#no fun protective murderous rage? no possessiveness?

[composeregg]

I just think Goro Akechi should get to kill Maruki. Let him have little a more murder, as a treat. He deserves it

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Escape the Friendzone 2/4 (Word count 5.3 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Massive arms go about her as she's pulled against a lean chest. It's an awkward, tense hug. He smells of open air and coppice, with a whiff of acrid sweat on top as she lays her head somewhere between the bumps of muscle of a warm chest.

Not even the body heat makes him appear more human: his heart is not pounding as fast as she thought it would after making it clear he would score some tonight.

She fears she's dealing with a sociopath. Might even be a psychopath.

"Are you still afraid?"

"I don't know." Her breaths are everything but steady as she inhales the intoxicating scent of a madman.

"Don't be scared. I will only hurt those who wish to hurt you."

His pledge renders her weak; it makes her legs shake. She gets far more than she bargained for when pulling him in to give her a little late-night comfort.

Friends with benefits is a situation bad enough, but this is not okay. The guy's fixation seems boundless, and if she tries to wriggle out of this… relationship and starts seeing someone else, it might end up in König scrubbing the potential future love interest's guts off his shoes.

And something in the idea isn't even wholly appalling.

Good God…

"I don't want you to hurt anyone," she whispers like it isn't his day-to-day job – to hurt and kill people. She is on the verge of collapsing to the floor and stays upright only because he holds her in authoritarian embrace.

"Little angel, it's what I do." He releases her only enough to bow his head and look into her eyes. His stare betrays slight distaste. Those eyes are calm mirrors of how can someone be so naive.

"You come to me if someone is mean to you," he orders in a stern voice that makes her feel faint.

"Alright," she breathes a fluent little lie. He's satisfied with her answer, however, and presses her head back against him with effortless control.

She imagines him knifing someone with a listless stare from sparing a glance her way; she fantasizes him strangling some chauvinistic moron in the darkness after they have been "mean" to her. Quickening breaths betray her sick thoughts to him because he pulls her even closer. She can feel the enormous cock pressing against her body with a promise of violence.

"Angel… I wish you would stop teasing me."

"Yeah?" Her laugh is restrained, and her heart is racing inside her chest – like it's some kind of a good idea to have a heart attack while a murderous psycho turning into a boyfriend is in the same room with her. "Where's the fun in that…?"

"Do you always tease men like this?"

"No," she swallows a mouthful of woodland and musk. "Just you."

"Hm."

"König… Can I see your face?"

The man finally seems to find his reserve again. He detaches from her, and she can hear the audible gulp inside the hood.

"Maybe later."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he usually does when he's a bit nervous. Probably to ease the discomfort from still being forced into those pants with such an astoundingly large, swelling erection, too.

She can't come up with anything that might explain why the man is so uncomfortable with showing his face. From the small glimpse she saw in the showers, everything looked completely normal. There is some other reason why he wants to wear the mask, most likely some mental block, and she would simply have to wait until he's ready and willing to take it off.

"How about a kiss?"

He doesn't shake his head or escape her as she hesitantly steps toward him and raises a hand to the hem of his hood.

"If I just…"

He does nothing as she starts to raise the mask. The look in his eyes is somewhat haunted, though.

She lifts it just enough to reveal a clean-shaven chin and a pair of thin, tightly shut lips. She briefly notices that there's a scar on his jaw before his mouth opens to call her in. They're polar opposites of each other: she feels breathless and limp when their lips meet while he's a statue of rigid power. Even his mouth is tense as she catches his bottom lip between hers and tries to soften that immortal stiffness. Distant notes of hops catch her tongue just before he pulls her back into a crushing hug.

The guy is not the most perfect kisser. He's very avid, though. In fact, his eagerness is what makes it a scary experience, what makes the kiss clumsy. He smashes his lips on hers with force, then opens his mouth so wide she fears he will devour half her face.

The ungloved hands slide down her back and cup her ass. He's gentle, but she still feels like she's levitating, half an inch above the ground from his groping. He moans like they are already having sex, but before she can disconnect herself from the violent kiss, he does it for her.

"I want to fuck you," he pants across her lips, eyes half-lidded and drunk. "Can I fuck you?"

The man has no conception of how to dance these dances. He simply declares his wish to shove his junk inside her and kill those who might do her harm. She feels dizzy in his arms, like dew that will evaporate under too much heat.

"Yeah, yes," she tries to sound sane, although there's nothing sane about this.

So much for being just friends or being nothing at all…

Her heart is beating faster and faster; it wants to rend itself out of her chest. She feels ample sweat between her thighs, then realizes it's only her own wetness that has broken through the cotton of her underwear. The dress is so tight in the middle that she can't simply try and throw it over her head, and the buttons at the front seem to have suddenly become too big to slip through the holes.

He doesn't take any of his clothes off while watching her undress. The instant she opens her whimsical veil of blooms, he moves close and shoves the fabric down her shoulders so that it drops sadly on the floor. Then he flicks a knife out.

Shit… Shit what the fuck–

"No–Don't–!"

The blade is forced with a flat surface under the middle of her bra. He pulls the fabric away, turns the blade - it's a miracle she's not bleeding by the time he cuts through the center front like it's butter. Her breasts fall free, and the destroyed lingerie hangs cheaply on the side before it gets dragged away too. She looks at his work, her exposed tits and the crude, fat knife he swiftly returns to its sheath.

"That was my favorite br–ah…"

The man is terrifying, even when he sinks to his knees. He dives for her breasts, licks the undersides and sucks her nipples like he's famished. Her head rolls back, and she feels fainter still as he gropes her like she's his toy, chews a nipple until she shudders and cries in pain. Then he goes down, down, panting hot breaths on her skin as he goes, the hood grazing and tickling her skin.

His hands shake slightly as he tears down the last piece of covering fabric from between her legs. She can't even step out of the briefs before a blazing tongue is pushed to her clit, all but delicately.

Perhaps he's not a virgin, but he's not a veteran, either – still, it draws a filthy moan out of her.

She has to take support from his head to prevent herself from falling when the tongue simply forces its way between her legs. It curls to meet her folds, slick with her wet. She knows she's practically leaking at this point, and hears how he licks his lips.

"Of course the angel tastes like heaven too," he rasps in her mound, sounding rather… bitter. Almost annoyed.

She thinks it's only the beginning, but he suddenly rises like a Kraken from the sea, like a Godzilla about to destroy an entire city.

"Get on the bed. All fours."

She chokes the whimper that tries to escape her, then turns and crawls onto the bed as if they are running out of time. His urgency is hers now, and she presents herself to him, waiting for the man to thrust in without remorse, but it's his mouth she feels first.

"Uh–Oh my god…"

He licks her with a flat tongue, torturously slow while she's on display. They're long, profound sweeps, as if he wants to sample her rather than give her pleasure. Although he does give her an immense amount of it.

She falls on her elbows, face down on the bed, exposing more of herself to him in the process. Her pussy has been neglected for so long that the feel of his hot tongue on her is absolutely breathtaking, thigh-shaking. She pushes herself back a little, lets him taste his own medicine for once.

And of course it only makes him more unhinged.

"You're wet like a…" he laughs a short, dry laugh straight into her folds, and she finally whimpers at the sound. "You want it so bad?"

"Yes…?"

It's a sad little confession but more than enough for him. He freezes behind her, and something in the way the air shifts tells her he has risen and is now standing high above her as she's in this crudely vulnerable position.

"I've made you wet this whole time?"

She snivels, opens her eyes, closes them…

"Yes," she sobs in the bed, nearly topples, but he grabs her ass and keeps her in place.

"Ach du lieber Himmel…"

She pants and cries in the sheets, but the sobering silence lasts only for so long.

The sound of a belt being opened shoots her skin full of goosebumps. Only a few seconds later, the fat tip of his cock is swept across her folds: it probes for a second, then slides in.

"A-ah–"

"Scheiße… So tight…"

He hisses and goes all the way in – the journey is long and torturous as he stretches her wide. The thickness only grows at the base, his balls are already tight as they arrive to press against her.

And mercy is not at the top of his list as he realizes she has denied her need and therefore, his. He starts to sail inside her, back and forth, in and out, like it's his job, too. It's total torture. She might just pass out before this is over.

"You little tease…" He seizes control of her hips while using her as his own personal fleshlight. The noise of wet, slick fucking is deafening. The pace is upped soon, and he has to use strength to hold her in place while ramming her from standing while she tries to hold on for her dear life and hold onto the sheets.

"Not so fast, König," she whimpers into her pillow, but he won't listen. The pace is frantic, and his thrusts are deep; he fucks her with despair, with anguish-driven, starved thrusts born from greed.

Nothing has ever felt so good, nothing.

"Just friends, eh?"

She has a hard time deciphering whether he is happy or mad. His voice is pitchy, and she knows, she just knows that he sounds equally as unglued on his missions. Perhaps that's why people rarely talk to him.

"Don't–don't be angry…"

"No? Say that you want me," he commands somewhere behind her, desperation coating the air with pungent sweat and musky arousal. "Say it–say it–"

"I want you," she finally cries, and it feels like an absolution. An amnesty. Remission of sin.

There's panting and frantic sound of slaps of flesh against flesh behind her. The air all around is pure electricity. It makes her quiver and throb and squeeze: him, the sheets, anything and everything.

"I will bring you flowers every morning and fuck you every night. Ja?"

His length is the only thing she can focus on; all else dissolves into a hazy mist. The cock glides in her like he's oiling a gun part, and he could ask her to kill someone and she would only say–

"Yes, yes."

He slides in and out with less and less control, moans and grunts with every thrust now. She's already past the point of no return, even though the orgasm keeps hovering right beyond her reach. She only needs a few more minutes. Or maybe just one...

"König… Not...so–fast…"

He answers something in German, an annoyed string of words she has no clue what they mean. He's probably just swearing profoundly.

"Get...what you deserve..."

That's the only thing she can flesh out from the English that follows. He finally finds some mercy with a choked groan and tries to slow down a little. It's even worse when he does that. He pulls almost completely out, then sinks back in, agonizingly lazy, and that does it: the full length of his giant cock slipping inside her without effort makes her walls clench.

"Oh God…" Her back is arching, her toes are curling, a tight cry disappears somewhere in the pillow, and he won't stop with the – "Oh–fuck–!"

"Yeah," he cheers her on as she screams, cries in the sheets while his cock swims in her. His hands dig into her hips, and she barely has brains left to think it might leave bruises. The orgasm comes in waves, shakes, and he won't let go even when she's only a heap of throbbing, soaking flesh and rapture.

And it's not the end; quite the contrary. He continues to fuck her with abandon: balls slap against her with every jab; they must be covered in her juice at this point, making the sound of sloppy thrusts utterly obscene. She's able to stay in a face-down, ass-up position only because he's holding her there for his cock.

The grunts turn into a wide, thick groan as he approaches the edge as well. The pace slows down almost to a halt before he comes.

"Jetzt…kommt–" he groans through gritted teeth, voice all taut while he grinds through his release. It's a multitude of deep, oddly paced thrusts, a sad attempt to get everything he can, and she's still like a wet gulf sucking him in.

The last throes are sluggish, the madness starts to pass, and she feels like every bone has left her body. There is nothing solid left when the man slowly relents and settles somewhere deep inside her. She can hear how he pants with his mouth open, and it sounds painful, wet, almost drooly. Then he swallows with a breathless gulp, slips out, and lets her go.

She immediately falls forward - topples, crashes, crawls on the bed, tries to rearrange what's left.

Just friends...

Yep.

He crashes somewhere beside her, spent and out of breath. The front of his shirt is covered in sweat; the air is filled with the stale scent of musk and saline sweat and pure, mad sex. She can barely catch a glimpse of the slick, glistening length of him. It feels like a miracle that this thing has been inside her. It’s not that it’s monstrously thick: it’s simply long, curving a little to the side, lean and aggressive even when growing soft.

"You play with fire, Engel. Why did you make me wait so long?"

The masked killer beside her is panting but satisfied for now, and turns his head to look at her. She has to muster all her courage to look back.

"I'm…a bit shy."

"You're perfect," he declares while watching her in her sex daze and ruin. So, at least he's not angry. He finally looks… normal, even with that absurd hood still on, with that intoxicated, admiring stare in his eyes. The ice in his blues has turned into melting snow.

"I noticed you the minute I arrived here."

She can't prevent a hand from reaching out at that, from splaying fingers over his chest.

"I noticed you too," she whispers back before moving closer to snuggle him. His heart is finally thumping in his chest, right under her cheek – from the late exercise or their closeness, she can't tell. A heavy arm goes around her, pressing her further into the nook of his armpit.

"You remind me of one of my knives," he says while holding her close.

Oh good God…

"You are a butterfly knife girl."

"Oh?"

"Ja. Small and cute and a lot of fun. And I can't get enough of you."

So much for getting rid of the man after getting some d. God, what was wrong with her? Any other woman would have put up some boundaries, perhaps gotten a restraining order by now.

"Is it… a good knife?" Her voice comes out as an annoying squeal, and he pulls her closer, ever closer.

"I mainly use it for playing."

She wets her lips in an attempt to calm herself, to comfort herself. She’s just another plaything for a murderer whose hunger seems endless, even if he’s more civil now. Still, she fears this man is only after sex and violence. Her little dresses and petite lingerie won't stand a chance against such brutality.

"What knife are you…?"

"Classic Glock field knife. Tall and ugly."

Behind the thin veil of indifference, there's pride. It borders on arrogance. She catches a dash of bitterness, too: field knives don't pair well with butterflies, perhaps.

"König, you're not ugly," she breaks their odd cuddle to look at him. "This sounds like a trustworthy knife to me."

He looks back at her with an even warmer tinge to the glacier of his eyes.

"It is. You cannot hope for a more loyal blade."

Her gaze drops somewhere in the darkness of his shirt. He's pledging himself for the second time to her, and it causes another storm inside her head. There's warmth on her cheeks, too.

"You are cute when you blush," he observes with pleased tranquility.

Perhaps... Perhaps he doesn't want to hurt things he finds cute.

Perhaps he will take care of them, like he takes care of his knives.

It still takes some getting used to that he allows his hood to be lifted just enough to push his tongue inside her mouth or pussy but taking it off to show his face is too much. She is lying there with him in an odd post-coital dream, thoroughly naked while he's still fully dressed. But she doesn't feel cold, not when pressed against his blazing form like this.

"Did you nick my underwear?" She asks out of the blue, and the hand stroking her waist stops in the middle of an idle caress.

"I might have," he admits without a single ounce of remorse in his voice.

"König… That's not cool," she says, knowing he can hear the lack of scolding in her voice.

"You want them back?"

"I… Gosh. Yes, that would be nice."

What a pervert.

"Or... Nevermind. Keep them," she sighs, trying to brush off the fact that the underwear in question wasn't even clean. "Do you steal women's underwear often?"

"No. Just yours."

A laugh meant to convey her shock is far too laced with joy to make it clear that she finds his deeds preposterous. She simply fails at every turn in trying to express that she's a decent woman. He knows it now, probably saw it long ago; that she's the perfect cheval glass to his perversions.

The hand on her hips moves to caress her thigh, and the drowsy stare observes her with growing mischief.

"Ready to go again?"

"Whuh–Again…?"

He takes her hand and moves it right over his cock. It's lean and demanding, and pulses under her palm.

Tall and ugly, she thinks while her walls dare to throb with hunger.

"You make me hard," he says, almost as a whisper, "all the time."

Jesus… There was definitely no rulebook when it came to this guy.

She gets to watch from the bed how he gives her a show as the man finally decides it's time to take his clothes off. The shirt is the first one to go: it flies somewhere on the floor while he holds on to his hood. The sculpted muscle looks even bigger up close, and the plates are covered with thin hair. It runs thicker below the navel, and his thighs are pure power: they surround the sleek length of his cock like trunks of strength when he finally gets himself out of those pants.

The v-shape of his upper body is something she will never get over. Broad shoulders shrink and curve into narrow hips which in turn swell into powerful thighs, and while perhaps this guy wouldn't win the gold medal at a fitness competition – judged by the way he's lean and athletic but not low fat ripped – he certainly is the most beautiful man she has ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. He's a demigod with his herculean strength, a titan who's too big for the world of mortals. A tormented Samson who will never be tamed with treachery or tricks.

The bed sags as he crawls back to her like the gentlest predator. Her legs open wide to receive him – a classic missionary feels like the most intimate choice after the faceless pounding she received earlier. He gathers her legs as he proceeds: forces them up, up, almost next to her arms until he's hovering over her exposed pussy.

She should've known that some boring missionary wouldn't satisfy this man at all.

Her eyes drop to her legs and what's between them: she's in no position to do much of anything, but as the tip of his cock – smooth, pristine velvet – slides across her wet folds once more, she rather helplessly tries to drive her hips up to meet him.

It's like she's drunk or in a dream. The scene is wild and filthy: she's plump and spread open, ready for the taking, thighs almost in her ears as he draws his hips back and finds her opening.

"Please be gentle," she begs with a whisper. He halts for a while to lock gazes with her rabbit stare.

"You are pretty when you beg, little one. But I would never hurt you."

She swallows, and her lips part – his gaze instantly falls on her mouth, then raises back to her eyes, gentle and painstakingly ardent. He's close, so terribly close – and not just physically. Her thighs quiver with anticipation as the thick velvet slides in.

Holy fuck–

She savors the spread, and he's gentle, like he promised. The groan that erupts from inside the hood above makes her walls ache. He's so merciful this time, and she wishes to lift the black veil that still keeps them apart, to see his face as he takes her, to see that scar on his jaw and how his mouth hangs open with hunger, just like hers…

His cock comes out all wet – she can hear it – before plunging right back in, and it makes her mewl.

"Oh God…" Her eyes shut tight from the sensation of being so filled. She's even more starved than she thought. It's scary, far scarier than the mass murderer above and inside her.

"You like that?"

He's breathing heavy, and she knows he's looking at her, the distorting face of pleasure, the way she's biting her lip. Tears try to force themselves out from the passionate, featherbrained proximity, from being so tightly knitted together, like a bunch of happy, overstimulated nerves.

"Look at me," he orders, and she opens her eyes like they're under his command and not hers.

"You like it like this?"

She nods with tears in her eyes, and he won't stop looking at her like she's his most prized possession.

"Gut. I will make you scream again."

