. He wonders if you’ll regret having slept in it in the morning. He can’t stand the thought of wearing outside clothes in bed. Oddly, he doesn’t know if you’re the same. “I can stay for a bit, if you want.”

“I like you, like, so much it’s a problem,” you go on as if he hasn’t spoken. You sound mildly upset. “You have no idea.”

Something tense and tentatively happy twists in James’ gut. It takes more effort than it should to keep breathing, keep rubbing your back. “I can stay, but you have to go to sleep, okay?”

You ease out of his embrace to look up at him. Your eyes are somewhat focussed, but watery. “James, I like you so much.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he says softly, heart a hard-to-ignore, thundering thing in his chest. “Let’s just sleep for now, okay?”

“Okay.” You look reluctant but nod, laying back against your pillow. “Thanks.”

James doesn’t know what you’re thanking him for. He’s not sure he deserves it. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” you grumble, but reach up for his hand. He gives it to you, and you haul it to your chest with surprising strength, sending James slumping forward until he’s nearly lying down beside you. “Sorry,” you say drowsily. Then, after some thought, “Actually, no I’m not.”

James laughs. He’s happy to know you, he thinks. You’re kind and funny and thoughtful, and apparently very talkative when you’re drunk. He likes you too. Loves you, maybe. He’ll think about it tomorrow.

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sfehvn · 1 year ago

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new religion part 2

Description: AU- Things have gone too far between you and Astarion and he's not sure he'd ever be able to give you what you truly want. Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 1,804 Characters: soft!ascended!Astarion x fem!au!Tav

━─━────༺༻────━─━

Luxurious fur blessed your fingertips, stroking absently at the feline across your lap. You hummed a sweet tune as you continued your project. Astarion had the finest oil paints in Faerûn imported to nourish your new hobby. Looking at the canvas, well, it was very much a mess of colors. So much so that he would not have been able to make out what the picture was intended to be if he had not known. He would praise you all the same regardless. As a token of thanks, you had requested he sit for you in the garden while you paint him.

“You will be the first to have an original Tav piece. You can show it off when I’m a famous painter.” You joked as he assisted with setting up the easel.

The kitten that purred against your touch was also a gift. One comment was made about how you had always wanted a cat but never had the room for one; it was just another opportunity to shower you with all of the gifts you had so deserved. The joy on your face when he presented you with the tiny feline made his heart swoon. Astarion would admit he had yet to think that offering through, though. When you were not present, which was most of the time, he had to care for the wretched little thing. His feigned attitude towards the kitten, which you had so ominously named Georgie, was a facade. He had grown to find comfort in the furball curling up to him in bed in your absence. He even caught himself cooing to the blasted little creature on occasion.

Astarion sat in the wrought iron chair across from you, a forgotten book propped open on his forearm as he admired the tenacity on your face, tongue jutting ever-so-slightly from between succulent lips as you struggled to work with the paints. How could you be so blissfully oblivious to the beauty you are? He wondered, his head resting in the palm of his unoccupied hand. He had a burning fire in his chest, demanding he show you not only your beauty but that you deserved much more than the small cottage you shared with seven other occupants. Your rightful position was right next to him in his palace. You deserved to have everybody else waiting at your beck and call, not the other way around. You insisted you could not leave your family, nevertheless.

“Stay here with me. I promise I’ll make it worth your while, my pet.” The two of you lay bare, entangled in silk sheets and each other’s arms. Astarion stroked the delicate pink skin of your cheek with the careful tips of his fingers, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. His words caused you to let out an amused giggle at his bequest. His eyebrows knitted together, and a slight frown played at the edges of his lips. He was serious.

Your smile dropped, and an apologetic look graced your features. “Oh, Astarion.” You sighed wistfully. “I just can’t. Not right now. Papa’s not doing well; I can’t just abandon him. Lillian needs a lot of guidance at this time, and with Alan having just moved into his own home now that he’s married, there’s no one to take care of our younger sisters.” You sputtered out. Astarion noted the stress that marred your face and decided to drop the matter for now.

“Sh, my treasure.” He coaxed, pulling your head into his chest. “We can address it later.”

