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lucysstoryworld · 6 months ago

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The Tormented & The Unforgiven | Azriel x Reader

Summary: What happens when one of Azriel's most trusted spies, someone he is beginning to care for, betrays him?

Warnings: This is dark and quite graphic. Abuse, torture, waterboarding, death. MDNI. Angst.

Word Count: 7,558

Masterlist

This wasn't happening... this was all just a sick nightmare. You'd wake up at any moment now, tangled in the sheets of your bed. The sun rising over a cool winter morning and trickling through your window would lull you from your slumber at any moment, you were certain. You tried to pinch yourself and were met with a tug. As if on cue, a dull yet deep ache permeated from your shoulders to your arms. A tingling feeling vibrated your fingertips, chained above your head. Oh... yes. Breaths rattled through your lungs, a crackling filling the dank space.

Definitely not happening... surely not.

Opening your eyes was a chore. They stung, the faelight from the hallway burned your retinas. A low hiss and another attempt later, your eyes remained open. The ache in your neck felt insignificant compared to that of those pulsing at random points in your body. The gorsian shackles choking your wrists and ankles ensured the pain would last. An low, agonised moan escaped your lips.

Definitely is happening. The agony that spread through every nerve of your body was all the proof you needed. Raising your head, you desperately tried to clear the fog. You were suspended from the ceiling with gorsian shackles, with matching chains gripping your ankles. The smell of damp and mould was almost as distracting as the cold that nipped at your body and heightened the ache of your injuries. There were small puddles on the floor beneath you, a leaking roof too - high risk of infection to the wounds that were littered across your body. Your mind was still lagging behind reality, your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. Breathe. Remember your training.

A deep breath in, you focused on filling your lungs to their capacity. Pursing your lips, you blew the breath out slowly. Your focus remained solely on controlling the exhalation, all the way until there was nothing left. You repeated this twice more, just as your boss had trained you. Our job can be terrifying at times, this technique can help you focus and bring your heart rate down. Make our decision making more rational, he had said. He was right, you had come to realise. The breathing exercise had allowed you to calm down on more than a handful of occasions. That being said, it did not make your current situation any easier to understand. You remembered how you got here now... and you still couldn't wrap your head around it.

***

It was a normal day, for you at least. Returning from a mission a day previous, you had today to report your findings to Azriel and to rest. Exhaustion laid heavy on your body, the mission had been a long one with little reward. Although every mission had been similar to that as of late. While Eris was to be somewhat trusted, as Azriel had put it, it would be unwise to not send his own spies to make sure the High Lord and Lady were not being blindsided. So that was your detail. Stake out the Autumn Court and High Lord Beron along with his family. Figure out what was occurring behind the curtains and try to discover Beron's motives... at least so Azriel didn't have to rely on the word of Eris Vanserra. Though your boss had warned you to keep as much distance as you could, with all the Autumn Court soldiers being bewitched he did not wish that fate on you or any of your colleagues... yet you couldn't help the flutter in your heart when he had expressed this concern while looking directly into your eyes. You allowed yourself the small comfort (or delusion) of believing he told you this because he cared about you.

You used to have a rendezvous point with the Spymaster. Yet, after a rough mission in which you were too incapacitated to move from your bed, it soon became the routine for you and Azriel to debrief at your home. Not that you were complaining. You lived a solitary life being in your line of work. There were no records of your existence anywhere, no family to remember you nor any friend to seek your company. A truly invisible female. Apart from Azriel of course, though you were sure he did not see you as a friend or even acquaintance, just his employee. Not even his second in command. Though it did not stop you from feeling excited by his visits. They reminded you that you were alive. That you, at least, had one person who knew of your existence. So, with the butterflies of a youth in your stomach, you prepared for your visitor. You had already written out your report and left it sitting on your living room table. You had dressed in your usual style, and waited for Azriel to come to your door. The rushing of the Sidra filled your living area through the open window. Your generous salary as a spy allowed you to build this house, along the youthful stage of the river where it raced downhill and eventually through Velaris. You had not yet laid your eyes on the city that was only a depiction in your mind from how Azriel had described it. You knew he trusted you at least that much, to allow you to know where he resided. He had once offered to bring you there. Then the war happened and it became the last thing on either of your minds.

A series of knocks pulled you from your wandering thoughts. The seemingly nondescript rhythm of taps on the door made sure you knew who was on the other side. You fought back the slight grin that threatened to widen. You chided yourself, you were acting no better than the human females in the tales of princesses and knights you had read as a teenager. Your teenaged years had been rough, you had travelled up and down Prythian five times over, stealing and tricking to get by. You knew you wouldn't live as long as other fae did back then, your way of life bound to end you sooner rather than later by means of starvation or by disgruntled merchants. The books you nicked from time to time allowed you to fall into a different reality for a short while where life was much simpler. Where life consisted of whether or not the stars would align and let the princess remain with her true love. A moment later, you opened the door with the signature smile stretching across your lips. As quick as your smile appeared, it disappeared. Azriel was not alone.

Standing beside your boss was another Illyrian male few inches shorter though no less intimidating. For every blue siphon Azriel possessed, this male had just as many red ones. This must be Cassian, the General. You glanced at your boss warily, feeling slightly betrayed by him as your privacy was breached. Though from the look of his amber gaze, you knew it was not a good time to tackle him on it.

"Come in," You mumbled confusedly and widened the door. They stepped in and you watched as Azriel guided the warlord to sit at the table you had just been daydreaming at moments ago. "Would you like anything to eat or drink?" Careful, you warned yourself. Something wasn't right about this situation. Instinct had you scrambling to gain control of the unfolding events.

"No. Sit down," Azriel ordered. This was not the male you were accustomed to. While one could never describe Azriel as flamboyant, he was also not usually this cold toward around you. Quiet yet caring, not cold and calculating.