The man's dreamy stare follows every twitch of a lip, every bat of an eyelash. She looks down briefly to escape that love – the sight of the long thickness disappearing in her while she is so crudely open for him makes her feel dizzy, even when she's lying down.

Some pillow princess…

"Sehr schön," he comments while watching her face which must look like that of a dumb, anesthetized doll. His cock has that effect, and now that he's hovering over her, staring into her soul while filling her, it makes everything even more painful because it's sweet. She's under lazy waves, and decent men seem the most boring thing on earth right now.

"You like my knives?"

"Ah–what…?"

"You stared when I played with my knife."

She knows he has caught her staring more than once and bites her lip again not to blurt out how she had stared when he had played with... other things as well.

"Mh, yeah… It was beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

The sudden waves of intimacy leave her fragile and weak. His stare is nothing short of a caress. She is open and helpless for him to pound to his heart's content, but he's gentle, bordering on loving...

"I can teach you how to play with them."

Jesus Christ, this dude is just crazy.

"Uh-huh," she agrees to it with her mouth hanging open from the overload of sensation. The lewd sound of his cum pushing out of her with every thrust is an obscene background music for this – or any – conversation.

"I have a collection."

Why the hell would he be talking about his knife collection in the middle of–

"I own at least fifty knives. I can show you all of them if you come to my room."

His gaze is at least as piercing as his cock, and she realizes how serious this is: knives are his life. He finds them beautiful too, he collects them and cares for them. They're a profession, but they're also the most important thing in his world.

Knives are his essence.

And he had likened her to a butterfly knife...

"S-sure."

The sound from where they are joined rises to a sluggish crescendo: drowsy, filthy claps of flesh on soaked flesh. He makes her sick and well at the same time: he drags her to hell and raises her to heaven. He's the remedy and the curse. He plays with her like he plays with his knives: ravenous, entranced, obsessed.

She tries to concentrate on too many things at once: that intoxicating voice, the memory of him playing with death, the cock plunging inside her over and over again, making warmth pool below. She imagines him killing people with his collection, picking his tool for the day. He's not the only lunatic here because even the very thought makes her tight around him.

"You are close?"

"König… Just–" she whispers on the cusp of a deeper, soul-rending orgasm.

"You like it when I talk about knives?"

She breathes laboriously and tries to hang onto the last bits of her sanity, but he knows her, knows her already. He weighs down on her until her thighs come to rest right next to her breasts. He's plowing her in a crude angle, indecent and deep. It's vulgar, and she loves it; loves the way he stares at her, all helpless under him.

"Please, I'm gonna–"

"I can show you my guns too."

Ohmygod–

"I'm gonn–ah–!"

She shatters, her walls clench; her pussy sucks him like he's hard candy.

“Sieh dir das an… You were made for me.”

"Nh– Please…"

Her head tosses on the pillow as if in a dream. She's fathomless, and going to pass out, the cock inside her makes her eyes roll back in her head until she sees white, the color of saints.

"Shy girl… Beg for it."

The voice that answers his command is not that of a shy girl; it's not hers at all. She hears it from underwater, and her reality consists solely of the man filling her, spreading her, transforming her from an angel into something deliciously wicked.

Please, just–

It's not her voice, and yet it does sound everything like her. It begs, mewls a plea after the other in a string of helpless little whimpers.

Don't stop, please pleaseplease…

"Besser als jedes Messer…" he rasps, more darkly now. "You drive me crazy, Engel."

A chant arises in her head: she has sinned and there's no turning back. He feels far better than any promise of heaven. She could never have guessed that being cast out would feel so good.

His release comes with a tight rip, he goes taut like in that shower, only ten times more desperate. The hiss under the hood turns into a pained, strained roar of a grunt. The first time was foreplay, a quick one: this is true release. She almost hopes she would faint as the whole body of the Austrian titan goes hard as a rock. She couldn't be more spent and used, and still, her pussy answers his godly essence by clenching around him, pulling him in like he's the best man there is.

The man of her dreams, the man from her worst nightmares...

His eyes are liquid, the waterline twitches. She sees behind the walls, a millisecond's worth of fragility before his head drops, and the muscles are released from the violent trance. Broad shoulders cage her in like she's suddenly deep inside a mountain pass. Spent and dead and gone, there's no hurry any longer: he is buried deep inside and throbs whatever leftovers he has to give her.

She's filled to the brim, crushed under his weight, banished: and it's only delicious, the feeling of her body disappearing somewhere in the depths of the bed he has plowed her into. She waits dutifully as the man gathers himself, even gets brave enough to touch him. The masked face is buried somewhere in her neck, and his stomach ripples with a few shivers as her hand runs down his spine.

"I want to do this every day," he declares softly while panting through the thick fabric of his self-made shield. She feels pure horror and thrill in her chest.

To do this every day… She will eventually break, like a toy that has been used too much. She's not made of steel like those butterfly knives used mainly for playing.

"König, this is crazy… We're crazy," she tries to put into words the unholy mess raging inside her. He snorts before releasing her from the absurd position. The weight of him leaves her empty as he pulls out, then drags his way beside her to gather her back into his arms.

"Don't be ashamed, little one," he coos through the mask. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Two rounds of intense sex have liberated him, the manic terror has turned into a strange compassion. The look in his eyes is magnanimous and tender, almost droopy. She feels weightless and timid, an angel once more.

"We belong together, you and I," he states with conviction that sends sweet dread inside her heart. "Don't worry. You will never be lonely again."

Her fate is sealed, and she fears a big, fat knife will cut her heartstrings too if she tries to escape his protection. Her jaw trembles at the prospect of him returning to her every day to fuck her bare after an adrenaline high on the field. She sees a future of tears and sweat and cum, a beast lulled into sleep amidst a withering sea of flowers and torn lace.

She tries to find the right words, hopes he will be swift and merciful in his execution.

König, please…

It's not the hood, it's–

"Everyone fears me," he sighs beside her. "I'm glad you don't."

[coryosbaby]

Sweet Serial Killer *ੈ✩‧ Young! Gf! Nick Goode x reader (1)

“𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓴𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻

𝓓𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓱,

𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱! “

Summary: Murders are happening around Camp Nightwing, and you’ll do anything for your best friend Nick.

Warning: mentions of murder & violence, dubious consent, yandere! Nick, possessiveness, obsessive behavior, mentions of pedophilia (NOT by nick), pictures without consent, toxic relationship asf, god complex, male masturbation, oral (m & f recieving), p n v, breeding kink, dumbification, size kink, daddy kink, missionary, riding, the reader is very dependable on Nick, loss of virginity, creampie, marking, squirting, dom! Nick, sub! Reader

Nick isn’t an inherently violent person.

But when he meets you in the summer of ‘76, all of that is thrown out the window.

You’re a camper. And no, you aren’t a child; you’re eighteen years old. Nick is twenty, beginning as his first year as a counselor. At Camp Nightwing, it’s taboo for a counselor and camper to become romantically involved. But Jesus, Nick just can’t help but be so in love when he looks at you. Your cabin is right next to his, and he sees your sweet ass everyday, watches you strut around with him on his off days and have fun. You’ve both grown incredibly close. And if anyone messes with you, they have to deal with him.

And waves of intense rage aren’t new to him. But right now, he has still never been so incredibly angry.

He watches as a camper, some guy named Alex and around your age, torments you; pulls your hair, calls you names, makes fun of your makeup. And it makes his blood boil. You’re so precious, so much of an angel. No one needs to treat you this way. He approaches, quickly breaking it up. On the outside, his demeanor is calm, is safe.

To you, Nick will always be safe.

Alex scurries away quickly when Nick starts murmuring threats through clenched teeth. Tears are running down your face, and Nick brings his arm around your shoulder and guides you to his empty cabin. You bury his face in his neck when you’re both finally alone on his bed. He pulls you away and begins to stroke your tearful face soothingly.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “I know. It’s okay, honey. That fuckin’ asshole..” he looks at you with slight concern for a moment. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You sniffle, and shake your head. “He p-pulled my hair, a little bit. But I’m fine.”

If Nick had any previous guilt about his plans for tonight, they’re all gone now.

“Okay..” he smiles, a small laugh leaving his lips as he runs his hands over the outer corners of your eyes.

“You ruined your makeup.”

You frown, worried. “Do I look bad?”

“What? No, not at all.” How could you ever think you look bad? “You look.. you look really pretty, y/n.”

“Oh.” your face flushes, and you smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He replies. And then,after that, you lay down on his bed and he reads you your favorite book while you curl up on his left side. It’s one of the things he does to help you feel better, to make you feel even more protected and safe with him.

And then later that night, the first murder at Camp Nightwing takes place.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The next day the talk is all around camp. Alex, the boy that had harassed you the day before, is dead.

You’re in shock. No one has ever died at the camp before; it’s full of teenagers and kids doing arts and crafts, after all. In a situation like this, they should close down the camp. But the death itself was confirmed to be an accident; he had somehow slipped off of a cliff beside the lake that campers weren’t allowed to approach, and had hit his head on the rocky floor below. A counselor had found him that day, and there were rumors that it was incredibly brutal; his head was completely smashed to pieces.

Some people, however, believe it wasn’t an accident. There were rumors that a few campers saw someone in a black robe and a weird mask that resembled that of a ghost. But those were just rumors, for now.

You shove the thought that Alex deserved what he got down into your gut, and decide to feel bad for him.

“I just don’t get it,” you explain to Nick the next day, in the empty art room. “Why would you even go over there? It’s like, the most dangerous spot.”

Nick shrugs as you refer to Alex, as he knots a new bracelet for the third time that day.

“Dunno,” he replies. “Like I said, he was an idiot.”

His tone and the use of the word ‘was’ makes bile rise in your throat, but you change the topic to the task at hand.

If anyone knows you, you’re just a little… dumb. So, Nick helps you with your crafts in your art activities everyday, always teaches you new things because you’re interested and don’t know how. It’s not just in this field, where you depend on him; he helps you with practically everything, even feeds you from time to time. He knows how to take care of you, how to keep you satisfied and happy.

He watches as you struggle to tie a knot in the bracelet that you’re creating, watches as you slam it down onto the table and make a sound of frustration. He chuckles, amused.

“Having fun?”

“Fuck off, Nick.” You snap . You immediately begin to apologize, not meaning to have sounded so rude.

“Im so sorry!”

“Don’t apologize, y/n. It’s okay, I promise.”

He hates when you feel as if you’ve said something wrong around him. You could never anger him.

“It’s just…” you rub your eyes, careful not to destroy your glittery makeup. “I can’t.. I can’t make the bracelet. It’s not working.”

“That’s okay,” Nick assures. “I can teach you. It’s okay, here-“

His fingers move to grab the strings from you, maneuvering the plastic stand it’s attached to so he can gain better access. He looks down at the instructions.

“Yeah, this knot is complicated,” it’s not, but you don’t need to know that. “All you’re doing wrong is not looping it around. If you just..”

He smiles as he grabs your cherry red nails into his larger set of hands. He brings them down and shows you the proper way to tie the bracelet, and you squeal in victory when you’re finally done. It’s a little jagged along a section, but it isn’t too bad.

“See! I knew you could do it. You’re such a quick learner.” Nick praises. You flush.

“Thank you.”

He watches as you tie the ends. And then, you’re nervously looking towards him.

“I want you to have it.. i-if that’s okay!”

Nick beams, happily snatching the bracelet from your hands and slipping it onto his wrist.

“Thank you, angel. I love it.”

He picks up one of the bracelets he made and insists that you wear it too. He ties the ends for you, and slips it around your wrist. You smile. And then, with ease, he brings his lips down to your wrist and places a kiss to it. The nervous lip bite you give him makes his cock harden in his pants, but he chooses to ignore it for now. You smell so sweet, the perfume on your wrists making his eyes practically roll back. It’s so you, and he can’t get enough of it.

“Do you want to go back to my cabin?”

The words make you stutter, knowing that the cabin is empty and that everyone is away at another camping activity at the lake. But alas, you utter a quick ‘yes’. When you get inside he guides you to sit down at the head of his bed so he can read to you again. But once he gets through a couple paragraphs of The Great Gatsby, you’re already leaning onto his shoulder sleepily.

“Tired?” He asks.

“Mhm.”

“C’mere.”

He grabs one of your arms and slings it over his chest. You sigh happily, shoving your face into his shirt as he moves down to lay flat on the bed.

“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner.”

“Okay, Nicky. Thank you.”

Oh, how precious.

Your soft snores fill the room as you sleep. Time ticks by, but Nick can’t seem to keep still as much as he wants to. So, gently, he removes himself from underneath you and pulls his blanket over your shoulders as you turn over in your sleep. He watches as your tits seem to practically spill out of your tank top. His breath catches in his throat. It’s not that noticeable because it’s on your lower side, but your nipple has seemed to slip out of the fabric.

The thing he does next is probably incredibly wrong. But who can blame him, with you looking like that?

His hands go down to palm the bulge in his pants. He breathes heavily, lip getting caught in his teeth as he watches your slow moving breath and beautiful face. He brings his hands into his pants and begins to stroke himself with vigor.

He knows it’s incredibly risky. You’re his best friend, and if he gets caught doing this you might not be anymore. But precum spills over his fist and he thrusts into his own palm mercilessly. He starts to imagine scenarios with you in them: taking your tits into his mouth, sucking on those pert little nipples that he loves to see peeking through your shirt. Fucking that tight little pussy he knows you have, while you’re on all fours and your ass is bouncing back against his abs. And then, lastly, watching your little cunt get stretched beyond its boundaries as he impales you, your virgin blood coating his cock and leaving your creamy spend on him. This makes him keen, and then he’s stuffing his fist into his mouth as he cums all over the inside of his briefs. You begin to stir, not quite waking up, but it makes Nick’s mouth water even more at the thought of you catching him. You don’t wake up, however. You’re always such a deep sleeper.

Nick sighs, moving into the bathroom to wash off his hands and then change into a new pair of underwear.

And then, when he’s next to his dress, he catches sight of his camera.

It’s a Polaroid camera, a dark brown that he keeps with him whenever he wants to take picture of the camp’s scenery.

But maybe it can be used for other sights.

He remembers to turn the flash off, and then he snaps a picture of your sleeping form. And then, another. And another. And another. All at different angles, some far away, some so close that it’s a surprise that you don’t hear the click of the device and wake up. When he’s done he gathers up all of the pictures that have been printed and shoves them into his drawer full of shirts, next to another set of pictures. Ones that consist of a boy in water, with his head missing.

He checks on the clock on the wall. It’s dinner time, now.

He goes over and lightly shakes you. It takes a few minutes of this before your eyes finally crack open.

“C’mon, sweets, you gotta wake up,” he murmurs. “It’s time for dinner.”

You blink, wiping the sleep away from your eyes and smearing your makeup in the process again. But when you get up and look in the mirror, you choose not to acknowledge it.

You don’t even notice the anxious look Nick gives you when you ask for some of his clothes and reach into his t-shirt drawer. He’s so thankful that he hid the photos in the very back, because you don’t find them.

He makes a mental note to move them to a place where no one would think to look.

 ༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The next day Tommy Slater teaches you archery.

You’ve see the boy around, not really ever talking, but he’s sweet, with nice hair and a pretty smile. He holds your arms in the right position as he helps you pull back the strings of the bow. When you pull it back, it’s the first time ever that you hit the target. You pull him into a hug, and his hands go down to your waist as he asks if he can buy you a cherry coke from the vending machines.

Nick watches the whole thing with displeasure when you say yes.

No one really notices, but Nick just always seems to be around you, even though there’s a whole other side of camp to be taught. It’s a surprise, really, that the boy can keep his job. If it wasn’t for the extra class he teaches everyday and his father being the sheriff, he’d probably be fired.

Nick really hasn’t had that much of a problem with Tommy before. He’s a nice guy, and they get along well whenever they work together. Hell, Tommy was even his bunkmate for a while before he decided to switch and room with his brother, Will.

But he’s talking to you. And he’s being a little too nice, too touchy to see you as a regular camper or friend.

And Nick can’t have that, can he?

So a week later, after you had started to grow close with the boy, Tommy Slater is found with a noose around his neck. A suicide, of course. It’s incredibly unfortunate for you; you cry about it, not leaving your cabin all day over the death of your new friend when you find out the news.

Of course, Nick is there to comfort you. He doesn’t leave your side, and stays with you for the entirety of the day while you sleep on top of his shirtless, warm body.

He’s such a good friend.

You sigh as you roll yourself out of your bed. You’re exhausted, mentally. Nick had begged you to come to dinner with him, but to no avail after many minutes of struggling. You figure right about now that the best thing to do is your makeup. Something that sounds incredibly stupid, but it helps you relieve a lot of stress. You bring yourself back over to your bed with your makeup bag and begin to apply a full face.

You jump, almost smearing your eyeliner, when Nick opens the door. Although you shouldn’t get excited at a time like this, you smile when you see an ice cream cone in one of his hands.

“Finally getting up?” He teases. You nod.

“I guess so. No use getting hung up, right? We..” you’re trying to seem positive, but the image of Tommy’s body hanging from the ceiling brings bile to your throat. You swallow it down as you apply a layer of blush and grab the ice cream cone from Nick. “Me and Tommy weren’t even that close.”

Nick shrugs, sitting down beside you and resting his head on your shoulder to watch you apply your mascara.

“He’s in a better place now, y/n.” The boy assures.

You nod in agreement, but you’re still a bit upset. You shake the thoughts out of your head and lick at the ice cream cone. Nick watches some it drip down your chin, and he imagines what it would be like to stuff your mouth full.

“So,” He starts. His eyes never leave your mouth. “Are you going on the camping trip tonight?”

Every Saturday, campers go deeper into the woods and camp out. You know Nick enjoys it, but the thought of sleeping in a tent with no air conditioner tonight does not sound like fun.

“Probably not.” You reply.

“That’s okay.” Nick assures. He can tell by the look on your face that you feel bad for ditching him. “On second thought, how about I stay here with you tonight? I know you don’t like to be in the dark alone.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not scared of the dark, I’m scared of what’s in the dark! But also, won’t you get in trouble?”

“Whatever you say, sweetness.” Nick replies. “But I’m staying. I’ll just say I’m sick. ��

“That’s…good. I want you here.” And it’s true, as you utter the words. Nick smiles, and watches as you get up to throw away the ice cream cone (one of your weird quirks that Nick has picked up is that you only like the ice cream itself, and not the cone). When you bend down to drop it into the trash can, your shorts ride up and the soft globes of your ass are exposed. Nick exhales sharply.