Astarion pondered on when he had gone so soft, for lack of better words. Before you, there was no hesitation to steal what he wanted. Much easier it would have been to just bite you, keeping you to himself for all of eternity. He had thought about it when the disdain of being apart grew too great. This was after you, though. You had brought a bright light into his world of darkness, and he knew you would never be the same if he made such a decision on your behalf.

Guilt regularly gnawed at a conscious he wasn’t even aware he’d had. He still hadn’t found the courage to tell you of his true nature. You often called the raised tissue on his neck his vampire bite, and he’d always panic at the joke, wondering if he’d been found out. Inwardly, of course, he ensured he remained calm and collected on appearance. Soon, he told himself. He’d let you enjoy the normalcy of your current relationship for just a while longer.

Your groan fractured him from his thoughts. “Okay, it’s actually terrible. Please don’t laugh at me.” You pouted.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Astarion assured, setting his book down on the table before him, pushing back his chair, and standing up. He bent down to get a better look at the canvas. “My, that’s a beautifully eclectic rendition of yours truly.” He hums, resting his hands on your shoulders, squeezing in encouragement. He meant it. It was something you had created; of course he would love it.

“Okay, you are officially the biggest liar I know.” You grinned, patting his hand softly as he shifted away. Georgie stretched in your lap. You placed him down, smiling as he hurried away into the open door of the manor.

“Your words wound me.” He holds his hands to his chest dramatically. “I’ll display it in the foyer.” His finger reaches to tap the tip of your nose playfully.

“I guess it must truly be Astarion approved then.” You hummed, recalling how tumultuous he had acted when replacing the art in his foyer. It must be perfect, he had said; first impressions are everything, my dear. “I don’t think your guests would be in agreeance with you.” At this point, you had stood on your tip-toes, planting a sweet kiss on his lips.

He dismissed your presumption with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense, my love. You question my tastes? When I’ve got you on my arm? I’ve already won.” His index finger taps the underside of your chin, encouraging your mouth to his. You oblige, and Astarion lets out a delighted laugh against your lips. He would never grow tired of how easily you unraveled for him and him only. Without breaking contact, he reaches down to grip the backs of your thighs, lifting you from the ground and setting you on the garden table.

Your breathing hitched as his hands wrought at the bottom of your dress, pushing the hem up until it pooled around your waist. His fingers brushed your mound over already-soaked underwear. He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “So ready for me already, pet? I’ve barely touched you.” Spoken like a purr, causing goosebumps to bloom over your skin. He buried his nose into your neck and breathed your scent in deeply. Chamomile and lavender had become distinctively you. His eyes close as your fingers tread over his scalp, hooking into his hair. “Keep touching me like that, treasure. I’ll fuck you right here.”

“Please. It’s been too long.” You murmur. It had indeed, he thought. This was your first day together after being apart for ten long, agonizing days. His fingers push your underwear to the side, the tips hardly swiping over your drenched core. The contact motivated your body further against him. Your breasts pressed to his firm chest, and he brought his unoccupied hand to sit atop them, thumb stroking delicious skin.

Greedy hands moved to the front of his trousers and at the feeling of his bulge, you ached to feel him inside of you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and tenderly pushed your hands away. Your expression was one of rejection that panged Astarion’s undead heart, but his demeanor was one of significance. He took your hands in his as he stared deeply into your eyes. “Stay with me, Tav. The manor has never been this airy without you. I mean- I understand you have responsibilities you believe are your own, but I could give you everything.”

With a furrowed brow, you sluggishly pull away from him. “These responsibilities are my own. This is my family, Astarion.” You pursed your lips, looking everywhere but at the man before you.

“Pet, don’t be silly. They are holding you back. I recognize you love them, but you cannot put your needs on hold to protect them forever.” He reaches out to brush the hair from your face, but you quickly dodge the touch, pressing him aside so you can stand from your position on the table. His jaw clenches in annoyance, but he allows you your space.

“So, what? My father will be buried beside my mother soon, and you are so selfish that you can’t even give me the grace to spend his last days with him.” He had never seen the fire on your face; your usual demeanor dissolved.

Astarion’s jaw slackens, and he shakes his head in response. “I’m just thinking big picture. Where will your sisters go when the time comes, Tav? Are you to give your entire life to them? How is it fair to you?”