"Yes, sir," was your reply and you settled in the seat opposite the two males. Your heart was beginning to thump in anticipation. Your tendencies had you wishing you at least had your dagger nearby. You trust him, you always have, the voice in your mind whispered. Reaching out to open the report between the three of you, you did not miss how the General tensed ever so slightly. It was a movement so slight that, to the untrained eye, it would have been unnoticeable. Meeting Azriel's eyes once again, you allowed the confusion to show on your face. "I assume you want the report of my previous mission in Autumn." You weren't sure if it was a question or a statement.

A few beats of silence passed and both males stared you down. You waited, staring back. If there was something amiss, you would not allow them to think it was something to do with you. "Go ahead." Azriel's tone was so... cruel. Like you were a mouse caught in the claws of a street cat. Like he was toying with you.

You would not bite. If there was an issue, they were more than capable of speaking plain to you. "As you know, this mission spanned a period of four months," You began. As you continued to debrief your mission, you felt as though you were speaking to brick walls. While both sets of eyes remained solely focused on you, they seemed to be looking through you. As though what you were saying was insignificant. You tried to make sense of it. There was no major outcomes of your mission, so perhaps that was the reason for their demeanour. "I observed a member of High Lord Beron's spy circle enter and leave fairly often. I could not get close enough to determine why or what was the reason for these visits. I dug as much as I could but could only ascertain that it had something to do with Eris. If he has been absent then it is likely because he is being watched closely." Closing the report, you slid it across the table to Azriel, "Anything I may have missed will be in my report like always." You never missed out on any detail, though you always said it to Azriel.

You sat back in your chair. There was usually some discussion after you finished your report. Azriel would question you on various parts of your account in order to try make a connection that you could have missed. When you were new to the world of being a spy, it annoyed you to no end. You did not enjoy being second guessed. Azriel had explained to you that all he wished to do was brainstorm with you, try to figure out the puzzles together. A problem shared is a problem halved. So the lack of conversation after only added to uncertainty and began to grate on your nerves.

"Anything else?" The General pressed. Your head shot to him. He looked ready to pounce on you at any moment.

Heckles raised, your brows furrowed, "No?"

"Are you sure?" Azriel bit. If Cassian looked ready to pounce, Azriel looked ready to kill.

"Yes, I'm sure," You snapped back, heart beginning to race. "Can you cut it out? Get to the point!"

You cursed yourself for slightly jumping when Azriel's fist slammed against your wooden table. Your mind ran in circles around itself trying to decipher what it was that you had done to have your boss so visibly angry. So visibly struggling to control his fury. "I am being more than patient with you. You have one final chance to reveal what you have done... I cannot and will not refrain from extrapolating it through any means necessary." His voice was a vicious growl that seemed to make your very bones tremble.

Your stomach felt weak, your cool and calm spy demeanour a thing of the past. Sweat accumulated along your brow as your eyes frantically darted between your boss and the General. "I-I..." You hesitated. You were drawing a blank and a curse quickly followed from your breath at just how guilty you looked, especially to one so keen as the Spymaster of Night himself. "I truly do not know what this is about... please I'm sure whatever has happened is some sort of miscommunication." You nearly fell over your chair as you stumbled out of it, trying to create some distance between yourself and the hulking Illyrians who were beginning to stalk towards you in a strange unison. They didn't appear to be doing it consciously though that did nothing to ease the terror snaking up your spine as they drew nearer. "Azriel please... you must believe me. I don't know what this is about. You know me!" It was true. Azriel was the only living soul on The Mother's land that knew you through and through.

A cruel snort from Azriel seemed to dash any hope from you. "I thought I did, though that was my mistake," Azriel replied. In an instant both males grabbed your arms and forced you to your knees. You hated to admit it, but the feeling of betrayal had tears beginning to line your eyes. You hated it even more when you began to plead with him, beg him to believe you. However neither Cassian nor Azriel replied. They only secured chains around your wrists and ankles and a charmed sack over your head. The sack blocked all sound and sight, not even a crack of light. Your panic created a lump in your through as the only noise to greet you was your own laboured breaths. The tears finally dribbled over when your felt the hands of Azriel and Cassian roughly push and shove you to and fro. You knew where you were headed. You had delivered a target or two to the dungeons of the Hewn City -- well you had delivered them to Azriel's second in command, or Azriel himself, to bring there.

You knew that those targets never left those dungeons either.

***

You remembered now. Some time had passed from then... a few days... a few weeks... you weren't sure. It was so desperately, desperately dark down here. You had been rendered unconscious a number of times. Whatever information Azriel believed you possessed translated to him using all manner of force to squeeze it out of you. He allowed other members of his spy circle... your spy circle to torture this mystery information out. He knew the betrayal would cut deeper than any blade or whip ever could. Despite the kindness within Azriel, he was a talented torturer. He seemed to know that mere flesh wounds wouldn't break someone like you. You had known cuts and bruises long before you ever came into Azriel's employ. And he knew that. Seeing the quiet rage in your former colleagues eyes, seeing your own betrayal reflected in their gazes, tore something in you. You had worked with each one of them on one mission or another. Now they were taking their pain out on you... traitor had been imbedded onto your torso by Alyia in her native tongue from the continent. Elijah had pulled out your molars, his knife tearing strips from your gums in the process. Oscar ripped three fingernails from you. You screamed and wailed that you knew nothing. That this was a mistake. Though your pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

So you hung there, despair your only company until the next barrage began. No one would believe you, that much was painfully obvious now. They would not allow you a quick nor painless death... so you stopped eating and drinking. You would at least keep your dignity in controlling your own death, even if your mouth had the consistency of sandpaper and hunger pains were a torture in their own right.