You hear him, and turn around to look at him in concern. “Are you okay?”

Nick coughs, eyes averting from you as his cheeks glaze over into a dusty pink. “Yeah! It’s just a little stuffy in here, that’s all.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Do you want to go to your cabin instead? You have a better air conditioner, anyway.” And then your eyes light up. “And you have a radio! We can listen to music tonight!”

Nick chuckles at your excitement. He knows you enjoy music. “Yeah, honey.”

“Yay!”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

It’s not long before almost everyone in camp is away, and you and Nick are alone. Although the trip is optional, very few people decide to stay behind. Will had left, his eyes lingering on you a bit too long as he tells Nick to ‘have fun’. Nick’s eyes had narrowed at his tone, and he had put a possessive grip on you as he guided you to his radio so he could teach you how to use it.

And that night, Nick introduces you to weed.

It’s not something you’re opposed to, you’ve just never got around to it. And when Nick pulls out a small bag of the skunk smelling drug, you’re happy to get high with him.

You giggle as Nick runs his fingers over your legs in a teasing manner. He knows your ticklish behind your knees, and of course he isn’t going to ignore the chance of getting to touch you. His radio plays ‘Fear The Reaper’ in a blaring tone, and the both of your eyes are red rimmed and watery. You move away from his hands and off to bed to explore the things in his room, dazed.

And then you catch sight of his camera.

You pick it up, and feel the plastic device with your fingertips.

“I’ve never seen you with this,” you say. “Is it new?”

Nick lifts his body up off of the bed to look at you.

“No, I’ve had it for a while.” He replies.

“Oh.” and then, your hands begin to flimsily play with the buttons.

Nick grins. “Do you want me to take pictures of you?”

The question catches you off guard, but the look on his face, begging, can’t make you say no.

“If you want.”

“That’s great,” Nick pauses, hesitant. “Can you get on the bed for me?”

“Yes sir.”

You don’t mean to say it, really, but you just want to follow his directions. You think he’s going to be freaked out, but all he does is give you a sweet smile.

“Good girl.”

Your face flushes, and your twiddle your fingers as you begin to climb onto the bed. You move your hair so it rests behind your shoulders, and smile. Nick snaps it, the perfect view of you on your knees for him. You move to another position, sideways, and tilt your head back.

So cute, Nick thinks. And all mine.

By the third or fourth, you’re comfortable enough to not be shy.

“Is this good?” You ask. You’re leaning forward now, on your knees once again. Nick can see your cleavage at this angle, and he thinks you’re the most sexiest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on.

“Perfect.” And then, another pause before he speaks. “You’re so beautiful.”

You blanch, as if that’s the first time he’s ever said it. You look up at him with a look he can’t quite place.

“Do you really think so?”

“I think you’re perfect.”

Dazed and Confused by Led Zepplin is playing on the radio now. The tension in the room grows intensely, in this moment, as Nick utters the words. It’s as if it’s never been experienced before. It has, many times, but usually there was someone or something to interrupt that tension.

So now, all that Nick can think to do is throw the camera onto the bed, move over to you, lean down, and press his lips to yours.

It’s probably a dumb idea, but if it goes the opposite of the way Nick wants then he can just blame it on the mary jane in his system.

But you kiss back. The boy suspects you’ve never been kissed before, because your lips move awkwardly against his. It’s endearing to him, and he moves to press himself closer to you. You moan against him when he begins to climb on top of you. He pulls away, his thighs caging your hips down. He grabs your hands and moves them above your head.

“You’ve never done this before , have you?”

You look away shyly, shaking your head as you do so to signal the word ‘no’. He grabs your face with his strong hands and guides you too gaze at him again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, y/n. Yes.. or no?”

Your lip gets caught in between your teeth as he looks down at you hungrily.

“No.” You utter softly.

He tuts, bring his hand down to your hip and rubbing the soft skin there.

“So no one’s ever touched you here? Hm?”

You shake your head.

“Poor baby.” His hand moves down further. He’s ghosting his fingers over the crotch of your shorts. You squirm, a small squeak leaving your mouth when he presses on your clit through the fabric. “What about here, baby? Anyone ever played with this little clit before?”

“N-Nick, c’mon-“

“Who? Are you lying to me? Has someone touched you here?” His tone is demanding, now, angry. You look up at him with wide eyes. He’s always been so gentle with you, and his attitude now shock you.

“No..” and then, softly, ���no sir. I promise.”

He calms, a small smirk beginning to play on his lips. He rubs, gentle and slow, on your clit. You mewl, hands going up to his hair for leverage as he teases you.

“Such good manners. Being such a good girl.”

His fingers leave you. You whine in protest, beginning to grab his hand and put it back where it was, but he pushes your grip away. He chuckles.

“No, no. You’re going to do something for me first.”

Your face goes red, when he grabs your hand and presses it against his girth.

“You feel that, baby?” He’s taunting, watching as your mouth opens on instinct and your soft wet tongue lolls out. “Feel what you did?”

“Yes. Yes, daddy, I-“

The word that leaves your mouth isn’t intentional, but when it does it has Nick groaning, thrusting his hips up into your hand.

“God, that’s it. You want me to be your daddy, baby? Wanna be my little girl?”

You nod, eagerly, and you begin to move to unbuckle his jeans. He makes a noise of disapproval, though.

“No. Stay right here.”

And then he’s moving off the bed and to the foot of it, beginning to unbuckle his belt. He beckons you over, but stops you when you begin to get off the bed.

“No,” His hand goes down into his pants, and he breathes shakily.

“Crawl.”

Your pussy is practically drenched at this point. A small moan sounds in the back of your throat, and you get on your hands and knees. The look Nick gives you as you move towards him is so dark that you aren’t sure it’s even him anymore. But fuck, he looks so handsome, so beautiful. You can’t help but do what he says.

You’ll do anything for him.

He grabs you by your shoulders and pulls you up on your knees at the edge of the bed. His shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of his tanned and toned skin.

“What do you want me to do now, daddy?” The words you’re saying sound so unlike yourself, but it’s like something different has taken over you. All you can think or feel is NickNickNickNickNick. Over and over, your pussy throbbing and spilling wet juices all over the inside of your panties.

“Take your shirt off, sweetheart.”

The demand is one you follow instantly, and when you slip the shirt over your head your nipples are puffy and swollen. He grins, moving down to flick one of your nipples.

“These are so pretty. We should get them pierced, don’t you think?”

The thought of needles going through your tits make you wince. Nick laughs.

“I was just joking, angel.”

“We have to have those nice and ready for our baby, don’t we?”

Your eyes widen, and he laughs again, as if pregnancy is some kind of game.

“Joking, again. God, you’re so gullible, you know that?”

You really don’t think you’d mind carrying his baby, but you don’t mention that right now. Instead, you bring your hands to the bulge in his pants. He groans in surprise, and looks down at you.

“You little minx. Get to work, then. Since you want to be so impatient.”

You hesitate, not really knowing what to do.

“Can you teach me, sir?”

He presses your mouth to his clothed cock, and you gasp at the sudden movement. You drool all over the fabric of his jeans, the confines of the zipper making his incredibly large cock press against the denim.

“Gotta taste it first, don’t you?” He teases. He yanks you away from his dick and pulls your head back so you’ll look up at him.

“Give me a kiss.”

You do, reaching up desperately to kiss him on his soft, sweet lips. He strokes your face, gentle unlike the past few minutes.

“Do you feel safe with me?”

You nod, and he nods his head in understanding at the confirmation.

He begins to unzip his fly. And then, you watch as he pulls out his thick length. You gawk at how pretty and large he is, his tip shining with precum and his balls drawn up tight.

“Do you trust me?”

His voice is rougher now. He strokes his cock, and you ache for it to feel the deep canal of your throat.

“Yes, daddy. You’re the only person in the world I’ll ever trust.”

“Good. You only need me.”

And then he’s rubbing the tip over your lips, and you’re eagerly suckling the soft skin and licking the precum off. He tastes so good, so salty and bitter but so perfectly divine. He growls low in his throat, holding back as much as he can so he doesn’t destroy your perfect little mouth.

“Yeah, just like that. Didn’t even have to tell you where to put that slutty mouth. You think about this a lot, don’t you?”

You nod, as much as you can with your mouth full.

“Run your tongue along the vein.” He directs, watching as you pull off and ask him what to do next. “You see, right there?”

You follow his directions perfectly, following the trail and then moving to kitten lick underneath his head. His eyes roll back, and he shallowly thrusts into your throat. You become desperate, then, and before he realizes what’s happening your downing his whole aching prick in one singular stroke.

“Oh, fuck, you bitch!” He’s loud, and his resolve breaks. He grabs your head with both of his hands and begins to fuck your throat with vigor. You choke, your eyes watering, but you don’t want him to let up. Looking up at him through watery lashes, you see that his had is tilted back and his mouth is open in shock and pleasure.

“I can feel the back of your goddamn throat, Jesus fuck..”

He slows, just a bit, when he sees you struggling to breathe.

“Remember to breathe through your nose, sweetness.”

His advice helps you, and soon you’re relaxed as he uses your throat. Your hands grip his thighs, and on a particularly deep thrust your nose hits the curly black hair at his base. It’s amazing, how much you can take.

Not that Nick has been with many girls, but he’s been with a few. And all of them could hardly take his cock inside their cunt, much less their throat. Nick giggles at the irony, then, sadistically. Of course you can take it. You’re made for him. And he’s your god, a life force that you’re devoted to, that you can’t ever escape.

“Yeah, you’re a pro at this,” Nick says roughly. “ My good little cocksucker.”

That sets you off, and your fingers begin to go down and rub your clit. It doesn’t take long before Nick is pulling you off and pushing you back down on the bed. He grabs you by your thighs and begins to unbuttons your shorts aggressively. When he gets down to your underwear he’s pulling them off with a quickness and shoving them into his back pocket.

You really should be shy right now, but you aren’t. It’s just that way with Nick. You can do anything, show him anything, and you’ll still feel like the most free person to ever exist. He spreads your legs wide, and he doesn’t hesitate to go down and get a taste of you.

He licks a stripe up the expanse of your drenched pussy, makes sure to add a little bit of tongue when he gets to your clit. He thumbs the swollen button, plays with it like it’s a toy. Your back arches, his touch setting flames off on your skin and inside of you.

“Nicky, please..”

Your voice is raw from getting so harshly throat fucked, your eyes droopy and already fucked out from all the foreplay. He says nothing, instead choosing to gather up some of the precum from his cock and use two now lubed fingers to shove inside of you. Your hips soar off the mattress, the sudden stretch burning intensely, but not as much as you would’ve originally thought. You’re so wet that you’re really up for anything, at this point. You flush with embarrassment when you hear your wetness gushing around Nick’s fingers. But he looks pleased, intensely so, and bends down to press a little kiss to your clit.

“Aww, look at that,” he coos. “You’re so wet, aren’t you? Did daddy make you this wet?”

“Yesyesyesyes-“ you practically scream when he rubs your inner walls a certain way, and it makes your legs shake and makes tears stream down your cheeks. “please keep doing that, daddy. Oh my God!

You can feel your orgasm approaching, and it’s embarrassing that you’re cumming this soon. But you’re a virgin, after all. You can’t help it. And so, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan, you cum all over Nick’s fingers. He watches as your juices coat his entire hand and shirt as your legs start to convulse in pleasure. He smiles, satisfied. You just squirted all over him.

“There you go.. just like that. Good girl. Give me all of that, baby.”

When you come down it’s like you’re wiped of energy. Nick notices. His hand goes up to stroke your face.

“You have to give me one more, okay? Just one.”

You shake your head, eyes going closed, but he slaps your cheek lightly to keep you awake.

“Still need fuck you, honey. I want you to be awake when I do it. Want you to remember.”

You bite your lip, hesitant, but then you nod. He smiles, and your heart flutters as you look down at him in between your legs.

“That’s my girl.”

He adjusts your thighs, pulling your spent body towards him. His cock nudges against your entrance. It’s different from what you’ve just experienced, much more intimate and warm. So he guides himself into you, gently. It hurts, and you let out a noise of displeasure. You start to cry again, but out of pain.

“Daddy- c-can’t, ‘s too much..”

“I know you can take it, sweet girl. Don’t you want to make daddy proud?”

You hiccup, tears flowing freely down your cheeks, and you whisper a small, “yes sir.”

He pushes into you for what seems like forever, and when you finally feel his pelvis pressing against your clit you jump from the stimulation. It causes you to clench down on him, and you cry out at the feeling of him losing control and thrusting into your open canal. He groans, lifting himself up with his hands to keep himself still.

“Don’t do that baby, ‘s gonna hurt you. Fuck, you’re so tiny. My cock is splitting you in two.”

Yeah, you wanted to say, like I warned you it would.

But you don’t say that, and soon his cock just feels like a lot of pressure. So when you tell Nick to move, he tries his hardest to be slow. He’s shaking, the fact of being in control of himself a new phenomenon. But when he drags himself out, slow, and then pushes himself back in, you begin to feel different. He hits that special spot again, just right, and your hips move back on him at their own accord.

“Daddy.. please. Fuck me! want it hard…”

The words spill out of your mouth quickly, your brain going haywire. Nick’s hands become bruising in their grip, and he shoves your hands over your head again and begins to pound you vigorously. Your wetness leaves a creamy ring around the base of his cock, and you look absolutely gorgeous, letting him use you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful little girl.. love having this pussy fucked, don’t you? Making daddy so proud..”

You moan loudly, his praises making more wetness drip out of you.

“Love you, daddy, love you so much!”

Nick’s hips stutter at that, and although it should be a very large milestone to cross, it feels perfectly natural, perfectly true to say, and it makes his head spin. His perfect little girl, worshipping him and his cock. You’re a dream come true.

“Holy fuck.. I love you too, sweetheart.” Your heart aches, so deeply. He loves you. Nick, the boy you’ve been completely devoted to and have worshipped the entire summer, loves you.

You can feel his thrusts speeding up, his hands bruising on your skin. ‘M gonna cum, shit-“

He twitches, flooding your sticky walls with his cum. Your hips shake, your pussy milking him dry.

“Love your cum, sir, feels s’good.” You slur. The fact that you’ve gotten riled up and haven’t came again is in the very back of your mind. Nick’s cock, his body, his devoted time and attention to you, is enough to satiate your needs. When he pulls out of you he makes sure to watch his cum drip out of your needy hole, and then rubs your clit in gentle strokes.

“just give me one more, baby. Cum for daddy one more time.”

And who are you to resist? Shaking, your brain turns to mush. Your tummy tightens and then you’re spilling again, watching as Nick looks down at you with adoration.

When you slow, his hands move up to swipe some hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. You smile bashfully, watching as he lays down beside you and beckons you over to him once more. It’s peaceful, resting now in the darkness of his room. The radio is still playing, soft just as before. And when you sleep, you dream of sweet nothings.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

And then two days later, you’re being harassed by the camp’s janitor.

His name is Lloyd, and he’s older, much more so. He’s noticed you around, he says. He wants to get to know you more.

You’re uncomfortable by his offer. He’s a grown man, for christ’s sakes! And not an attractive one, at that, so why would you even attempt such a thing with him?

Of course, Nick isn’t too far behind when Lloyd starts spewing harsh words when you reject him. He pulls you behind him protectively, and begins suggesting that he call his father and tell on him. Lloyd instantly backs off, but his narrowed eyes never leave yours as he walks away.

Later that night, there’s a camp bonfire. You smile as you conversate with Nick while a bag of marshmallows between the two of you. You shove one into your mouth as you discuss Carry by Stephen King, and he agrees that it’s one of the best. Your head rests on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you. Although campers and counselors technically can’t be together, no one around really cares at the moment; they’re all too busy with their own friends to notice. You grab Nick’s hand and suggest that he take you to get more snacks from the cafeteria. He trails behind you, watching your ass bounce in the tiny skirt you’re wearing. It isn’t long before you’re buying a coke and Nick is using every excuse in the book to guide you behind the deserted building and up against the wall.

His lips press gently into your neck in a sloppy, wet kiss. Your coke is forgotten, the soft drink’s bottle sitting on the concrete beside the both of you. You fall into Nick more when he bites down softly on the spot below your ear; he’s only fucked you once, but he knows your body like the back of his hand.

You sigh, your hand grabbing his and discreetly guiding it to that warm spot in between your legs. He huffs out a laugh, watches your face contort into carnal pleasure when he rubs your clit softly.

“Needy, baby?”

“Want you..” you whine, hands gripping his shirt. “Fuck me here. Wan’ everyone to see…”

“Jesus,” he moans, your hand going down to palm his aching shaft. “Only fucked you once and I’ve already turned you into a little cockslut, huh?”

You nod as his thumb brushes over your lips in a playful manner. You bring the digit into your mouth, making sure that it hits the very back of your throat. Nick groans at that, bringing his thumb out and crashing his lips into yours. You taste like cherry coke, and from the past few days of the constant making out you guys have been doing, Nick can infer that this is just how you taste. It’s so perfect, so incredibly sweet and precious. He grabs your arms and turns you around so he can press your body against the wall behind you. His hands undo his belt, and then he’s lifting up your skirt to see your pretty cunt.

“No panties, sweetheart?”

“Just wanted to be ready for you, daddy.”

The way you say it, so giving and dedicated, makes Nick’s cock jump. When he pulls it out he presses it flush against your bare mound and slaps your lips playfully with his tip. You squirm, little pussy red and swollen.

“Love this little pussy so much, baby,” Nick coos. He rubs your clit with his length, and it makes you tremble. “Need you to beg for daddy. C’mon, be a good girl.”

You don’t even hesitate, your voice shaky and desperate. “Please! Need you so bad, daddy. Please fuck me!”

He doesn’t hesitate to shove himself inside you, then. And although the stretch still hurts, it feels better than last time and it makes you mewl as he begins to harshly pound into you. He yanks you back by your hair, your body pressed flush against him, and he uses his other hand to yank your top down and expose your tits to the night air. They scrape against the brick wall, and it the sting makes you clench around him.

“Good little bitch.. such a tight little pussy…”

And then his tone becomes darker, and he begins to put a bruising grip on your hip.

“Tommy could’ve never fucked you like this, y’know.”

The sentence catches you off guard, your body slowing its movements. But only slightly; because as fucked up as it is, Nick still turns you on. You stutter, your eyes rolling back when Nick’s cock grazes your insides perfectly.

“W-What?”