“If that is what must be done, then so be it.” Astarion noted how heavy your chest heaved, your body shaking from anger. You were angry with him.

“And what of me?” He was mindful of how needy and, as you said, selfish he sounded but couldn’t hold back. “What do you want with me if not forever?” Indeed, you couldn’t expect him to house the entire cavalry that was your family.

You froze and gulped in a large breath to calm your nerves. Maybe you have been negligent of his feelings as things grew more serious between you two. “I want you, Astarion. I want everything with you. I want to take your last name. I want to bear your children. I want to care for you until we’re both old and gray.” There’s a crack in your voice as you stifle back tears. Astarion’s stare softens, his stomach plunging at the knowledge of only ever being able to gift you one of those things. “I’ve always dreamt of creating a family of my own. Of being a mother to children created with the man I love.” You pause to swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “But I can’t leave my sisters to fend for themselves. I won’t.”

Astarion observes you as you collect your shawl, exiting the garden without another word. He’d let things go too far. He’d led you to believe this future you dreamed of could be achieved with him and even encouraged the delusions in his own way. Perhaps you would be better off if this relationship came to a close.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #ascended astarion #ascended!astarion x reader #ascended!astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 #x reader #tav #reader

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murphy-kitt · 2 months ago

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Ectoberhaunt Day 1 - Past

Word Count: 1822

AO3

When Jack and Maddie unexpectedly request Alicia take in Danny, she can’t help but worry that there are deeper problems at hand.

Tags: Angst, Slight Injury

—

It was an intervention, they had said. Some time away for him to deal with what had happened. The quiet din of the farm would be better for Danny than the constant clamour of Amity Park.

What has happened, Alicia still doesn’t know.

She sits at the kitchen table, the dogs circling around her feet. It’s only ever been her, Jip and Alec for a while now, at least since her last divorce.

And now Danny should be arriving soon. Of course, she loves her niece and nephew, even if it has been sometime since she’s seen them. The boy, she thinks, was obsessed with space. The girl, intuitive and a bit too in tune with the human psyche.

Alicia sips her coffee, pondering over what could be so bad it forced Maddie to take such a drastic decision. Amity Park and Spittoon aren’t exactly a stones throw away from one another.

There had been an accident of sorts, she remembers. Something to do with that ridiculous laboratory. An electric shock, was it?

But that was nearly a year ago. And Maddie hadn’t sounded half as concerned on the phone about that incident than the current predicament.

Then, she’s taken out of her thoughts by Jip whining, a high pitch that makes her ears ring.

‘Shush, you.’ Alicia scolds, chair scraping the tiled floor as she gets up. The collie dog paces to the door, the sputtering of an engine dying outside.

They’re here. Alicia’s not sure what to expect as she grabs the door handle, yanking it down with extra strength. She’s been too busy to fix that—but now it’ll be backlogged even more with Danny’s arrival.

It’s hard to miss the large tank currently imposing over her tiny house, gadgets arraying green and silver on the roof that she has no clue of.

“Alicia!” That’s the sound of one Jack Fenton leaping out the side of the..thing. Alicia doesn’t miss the clear bags under his eyes, the strain to his voice.

“Do I have to be here?” A sarcastic tone.

Danny is tiny. Alicia nearly topples over in shock, her hand finding the doorframe and feet cementing to the porch stairs. Jip whines, perceptive to the change.

Last time she saw him, a good few years, her nephew had been chatty and incessant about space. He’d always been small, a given since he was born six weeks premature. But this..it’s different.

He’s sickly. Frail. There’s a gauntness to his cheeks, a sharp edge where he was once rounded out with baby fat. His limbs are toothpicks, white needles marred with blemishes and blotches. A bandage twines around Danny’s left arm, clinging on as if it’s holding him together.

His clothes are filthy, torn and stained with green. She remembers Maddie mentioning...ectoplasm, perhaps? But after the accident, she thought Danny would have avoided the lab. At least that’s where she assumes it came from.

“Come in.” Alicia barely stutters through, shoving the door open. “Maddie not with you?”

“No.” Jack's demeanour instantly darkens. He turns to Danny, “I’ll get your things out the car, son. You go in.”