Footsteps began to echo toward your cell. They were light, but making themselves known. Azriel. He had not shown himself since you had been dragged here. A strategic move on his part. He was saving his presence until it was absolutely necessary, you were sure. He allowed your colleagues to begin chipping away at your presumed resolve. Allowed them to begin cracking you, so he could deliver the final blow and reveal all your secrets. You raised your head, waiting for him with half lidded eyes. Seeing him standing there, wings flared and a tray in hand, brought a rush of emotions. Anger, rage, despair, betrayal, injustice. You wanted to scream at him, to curse his name and his existence. The urge bubbled in your chest. However, when you laid your eyes upon him, it all died on your tongue. What use had screaming gotten you thus far. Thus, you dipped your chin once again.

You closed your eyes and listened as he passed through the door. Listened as he placed the tray on the table that had held pliers, daggers and whips in the prior hours. You felt his shadows snake and slither over your aching body. They seemed to bite and nip at each of your injuries. You twitched at their barrage, it felt like tiny needles poking at your mangled body. Even so, you would not raise your head. As silent as a mouse, Azriel moved to stand before you. His shiny boots were all you could see. A groan erupted from you when he grabbed your cheeks and forced your head upright. His amber eyes burned with hatred, though they wandered all over your faced. Lingered on the swelling on your left eye that would soon become too large for you to open and close.

"Hunger strike, really?" He questioned unimpressed, squeezing your cheeks so hard that the cuts inside your mouth reopened and dribbled out of your lips onto his gloved hand.

You stared through him, forcing your mind out of that dingy cell and back to your peaceful home. If you thought hard enough, you could hear the flowing Sidra over the noise of your own agony. If you thought hard enough, you could smell the breads you used to make more than the smell of your blood. If you thought hard enough, you could transport yourself to a reality where this wasn't happening.

A harsh slap reeled you back into the dungeon. Stars danced across your vision. The lack of food and water made that slap feel like a punch. When they cleared, you gazed upon the cruel beauty of Azriel Shadowsinger. It seemed like eons ago that this male set butterflies afloat in your stomach. Now all he did was set led weighing on your stomach. "Keep your eyes on me." You hated the way you obeyed. You were terrified of the horrors Azriel could release unto you. It was no secret to anyone in Prythian the creativity he possessed in the arts of torture. He raised a cup of water to your lips. No. You jerked back, clenching your teeth together. He struggled with you, holding the back of your head. Shaking your head, you dodged his attempt to hydrate you by any means necessary. His fingers curled around your blood-matted hair, and he yanked with all his might. You shrieked at the pain and Azriel used the excuse to pour the water in. You choked and sputtered until you expelled as much of it as you could.

"Fuck you!" You coughed out, your throat raw and breaths heaving.

An impatient snarl passed through Azriel's lips. He walked back to the small table to where the tray rested. You watched this time, and saw that the tray consisted of three jugs and some rags, along with the cup in his hand. One of the jugs slammed back onto the table, its contents spilling over the edged. "Let's try this again, agent," Azriel spoke steady. "You will drink and then you will eat. You will not get out of this the easy way. Is that clear?" His tone promised violence.

"No," You voice was low but defiant.

A humoured chuckle escaped the Spymaster as he returned to your front. "I was not requesting," Was all he said before he grabbed your head again and attempted to force the water down your neck. You thrashed and shook, though a couple drops managed their way past your protests. You detested that the cool water felt nice on your raw throat. The struggle continued until the remanets of the glass dribbled down the rags that covered your battered body.

Wordlessly, Azriel returned the table again. This time, he abandoned his cup and picked up the jug. And a rag. "I gave you two chances to drink properly," He began and immersed the rag into the jug. Your heart began to race like it had many times over the last while. Taking the rag out of the water, Azriel held it over your face. His hand slid to the back of your head and held your hair so tight that you couldn't move an inch. Before you had a chance to take a breath, Azriel began to pour the water slowly over the rag. You tried to gasp, though the water made you splutter and choke. Your mind went wild with panic, your chest heaving in attempt to draw in enough air. Trying to scream only resulted in weak groans and more choking. "This will go on for as long as you wish to protest," Azriel began. "I will have the water topped up regularly. You will not know more than a moments peace until you either confess what you have done or until you have decided to eat and drink." Dread swirled in your guts. You had enacted this very torture on a male before, it really could go on for hours. For as long as was necessary.

"I-I-" You tried to choke out. The water halted for a moment. "I don't know what I must confess! Azriel please-!"

"Don't. You. Dare!" Azriel roared. You body trembled and your head pounded from his grip on your hair. "Cut the shit!"

For the first time since you had been brought here, a loud sob ripped through your throat. You had screamed and wailed from the torture before, but you hadn't outright cried like this. Your pride had prevented it. Now, you couldn't control the sobs that shook your body. It had seemed to pause Azriel for the moment, for he did not move or speak. He just let you cry. Your eyes burned from the tears and your tears burned the gashes on your face. Your heart weighed heavy in your body, hopelessness withered your soul. Your jaw clenched as you heaved. "This is some sick joke," You whispered to yourself. "Please just tell me if it's a joke, I'll forgive everyone I promise."

"This is no joke," Azriel spoke softly. Softly like one would speak to a lover. You wished that were the case. But instead, the water began to trickle over your face again.

***

It had been a few days since Azriel had returned to Velaris. Your silence troubled him greatly. He must've waterboarded you for at least five hours, only stopping when you had passed out from hyperventilation. Troubled, yet impressed. He had never known another target to last that long. They either cracked, confessed or passed out much earlier. Azriel chalked it up to your hard upbringing. You had only revealed bits and pieces, more being divulged the longer he knew you... if those stories were even the truth anymore. Though you were beginning to crack, that much was certain. It had been about three weeks since Azriel and Cassian had dragged you into those dungeons. His spies reported the actions they took in order to extract the information from you. Some of it would make even the toughest males cringe. As much as Azriel loathed you for what you had done, the descriptions of your torture and the results of which he had seen decorated on your body was a tough pill for him to swallow. Especially when it stretched on so long with no result. Was all the pain and suffering worth it when it yielded nothing? Whatever information you possessed must be worth such a fate.