And although it seems like Nick should be ashamed or feel caught saying the thing he just said, he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers reach down to rub you clit, as he chuckles darkly.

“You heard me. That little fucker. You were going to leave me for him, weren’t you?”

Your eyes furrow in confusion, tears beginning to form at the stress of his interrogation and his harsh thrusts. Nick slaps your ass harshly, watching it jiggle and move against him more.

“Answer me!”

“No! No, I only ever wanted you! I- I didn’t-“

“Good.”

His fingers slap your pussy, and then he’s rubbing your clit in harsh circles again. You practically scream, your wetness gushing down his dick.

“Now fucking cum for me.”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You ignore Nick as he walks you back to his cabin.

You don’t know what else to do. How else are you supposed to react when your best friend slash lover decides to talk about a dead friend in bed?

It should upset you more than it does.

You’re freaked out, a little bit, of course. But the guilt, that pit in your stomach, isn’t as prominent as you thought it would be. And when Nick pulls you into a hug and softly asks, “stay, please?”, you can’t resist him. Will is out, you assume. Probably with a random girl or still at the bonfire.

None of that matters, right now. You turn your head when Nick tries to kiss you. He frowns, hands coming up to your hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why’d you say that stuff earlier, Nick?” You ask quietly. Your nervously bounce on the balls of your feet. “That was really mean.”

He sighs, looking regretful as he takes your face into his hands.

“I’m sorry, baby. I know I shouldn’t of said that. I got carried away..“

His lips land on yours, gentle. You’re extremely tired, your limbs weak and your pussy aching from Nick’s harsh fucking. You don’t know how to feel, but the softness of Nick’s lips makes your eyes flutter shut.

“I won’t do it again,” he murmurs, as he pulls away. His thumb goes to wipe away stray mascara that had smeared on your face. “I promise. Just stay with me?”

You know it isn’t right. You know that what he said was messed up, was something you should leave him for. But you don’t. You just nod your head obediently, and join him on his bed. And when you’re trying to sleep and his length rubs up against your thigh, he asks if you want him. You say yes, and It’s true.

And when he brings himself up to your lips, you lick his cock clean, and show him your devotion.

@itsthatonegirl

[lanawinterscigarettes]

What about smth for JD (heathers) with an s/o who's equally as possessive and protective over him, maybe even more so?

I fucking love it when the reader perfectly matches the characters energy omg

Jason Dean with an s/o who's just as possessive/protective as he is

Warnings: gender neutral reader, both the reader and JD are possessive and protective to an unhealthy extent, JD and the reader are a match made in hell (which means they're naturally perfect for each other), codependent relationship to the max here, swearing, dark humor, mentions of murder/death, mentions of gun use, some smutty/nsfw stuff

As much as JD likes to mess with you, he actually does appreciate just how much you seem to love and care for him. Far too often has he been in relationships where it seemed as though he was the only one who was putting in any effort that he eventually began to lose hope he'd one day find someone who loved and worshipped him as much as he does for them

Then you showed up, and everything in his life seemed to get ten times better. He actually started attending school more often just so he can see you, especially if he knows you won't skip

However- that doesn't mean that he won't push your buttons, because he absolutely will. Believe me when I say that he's going to have at least a little fun at your expense

He'd never actually cheat, as he's way too clingy for that (unless he got really pissed off and wanted to teach you a lesson or something, but even then he'd probably end up killing the person afterwards) but he does find it amusing to see your reaction to him flirting with other people

It doesn't even have to be anyone he actually likes, in fact, he purposely goes out of his way to flirt with people he hates and actively talks shit about in front of you because he knows how mad you'll get. He's an asshole, what can I say

The look of silent rage that appears on your face whenever you see him walk up to any random guy or girl gets him chuckling everytime. He'll stay over there and flatter said random person until you storm over and drag him away from the conversation

Don't think that just because he flirts with other people that you can, that'd be crazy. How dare you talk to anyone other than him? What do you have, a death wish or something? (You flirt with other people anyway because he's not the boss of you and you can do what you want)

It's all in good fun though, because neither one of you would ever let anyone else lay their hands on the other, whether that be in a violent or sexual manner (or both). In fact, you guys even joke that if one of you ended up cheating on the other all three people involved would die, because there's no way the cheater or the person they'd cheated with would be allowed to live and the other couldn't live knowing their beloved was gone (it's actually not that much of a joke, but since you guys are so attached to each other that would probably never happen)

Speaking of committing murders, you guys do! All the time! :D (I don't know why I'm saying this like it's a good thing lol) Anytime someone does something to piss either one of you off, the two of you turn it into a date where you both kill the person, frame it as a suicide, then go back to your house for sex while the adrenaline is still pumping fast through your veins

Jealousy sex/make-up sex happens fairly often, by the way. You two may love each other, but because your personalities are so similar they're bound to end up clashing at some point, which leads to explosive arguments that typically end in "hate sex" (it's not really hate sex since you guys still love each other but given how much you both curse each other out and literally say "I hate you" during it I guess it could qualify)

Neither one of you really have any friends, not that you'd need them when you have each other. In fact, the only time you ever hang out with anyone else is when you're purposely trying to get JD riled up, and vice versa

I know he acts pretty aloof but I like to think that deep down he's actually really flattered to have someone who's crazy over him the same way he is over you. To someone as clingy and obsessed as him, it's almost like the highest honor, y'know?

End notes: I'm finally working on old asks yippeee

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated | requests are currently open

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[andromaqves]

Celebrating October with prompts for 31 days of The Quarry!

Low energy, purely for fun... pick your fave word for the day or work them all into a new or existing work, whatever appeals to you. Just have fun and hopefully get inspired to create more for this world!

Thanks @ghostradiodylan for being my sounding board after I got possessed by this idea tonight <3

1. claw / cabin / cards 2. stab / shoot / safe 3. hag / hunger / Hackett 4. lake / lodge / leader 5. gun / gift / ghost 6. bruise / bear / bargain 7. rot / rabid / regret 8. puncture / promise / protect 9. choke / chainsaw / cage 10. radio / rage / red 11. motel / memory / morgue 12. haunt / heart / haven 13. casualty / choice / chase 14. fury / fall / flames 15. teeth / taken / torn 16. shock / selfish / scar 17. bandage / bury / bullet 18. monster / mistake / murder 19. curse / challenge / campfire 20. bitter / balance / bone 21. heavy / hostile / hurt 22. punch / prey / pursue 23. infect / interfere / instinct 24. animal / admire / attack 25. spirit / survive / saint 26. flight / fool / favor 27. predator / plead / party 28. witness / witch / wager 29. hunt / hand / harm 30. worry / wolf / wind 31. bite / bleed / break

Tag with #31 days of the quarry if you feel like sharing!

[call-sign-shark]

Little Lamb part. 2 || Arthur Shelby x Reader x OFC

Summary: You discover that Arthur is already married when you are faced with his wife. Worst, she seems to already know about you. Did she see you flirting with her husband? (Yandere! Arthur Shelby x Reader x Yandere!OFC)

TW: (for the entire short series) Toxic dynamic, polyamory relationship, murders, torture, graphic depiction of violence, heavy allusion to smut, obsessive behavior, possessive!lovers, angst and horror. Inspired by the song The Things I Do For Love by Bludnymph.

Words: 1.3 K

Notes:

✞ 0 proofreading, it's also prolly bad written but it's just a little something I write for fun.

✞ Heaven in Reader in the ongoing Arthur x You series Heaven in Your Eyes.

PREVIOUS PART

Six months ago.

She hasn't stopped crying since they came back from the doctor's office. With his long and bony fingers lost in her wild silver mane, Arthur gently massages his wife's scalp in a desperate attempt to chase her troubles away.

"It's goin' to be okay, love." His usually loud baritone voice had turned into a tender hush. Gathering all his protective nature to remain the reassuring one, he presses a kiss on top of her head,

"No, it's not! What's wrong with me?!" She roars through her sobs, her fists weakly hitting Arthur's chest in frustration as her pain blends with a self-targeted rage. Usually, Heaven Shelby is not the emotive kind — quite the opposite, the young French girl's tears were as scarce as the most precious stones, only falling from her aquamarine eyes when the situation was truly catastrophic. Arthur himself could hold count of the few times she cried on a single hand. Yet, she seems unable to stop, her face hidden in the crook of her husband's neck and her salty tears dampening the fabric of his shirt.

"Don't fucking say there's someth' wrong with ya." Trying his best to remain gentle, Arthur shifts a little before cupping her doll face and then forces her to face his stern steel-blue eyes. The look she gave him, filled with inconsolable sorrow, broke his heart into pieces.

How he hates watching her in pain — it makes him feel powerless and boiling from the inside because, this time, there is literally nothing he can do to fix it. Nothing his fists can destroy, nothing his kisses can heal. All he has is words, and God knew how bad he is with them. "I don't care if ya can't have a baby, what matters is you. Only you." Still, he tried, wiping her tears and the remnant of her mascara with a soft caress from his thumbs. “Please stop crying…”

"But you've always wanted to be a father." She said through gritted teeth, her fleshy lower lip trembling and her eyes overflowing once again as she fought against another wave of uncontrollable sadness, "The night of our wedding I promised I'll give you a family and look at me! Look at me Arthur! I can't even be pregnant! This is... This is fucking unfair..." Her voice cracked. Unfair that John could spawn a whole football team. Unfair that Tommy got Grace's pregnant after fucking her only once when she came back from America while she couldn’t for the life of hers. Arthur let out a long exhale through his nostrils before wrapping his arms around her waist again, forehead pressed against forehead and eyes locked together in a tender embrace.

"Listen, little one. I don't care about babies. Don't care about anything in all this fucking world as long as you're by my side. If you can't have children and wanna grieve about it well it’s fine with me, but if you do want one we'll find a way. I promise we’ll find a way.”

"Arthur told me about you." No matter how patient and calmly she expresses herself, you can't help but feel each of her words like painful razor blades.

Discreetly behind the bar, your grip clenches around the wooden counter for you are convinced your legs wouldn't handle your weight if you let go of it. "Made me curious about this new pretty barmaid, even though the last one ended up dead and cold. Gun wounds in the chest area are pretty deadly. I truly hope you'll last longer."

As you stand there, eyes wide open and face dropping a few shades paler, an overwhelming wave of terror crashes through your body and leaves you petrified. Every muscle tenses, locking you in place as your heart pounds furiously in your chest. You don't know what it is about her — the frozen beauty, the frightening discourse, or the faulty contact in her eyes when she smiles — but it made cold sweat trickle down your spine. . "Oh, eeerr... I—" You try to speak but your brain just doesn't cooperate and your breath remains stuck in your throat. All the confidence you've built these past few weeks is destroyed in one batting of her doe lashes.

She notices it.

Hell, you're so obvious that everybody does.

"Hey," She says, her creepy smile withering and the ice of her iris melting, "I was just messing with you, little Lamb." Nimble, she leans over the bar and reaches for your face, her sly fingers offering you the most gentle caress you've ever felt grazing your skin. Her flesh is cold, smooth like marble, but despite everything the physical contact sends warmth into your soul, and in consequences your body quickly retrieves its ability to move, "I'm sorry, I knew I was terrible at making friends but not that much." The white-haired doll winks before stepping back to give you more space to breath, concluding her sentence with a little candid chuckle.

"Oh no, it's my bad!" You quickly replied, a sense of utter guilt washing over you for having thought she was being a bitch by trying to scare you, "I haven't got much sleep lately and it makes me quite sensitive. You've done nothing wrong." With a grateful exhale, you close your eyes briefly, savoring the sensation of safety as well as the fragrances of her refined perfume that envelop you. A shy smile finally enlightens your face.

"I wish I'd look as pretty as you when I'm sleep-deprived but unfortunately, I turn into a goblin when I don't have my beauty sleep." Her joke sweeps away the remaining tension and snatches genuine amused laughter from you. Heaven finally offers you one last smile before making her way to Arthur, who was sitting further, far too busy talking with John and Finn.

"Hey! Your glass of wine!" You call her.

"It's yours! Cheers, babe." She replies cheerfully, almost singing as she leaves your side.

You've tried to hate her, you’ve really tried, but you couldn't.

She didn’t make it easy either.

During the same evening, each time you came to the Shelby table to refill their glasses, you ended up quickly distracted from the pain of seeing her all snuggled up against Arthur's chest by how kind and bubbly she was when you were around. Always complimenting you and eager to chat with you — little insignificant and transparent you. So much that a part of you felt horrible at the thought that you have been flirting and planning to get involved with her husband. When they left the pub late at night -or rather early in the morning-, you found a ridiculous amount of money on the table, and under those banknotes was a little bracelet made of daisies, their stems carefully intertwined together by skilled fingers.

Did you wear it? Of course, it was made with love.

In the days that followed this unexpected meeting, Arthur's wife came to the Garrison and always left a homemade something for you to eat since you had told her that you struggled with eating more than one meal a day due to your financial problems. The food wasn't just good, it was certainly the most delicious dishes you had ever tasted. France, they say, has one of the finest gastronomy in the world and you learned the veracity of this statement the best way. It didn't take long for both of you to become friends first, then inseparable after some time.

Alongside this very unexpected friendship, Arthur's demeanor toward you hadn't changed the slightest — which didn't help forgetting about him. Every slight touch, every smile, and every word exchanged made your heart race in your chest the same as before, if not faster.

Lost and torn by the conflicting feelings of a friendship you genuinely cherished and your growing affection for your best friend's husband, you felt like your own reflection in the mirror was judging you. But if there was something you weren’t it was wicked.

Maybe that was why this battle between desire and loyalty had led you to stutter the following statement to the white-haired and crystal-eyed angel:

"Heaven, I'm so sorry. I think I am in love with Arthur."

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia0000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @justrainandcoffee @kishie8 @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @cjarbo @rysko @red-riding-wood

[wishcamper]

KILLING AMREN

Here is my submission for @nestaarcheronweek 2024!

The prompt “Nesta killing Amren” won my poll, so here is the result! I love the show Killing Eve and thought it would be fun to give them a sort of Eve/Villanelle dynamic.

CW: murder, gore, violence, major character death

Read on ao3 or after the cut!

The hours, the long, grueling hours Nesta had spent trying to connect to her power, the pain, the disgust, all of it amounted to nothing. She’d often wondered if Amren simply wanted to drain her dry, if the fire disturbed the female so deeply she’d do anything to get rid of it even if that meant putting herself in danger of the ricochet.

But there were other times, times when Amren looked at her sidelong with an almost lustful gleam in those silver eyes. As If Nesta’s power were a thing of wonder, terrible and beautiful to behold, and Nesta herself was a goddess reborn. It wasn’t sexual, she didn’t think, but there was something possessive about it, an entitlement that made Nesta feel like she was twelve years old on display in her mother’s parlor.

So shock was not among her emotions when she found Amren in the vault below the Moonstone Palace staring hungrily at the crown of the Dread Trove. Its golden spires glowed in the dim faelights and bounced off the female’s face, casting her in a sickly yellow.

“Lady Death.”

“Amren.”

Nesta heard her own voice echo in the vast chamber, the air cool and smelling of iron. Her power leapt at the sight of the crown but she willed it down with the slow, measured breaths that were always her anchor. 

She had to admire Rhysand’s flair for the dramatics - in the middle of the emptiness, Amren looked every bit the scheming villain when she sneered, a red-taloned hand still hovering over the wards surrounding the crown atop a small stone pedestal. “We both know you haven’t the guts to kill me, girl.”

“Is that what this will come to? Only if you insist.” Nesta tried to school her expression, desperate not to let Amren see how fucking scared she was. In the years since she’d gone into the Cauldron, the female had delved into darker forms of magic that had caused a rift between herself and the High Lord. There were whisperings of horrid rituals, haunting incantations. No one knew anymore what she was capable of.

“Let me keep the crown and I’ll set you free.” Amren grinned with all her teeth then, and half-hidden in the shadows she looked like a nightmare come to life. “Think of what we could do together. How we could rule. You’d never be subject to another’s power again.”

A deep sadness hit Nesta then, to think of those days they’d communed in their grief after the war. Back then, Amren was the only person beside her sisters who understood how it felt to be completely altered. But while Nesta had reached toward hope, toward her friends and Cassian, Amren had fallen further into bitterness and cynicism, her more vicious instincts returning with every passing year.

So Nesta knew the lie the moment she heard it. Because Amren craved the blood, craved the violence. Could never champion peace for long.

“Though I'd be subject to your power, I take it.”

Amren waved a hand, as if it were merely semantics. The gesture cast gruesome shadows along the walls, and Nesta shivered as she remembered the creatures in the cells below. “You need someone willing to do your dirty work. Unless you’re ready to sully your own hands.”

“No more killing, Amren.”

“Your sanctimony sickens me.” The female curled a lip, silver eyes flashing in the gloom. Nesta sucked in a breath, remembering how Amren had threatened to lock her in the Prison to protect the rest of Prythian, the poison she'd whispered in the High Lord's ear. Perhaps her former friend had wanted to eliminate anyone who could check her.

“I can’t let you take the crown,” Nesta said softly, on the edge of both tears and blinding rage. She felt her power morph into a dagger in her hand, the hilt shuddering in anticipation of her will, ready to strike wherever she intended it. The promise to herself - no more killing, never again - hung in the air between them, waiting to be shattered.

Amren snarled and raised her arm high, and for a moment Nesta feared she’d have to throw the knife to stop her speaking a spell. But Amren paused, as if sensing herself cornered. And for the strangest moment Nesta thought she saw a flash of regret in Amren’s eyes, a deep longing for that closeness they’d shared over bottles of Rhysand’s expensive wine back when Nesta still drank.

Without another word, she took a step backward and vanished.

In the following year they found no clue of her whereabouts, no hint of where she’d disappeared to, if she was even alive.

And then the killings began.

—

It took three murders to find the pattern, and only one more to realize it was Amren.

They tracked her for decades, losing her for years at a time before the trail would surface again. At all the scenes there was a single fae victim, drained of both magic and blood. But she never killed the same way twice, unveiling an array of gruesomely creative murders that carried a signature of her somewhere, an imprint of the cruelty that was uniquely hers.

Rhys was convinced she was taunting them. Nesta knew better. 

Amren was bored.

Nesta could see the soul-crushing malaise in the corrupt governor crushed to death under a pile of coin, the vain heiress felled by poisoned cosmetics. Amren had even once committed a murder in plain sight in the streets of Adriata, onlookers believing the drowning male was a performer and not her latest vigilante target, for the crime of hoarding water in a drought.