“Fine.” Danny folds his arms, scowling.

Great. Seemingly Danny’s sarcastic phase has set in, just another thing to deal with during this enigmatic stay. How long he’s staying for, Alicia doesn’t actually know. The weekend? Weeks? The whole summer?

They both enter the house, Danny begrudgingly following behind her like a lost puppy. As does Jack, two small duffel bags in his hands.

“Right son, I’ll leave you to it then?” Jack says, moving forward towards Danny, arms outstretched.

“Yeah, dad.” Danny takes a step back, hands in his pockets. Jack falters, the smile disappearing from his face.

“Oh—sorry, Danny. Your arm. I’ll—“

And with that, Jack vacates her small cabin, leaving only her and Danny standing around the table. He’s hunched over, like he’s being scrutinised. Or would rather be anywhere else.

What the hell happened?

—

“You’re in on it, aren’t you?” Is the first thing Danny says to her the next morning.

“What?” Is the only way she can respond as she pours milk into her cereal. Danny regards her, his glare icy.

She’d barely slept last night, ruminating over what could’ve happened. A fall out between Danny and his parents? Had he broken something in the lab, gotten injured?

“Why else would Mom and Dad send me here?” Danny folds his arms, looking down into his bowl of uneaten cereal.

“I don’t know. They thought you needed a break? They’re concerned about you.” An honest answer.

“They haven’t been concerned about me. Care more about the ghosts.” He shoves his chin into his hands, voice muffled so Alicia can barely hear.

She won’t deny Jack and Maddie are…absent as best. But she knows they do care deeply about Danny.

“Is this what it’s about? They’re focused more on their work than caring for you and Jazz?” Alicia asks, feeling the dread pool in her stomach. “Something happened to you and you wished they’d notice?”

Suddenly, the kitchen drops a few degrees.

Although the fire is blasting in the next room over, Jip curled beside, the hairs prick on Alicia’s neck. Tension curdles in her stomach as she watches Danny tense his fists into his hair. Toothpick arms, trembling.

He’s not the same as he was a few years ago. Sure, teenagers are meant to grow, become snappy, but this isn’t sarcasm or wit.

It’s fear.

“Danny,” she reaches forward, despite the trembling in her hands.

His eyes snap up. Icy. Once kind, sweet. Now filled with terror.

“Nothing—nothing happened to me!” He stammers out.

Which means something did.

“I don’t. It wasn’t meant to come out like this. Mom and Dad, they saw me, and I didn’t think. Not all of it, but they saw something. And now Mom won’t talk to me, and now they’re suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” Alicia hesitates. Danny has a secret of sorts? That he’s scared of Jack and Maddie knowing. That Maddie refuses to talk to him.

“It was this.” Danny gives her a fleeting look before gesturing to his shoulder, where the bloody bandage is still wrapped. On closer inspection she sees that there’s flecks of green in the bandage. Ectoplasm?

“You got into the lab? That ectoplasm stuff?”

“No, Aunt Alicia.I—I bleed it.”

What. Alicia’s ears ring as she shoves her chair back, the shrill noise echoing throughout the room. Rounding the table, she goes to Danny’s left.

“Can I?” She asks cautiously, gesturing to his arm.

The hesitance is clear in his posture, shoulders hunched by his ears, eyes wide, unblinking (were they always that blue?).

“You really don’t know, do you?” Danny mumbles, realisation seeping into his gaze. “They didn’t bring me here because they wanted you to get info.”

“You think they’d do that?” Alicia responds, trying to repress how appalled she is, both at his parents and his arm. The injury is far unlike anything she’s even seen, and living on a farm brings a range of afflictions.

Green bruises mottle most of the skin, from dark to lighter patches. It’s a burn of sorts, a mixture of green and red like a dated Christmas store.

“How’d you get this?” Alicia asks, as Danny tenses uncomfortably.

“Does it matter?” he deflects. “I’ve been like this for ages now.”

Ah. The green blood. Bleeding ectoplasm. What was a while back?

“Was it..was it your lab accident?” Alicia tenses. Now that she thinks, she can remember the phone call from Maddie, excitedly telling her about their ‘portal’, their life’s work. And then an extra tidbit about Danny having an electric shock, but that he was okay and seemed fine.