A knock on Azriel's door pulled him from his depressing stream of thoughts. He called for his visitor to enter and lifted his head from the paper on his desk, it was not like he was really reading it anyway. Rhys walked through the door and sat on a chair in front of his Spymaster. It seemed funny for his High Lord to be before him rather than the other way around. "What is it, brother?" Azriel questioned. Rhysand had been disappointed when it was revealed that one of Azriel's more trusted spies had turned traitor, or been a traitor all along. Especially when it had gone unnoticed by the Shadowsinger himself, only to be unveiled by said Shadowsinger's second in command. Rhysand had held his tongue then, seeing how blindsided and angered Azriel had been. He wasn't completely sure, but Rhysand suspected it could have had something to do with some feelings developing between his brother and the traitor.

"How has it been coming along? Do we have any idea how much intel has been passed onto Beron?" Rhysand asked carefully. It was a silly question really, Azriel would've come to him straight away with that kind of information. He just wanted to check on his brother.

With a grimace, Azriel answered. "She has been a tough one to crack. Not even a sliver of information that I can make anything of."

"Perhaps it is time for a change of strategy?" Rhysand suggested.

Azriel's eyes met his brother's. He knew what he was suggesting, the power swirling throughout his High Lord's gaze could extract the truth in a matter of moments. But the idea sickened Azriel. Not only because he knew it turned Rhys' stomach to do so, but also because he wanted to avoid that end for you if at all possible. It confused the Illyrian really. On one hand, he wanted to rip you to shreds for betraying his trust. On the other, he wished he could go back in time and relive those peaceful moments of your friendship and his blooming feelings for you. Azriel clenched and unclenched his jaw. "That is our last resort, brother. I wish to try one more thing, if that does not work, then..."

Rhysand dipped his chin. "Of course, Az." He would probe Azriel later for his true thoughts. The shadows twirled around Azriel in a frenzy. They were typically a good indicator of when was a good time to talk to him.

***

You had been lowered to the ground, your ankles remained chained. Lying on the cold damp floor, tears dripped steadily down your cheeks. You did not sob and you tried to stop the flow, but it did not halt. Maybe you were going mad because the tears did not reflect the emptiness you felt eating a hole into your soul. It was horrifying yet comforting. You did not feel like the host of your own body, you felt like an outsider. Your assailants stabbed and whipped, you screamed and groaned. Yet you felt nothing on the inside. You did not beg or plead. You no longer protested when they forced food and water down your neck. You did nothing. There was nothing left in you. The lack of reaction had gained you no mercy. Large, deep gashes scored your arms. So lethal that the healer had advised that you be lowered, or else the wounds would stretch and you would bleed to death. Of course you could not die yet. The news must have made it to the boss because he stood before your cell for the second time since you arrived. You expected your heart to race, for fear to rattle your bones once again. Yet you remained still. Unbothered. They truly had broken you beyond repair. In walked Azriel. Your eyes followed each of his movements. His slithering companions remained by his side, as though they were on a leash.

"What have they done to you?" Azriel's voice was so soft as he hunched down before you. He reached out with an un-gloved hand to take your own. Red-stained bandaging covered two gaps where fingers had been. The gorsian shackles had been doing their job, along with the drops of faebane in your water. The healing was slow... but still healing. Was this what it was like for the humans?

You remained mute, still staring at your former friend. He met your eyes once again, not holding back his troubled face. If Azriel was being honest with himself, your silence was jarring. That look on your face was scary. You were slipping away before him, before the job was done. He replaced his grip on your mangled hand to wipe the tears from your cheek. You did not so much as flinch. Instead, your eyes closed. This was the only soft touch you had received in what felt like forever, and with your end drawing near you would enjoy it. Even if the one that would order your execution was providing you with that warmth. For a moment, you slipped into a reality stars away. A reality in which you were lying beside this male, his hand not wiping tears but caressing gently. A world where you could open your eyes and see Azriel's loving expression. Not this world.

"Let's try this a different way, sweetness." The nickname startled you. It had been a joke between you and him before all this. He had teased you for the amount of sugar in your tea. "Can you sit up for me?" Azriel spoke to you like he had before this nightmare began. You shook your head. It was only now that Azriel realised that your hands were clutching your stomach... no guarding it. He lifted the rag-like shirt that covered your top-half. Another inscription had been cut there. No, burned there. The spymaster's own hands twitched at the sight. For how depraved he was, he had never been depraved enough to enact this specific torture on anyone.

"It means snake," Your voice cracked. Raw from both disuse and screaming, Azriel was sure. "Alyia promised for every day I do not reveal my treachery, she will brand me with names through different means. You would be proud of her," You chuckled. The chuckle soon turned into a mixture of groans and coughs that spattered blood into your hand.

"I am not proud of this." It was the truth. As much as it was necessary at times, Azriel did not delight in torture. Much less yours. "Why are you keeping the information then? Surely you do not wish for this to continue."

Another laugh filled the room, the tears still streaming from you. The laugh turned to a cackle this time, loud and crazed. It lasted a few moments and all Azriel could do was watch. He had seen this many times before. The emotions of a tortured soul were not to be understood. He waited until your giggles died down. When they died, your arm wiped the tears. "You must think me stronger than I really am! I would've confessed long ago if I was a traitor. I've even thought of fabricating a confession so it would mean I would be put out of my misery but you would see through that and you'd keep me alive even longer." Your words struck a cord in Azriel. It was a strange thing for an old friend to wish for death at his hands, particularly when he knew your guilt to be fact. A fantastic actress you were, your performance was weighing greatly on Azriel's moral compass.

"How can you possibly think I will believe that?" He demanded incredulously. "I have seen the facts with my own eyes, through the work of someone I trust more than you."

That meant that Elijah, his second in command had either framed you or been fed false information so strong that it could not be refuted. "I don't think you will believe me," You replied dryly. "You have shown me that. So how about you tell me what you know."