Varian went into hiding for years after that one. It didn’t help in the end, his heart cut out and spiked through the long dining table in his secret estate in Spring. There was a bite taken out of it, the teeth marks small and delicate.

It was all so obvious , Nesta thought, the cliche premises held up by a flashy presentation. Amren was trying to prove a point, trying to show them violence could be a tool for good, however perverted her sense of justice. Some people deserve to die, she seemed to say, and some people deserve to kill.

Always, Amren left something for Nesta. Sometimes it was a small token, her favorite flower (lilacs), a tin of her preferred tea (Valerian root). Sometimes it was the way she staged the crime scene, the careful tilt of a horned male’s head to cast a beastly shadow in the shape of a crown. On Nesta’s birthday one year she beheaded an aged Tomas Mandray, leaving a single scarlet kiss on a handkerchief clutched in his withered fist.

Cassian hated it. Hated Nesta’s continued participation in the investigation, even during the years the trail ran cold. It almost made her quit on several occasions, unable to take the pure terror and devastation on her husband’s face every time she returned to the field. But even as their life became quiet and serene, tucked away on a wooded island near the border of Day and Dawn, Nesta felt haunted by Amren’s freedom, knowing with all her being that she was the only one capable of stopping this.

The only one with a power Amren respected, even feared. 

Rhysand’s sigh was heavy as he crouched over the latest victim, a notorious Velaris loan shark suffocated in the safe where he kept his ill-gotten riches. The rest of his shop was pristine, the jewels and precious metals glittering atop black velvet in their glass cases. Flaunting her restraint, Nesta thought.

“She was in our fucking city,” Rhys said grimly. “We should’ve killed her when we had the chance.”

“You mean I should’ve?” Nesta asked, though she already knew the answer.

In the debrief after Amren’s disappearance, Nesta expected Rhysand’s fury for not stopping her. Her brother-in-law had surprised her by retreating within himself completely, taking every crime that followed as a personal failing. She’d been even more surprised when the incident brought them closer, when he opened up to her about the burden of his power, his fears of being corrupted.

“No,” he answered as he straightened, his dark brows drawn together. “I always knew who Amren was. I thought I could temper her worst instincts by showing her the benefits of a moral life. These deaths are mine to bear.”

Nesta spotted the token at last, tucked into the male’s chest pocket. She bent to pluck out a small slip of paper with a single word in a spidery hand.

Well?

“We won’t find her unless she wants us to,” she said as they exited the shop. Rhys stuffed his hands in his pockets against the chill. 

“I believe you’re right.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and she knew from their late-night commiserations that his magic was pressing at him, begging to be released. “I’m just afraid of what it means when she wants to be found.”

—

Nesta winnowed home exhausted and discouraged after sharing a quiet dinner with her sister and nephew. Rhys wasn't up to company, and Nyx had turned into a somewhat anxious young male as his parents dealt with their trauma at last. He benefited from another stabilizing presence when one of them was struggling, and that was worth delaying her desire for a bath and a cuddle with Malka once she got home.

But the cat was nowhere to be found when Nesta deposited her coat on the hook by the door, the cabin hushed and tense as if holding in a breath. She rounded the corner to the kitchen and froze to see Amren sitting at her table, her face cast in shadow in the faelights.

“Cassian will be home any moment,” Nesta said, willing strength into her voice despite the trembling in her legs. Her mind was cascading with thoughts of how to get Amren to surrender, how to get out of this alive, Rhysand’s words echoing. The female rolled her eyes. 

“Then we best talk before the dog returns.”

She looked distorted, like her edges were less solid than they used to be. A streak in the front of her hair was now a pure white, the pupils of her eyes turned to snakelike slits.

“Are you here to kill me?” Nesta asked, and Amren looked even more exasperated.

“Now where would be the fun in that? I have a proposition for you.” She gestured toward the chair opposite her. Nesta found herself sitting even as she said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I think you’ll reconsider.”

“I promise you, I won’t.”

“Elain lives in Day now, doesn’t she?” Amren smiled then, and Nesta suppressed a shuddered at the pointed edges of her teeth. “I hear she often forages alone, while her mate is otherwise occupied.”

Nesta flushed with rage, gripping the edge of the scrubbed wood table. “If you ever come near my family, I’ll fucking kill you.” She felt the power roll under her skin, setting her eyes ablaze.

“There it is,” Amren murmured, and the shame burned in Nesta's stomach at the temptation to destroy. “You say you’ll kill me? Do it.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you, if I became a monster like you. Then you wouldn’t be alone.”

“Saint Nesta, who killed a king and then swore off it forever,” she purred, and Nesta was tired of playing this game, tired of dancing around each other. "Such a waste. I think your mother was right after all."

“What do you want, Amren?”

“For you to join me.” 

Nesta blinked slowly, still reeling. The air felt thick around them, the strings of fate charged and humming. She remembered that promise from the crown's vault, how her magic still craved liberation.

“We could be free,” Amren said, her voice seductive. “Your power could be free. You could rule as you should, with me by your side. High Queen.”

As if in answer, Nesta felt her power swirl, a serpent charmed by the sorceress' song to reach across space in her mind to retrieve the crown. Yet she knew in that untouched part of her, the part that resisted glamour, the corruption of power, that she wouldn't be the one wearing the it. Nesta scowled. “You’re lying, You’d cross me the moment I turned my back.”

“How can I convince you of my sincerity, girl?”

A silence hung between them, and in her mind Nesta saw a flicker of a night Amren confessed relief at the loss of her powers. The soft press of a small hand gripping hers.

“Stop.”

Amren squinted, scrutinizing her. “If I do, will you consider my offer?”

“Yes.”

A boom of wings sounded above, and fear jolted through Nesta’s body, rushing her back to reality. Cassian would attack on sight and she couldn’t risk it, not knowing what dark magic had turned Amren’s skin so sallow, made her fingers so long and spidery. She squared off with the female, looking her directly in those eerie, catlike eyes.

“Ten years. No murders. Feed your horrid appetite some other way. If you can make it that long without harming anyone, I’ll join you. For the rest of your life.”

Amren squinted before giving a curt nod. “Deal.”

Nesta felt the bargain tattoo burn the skin of her scalp, hidden beneath her hair in the path of the coronet that wound around her head. A cursed crown for a wretched queen. She closed her eyes against the pain, and by the time she opened them, Amren was gone and Cassian was landing on the upper deck, shaking the snow off his wings.

She pounced on him the moment he descended, crushing her mouth against his with a desperation she’d only felt when they had first fallen together, when every touch seemed like it could be the last. He met her enthusiastically, believing his wife was just particularly happy to have him home today. Nesta buried the secret deep within her heart, only let herself sob in the bath after he was soundly sleeping.

—

Rhysand remained on alert for the first few years, unconvinced by Nesta’s assurances that Amren was subdued. She’d spun a story that the dark sorceress had fled to the continent and been imprisoned by one of the Jarls of Valhallen, which had worked well enough. Only Azriel looked at her a little too long, though he seemed just as glad to be rid of their exiled former second as anyone.

The countdown to the end of the decade was easy to ignore most days, and there were stretches when Nesta forgot it altogether. But inevitably a curl of ink would peek through when she brushed her hair and she’d remember all over again, the secret pressing beneath her skin, fighting to get out.

As the date loomed, Nesta found herself wanting to move slowly, to savor every bite of Elain���s freshly baked bread, every one of Cassian’s sweeping hugs and Gwyn’s laughs. Emerie kept asking if she was pregnant, and she almost wished she still drank to make it clear a child was nowhere in their plans anytime soon.

With days left, Nesta felt the fear creep in at last. Each deep, even breath felt borrowed as days became hours.

Sunrise was approaching when the knock came at the door. They’d gone several rounds in the night, Nesta feeling shaky and desperate for as much her husband as she could hold onto. She’d lain wide awake after he passed out the last time, watching the shadows shift as the full moon drifted across the sky.

“I’ve got it, love,” Nesta said softly when Cassian stirred, and he gave an indiscernible, sleep-thick mumble before turning over and settling once more. Her dread grew as she rose from bed and approached the door, knowing what was on the other side. Who. She swung it open.

Amren was near unrecognizable. Hair patchy and thin, her face had a waxy quality to it as if she’d rearranged her features several times. There was a slight sulfur smell in the air, and the purple veins in her hands stood out starkly against her pale skin when Amren opened her arms wide.

“I made it,” she said, and Nesta was startled by how rattly her voice sounded, how easily it was swallowed by the wind from the sea.

“Well done.”

It was like handling a child, she thought, the way Amren smiled widely at the praise.

“Will you keep your word, Nesta Archeron?”

“You know I will.” Nesta pressed her lips together, trying to hold back her tears. She’d had a lot of time to think about this moment, but now that it was here, she didn’t know if she had the fortitude to follow through. “I just need to say goodbye.”

Nesta kissed Cassian’s brow, gathering all her strength to leave him slumbering peacefully. She desperately wanted to wake him just to see those hazel eyes, but the Mother gave her a different kindness instead. He smiled in his sleep, her name on his lips, her face in his dreams.

Amren was waiting near the bluff’s edge overlooking the small bay and the village below. She turned as Nesta approached, a flicker in those silver eyes, her deep green cloak flapping about her frail body. Nesta drew herself up to full height, reached across space in her mind for the crown. Amren’s eyes glittered when it flickered into being in Nesta’s hands.

“My queen,” she said, smirking, then bent on one knee and bowed her head to receive her prize. 

So she didn’t see when the false crown reformed into a silver dagger in Nesta’s raised hands. Didn’t see the silver tears that fell from Nesta’s eyes, didn’t hear the sob she couldn‘t suppress over the roar of the sea. 

The blade sunk into the base of her neck, that beautiful death power draining her life. Nesta forced herself to look as Amren jerked her head back in pain, fell to her knees to guide the female gently to the grass. She could see it all on Amren’s face, the disbelief, the rage, the fear, could feel that rending in her soul, her blood. 

But they’d both died before. Knew there was nothing to fear, in the end. And there, in the final flash of her silver eyes, the pupils round - relief.

Nesta built a small pyre from their stores in the woodshed. As the sun crested the horizon she stood vigil as Amren left their world just as she’d entered it, star-bright and burning.

[theyanderespecialist]

Base Yandere Sekido (Aka Anger Emotion Clone Of Upper-Rank Moon 4) Headcanons (Demon Slayer)

[Hello, My Sexy Muffins! I am here with a new chapter! I am here with another Demon Slayer Character! This one is the anger Emotion Clone of Upper-Rank Moon 4 Sekido! I hope that you enjoy this chapter here!] 

(Disclaimer: Sekido, The Anger Emotion Clone of The Upper-Rank Moon 4 Is not yandere in canon! This is just for fun and not to be taken seriously at all! Simping for fictional characters and yanderes is fine! Just do not be illegal or gross about it, you know who you are, you dirty flaky biscuits! Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life! Also, remember to separate fiction from reality and headcanon from canon!) 

-Base Yandere Headcanons With Sekido, The Anger Emotion Clone of Upper-Rank Moon 4 From Demon Slayer- 

.Sekido is the embodiment of the main body's anger. A Full-on personification of his anger. 

.Sekido is in a constant state of vexation, irritation, and rage.  .There is only one person who can mellow him out and that is you.  .Somehow you were the one to calm his storm of rage, to at least a degree! 

.He is still very angry with rivals and becomes irritated by them easily. 

.The anger he has in him is not put on you but more so it is put on everyone that takes your attention away from him. 

.He is a bit of a greedy yandere in which he does not want to share you, the idea of sharing you pisses him off greatly. 

.Though he could MAYBE Share you with the other emotion clones. 

.But That is a BIG Maybe!

.He is the one that takes the lead a lot and is not wrathful with how he leads. 

.Even though he is an angry emotion he still can be collected and to make the choices that are best for him and you. 

.If he did share you with the emotions he would be the one to keep the others in line. 

.Being the only one to have you in this he actually can keep you in line as well.  

.He asserts the right type of control and power over you so that he does not even have to yell to keep you in line.  .He adores you and loves that you make him calm down and feel anything other than anger! 

.It puts his soul at ease, but it also makes him extremely possessive and obsessive for you. 

.He also gets really aggressive as a yandere but all that aggression is up to anyone who steals you from him. 

.If someone was to hurt you he would let ALL His rage out on them and slaughter them for daring to harm you. 

.He would take great pleasure in it as he is a bit sadistic as well. 

.What he takes even more pleasure in is torturing his rivals.  .Someone who had hurt you had the impulsive crime that he was angry and the murder was a vengeful crime. 

.With Rivals he takes the control he has and the tactical mind to slowly break the rival and to torture them for months on end. 

.He would enjoy it so much that he would know his rival suffered for trying to take you from him! 

.He melts into you though, falling for you head over heels and knowing that you were the one for him.  .He is protective and tries his best to be soft with you. 

.He though is very firm and does his best to keep you in line, so that you do not leave him. 

.He is a yandere that does not put his anger on you, so he rarely blames you for anything. 

.He does sometimes get jealous and says that you are trying to make men and women fall for you. 

.Lashing out and saying you think that you can leave him. 

.He would never hurt you on purpose the most he does is grab you and leave bruises. 

.May that be from kissing you too hard, grabbing you by your wrists, or pinning you into the bed and or wall. 

.He is also into sexual punishments from spanking and stimulation pleasure. Where he overwhelms your body with pleasure. 

.He shows satisfaction when you finally submit to him so he can have you as his good little darling. 

.He also loves seeing his rivals back up and try and backtrack, realizing that they have fucked up.  .He is also a type to think of a solution and to think before he acts. So he can get you to agree to be his, at least a little bit better than the others would. 

.Controlling and firm are good ways to describe him as a yandere!

.He would confess to you, by pinning you up against the wall and kissing you. 

.He does not play the will they won't they, he is going to show you how he feels and give you no choice in the matter. 

.You are his and his alone, do as he says and be his! 

.If you accept his love you can expect to be thrown over his shoulder. He is going to find the closest place to make love to you and show you that you belong to him. 

.You say no? he is going to knock you out and kidnap you, keeping you tied up, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and earplugs put in! 

.He will make you dependent on him and you can not use almost any of your senses and you are helpless to him. 

.He would NOT take advantage of you. 

.But he is going to make you dependent on him, and then once that stage is done he will give you your hearing back! .This way he can explain why he is doing this and that he loves you, further manipulating you. 

.He then would give you your sight back so you can see him and learn that he is doing this all for you. 

.Then your voice, and lastly your freedom to move. 

.At this point he has broken you, or you would not be at this point. 

.He had planned it all out and he knew that it was not the best thing to do. 

.But when he said he would do anything to be with you, and for you to be his, that he was not going to give you up in any way or form. 

.You are now his and he will reward you by making love with you, you will be his sweet darling. 

.He will turn you into a demon at some point. 

.That way you will never ever be able to leave him, and you will stay by his side. 

.Though he might have turned you into a demon before confessing to you. 

.It is a toss-up if he would have done that or not! 

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Another chapter is done! I hope you all enjoyed this, and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins!] 

[spikeface]

Hey friend! A little random question just to pop into your ask box with

Thoughts on the following random ships? Lydia/Malia

Lydia/Kira

Erica/Theo/Isaac

Erica/Allison

Peter/Deucalion

Lydia/Cora

Thank you for the ask, kind anon!

Erica/Allison - One of my fave fave femslash ships! It's got what I think is the perfect enemies-to-lovers dynamic where the characters are good foils for each other. Both were seduced into becoming a pawn for a leader who is exploiting them--harassing Allison is part of Erica's initial power trip, and I love that we can start to see Allison's darker elements when she gloats after stopping Erica from killing Lydia. I really, really wish Erica had survived into s3, because I think her dynamic with Allison would have been so amazing now that both of them have come back, and each of them reckoning with what they did to each other, now that they want to be different. A raging Erica would have been a really interesting pair with 3a Allison, who takes a lot more effort to be provoked into a fight.

Lydia/Malia - I think I prefer these two as friends more, but I do really like their dynamic. They're different enough that their s6 dynamic feels like buddy cops, which I really enjoy.

Lydia/Kira - Very underrated ship! I definitely think Lydia develops possessive weirdgirl feelings about Kira, starting with her faint wariness when Kira arrives. If she's instantly possessive of Allison in the pilot, she seems to take a bit more time to warm up to Kira, but then becomes almost casually flirtatious with things like "you're a vixen," and I like that the two of them get to talk about 4x01 together. I wish they spent more time together, though, and I definitely wish we knew more about what Kira thinks of Lydia. I get the impression that Lydia awes her a little bit, given how shocked she is to find out that Lydia used to pretend to be dumb, but I would have killed for more.

Lydia/Cora - A femslash fandom classic for a reason, though I support it passively more than actively. I'm a sucker for their initial snarking at each other, and do like when Cora, for all her bark, is instantly protective of Lydia, who seems interested, almost despite herself, in Cora's aggressiveness.

Erica/Theo/Isaac - Erica/Isaac for sure, but I can't see either of them with Theo. I can see Erica initially being interested in Theo--his flirting might seem fun and harmless, and I think she'd be a bit charmed by his sleaziness in the way she clearly is by Isaac's--but that would only make her rage post-betrayal bigger. Theo exploits his pack even worse than Derek exploited his, so I can't see her forgiving that anytime soon.

As for Isaac? We saw how he felt about the twins: he never stops trying to punch them and fight them and root for their death, and even in 3b he's still trying to murder them for what they did to him, Erica, and Boyd. The guy who'd killed Scott? He'd never forgive that. He wouldn't piss on Theo if the guy was on fire.

Peter/Deucalion - This one shows up not infrequently in fic and honestly I don't know why. Deucalion canonically thinks the stuff Peter does is "boring," and I can't see Peter "Revenge" Hale ever understanding or respecting the fact that Deucalion became obsessive about creating the perfect pack rather than, say, ripping Gerard's eyes out with his claws. Their contempt is dismissive, which is hard to ship.

[fandomrulesall-blog]

you can do hcs where klaus mikaelson discovers that you are his mate after unleashing his hybrid curse (you are part of elena's group)

Finding out you're THE hybrids mate

You didn't really want to be in the whole murdering Klaus plan because while you love Elena, you just really didn't want to die. Facing the oldest vampire just really didn't sound like a good survival tactic.

The only reason you even knew about the plan was your sister Bonnie. She thought if you used your magic together you could kill him but again you chose life.