What if it had been worse, and Danny hadn’t told his parents?

“What if it was? What if it..changed me?”

”Look, kid. Trauma from that accident doesn’t mean you’ve changed, you’re still the sa—“

”It’s not like that, okay?! Sure, with the amount of psychoanalysis Jazz does on me, we know the accident traumatised me. But it’s not that.” Danny interrupts, twisting on his chair to face her.

Alicia pauses. Lets herself take a step back from Danny and sit back down, breakfast forgotten.

It’s clear this is serious. Alicia hates to think of the implications. Danny was in an accident much more serious than first thought. And not only he his hid it from his parents in fear of them finding out whatever it’s done, but they’ve never noticed.

How long ago was that accident? A year? And her sister and Jack had never noticed anything wrong until whatever had injured Danny had come to their attention?

”Okay, kid. I get it.” She puts her hands up in a placating gesture. If the accident was seriously altering, then it’s not something she wants to go interrogating him about. “How’d you get your wound?”

“What?!” The switch of topic has Danny sputtering, looking down at his arm. He regards her with narrowed eyes. “Why’d you want to know?”

”So I can re-bandage it. Is it a burn?” She gets up from the chair, opening the drawer besides the sink. Suddenly, Jip and Alec burst through the kitchen door, tails wagging.

”It’s not treats, you silly pair!” The dogs curiously nudge at Alicia’s legs as she approaches back to Danny, bandages and burn cream at hand.

”Yeah, a burn. Ectogun.”

”An ectogun. Isn’t that your pa—?”

”Yup.” Danny licks his lips, looking away, as if he’s considering something. “They didn’t know it was me.”

What?

”They shot you?!” This time, there’s no hiding the horror in her voice. This has to be a mistake. An awful, horrible accident. Maddie and Jack wouldn’t shoot Danny deliberately, they couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Maybe they hadn’t seen him? Out ghost hunting and he’d got caught in the fray?

”Yeah…” Danny replies. “The accident, when I say it changed me..I look different?”

”What, you’re a ghost?” Alicia scoffs. Maybe it’s her mind trying to find reprieve in the absolute bombshell, to try and find humour.

Then she sees the trembling hands, the frozen posture. Temperature of the room dropped. Jip and Alec pacing, ears pinned back, needle-focused on Danny.

”You—y’know that one Mom goes on about?” Danny’s breath hitches, his eyes bleary, “The one she’s got a real hatred for, the one she wants to dissect?”

She can’t forget. Phantom. News channels have never reached Spittoon with ghost news, but there’s no need, since Maddie likes to update her.

How Phantom is evil, the terror of Amity Park. Yet how he’s different, somehow more complex and never sticks to a routine like the others—how she’d love to capture him.

’That ghost terrorises us, Lise. The day me and Jack capture it, imagine the breakthroughs we’d have. The research potential!”

Phantom, the ghost Maddie wants to experiment on.

Phantom, the ghost that is Danny.

Alicia feels sick.

#danny phantom #ectoberhaunt24 #ectober 2024 #eh past #danny fenton #alicia #maddie fenton #jack fenton #tw injury #identity reveal

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trollstopias · 10 months ago

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there is a special place in heaven reserved for writers who use that absolutely brilliant headcanon about poppy and cooper being adopted siblings. like I genuinely owe them my life. it is so beautiful and important to me in particular. canon is fine and all, but that’s her little brother.

#trolls #trolls band together #trolls world tour #poppy trolls #cooper trolls #they’re family your honor #mars sputtering

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wemblin · 1 year ago

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the bots keep attuning to the needs of this website, because I swear this said fidel castro.

#spam bots #fidel castro #communism #marxism #mars sputters

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musouie · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.)

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang.

...Nothing.

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing.

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another.

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed.

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented — moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s…the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?”

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves.

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.”

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.)

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull.

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug.

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible.

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!”

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace.

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman.

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!” She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I…”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?” You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop.

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.”

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath.

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.”

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise.

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?”

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless.

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.”

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited.

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha? Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth.

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid. You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue.

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence.

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease.

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.”

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?)

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght? We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —)

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot — as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts.

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.