Azriel rolled his eyes. He had trained you very well, your performance had tugged on even his heartstrings. "I know you are feeding intel about this court and my actions to Autumn," He growled and stood. He began to pace back and forth in front of you. "I was wondering why you kept requesting missions to the Autumn Court. I stupidly thought it was because you wished to help me with the unfolding business and please me. Because I believed you cared! That was my mistake. So now all that remains is to find out exactly what you have fed to Beron. So please, sweetness, tell me what you know and I will gladly put you out of your misery!"

Another humourless cackle erupted from you. "Let's be real, Azriel. You won't believe the truth even if it slapped you in the face. You have been tricked, but not by me. The truth will reveal itself one day, old friend. Whether it is in a few days or a few years, it will come out. Just know that when it does and I am dead, I will never forgive you. You have done wrong by me more than anyone else in my life."

With that, Azriel left your dungeon. This was his last attempt at extracting the truth. He had hoped that showing you kindness would give you enough hope that the truth would come out. He was wrong. So as he winnowed home, he mentally called for a meeting with Rhysand. Azriel's heart thumped painfully in his chest at your words. They resonated with him for some reason, the hard look in your eyes would be something he would never forget.

***

Elijah kept your hands bolted to each arm of the chair with two knives. They pierced all the way though your palm and at least a few inches into the wooden armrests. The pain that came with it was among some of the less severe you had become accustomed to. It was downright trivial compared the burning agony of the large screw being slowly twisted into your foot. Out of anyone, his punishments were the most painful. Elijah held a crazed look in his eye, a corner of his lips quirking while he inflicted his torment. It made sense to you now. For him, it was a sick delight. He enjoyed making you scream, making you beg for death. He wasn't trying to extract any information from you, he was merely toying with his spoils.

"You," A series of deep, laboured breaths ensued. "You're sick. I know what you've done."

The Cheshire-grin that slinked across Elijah's face was terrifying. "Oh how clever of you. Unfortunately for you, it is your word against my own. You are a pawn in a game that was created long before you let the Shadowsinger into your home for the first time. However, a happy coincidence it has been, girl. I could've never imagined the enjoyment I could get out of this. A dull affair turned an excess of excitement." You bowed your head. He was right. No one would believe you now, not that Azriel had revealed who had damned you. How convenient it would be for you to reveal Elijah's treachery so soon after your former boss had told you he was involved in your capture. Not to mention that whatever evidence the second in command had procured was enough to convince your boss and colleagues of your unwavering guilt. A terrible hybrid of a groan and scream ripped through your already raw throat as Elijah twisted the screw another full turn into your foot. It wouldn't be long now. Your end was in sight, Azriel's patience would not stretch much further. The only things you had left to fear was the method that would kill you and The Mother's grace to allow you back into her arms.

As if on cue, a group of footsteps echoed down the halls. You had come to recognise Azriel's. The other two you weren't sure of, but you assumed The General was in tow. The final pair were a mystery. Elijah spun on his heel, ready to greet his boss. In an instant, he was down on one knee, bowing so low he looked as though he could kiss the bloodstained ground. "High Lord, it is an honour." Your blood ran ice cold. Your head shot up and beheld the three Illyrians, each one just as petrifying as the other. Though, the High Lord's power blanketed the cell, seeping into every crack and corner. High Lord Rhysand stared right into your fear-filled eyes. There was whispers and rumours as to exactly what this male had done. He could turn your brain to mush and leave you living. He could rip your mind to shreds, give you the most agonising death with little effort. The horrors of his victims had never been far from your ears. The male's stare promised the same fate for you. It had you scrambling to ensure your own mental shields were intact, as though you could resist the might of the most powerful High Lord in history.

Rhysand called you by your full name, full of authority and reflecting the power that lurked behind his eyes. Raising your head, you looked anxiously at Azriel. You did everything to portray your fear and terror into that look. "Eyes on me." Rhysand bit. With a heart beating loud enough that everyone in the room could hear it, you met the eyes of your High Lord.

"My lord, please. This is a mistake," You begged one last time. One last chance at freedom. He would see the truth in your mind, but there would be nothing left of you to save.

"You have one final chance to reveal what you fed to Beron. Otherwise I will rip your mind apart until I find it myself," He promised viciously. You felt a razor-sharp claw make a long, uncomfortable pass over your mental shield.

You flickered your eyes to Elijah, who looked pale. This was it, your chance at justice. Even if you wouldn't be alive to witness it. Then you slid your gaze back to your old friend... your old love interest. Azriel scanned your body, holding on the knives in your hands and the screw in your foot. Cassian watched the exchange, though he had a harder time at hiding his expressions at the various horrors littering your body. "Remember what I told you," You spoke as you held the stare of Azriel. "I know nothing, High Lord. I have not fed any information to Beron or anyone from the Autumn Court."

Rhysand breathed a deep sigh when your eyes met once again. "Very well. May the Mother punish you justly for your sins." The feeling the followed was unlike anything you suffered before. You could not move, you could not scream. He was right there, in your mind. You could feel his essence cleaving your consciousness apart. Through each memory he watched, he destroyed it as he went. It felt like time had been slowed to a fraction of what it had been. The last few weeks of your torture felt inconsequential to these moments passing at a snail's pace. The blood that began to ooze from your nose, eyes and ears trickled slowly and took your mind with it. Everything you had ever been, would be and could've been was dribbling into a puddle in your lap.

You tried to push him out, tried to reinstate the shields and get him out. Give it up, his voice was a ripple of night. It was the voice of the High Lord, but also something more. Something demonic and beastly. It demanded you, and your mind conceded. The end was drawing near, you found yourself trying to remember your life and were met with nothingness. There was nothing left of you, only this pain and suffering. Why was this happening? You could not recall. Just let it end, you willed it. You repeated it like a mantra, begging whatever demon was inhabiting you to just kill you. The blood tickled your face as it now poured from you, but you could do nothing about it. Not as you heard ringing in your ears and your world fade to black.