You decided that while you weren't going to help them defeat Klaus and save Elena you should at least do some recon; so you head to Alarics house to try and find some dirt on the hybrid.

You definitely weren't expecting to find Katherine but once you came in she decided to keep you there hoping that Klaus would appreciate her "loyalty"

You spent two days with the she devil herself and while she couldn't compel you to leave as you were a witch, you knew you weren't strong enough to get her down to leave. You really wished gran had spent more time teaching you instead of Bonnie.

When Klaus arrived you couldn't help but notice that although terrifying he did look rather handsome especially grinning like he was.

It didn't take him long to notice you and when your eyes met you swore time stopped.

He looked in awe

Why was he looking at you like that?

Elijah knew at once what was happening and hoped his brother didn't do anything rash, perhaps you could be his salvation.

Klaus snapped out of his trance before ushering you into another room not wanting to lose you before he could even explain.

You didn't know what was going on until he came in the room and asked you to go on a road trip with him and for the sake of survival you agreed.

Despite the nature of your trip, Klaus actually took little detours to try and make it fun for you.

Museums, art exhibits, mini golf, anything that seemed to catch your eye he stopped and you couldn't understand why but you wouldn't ask.

He starts asking questions about your life both to you and to Stefan. He wants to know exactly who you are.

After the first group of hybrids fail Klaus stops making these little detours and instead focuses all his rage on finding out why it didn't work.

You wait until Stefans away before asking why you're there and he explains everything.

Did you even believe in soul mates? You weren't sure but he did seem so genuine and you yourself could feel the pull to him so you decide to give him a chance.

After your talk he seems more possessive of you than before, growling when Stefan walked to close. Holding onto your hand at every passerbys glance. And to your surprise you really didn't mind it at all.

You learned a lot about Klaus before you returned to Mystic Falls and in that time you decided he wasn't all that bad. Paranoid? Yes. Protective? Absolutely. But that was in his nature, he was a wolf after all. And you weren't afraid of him anymore.

You'd been playing the game of survival since you realized supernatural creatures were real and Klaus, Klaus was your best chance of survival and maybe your best chance of happiness.

[zeciex]

I feel obliged to defend Aemond's rights. Okay, that Daenera is forced to marry, okay that she is in an impossible situation, trapped, caged, surrounded by enemies. If you separate these things, the one she is marrying is Aemond, the person she loves, and ok she now sees him as a monster, but deep inside her, deep down in her heart, she knows that Aemond is not a bad choice at all.

Why do you all want to make my boy suffer too much? haha With jealousy and suitors. And he can't do anything about it, I bet if it were the other way around, Daenera would have her claws out at the second, I still remember the only jealousy she had with just the mention of letters and upcoming marriage.

If Aemond only has one supporter, that would be me. I will defend every last one of his war crimes with pride and honor.

I will always defend Aemond as well!! Daenera might be forced into this marriage--but she also knows (begrudgingly) that she needs him, that he is the only one standing between her and utter and complete isolation and misery. That doesn't mean she won't sad/angry having been forced into this position, and it doesn't mean she won't be petty and mean about it because he did kill her brother. But really, if we boil everything down it comes down to that; He killed her brother.

If he hadn't killed Luke and he had returned from Storm's End with the alliance, would she have been mad and made a stank about him betraying her mother and stealing her alliance (the alliance she suffered abuse for)? Yes! But like we saw before Luke's death, while she was angry and petty, she still loved him--there were still some semblance of comfort to be found, she still understood why he has to do these things. And while she would have made some comments about not wanting the marriage, she would have been far more okay and willing to do it because it offered her the protection and power she needs. We'd return to the cat and mouse game again, where they try to one up one another/try to get the other to 'chicken out' and reveal how much they really care for one another.

But him killing Luke is what makes her this angry, this devastated, this cold towards him--he killed her brother, murdered him, and he was celebrated for it. And still, her heart loves him even as she tries not to, even as she buries it beneath her rage and resentment and grief. And that love fills her with shame and guilt, which only furthers her anger and resentment. And so we get Daenera lashing out and trying to really hurt Aemond as he has hurt her. And Aemond, like a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of pain, accepts it, even if he sometimes bites back.

We'll come to see that while Daenera rages and is cruel towards him within the first many chapters of Act 1, it is really just her lashing out in grief and anger--as he has done before. She wants him to suffer and be miserable, and she makes him. But she'll also come to realize again that she needs him, it will just take her getting over her pride and stubbornness to do so. It does help, however, that Aemond tries to give her some choices back to her.

Aemond will suffer some jealousy and some very very blue balls. But my god is it fun to see him suffer and falter and just be really possessive over HIS wife. And yeah, if it was the other way around, Daenera would likely stage a few accidents lol We saw how she handled him teasing her with marrying a Baratheon girl or her thinking he was enjoying himself at the brothel. Girl is no better. Which really just makes her sexually torturing him (the good kind) a double edged sword because it is torturing herself AND Aemond can also play along. Those pregnancy hormones are really working against her--are really needling at her pride and stubbornness.

You are not Aemond's only defender. We can defend him together, hand in unlovable (lovable) hand. <3

[imsorryimlate]

Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer.

(vol. III, chapter 2)

obviously victor’s horror and anxiety are palpable, but it’s also quite fun (and cute) to imagine him glued to clerval’s back and clerval just going along with it

[m34gs]

Saw AU ask time! I know for our fics all the Twisted Wonderland housewardens are Jigsaw apprentices, but if they weren't...

Which dorms would remain Jigsaw apprentices and which would be part of the law enforcement? Why?

This is such a fun concept! I love it. Also, asking me to make an AU of our AU? AU-ception? Mwahahahahaha. So basically, I treated this as "everything is the same except they have a bit more trust/faith in the ability of the law".

Took me a while to think on my answers, but here is what I think:

Heartslaybul:

Law enforcement. And yes, it's because of Riddle's obsession with following rules. See, to me, there's two ways it can go for Riddle: he "learns his lesson" from the trap and agrees with it (which will happen in our current au, though I won't go into details so I don't spoil my plans for his trap flash-backs), OR he survives and is filled with so much seething rage that he dedicates his life to finding and destroying Jigsaw and all the apprentices. Which he decides he should do by pursuing a career in law because he wants to make sure the entirety of the punishment rests on them and he suffers no further repercussions. Ace and Deuce would probably follow him loyally, and Cater would make an interesting private detective in my mind. I do think if Riddle chose the side of the law rather than the side of murder, Trey might have actually joined him and the others, instead of just being distanced from the murders and turning a blind eye.

Savanaclaw:

Law enforcement. As it stands right now, in the Savanaclaw murder fic I kind of revealed part of Leona's motive for joining Jigsaw was to protect Ruggie (because in their trap, I made Ruggie suffer the most...sorry, but if Ruggie didn't want that then I guess he shouldn't have become my favourite Savanaclaw member...). I think if there was a guarantee of Ruggie's safety without compromising his freedom, Leona would grab it and I could see him turning to law enforcement as the way to secure this. Jack is easily convinced to follow the law. Ruggie may be ok with underhanded means, but he wouldn't directly oppose Leona in this matter, and I think considering he was in the trap he would be easy to persuade to join the side of the law.

Octavinelle:

Murder. Let's be real. These three? Honestly if John didn't get to them first they probably would have started murdering on their own at some point. (Jade would have for sure.) Let's just be glad they're being directed in a way so as to try and use their scary mafia-like problem-solving for the "greater good". Sort of.

Scarabia:

Law enforcement. Kalim doesn't like the murders even in our actual au. If we gave him more of an option, he would turn to law enforcement. Jamil would be the one more likely to turn to the murder. However, he can't so boldly oppose Kalim and there's no way he'd be able to keep it a secret without going crazy, and considering what's happened in the past he will not be risking overblotting again. Though, if we wanna entertain that for a moment: Jamil is the only one I could think of who might think about committing murder when his housewarden is on the side of the law. I doubt he would actually join Jigsaw without Kalim, though.

Pomefiore:

Law enforcement. Vil may have it in him to try and murder (at least, in regard to Neige), but he also has An Image. One that he has worked damn hard to build up. He also is in possession of a conscience and a rather strict moral code (see book 6 where he scolds Rook for abandoning his duties before he tells him that personally he is still glad he came for him). I think that if he had the choice between murder and law enforcement, he'd try his best to work within the law. (not that we gave him that choice...) Rook isn't going to go against his beloved Vil in such a brazen way, and I don't think murder would actually be Epel's first choice either.

Ignihyde:

Murder. Idia may try his best to fit in for the people he cares about, but for average joe's on the street who behave nasty toward others? Why would he give a fuck if they died? Plus, while he's got self-esteem issues, he also has a massive fucking ego when it comes to tech and games. He's not gonna give up the chance to experience the thrill and power trip from having someone trapped in a device of his own design. Also, he really strikes me as the type to be like "well, it was done to me so I'll pass it on because I'm still bitter and pissed over having experienced this misfortune" (I still adore him though). Ortho wouldn't dream of trying to stop him. Oh, and I think Idia is arrogant enough that he would think it's impossible for anyone to actually catch him.

Diasomnia:

Murder. We already established why Malleus's motive is really different from everyone else's. He's not gonna turn to the law because the law hasn't been able to stop Jigsaw yet, and also Jigsaw is literally dealing with people the law either isn't effective in managing or can't catch. Malleus wants both to make this world safer for Yuu and to understand John's logic and methods. He's got curiousity for days. And that's not gonna be satisfied from working within the law. After all, I firmly believe that at some point Lilia would have told him that "experience is the best teacher". Of course the rest of the Diasomnia boys will follow his lead.

Hope you enjoyed this answer! Let me know what you think of the assignments! 💜💜💜💜

[nelyoslegalteam]

Hi hello, here have an excuse to talk about murdoc harfoot-brandybuck of the easterly inn <3

jaz i love you so much you KNOW i have been waiting for someone to send me this EXACT ask. how the FUCK do i explain the character i have been playing for three years now.

so murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn is my player character from my friend group's adventures in middle earth campaign (loving referred to as the mirkwood campaign), gmed by the absolutely wonderful @potatoobsessed999. he's very much still evolving, even as we get closer to the campaign's conclusion, as he absolutely has been over the last three years, but i will attempt to describe him, is he is my absolute favorite of my (like two) tolkien ocs, and may very well be my favorite oc of mine of all time at this point.

murdoc, as his name makes apparent, is a hobbit. he has been raised by his uncles and aunt, a family of upper-class inkeepers, as the heir apparent of the family inn. before i knew anything else about who i wanted him to be, or who he was going to become, murdoc was meant to embody the idea of home. he's creature-comfort, he's hospitality in its purest form, he's the maker of stews and the finder of comfortable places to sleep and the brewer of teas. this is the absolute core of who murdoc is: where he is is his home, and who he's with are his people, and he will do absolutely anything and everything to keep it all safe.

when murdoc was about the hobbit equivalent of a teenager, his more adventurous uncle got it into his head that he too should have a great big adventure just like his drinking buddy and idol bilbo baggins, and up and moved the family inn out of the shire and to a northern corner of mirkwood.

when murdoc was about the hobbit equivalent of, say, a human eighteen-year-old, he began to have extremely disturbing prophetic dreams.

so what do you do when you're a foresighted hobbit in the middle of a famously dangerous forest whose aforementioned foresight has every last bit of you screaming that it is now your responsibility to keep this place and everyone in it safe? you join an adventuring party, serve as an emissary of radagast the brown, have a sort of falling out with radagast the brown over realizing that his boss is evil and nobody believes you yet, adopt the ghost of actual maedhros feanorion (who is possessing your best friend's sword, as one does) as your new dad, and do a bunch of arson and protective rage murder as you develop greater and greater paranoia about whether you will be able to see coming the threats you will need to see in order to keep the people you care about alive!!!!!!

some more fun things about murdoc, in no particular order:

yes the fact that his name is Like That is on purpose. he's a pretentious piece of shit who named himself. his name is extremely reflective of the fact that he is just Like That. (also his partner is a huge nerd who got way into hobbit history around the time murdoc was picking his name and it is just as cute as it is stupid)

languages that murdoc speaks, in the order in which he learned them, include: westron, fucking spider, quenya, and sindarin. he has the most perfect most annoying feanorian accent when speaking in quenya. yes, i rolled to determine this.

(in murdoc's defense, he learned quenya because he wanted maedhros to be able to speak his first language with someone, and it was something to bond over.)

maedhros helped a very afraid and traumatized murdoc begin to interface with his foresight by acting as an anchor point for him while dreaming, to help him develop greater control over what he sees in them and to use his foresight on purpose.

murdoc did use the realization that this meant that he can see maedhros in his dreams as an immediate opportunity to hug him ;w;

murdoc's foresight cannot see nazgûl. anna, my beloved gm, has used this for effect emotional and horrific.

murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn does in fact introduce himself to everyone he meets as "murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn"

this resulted in murdoc being put on the entire-ass council of mirkwood because everyone assumed that this was an important title and the easterly inn must be a small fiefdom

murdoc did not correct anyone about the fact that the easterly inn is very much not a small fiefdom

murdoc has a +13 intimidation, making it his highest stat. i'm not sure what stats our gm gave to @jaz-the-bard for maedhros, but we have talked about it at some point and murdoc's is apparently higher

murdoc has a feat that lets him vanish into thin air. it's not magic or anything. he's extremely not a ringbearer. he's just That sneaky.

has a rivalry with one of The Eagles^tm. over hospitality.

fire motif fire motif fire motif

his primary weapon is an enchanted dwarven bow. he shoots flaming arrows.

lover of a good molotov cocktail to solve all his problems very fast

special interests include teas, cooking, and linguistics!! likes to research all the local plants and come up with tea brews that remind him of people or places, or pair well with certain things. came up with a brew for himself that he only shares with people he trusts and cares deeply for. i do in fact have little snippets for points at which he has shared it with each member of the party.

i did once storyboard an edgy animatic for him to the killers' jenny was a friend of mine. i am still very proud of it, and lament that i cannot animate. or do art at all.

i have been playing this character through a literal global pandemic, the completion of two entire degrees, my first adult job, and literally so much other life stuff. sometimes i think about how long i've had him for and how much he's changed, very organically, in that time, and get entirely too emotional about him tbh.

murdoc operates, i would say, from a very genuine sense of care for others, eclipsed by a rather marked lack of estel. for about the whole three years i've had him, i would say i've felt genuinely none from him, and i did not think it was there.

the last time i played him however, i did.

anyhow!!!!! this post would not be complete without this lovely art of our party - i don't know that the artist we commissioned is on tumblr, but "hey can i share this?" was met with an enthusiastic "go for it!" so!! on top is my boy, and left to right down are the bearer (@thymo-leonta), déorwyn (@shadowkat2000), ríros (@jaz-the-bard, who also plays maedhros), and ioreth (not canon ioreth jdjdndn, whose player is definitely not on tumblr).

anyhow i love my party and this game and my friends and my stupid murder arson hobbit inkeeper boy so so very much <33333

and thank you jaz for literally just giving me an opportunity to talk about him lmao, get you friends who send you asks about your ocs even though they literally know so much about your ocs >:p <33

[sushisocks]

Chapter 43 - The Thrill of Pushing Hope

Sean grits his teeth and shakes his arm carefully to let the alcohol run off properly, breathing through the sting where it’s been poured over his stitched-up wound. 

They’ve been able to scrounge up enough of the stuff that both Sean and Javier should be able to avoid infection, if luck is on their side. Which means Sean is being extra careful in what ways he can, because luck has really not been on their side lately.

Dutch and Bill have gone ahead with Javier, helping him to the boat while Micah’s off in search of the captain. Sean has been left with cleanup duty, gathering together what meager possessions they’ve accumulated in the past few days here. It’s not a whole lot; some food, basic medical supplies, a few extra boxes of bullets. All easily packed into a makeshift bag to be slung over Sean’s shoulder, once he’s finished with his arm.

They don’t have a whole lot of bandages to spare, so Sean’s washed and boiled the scarf Baptiste gave him. It’s had most of the day to hang in the heat, so it’s as dry as it’s gonna get. He wraps his arm gently, but firmly, tucking the loose end in by his elbow. It hurts. He manages.

The process is calming despite the pain, in an odd sense. The artificial peace of it. Standing there, alone in an abandoned makeshift-camp with the promise of passage off this island finally within reach, Sean breathes in, and lets the turmoil of feelings bloom in his chest for a second. 

The kernel of a couple days ago lashes out with oppressive force. 

Anger, fear, and grief all wash into him like a great wave threatening to drown all it touches. It leaves him momentarily breathless before he quickly sucks in more air. Fighting to pull it all back again. 

Some of it goes easily; the grief he’s well-acquainted with at this point. An overarching note that has followed him since he was young, felt thoroughly and freely in pockets of quiet safety and peace. There’s a time and place for it, and it isn’t now. So it washes through him and then recedes, like a wave is supposed to do, and Sean is lucky enough to find that for now, it doesn’t linger. 

The fear is similar, familiar to Sean from the life he’s lived. Like a steady thrum at the base of his spine. Part of the thrill of it all, really, as long as it’s not overwhelming – and even then, Sean’s gotten used to fighting through it. Can’t survive if you don’t. Freezing up from fear in battle is a surefire way of getting killed. So it stays, because it can and it will, clinging onto him like a thin layer of oil. 

It’s the anger which leaves Sean bewildered. He has felt anger before, of course, on behalf of those he loves, protective and fierce and indignant when they’ve been done wrong, angry on behalf of his people at the hands of the English, angry on behalf of his pa murdered in his sleep, angry on behalf of his found family denied freedom and agency. Now though, the anger is just… Raging. An inferno ready to swallow up everything and let Sean go down in a blaze if he allows it. Never has he had it be this all-consuming before, and never has he had to fight to simmer it down quite this much. 

Like the whole world has done him wrong. Personally.

Sean has never been one to linger too long on the negative, focusing on the positives and fun of life instead. Never above the feelings that come with the ups and downs of existence, but also never getting stuck on them. But now it’s like the negative has finally caught up to him after dogging at his heels for weeks, and all it wants is to swallow him up and keep him there. 

And he won’t let himself leave this camp if that’s the case.

He’s seen what it does to people, and it’s really no way to live.

He breathes in. Breathes out. Thinks of getting off this island. Thinks of everyone back home. Thinks of Lenny. The fire recedes. Embers remain, but it’s manageable. An empty calm settles back over him, along with the sparks of joy and hope he usually holds near his heart.

It’s been a rough month, is all. A long month. It’ll be fine once they get back.

He’s so fucking excited to see Lenny and the rest again.

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

“Well, reverend, if I’d known speakin’ to a nun was all you needed, I woulda left you at the steeple of a church the day Dutch brought you to us,” Susan hums with humor in her voice, hands on her hips as she takes in Orville’s stature. 

He certainly seems sober, and in better condition than he was when he left camp a couple days ago. She’d just about gotten a mind to ask Charles or Sadie to go seek him out when he turned back up this afternoon, with a much livelier look to him than she’s seen in a while now. 

“So, what exactly, are you askin’ me to do, here?”

“Take it,” Orville says, holding out the rectangular box for her to grasp, painted to look like a bible. “It has all of it, I made sure. Hide it, throw it out, I don’t care and I don’t want to know. I trust in my renewed faith, but I’d like to avoid temptation where I can help it. Please…"

“Alright, alright,” she sighs, taking the proffered box and looking it over. “I ain’t givin’ it back if you change your mind.”

“That’s my hope, Miss Grimshaw,” he says with a grave expression, offering the box one last look before giving her a determined nod, turning, and leaving her standing there.

“I swear,” she mumbles, shaking her head in exasperation at the box in her hands, before turning and looking over the camp, thinking of where she should stash it. They don’t have much, but she knows every possible configuration of the camp that they can come up with, based on what they do have. As well as every iteration they’ve ever had since she joined them, back when it was just two men and two boys who barely knew how to wash behind their ears. 

“Don’t make it that obvious.”

“You write it then!”

Her gaze is drawn towards the log by the campfire, where Lenny and Sadie are sat hunched over the book Lenny’s been writing on-and-off in the past few days. Sadie is pushing the book back into Lenny’s lap along with a pen, which he seems to be actively fighting while spluttering.

“I didn’t mean it like that! You got nicer handwritin’ than me, if we’re doin’ this angle. My point is just that if we rewrite this part, this way…” 

Sadie leans closer as Lenny pens something down, making a noise of understanding as he finishes the sentence. “I getcha. Alright, how do we do this part, then?”

“I’d have a better idea if I was sure Sean would be the one gettin’ the message, but since he doesn’t know how to read…” A mournful sigh, weary in the way one only gets at a topic where there’s little hope of making headway despite several attempts. “God, I wish he knew how to read.”

Susan huffs in amusement, easily hidden as she makes her way across camp, towards one of the wagons they’ve left just at the edge. Out of the way but ready in case there's a need for them. One contains a hidden compartment, which only she knows about now that Hosea’s gone. With some effort, one of the planks can be skeeved out with a knife, revealing just enough space in the corner for small things that need to be hidden from any prying eye. Like possible bonds still too hot to sell, or in this case, valuable drugs that should be kept out of reach from recovering addicts. 

The bible-box doesn’t fit, and Susan has no qualms about tossing it out into the swamp after emptying its insides into the cubby hole. Once the wagon floor is back in place, she lets herself pause for just a moment, and breathe. 

The past few months have been long and hard, but the loss of Hosea seems to weigh the heaviest amongst it all. She eyes the wooden planks beneath her, reminiscing of the impish grin the man had given her, back when she’d first discovered and shown him the convenient little hiding spot underneath them. A smile familiar to her, as natural to him as mirthful laughter and shrewd eyes.

She closes her eyes against the building pressure behind them. Crying won’t help, or make a difference at this point. She’s done enough of it. There are things that can be done that will make a difference, though. A difference for this camp, this gang, full of people whose lives need what stability she can provide. It doesn’t make up for what she’s lost, what they have all lost, but wallowing is just as likely to kill her at this point as anything else.

A deep inhale and a wet exhale later, and she’s fixing her skirts and her hair to the best of her ability, stepping down from the cover of the carriage and returning to work. 

Or, she would be returning to work, were it not for the fact that the second she hits the road back towards the camp center - marked by the spaced out wooden planks - she hears the unmistakable sound of horse hooves hitting the ground at a leisurely pace behind her.

“Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur’s voice is also an unmistakable sound to her, having heard it pretty much daily for years now. She turns, and sees the man atop his Arabian, named Gooseberry if her memory serves her right. A silly but apt name, she’s thought so since she first heard it, and of course Arthur’s stuck with it.

“Mister Morgan,” she says pleasantly in spite of her slight astonishment at seeing him back so soon. Because proper manners is the very foundation of respect shown to one another, in her humble opinion. “I know I said I wanted you back by tonight, but this is quite a bit earlier than I expected, really.”

“And I told you,” Arthur answers as he pulls his horse to a stop by the nearby hitching post, swinging down from the saddle under her scrutinizing eyes. It doesn’t seem like he’s in any pain or more exhausted than she’d expect from whatever adventures he’s had since he left this morning, which is a good sign. “That I only wanted out ‘cause I had an errand that needed tendin’ to.” 

He hitches the horse easily, stepping back to stick his hand in the saddlebag. Susan has her game face on when he turns back to her; arms crossed, hip cocked out, eyebrow raised, but it all falls away when she sees what he’s holding out for her.

“Arthur…”

“Reckon this should tide us over ‘til the others get back.”

The clip of bills has to be a couple hundred dollars, at least. She quickly takes a step closer, shielding the money from any possible unwelcome eyes as he easily acquiesces the clip into her hands, smirking down at her when she looks up at him with an accusatory glare. 

“Did you do a job to get this, Arthur?” She hisses between clenched teeth. “Ain’t you the one who said we needed to keep eyes off us while we wait?”

“No jobs, no law, nothin’ bad, I promise. Had some goods stashed away near Valentine, jus’ had to get it to the fence,” Arthur shrugs, though Susan can see the amusement on his face clear as day.

“Valentine, huh? That’s a pretty far distance, but I guess it makes sense if you just went there ‘n’ back.”

“Well, Goose is pretty quick, so besides some O’Driscolls, there were these twins insistin’ I shoot at ‘em…”

“Arthur Morgan!” She snaps, pocketing the money and giving him a stern look which he has the audacity to just laugh at.

“Nothin’ bad, I swear! They were tryna impress a lady, so they wanted me to shoot bottles off their heads. Didn’t make a lick’a sense to me, but ain’t my business to judge.”

“Alright, well,” Susan says, rubbing at her temples in an attempt at staving off the headache she feels oncoming. 

The money is a godsend, really, she can send a wagon to Saint Denis and have them stock up on medicinal supplies, as well as feed for the horses and chickens, all of which they’ve been dangerously low on the past few days. And there’ll still be more than enough to stock Pearson up with some vegetables, and replenish their ammunition – a couple times over if need be. But that doesn’t keep from the fact that half the people in this gang will be responsible for sending her into an early grave, Arthur Morgan especially. 

“Go get yourself somethin’ to eat. I’ll have Kieran or Lenny look over your horse for you, ‘n’ then I’ll need to make sure you ain’t messed yourself up again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, giving that lazy two-finger salute of his as he passes her. 

As Susan turns to follow, she once again stops in her tracks as the view of the misty little camp greets her. 

Her gaze follows Arthur as he approaches Pearson’s table, who’s caught up in an animated conversation with Uncle, the both of them happily including Arthur when he gets close. Sadie and Lenny seem to have set aside their pen and paper in favor of distracting Kieran from his guard route, though the boy has already been thoroughly detracted enough by that dog the Marstons had the good sense to leave behind. He’s crouched down scratching behind it's ear while sputtering at Sadie’s teasing, Lenny seeming to oscillate between acting as a mediator between the two and being amused by their back-and-forth.

A shriek followed by shrill laughter drags her attention towards Mary-Beth as she bursts out from the common house, Tilly right on her heels with a menacing grin and holding one of the buckets for washing. The two were supposed to exchange the water in those, right about now, but it seems they’ve once again found something to divert one another from their task. Tilly is yelling about returning a favor, and from the half-soaked look of her dress plus the half-empty bucket in her arms, Susan has a pretty good idea of what has happened. 

Good Lord, she turned her back on camp for less than a half hour. 

She won't deny that there’s something heartening about it, if you ignore the imminent mess upon her hands. 

Mary-Beth bounds across camp and hides behind Lenny and Kieran, the latter now standing. Sadie takes a graceful step out of reach while grinning, the dog clever enough to move with her and away from the young gang members in the process of making a ruckus. 

Another spot of levity, each moment hard fought for and well-earned within this group of people. 

Susan sees Tilly’s shrewd smile as she slowly nears the trio, while Lenny’s waving his hands in an attempt to stop her approach, despite the mirth clear on his face. Mary-Beth and Kieran’s frantic and pleading voices, both now clutching hands and hiding behind Lenny, are almost drowned out when Arthur’s gleeful laughter joins Sadie’s cackle. 

And Susan feels this faint sense of closure, deep within her chest. 

Whatever happens, she’ll be glad to have done what she can for these people. Besides, he might be gone, but there’s no doubt to her that Hosea will live on in spirit for a long while yet, in the people surviving him. Gone, but not forgotten, as the saying goes, perhaps too fitting for a man who has impacted this many lives. She lets out a long breath as the chatter and clamoring reaches a crescendo – Tilly dangerously near Lenny with the bucket of water raised high in the air – before putting her game-face on.

“Alright, that’s enough! Girls, get cleaned up and then back to work, those buckets have a purpose! Arthur, I told you to get something to eat, didn't I? And mister Duffy, aren’t you s’posed to be on watch?”

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

“Back to the ship, come on!”

Sean follows as they start running, shifting the rifle into his hands and checking that it’s fully loaded. 

“What happened to Fussar?” Dutch asks, the captain in tow as they start the path down the hill. “He escaped?”

A shot rings from the distance. A bullet whirring by somewhere to Sean’s left. He has his gun up and ready with the slowing of his pace, eyes scanning the moonlit distance for movement.

“I didn’t see him!” Hercule responds.

“Damn it!”

His gaze catches on a shadow moving in from the far away woods, the source of the initial shots. Sean barely thinks as the things Arthur coached him on so long ago has become muscle-memory. All the air is filtering out of his lungs. His hands steady and firm on the gun. The trigger squeezed, and the man is down in less than a second. 

He doesn’t have time to breathe in again. There’s more movement in the silvery dark.

“They have sent reinforcements!”

Hercule really has a penchant for stating the obvious, some distant part of Sean’s mind still capable of thought notes as he shifts his aim. A man runs across the road, straight through his line of sight. It steers his focus away and the first shot goes wide. Sean curses silently as he makes up for it. The second bullet gets his initial target dead on. Then he realizes the running man isn't behind cover yet. Hands steady as he follows with his sight, then a squeeze of the trigger, and the stranger isn’t running any longer. Sean doesn’t wait to see him fall, already swiveling around, sure he saw another. The last man standing has his gun trained directly at him, since Sean – being an idiot – hasn’t thought to run for cover until right this moment.

A sharp involuntary inhale, then sound of a bullet, and the stranger is dead on the ground. Sean turns slightly and gives Micah a quiet nod in thanks as the man lowers his guns. It makes him a little queasy, his lungs filling with air again, almost dying once again due to his own inattention, being saved by Micah of all people. The moment doesn’t last though, Hercule’s voice calling out.

“Let’s go!”

Nobody argues as they set off again, down around the turn of the road, Sean quickly reloading while he has the chance.

“Another one, shoot him!”

Sean doesn’t even realize he’s moved to the front of the group before another one of the men in blue is stepping out onto the road, as surprised at seeing him stand alone in the middle of it as Sean is at being there. Still, the twitch of his gun and two squeezes of the trigger sends the body tumbling into the ground, Sean left watching it as he waits for his compatriots to catch up.

Something bubbles up his chest then, too quick to stop before it escapes Sean’s mouth in the form of a laugh. Elation at the realization that if this is all that stands between them and the boat – untrained henchmen who barely know how to handle their weapons – then there’s no way they’re not getting off this island. Hell, Sean could probably do it mostly alone, at this rate. Hope and joy ignites with a roar in his chest, built on embers which strengthen and embolden them with Sean’s choice of optimism in face of all the recent hardship.

“You boys really lettin’ me go at it alone, here,” Sean says, falling back into his cocksure ways as if he never left them, not particularly caring how wild his grin might be as he looks back at Micah and Dutch. “Arthur would be disappointed, ya’know.”

“Shut up, MacGuire,” Micah grumbles as Dutch gives him an equally quizzical and analytical look – which, frankly, Sean has no care to think any deeper of right now.

“Spoken like a man with the lowest kill-count tonight,” Sean sings, relishing the sound of cocking the bolt action as he turns his back on Dutch’s low chuckle. He can practically feel Micah’s glare burning into his neck, but he really doesn’t care all that much, too high on adrenaline to mind anything but the need to move.

“Keep going,” Dutch says, voice once again firm as they all pick up the speed again. “Get to that boat!”

They’re not far from the ruins when Hercule shouts out again, turning Sean’s attention left and up the rocky hill. He’ll give the Frenchman that; he’s got keen eyes, even if Sean and Micah are the ones downing them, one pull of the trigger at a time. Another man appears in the arch of the ruined wall ahead of them, and Sean kills him as well while his gun is up and at it.

“Come on, let’s finish these connards!”

Sean’s got no idea what that word means, but he gets the gist well enough, and he’s not above admitting that he’s having a bit of fun at this point. His heart is thumping in his chest as he slides in next to the wall for a brief moment, switching his rifle for his revolver just for kicks while bullets whir through the opening and past him. Hercule settles in at the other side of the arch, looking over at him with wide eyes, and Sean can’t help the smile on his lips. He probably looks fucking crazy, he realizes as much, but everything on this fucking island has been either crazy or so horribly dour, Sean can’t help the exhilaration he feels now at being so close to getting off it, to getting home. So what if he’s having a little fun with it? 

He steps out from cover once there’s a lull in the gunfire, and it’s honestly a little too easy to get the first two men in his sights, the last on the left ducking into cover just as Sean pulls the trigger. 

Well, Sean being Sean, shrugs and takes off, sprinting the short distance and rounding the corner just as the man pops back up, his sudden proximity surprising the other enough for Sean to tackle him into the ground and set the mouth of his gun against the stranger’s temple. He’s carefully keeping his eyes just above the man’s head as he pulls the trigger, quick to stand back up as the body grows limp underneath him, not sparing it another glance. 

“Keep going!” Sounds from behind him. Fucking Hercule, Sean thinks, as he aims his gun at another guard who’s snuck closer and fires once – misses – fires twice – hits. 

The man goes down with a grunt, still crawling, but another gunshot from Sean leaves the stranger dead, and Sean in dire need of reloading. He crouches by the wall to fill up the chamber of his gun, looking back briefly to see that Hercule is the only one really keeping up with him, which has him barely able to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Guess someone’s gotta protect the capt’n,” he mutters to himself with faint amusement before emptying his lungs.

He steps back out from cover, and raises his gun. A guard comes out from cover and promptly has a bullet lodged in his head. Two more men appear. One from the ruins ahead, and the other from Sean’s left. Sean takes care of the one in the back first, straight to the head. Then turns his aim and sends another bullet into the left-hand man. He doesn’t look to see if he falls, but hears the thud nonetheless. One more appears on top of the run-down house ahead of him. Sean has to pull the trigger twice before the man is down. 

“Bloody ants,” he lets out after a long inhale, sliding into cover and reloading once more as Hercule catches up to him.

“Here,” Hercule says, motioning with his gun towards the towering structure in the distance. “Fussar is up there I think.”

Sean peeks out around the corner, seeing the cannon or gun or something at the top of the tall building, and leans back, looking over at Hercule to make sure he’s not pulling his leg. “In the tower?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s him.”

“Aw, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Sean breathes in a half-chuckle, resting his head against the cool wall behind him for a second. God, if his life isn’t absurd. Then the ground shakes with an explosion down the way, and Sean’s heartbeat picks up once again. “Alright, let’s go!”

“He’s shooting, we have to take him down!” Hercule says as the dust settles and another guard appears, only to be shot down. “Sean, there’s another cannon up ahead on our left. Can you get to that?”

“Sure,” Sean laughs as he pushes forward, running down the path through the ruins. “Didn’t ya know? Killin’ people with cannons is a newfound skill’a mine!”

He’s sprinting the distance and scampering around the corner of the crumbling walls as another explosion sends dirt and stone flying behind him, the idle cannon standing ready like a gift from Heaven itself. Sean’s quick to its side, repositioning and aiming it within seconds before firing, and oh what a satisfying spectacle that turns out to be.

The top of the tower lights up in a burst of red, orange, and black, the roof blown clean off. Rubble and stone falls, the rumble of it not nearly as loud as the initial explosion, but satisfying all the same as what’s left of the building stands starkly against the brightening morning sky. Sean grins, knowing there’s no way Fussar survived all that. 

He’s laughing as he regroups with the others at the docks. 

“Did you guys see that?” Sean asks with a wide grin, before imitating the explosion with his hands, fingers spread wide. “Boom! Would’a bloody liked t’see him come back from that one.”

There’s a variety of looks served his way, but Sean’s too satisfied to care and too excited at the prospect of leaving to take it to heart.

“Captain,” Dutch says, turning from vaguely amused to serious as he shifts his gaze onto the bruised man. “Can you handle the ship?”

“I’ll be fine,” the man says, waving off any concerns before turning towards the docked boat. “Come on, we’ll get going with the tide, before I get any more surprise interviews with local officials.”

Sean follows the captain and Micah onto the boat where Bill and Javier have been waiting, turning and watching Dutch as he says his goodbyes to Hercule, before giving the man a wave as Dutch finally boards. Once they’re all on the ship, Sean kicks the gangway onto land as Dutch settles at the front of the boat, turning to look at him.

“We survived.”

“That we did,” Sean breathes, looking back at the jungle which had almost consumed him in the three days they spent here. It’s close to pretty, now that it’s not trying to kill him anymore.

“Sean, you did well back there,” Dutch says, drawing his attention. Sean’s gaze is pulled from the island scenery to his leader, who’s sitting by the cargo and watching him. “I’d heard through the grapevine that your aim improved, but I didn't realize you’d become that good a shot.”

“Yeah, well,” Sean smirks, wiping a thumb under his nose to stall the grin threatening to form. “Got some pointers from Arthur a while back, had time t’practice, so I started doin’ better for myself.”

“Oh, I can tell, son, I can tell,” he says, and Sean’s smile sours a bit, though he fights against it. Dutch doesn’t seem to notice at all, too busy pulling out a cigar to light. Sean has no clue where he got it from. “Maybe this is what it took for you to really come into your element. Keep at it and you’ll be an equal to Micah and Arthur in no time.”