Azriel watched in horror, having never witnessed this side of his brother's power in person. Dread weighed on him as your mouth hung open in silent horror, blood and drool pooling into your lap. Your fingers had curled and eyes clenched shut. Despite what you had done, Azriel would never wish this fate on his worst enemy. The image before him was something that even the most graphic horror novel could not depict. Azriel watched as the life drained from your body. Your hands relaxed first, then your expression relaxed and lastly, your upper body drooped and slumped over itself.. It was strange, you looked like you were sleeping peacefully despite the carnage you experienced. Rhysand's eyes focused once again and he quickly whipped around. Azriel jumped forward putting his hands on his brother's shoulders. "What's going on?" Cassian shouted.

"Where is he?!" Rhys bellowed, ripping from Azriel's grip.

"Who? Where's who?! Talk to me!" Azriel snapped.

"Elijah!" Both remaining brothers whirled around to where the spy was previously. An empty corner was all the remained.

Azriel's heckles raised, nothing was making sense. Cassian seemed to catch on partially. "Why do you want him?"

Rhysand looked solemnly at Azriel and Cassian. "It wasn't her, Elijah set her up."

Azriel froze, his heart pumped loudly in his ears. This couldn't be happening. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, his hands shook by his side. Carefully, he looked at where you were slumped in the chair. "No..." He barely whispered. Azriel's words seemed jumpstart Rhys and Cassian into action. Cassian ripped from the room, his feet stomping down the hall in pursuit of the real traitor.

Azriel approached you slowly, hoping there was some of you left to save. To save so he could repent. Tentatively and more gently than anyone had been with you in weeks, the Shadowsinger raised his fingers to your neck and waited. Waited for something, anything. "She's gone brother, I made sure of it," Rhysand stated, shame and regret thick in his tone. The Spymaster collapsed to his knees beside you, his mind replaying all the times you had begged for him to believe you. Replaying all the times his gut had told him there was something amiss. Sobs began to rack through his body, his heart had cleaved in two. In that moment, Azriel felt no better than his step brothers. An innocent female, an innocent and amazing female dead by torment he had ordered.

***

Azriel took charge of arranging your funeral himself. Guilt and shame had plagued him in the days since your death... no your murder. You laid on the pyre outside the home you had made for yourself. The Sidra rushed aggressively, as though it had been angered by your demise. The healers had cleaned your body as best they could, covered you with the finest silk Azriel could buy. But, he could still see the characters engraved on your skin. The holes in your hands where Elijah's knives had been were visible as they laid criss-crossed over your heart. Your cheekbones jut out in a sickly manner from your face. You looked clean, but nothing like the female Azriel had fallen in love with. He knew that now, that he had fallen in love with you. And he had destroyed you. A shell of the female you used to be laid dead on the pyre, all because of him. Azriel wished he could awake from this hell. Awake and see your face full and happy. Instead, he saw the eternal rest before him. Despite the peace on your face, all he could see was the image of your freshly dead body; mouth hung open with blood spilling from it, tears still trickling down your cheeks. With a flaming torch, Azriel set the pyre ablaze. He had attended this on his own, despite the protests of his family. He would attend this alone. Though Azriel was sure that the thought of him being the only attendee at the ceremony of your untimely demise would disgust you.

As your body burned, along with your most prized possessions, Azriel vowed to never forget what he had done to you, his friend and lost love. He would walk every day with the thought of you whispering in the back of his mind. For everyday he would remember what he did to you with the most crushing guilt, it would never account nor excuse the turmoil he put you through. Would never amount of the betrayal and injustice he unleashed unto you. Azriel Shadowsinger would never allow himself a moments peace again. Because you had never gotten yours. You had never even gotten so much of a chance at peace. Azriel knew it was a fitting punishment, he even smiled dryly at your burning body as he recalled your final words to him.

I will never forgive you. You have done wrong by me more than anyone else in my life.

I would appreciate any feedback that you have! Let me know what you think! :)

#acotar azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel angst #azriel x you #a court of thorns and roses #azriel shadowsinger #cassian acotar #rhys acotar #azriel x reader angst #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader

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splataii · 1 year ago

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kuroo x reader x bokuto

cw: top dom characters, sub bottom male reader, minor voyeurism, praise kink, degradation, double penetration, stomach bulge, use of words "boy pussy" and "boycunt"

sharing is caring hehe.. or maybe teamwork makes the dreamwork? idk lol

imagine frat boy bokuto and kuroo double stuffing their pretty roommate.

they had been arguing like schoolboys earlier over which one of em got to fuck you first.

it's ridiculous really, but in the end, it’s bokuto that gets first dibs on stuffing ur cute ass w his cock.

he promises kuroo a turn later (and he really did mean it), but omfg he just gets too caught up in how fucking good you feel. the way your hole looks as it sucks his dick back in with every thrust, the way you hold your soft thighs open for him, begging for more, the way your nails rake down his strong back when he fucks another load of cum in you.

he absolutely loses any rational, his own whines and moans drowning even yours as he continues rutting into you like a animal in a rut, his only coherent thought to fuck another load in ya till ur stuffed full

and poor lil kuroo’s left to listen to the sound of the headboard banging against the wall with each powerful thrust, jerking his neglected cock for the nth time to the sound of you guys moans, wishing it was him in there splitting you on his cock instead. it's not fair, and he gets real sick of it real quick.

when he finally barges in, you look completely fucked out, and bokuto is still mindlessly fucking his fat dick in you, bruises littering your hips with how hard his strong hands hold you down against the mattress.

damn you iust looked so perfect all fucked out like that, skin glistening with sweat as you laid spread out underneath bokuto. kuroo has a still dazed bokuto lift you off the bed, your hands clinging to his back as the two of em guide your body through it all.

kuroo presses a hand on the small of your back, making you arch for him while bokuto holds your shaky thighs apart.

your eyes widen when you finally realize what's goin on, feeling kuroo’s tip catching on ur already abused hole

“woah.. is it really gonna fit?” you hear bokuto mumbling against your neck as he spreads your ass.