“Micah and Arthur?”

“Of course, kid. They’re our best, these days,” Dutch says around a puff of smoke just as the boat starts moving, the engines kicking into gear. Sean has to catch himself on the railing to keep steady, feeling the tell-tale signs of adrenaline leaving his body paired with the lack of food and sleep catching up to him. He really doesn’t want to talk about this right now.

“... Right.”

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

There’s a large fallen tree, rotted down into a long hollow log, just outside of camp, closer to the lake. 

It’s shielded enough from view that there’s a sense of privacy when Charles needs it, and close enough that when Charles is needed, he’s only a shout away. When he first found it, he cut away some of the undergrowth growing up along the sides of the log, so he could face either way, but he’s found he often prefers watching the lake over watching a camp emptier than it should be.

Charles usually spends his time out here deep in thought, mostly because there’s a lot occupying his mind. 

In this sense, his appreciation for Sadie has increased tenfold the past couple weeks. 

Where everyone – Charles included – floundered in the aftermath of the bank job, Sadie seemed to have several courses of action lined up and ready for input before they were sprung to life. It’s worked out pretty well for them, and while the first week contained a lot of stress and back-and-forth, the second has been relatively peaceful, everyone settling into a routine of sorts. 

He could never have held the gang together on his own, that much he knows. Charles has never been one for leading, or rallying people around him, quite the opposite actually, but he has grown fond of the people here, never having had anything like the gang previously in his life. There’s little he wouldn’t do for them, to the extent of his ability, but after spending most of his years in his own company, human interaction is really not his best skill. So, he’s grateful to Sadie, for her willingness to speak up and take the reins when nobody else could, and for how easy it’s turned out to be to work with her and Arthur in the effort of keeping them all going.

But it means they’ve barely had a moment to speak freely, in private. Which Charles has a hunch is something Sadie wants, very much. 

This might be a feeling which hasn’t been very reciprocated from him.

So, Charles has, as the first week settled into the second, and the second now moving into a third, not necessarily welcomed any opportunities for such a conversation. With calmer days comes less urgent needs falling on his shoulders, so between… Everything else, Charles has managed to meet back up with Eagle Flies and Paytah a few more times since their first. 

With a smaller gang comes closer walls, which isn’t something Charles realized he’d feel claustrophobic about again until he’s here. Because everyone is here, since there’s nowhere else to be, and the air is charged with something he falls short of being able to name or address, and Sadie is glancing at him in a certain way whenever they’re around each other, and Arthur is talking to him almost normally which for some reason irks Charles even more, and everyone else is either anxious or grieving or waiting. 

The only option he has is either sitting out here on this hollow rotten log and breathe, or seek out what other reprieve he can.

So he’s been spending some time with the Wapiti tribe lately. 

Eagle Flies has brought him back to the reservation, let him meet Rains Fall, and speak to some of the other members. They’re a kind people despite the hardship that has befallen them, which isn’t necessarily a surprise to Charles. They don’t ask him a lot of questions, but the few that are posed lead to long conversations interspersed with patient quiet where Charles is allowed to collect his thoughts before voicing them. It’s an experience he’s only really had with Arthur, before this, but the perspective afforded in return is different. He doesn’t expect them to be like what he remembers from when he was young, but in some ways it is similar, which settles something in him, and in some ways it’s different enough to give him pause. 

The topic of soulmates came up again, in the company of Eagle Flies and Paytah, and when prompted, Charles found it in him to share. 

There was some comfort to be taken in what was shared with him in return. The idea that they are all connected, part of one another and the world they walk in, hadn’t been new to Charles for a long time, but with the connotation it became clear that the Wapiti viewed the marks as simple guides, or compasses.

“The person bearing the same mark as you holds the promise of being among the more impactful connections you make while alive,” Paytah said, smiling kindly at Charles from across the fallen game, the both of them elbow-deep in blood and guts. “But not the only one, if you don’t let it. In many ways I am just as beholden to my elders and my tribe as I am Eagle Flies. We are part of one another, but we are part of many other things too.”

Eagle Flies had smirked over at them, both wry and fond, obviously having heard Paytah’s words from where he stood keeping watch nearby.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Charles asked, voice just above a whisper, because he still couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t fathom not being so, in a tribe with the army breathing down their necks, the soulmate of the chief’s son. Paytah hadn’t really assuaged his fears in this regard, because he couldn't, back straight with grim determination while his eyes sparkled with compassion and stubbornness.

“Absolutely petrified, but I refuse to cower and hide because of it. That wouldn’t be a life worth living.”

The words still swirl and dance in his mind as he sits there, on that log, attempting to figure out where he’s landing, on all this. Asking for time and accommodation from Arthur would be cruel if Charles didn’t actually spend some of that time trying to work through the hangups he has. The Wapiti tribe has helped, and Charles has come to the conclusion that perhaps some differing perspectives is what he needs, for this.

And he knows Sadie knows. He knows that she’s figured it out. 

He’s not fully sure how exactly, but he saw the way something clicked into place in her mind, back when they’d just moved here and they were discussing their next moves while watching over Arthur. He’d woken up, still delirious from the drugs Swanson had given him, and what he’d said could have been seen as rather innocent but Charles saw the look in Sadie’s eyes, like a spark of recognition. It was only further confirmed when Lenny got sick for one night and Charles aired the idea of it being due to Sean. He had practically seen her come to a conclusion. 

She knows. 

And she’s been wanting to talk about it.

“How you doin’ Charles?”

The sigh he lets out is quiet, only really noticeable by the subdued rise and fall of his shoulders, but he figures he might as well give in. She must’ve just come back from Shady Belle, having gone there to leave another copy of that letter she’s written with Lenny. They’ve written it out a few times, apparently with some variance in wording and story according to Lenny’s wishes, left it at a few post-offices and now at their old base, since they’ve hit just over two weeks of waiting. He briefly wonders whether Arthur and Lenny have come back from visiting Hosea’s grave yet, as he taps the ash off his cigarette. 

“Just fine, takin’ a break.”

“That so?” Sadie asks, coming into view as she rounds the log, pausing only briefly to look him over with her hands on her belt before settling next to him. She seems relaxed enough, but Charles knows what he’s doing, giving her the opportunity she’s been seeking.

“Yup,” he answers, taking another drag and filtering the smoke out his nose. He’s never been a man of many words, and he figures she probably has a better way of addressing the unsaid than he does, so he leaves it at that.

They spend some time in quiet companionship from there though, and some part of Charles nearly believes perhaps she won't bring it up. Maybe the looks she’s been sending him lately haven't been as knowing as he’s imagined. But then he can feel her make a decision, feel the energy in the air around them shift as her eyes settle on his frame.

She watches him intently for a long moment, most of which Charles spends keeping his eyes on the half-submerged tree some yards out in the swamp, until he finally gives in and turns to meet her shrewd gaze. The way her squint tightens just a bit would be imperceptible were they not so close next to one another.

“You know,” she drawls, voice carefully casual, eyeing him as if he’s a cornered animal she might need to subdue – which would be a bit much, really, but it’s not like Charles hasn’t been partially avoiding her lately, so he understands her caution. “Jake and I didn’t get together right away, despite our soulmarks matching.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, somewhat surprised at the approach being more tactful than he really expected, as well as the information shared. “That right?”

“Yup,” she answers, still watching him, probably a little puzzled at finally even getting this far without Charles having some reason or other to stand up or leave again. “Didn’t like the idea of bein’ forced to love someone, one way or the other. But now I know, I’d’ve loved him just the same, even without the marks.”

Charles’ brows knit together in a slight frown, turning her words over in his head as he takes another long drag from his cigarette. He brings his gaze back upon the still waters, speaking through smoke once he has the words he needs. “... How’d you figure?”

The quiet lingers after his question is posed, but Charles doesn’t really mind. There’s a comfort in the moments where people need and take the time to consider their words before they say them, so he doesn’t mind the way he can feel Sadie’s thoughtful gaze on him for most of it either. When she holds out her hand for his cigarette, he complies, and turns to watch her take a drag of it, leaning back on one hand as she pushes smoke into the air and watches the treetops above while finally giving her answer. 

“I’d’a gone just as mad, on his death. Maybe crazier.”

His eyes don't move, but he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

“... You think it worth it?”

Sadie sighs and closes her eyes, frame sinking almost in defeat. She taps some ash off the cigarette before handing it back to Charles who accepts, though at the condition of Sadie boring her gaze into him as she answers his question.

“The marks don’t do nothin’ but give us incentive to appreciate someone who’ll value us just as much right back, Charles. The rest is just hard work.” She swallows and lets her gaze drop to her hands for a moment, before shaking her head slightly and looking back out at their surroundings, her voice coming out a touch more melancholy now. “Way I figure; world’s already so goddamn rotten, I’m grateful I got a chance at real peace ‘n’ happiness at all. Only regret I have is not havin’ more time… Not givin’ it a chance earlier.”

“Sadie…”

Once again her eyes are back on him, sharp and full of that righteous fire, any pretense now entirely dropped. 

“He’s a good man. So are you. However, stay stuck on indecision too long, soon there won’t be a choice no more, and then there’ll be somethin’ to mourn anyway.” Charles blinks as he recoils slightly, unsure what to say, but Sadie isn’t done, letting out a long breath as if to calm herself before continuing. 

“But if you’re askin’ me if it’s worth having a person, the way I had Jake, the way you’d have him? I’d tell you I would do it all over again, every step of it, even knowin’ the outcome, for the time I did have with him.” 

“Why?” He has to ask, cigarette all but forgotten in his hands until Sadie seems to think better of it, taking it back again with a shrug in answer before bringing it to her lips.

“Same reason I’m still here in this gang, I s’pose. Same reason I thought you was. Same reason folks flock to each other even when they’re not soulmates,” she says, taking another drag and letting out the smoke again, before continuing when she realizes Charles is still watching her. “We need people with us, Charles, you know that. Figure soulmates are just… A heightened version of it, or somethin’. Confirmation that we’re better off together than alone. ‘Cause there’s good between us, and it can outweigh the bad. But it’s still up to us, y’know?”

And somehow, after everything, or maybe because of everything, that’s what makes the wound-up parts within him finally settle properly. Like pieces of a puzzle finally slotting into their rightful places, so the colors of the whole imagery may be fully appreciated.

Sadie’s gaze, of course, turns shrewd, and she stands up, smirking as she says. “Don’t think they’ll be back for a few more hours yet. You got some time. Just don’t leave it too long.”

Charles nods almost dazedly, accepting back what’s left of the cigarette when she holds it out for him, and watches her turn and leave without another word.

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

“Well, what now?”

“W-What now?” Micah’s tone is mocking, and Javier can’t help but narrow his eyes at him, looking up through loose locks. “What do you mean, what now?”

“I mean,” Bill starts, and Javier can tell by his tone he’s already ticked off, no need to look up from his hunched over position. There’s a line to ride with teasing Bill, mockery often ill-received, and honestly, the question was a fair one. “We’re headin’ back to Lemoyne, again, and we’re all wanted men!”

“We slip ashore one by one,” Dutch answers. “Find out what’s what.”

“And we don’t cut and run now?” Micah asks, looking over at their leader incredulously, as if it’s even an option. “Head back to Blackwater.”

Javier leans back a little, away from the man opposite him, feeling the sense of disdain in his gut. Bill’s knee grazes his shoulder, and Javier knows the other is keeping an eye on him – probably will be until he can stand on his own again – but he feels a little calmer for it. A reminder of where he is, who he’s with, despite the sudden slight tension along his spine.

“No,” Dutch says decisively and Javier allows himself to relax back further.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Dutch answers, staring intently at Micah, and Javier would hate to be at his end right now. What Dutch says, goes, there’s no reason to question his plans at this point. At least Bill gets that; the importance of being loyal, to the gang, to Dutch. “The last thing they’ll be thinking is for us to turn up.”

“And we gotta go back,” Sean supplies helpfully, leant back against the stacked cargo boxes next to the ones Javier and Bill are sitting on. “Ain’t cuttin’ or running without our people, that’s for sure.”

“And how you know they even waitin’ for us?”

“Well I’m sure nobody’s waiting for you, Micah, but I happen t’have several close friends in that there gang we left behind, as well as my fuckin’ soulmate, so I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I find ‘em,” Sean says, repositioning to face the other man better. A vicious smirk slides onto his lips, the cocky glint in his eyes strangely welcome for the comfort provided by its familiarity, at least to Javier. “Now if you wanna fuck off ‘n’ run it alone I’m not bloody stoppin’ ya, really, would love to see how far ya get. Least I won’t have’ta deal with ya no more.”

Javier can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him. Really, he’s more so glad to hear Sean be so outspokenly aligned with his own thoughts on the matter, and to see him return to his quick-witted self so easily. It helps feed the hope that they can all move past the hellish things they experienced on that island.

“That funny to you, is it?” Micah’s drawling voice comes at him, an eyebrow raised, though he doesn’t seem particularly offended.

Javier shrugs, not bothering to wipe the lingering smile off his face. He’s not super keen on encouraging Micah to leave, necessarily, especially not with Dutch’s disapproving look weighing from above, but still… “A little.” 

“Ain’t none of us running at it alone,” Dutch breaks in, raising his hands as if to calm a fight. 

“Broke ‘n’ alone, they’re gonna pick us off one by one. But once we get back, we’ll need to split up, keep a low profile, ‘n’ try to track down the rest. Carefully. See if they sent any mail,” he says, nodding in Javier and Bill’s direction, to which they both nod back. “Sean, you check Shady Belle, see if you find any clues. We’ll find each other eventually, we always do.”

“And then what?” Javier asks, reiterating the question which started this entire conversation, glancing briefly up at Bill, who’s sat watching quietly with his arms crossed, before settling his eyes back on Dutch.

“Then we meet up, gather the family. We get some money and get the hell outta there. That’s the plan.”

“Sure,” Sean huffs, crossing his arms as he settles back against the wooden boxes again, turning his face towards the sun beating down from the blue sky above. “Worked well for us this far, ain’t it?”

“We have been in a bad way. Listen… We got family back there, waitin’ for us, needin’ us. Anyone got any better ideas, I’m all ears. Anyone?”

The quiet is deafening, despite the rolling waves and the creaking of the boat around them. There’s a long exhale from Dutch, then the sound of boots on metal as he finally walks away. Still nobody says anything for a very long time, before Micah gets up and leaves with a sideways glance at Sean, who completely ignores him in favor of seemingly basking in the sun. 

Javier sighs.

“Bill,” he says quietly, straightening his back and lifting the arm closest to the other man. “Help me up.”

“What am I, some sort of nursemaid?” Bill grumbles, entirely for show, as he slides down from where he’s sitting and gently grabs Javier by the arm anyway. It allows Javier to use him as support in an attempt to stand on the moving boat.

“Maybe, you’ve done well so far,” Javier chuckles as he steadies, breathing in the sea air for a second before turning to look at the other man. “We need to speak.”

Bill’s eyes widen fractionally, but he clears his throat and nods, leading Javier by the forearm as they go look for a spot more private.

[king-of-wrath]

I like to think that the Exorcists are Hazbin's antagonists not because Heaven is intolerant of non-cis non-straight non-Abrahamic people or because Vivzie's declaring "religion bad" in cartoon form, but because Heaven sees morality in terms of absolutes: that is, if you do x or y even once, you're evil, you go to Hell and you can NEVER be forgiven

Consider the characters we've actually seen be denied entrance to Heaven (yes, these are Helluva characters and Helluva is a spin-off, but unless Vivzie declares "Helluva's a side project I'm doing just for fun, it's unrelated to Hazbin and its lore doesn't mirror Hazbin lore", we can reference Helluva):

Mayberry was a passionate teacher who's spent years being a positive role model for children, but she was damned because she murdered her husband in a fit of rage. Heaven didn't take into account the good deeds she had done and instead judged her for that one wrongful act. Her kindness to children, her inspiring them to do good and whatever good deeds those children would go on to do didn't matter---she killed someone and is therefore irredeemable

Cleetus, Keenie and Collin were cherubs who committed themselves to saving souls, but were banished from Heaven because one person was killed in an accident. They consoled a suicidal man, convincing him that life was worth living and that he could spend the remainder of his life (and his vast wealth) in service to others. But despite the fact they accomplished their mission (and who knows how many others prior to this), they were banished. It didn't matter that they were fighting literal hellspawn trying to steal his soul, they failed to protect someone and for that, they are forbidden from returning home

As Alastor said in the Hazbin pilot, the very reason sinners are sent to Hell is to be punished. However, the annual purges began because Hell was "too overpopulated" and Heaven saw fit to kill rather than forgive. The Exorcists don't bother to check who they kill or what their victims' sins were---because in their minds, everyone in Hell is terrible and no matter why they were sent to Hell, they deserve total oblivion

If Exorcists ever got to Mayberry, she would be destroyed without a second thought. The two scientists whose experiments killed untold numbers of impoverished people would also be destroyed, but that's IF they were caught

We see Wally Wackford employ the scientists and understandably, he wouldn't want to lose his new inventors. We also see Valentino, Velvet and Vox surviving the annual purge---presumably because of the wealth and power they possess (along with others in the pilot). The scientists would be protected from the purge, having a serious advantage over Mayberry

But the Exorcists' job is to kill everyone they can within a certain time limit. They don't spend their time attacking fortified buildings or pursuing Hell's worst, they just kill whoever isn't in shelter when the purge begins

We don't know if there's an actual quota the Exorcists have, but they place importance on quantity---that is, the number of souls purged. The more souls are purged, the more space is freed. If they can get the two scientists, that's great. But if given the choice between a defenseless Mayberry and two well-defended scientists, they'd kill Mayberry. Two worse sinners would survive and one potentially forgivable sinner would be lost forever

So Charlie reveals her plan to handle the overpopulation and end the purges: to rehabilitate sinners in the hopes that they'd be admitted to Heaven, thus reducing Hell's population. Her biggest hurdle, however is actually making a sinner worthy of redemption in the eyes of Heaven

If Heaven thought there was even a possibility that sinners could be reformed, they'd give Hell a stay of execution to test Charlie's theory. If Heaven believed sinners could be reformed, they'd send Charlie help. But so far, Heaven isn't pausing the purges or helping reform sinners---instead, they're ordering the destruction of countless souls every year and do so without much guilt