“i’ll make it fit”

you desperately shake your head, squirming in bokuto's arms, but it's like you weigh nothing to him as he keeps you up against his chest, and reassures you not to worry, “shh, you're doing so good for us pretty boy, we’ll take care a you, promise,”

kuroo’s too busy w how good your ass feels around his cock, your boypussy too stretched to even properly clench down around him. he’s basically rambling as he presses kisses to your neck, licking the stray tears off your cheek, “almost there. attaboy, that's it. take that cock, go on n take it f’me,”

they're just soo fucking big, and they love it. how helpless you look in their arms.

you feel like you’ll break in two when you finally feel him fully sheath his cock inside your messy boycunt, bulge protruding from ur cute tummy. they both tease you bout it, pressing their hands against it and jerking their hips up so they can listen to how fucking desperate you get, begging them to finally start moving as they watch their dicks thrust in and outta you.

all you can really do is mindlessly babble as your eyes roll back, drool pooling at your lips as you cum all over your tummy from the feeling of just being filled by them both.

but that doesn't even compare to when they finally start movin and overstimulate your stretched hole, holding you up as they rock you back and forth on their dicks

don't worry, they'll talk you through it<3

bokuto in one ear moaning breathlessly about what a good fucking boy you are, taking their cocks like a champ

and kuroo in the other grunting about how greedy your little fuckhole is. he shoulda known one cock isn’t enough for your slutty ass.

#splataii writes #bottom male reader #bokuto x bottom male reader #kuroo x bottom male reader #sub male reader #x male reader #haikyuu x bottom male reader #hq x bottom male reader

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furiousgoldfish · 5 months ago

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I don't get why there are no resources for healthy expressions of anger. Are we as a society fundamentally opposed to people feeling anger? Are we afraid that if people get angry they're going to cause destruction so as an alternative we want anger to just not exist? Anger will go somewhere regardless of whether we want it to exist or not, and if a person who has good reasons to be angry, is not allowed to feel angry, they'll get eaten by self hatred and depression because that's what internalizing anger does.

It's also interesting that when abusers and people in power are angry, they can pretty much do whatever they like. Say no to them, they're having crazy revenges, they're tearing apart your stuff, they're starting wars, they're telling you how they're going to kill you in detail, no self restraint, no consequences, nothing. Anger is theirs to do as they please with and in response the society is just, too scared to do anything, so they assume that this specific anger is 'justified' and 'cannot be helped'. However when victims of something are angry, then they're labelled as 'unreasonable' and 'dangerous' and 'unable to move on from things'. Their anger is a problem that needs to be squashed, erased, there's apparently no justifications for these people to be angry, nothing that is reasonable or okay for them to do about it, they just get demonized and shamed for having a completely rational response to injustice.

Is that it then? Those who are able to act out on their anger, get justifications and obedience, but those who are helpless but angry for very good reasons, are just to be suffocated? Anger is allowed only for some parts of human society and it's the most violent, destructive and dangerous part of it too? Where is this getting us? Is the amount of injustice ever going to decrease if we defend injustice, and fight for it to keep going on?

If I look up ways to express anger, I get stuff like 'anger management steps', and 'letting go and moving on from anger', like excuse me. I didn't even get to express 1% of my anger and I need anger management? I have never had problems with controlling my anger, the struggle is to get it out at all! To integrate it into my personality, to hold people accountable without having to think about it, to show resistance when I'm being stepped on! What anger management? Why am I pushed to move away from anger, I haven't even arrived to anger!

Why is it assumed that every person who struggles with expressing anger is a maniac breaking things, enacting revenges, trying to injure or murder people, lashing out and doing harm to everyone around themselves. I can guess why. Because all of the resources are created for people who are letting their anger run wild without a cap and who use anger to get their way. The world is adjusted for people who are allowed to be angry, who were never pushed to the point where getting angry meant loss of survival, where expressions of anger would lead to torture. I am apparently not even considered to exist. I'm either a maniac or not a target audience for anger resources.

If someone's been traumatized out of being able to feel angry, people don't think it's worth having this person angry. It's very obvious this person has giant reasons for anger, so if we let them feel it, they could become 'dangerous', or 'just like their abuser'. You know, being angry at the abuser does not make anyone like the abuser, it makes them Normal. Rational. Having Self Worth. Human. Logical. Reasonable. Engaging in everyone's best fucking interest because you know that abuser is going wreck havoc forever and if nobody is even angry at them, it's giving them an even easier time. Anger is scary when it's in hands of abusers, in the hands of victims it is liberating, just, it puts things into perspective and back where they belong.

Now give me the fucking resources to get angry. I'm sick and tired of hating myself.

#anger #rage #surviving abuse #healing from abuse #abuse recovery #expressing anger #healthy expressions of anger #i got stuck in inability to express anger #and now i am developing self hatred again #i hate it here #get me out

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cloudcountry · 6 months ago

Note

I sent my request via dms but I'm still sending an ask for the sake of it, woops

Remember to hydrate and unshrimp :}

SUMMARY: idia doesn't how how to react when you show up at his door late at night and reveal something as earth shattering as your most recent breakup.

COMMENTS: we talked about this in dms but i hope you like the finished product!! <3

I CANT TELL IF THIS OR ANGST OR FLUFF. MAN.

reading this against its def angst oops

idia has issues but you're gonna get him through them trust 💪

The sound of mindless clicking, fans whirring, and Idia’s steady breathing are the only sounds that can be heard this late at night. It’s not that the residents of Ignihyde are sleeping—no, they’re all tucked away in their rooms, either tinkering with new tech or in the same position Idia is now. His lower back starts to ache from his slouched position in his chair, and so he straightens out his back to ease the pain. His spine cracks once, twice, thrice before settling down, and Idia promptly falls back into his old posture.

He briefly hears your voice in his mind, a reminder to sit up straight and not surf the web too late. He blinks slowly, briefly considering obeying your imaginary command, before he rationalizes using his PC more because you’re not actually here, you’re out with your boyfriend right now.

Or so he thinks.

It’s as though he summoned you, your knock on his door, a secret knock that only you would ever use. Idia insisted on a precaution like that so he’d know when it was safe to open the door and when it wasn’t. So far you hadn’t abused the privilege, never using it when you had friends with you. In fact, Idia was fairly certain you’d created a new knocking pattern recently when you had friends with you, just so he could know it was okay to respond but he didn’t have to open the door if he didn’t want to.

It's the knock that tells him you're alone.

So this time, he wants to.

He stands up, pushing his gamer chair to the side as his joints creak from being held in one position for far too long. He stalks over to the door, shaking hands reaching towards the doorknob. Because of your boyfriend, he’s always kept his feelings about you under wraps, wanting your happiness first and foremost. Besides, in what world would anyone be interested in him? He wouldn’t even want to associate with you like that, the thought of dragging you into his darkness was too much.

The doorknob turns and his door creaks open, a sliver of light spilling into his room until the rest of it is blocked by you. Idia opens his mouth to ask what you’re doing at his door this late, especially since you have a boyfriend and if anyone should be hanging out with you this late it really should be him and—

And—

And you have never looked more serious. It makes the words die in his throat, his lips parted like a fool.

“Do you have time to talk?” you ask softly, shifting from foot to foot in your pajamas and oh Great Seven, did you walk across campus like that? There were so many bugs out at night and snakes too, and what if you tripped because you couldn’t see where you were going? You came alone, WHY would you come alone this late? You could have gotten hurt—

His hands are twitching as your eyes drift down towards them, watching silently as they shake towards and away from you, like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure if he can. You initiate, taking his hands in yours and gently pushing him back into his room, nudging the door shut with your foot as quietly as possible.

“Um...what are you doing here this late?” Idia asks softly, his hands in yours, still twitching restlessly.

“I had to tell you something. It’s nothing bad on your part, before you start overthinking. It’s something to do with my boyfriend, now ex.” you say, each word purposeful and slow, like you’re picking your words very carefully in your sleepy haze.

“You broke up?” Idia murmurs, ignoring the way his heart jumps in his throat.

Of course he’s happy you’re single now. Of course he is. But that doesn't mean now is the time to start fantasizing about actually dating you. Oh who is he kidding, he wouldn’t be starting that, he’s been doing that. The last thing he needs to his feelings getting in the way and making things hard for you, you’ve been his best friend for years now, ever since he came to NRC you’ve always been in his corner, even though sometimes you don’t get to see each other that often and he’s not going to fuck this up because he likes you more than he should, no way is he going to fuck this up—

“Yeah. We broke up a few weeks ago.” you say, moving your hands from his and pressing them into your thighs.

“Oh.” Idia says dumbly.

You smile weakly, glancing around his room before gesturing to his bed. Idia feels his heart in his throat again—it’s the only place with room to sit, yeah, but it’s so messy and oh Great Seven what if his manga makes you think he’s weird and you never want to speak to him again.

You don’t even spare a glance at his mess. You just sit down and clench your hands in your lap, watching him as he sits down next to you. His eyes land on your hands, white knuckled and shaking, and it squeezes his heart when he thinks about just what your boyfriend could have done to hurt you like this.

Your ex, he means. Your ex. He’s never going to be your boyfriend again, even if he apologizes, because as much as you’re hurting right now Idia knows you'll only come back stronger for it.

It’s one of the reasons why he admires you so much.

“It...wasn’t something I was planning on broadcasting. And as far as I know, he hasn’t told anyone either. Not that he’s good at telling people things.” you remark bitterly, a frown twisting your lips.

“Was he not talking to you?” Idia asks, balling his hands into fists in his lap much like you.

“No. He wasn’t.” you sigh, looking down at his floor, “He wasn’t at all.”

His room grows silent again, but Idia hopes you don’t hear the gears in his brain turning. He wants to make things better for you, he wants to make sure all the time you have left with each other is good for you, he wants to make sure you can live the rest of your life happy with the knowledge that you’ll never have to think about this guy.

He wants you to be happy so he can let you go after you two become seniors.

“Is...there anything I can do?” he mumbles, eyes darting around the room for a distraction, “Um, I made a mini planetarium projection for Ortho since he likes the stars so much and I think I have it somewhere in here—”

He knows exactly where it is. Like he’d ever forget.

“—I have some games, um...which ones do you like? I probably have something—”

He’s fairly certain you’d love the game sitting on the bottom shelf of his desk. It reminds him of you whenever he plays it.

“—or would you like to watch anime? Read a manga? You can leave too, that’s okay, just let me walk you home so you don’t get hurt—”

Not again, at least. But he’ll do anything to keep you here with him.

You cut him off with a small giggle, your balled up fists now pressed up against your face in relaxed palms, covering your mouth as your eyes crinkle in the corners.

“I’d love to stay. Thank you, Idia.” you smile softly and move your hands away from your mouth, and Idia feels his heart jump into his throat again because of course you’d know.

You’ve always known.

He swallows back a wave of sadness as his mind reminds me once again that he will leave you one day, and that day will come sooner than he wants it too, that he’s cursed and he shouldn’t taint you too—

“Anything is good as long as it’s with you.” you laugh quietly, falling back onto his bed with a soft thump.

It’s like you were always meant to be there.

#rubia <3 #auburn's fics <3 #twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #disney twst #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #disney twisted wonderland #gn reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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gunpowderdtim · 2 months ago

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Pov you are Aurora. You were a kid and your biological mom was exploded maybe so then you're nothing. You're a baby moon during some form of planet changing event and you're all alone. Then this woman shows up and she's also all alone. Or well. She has a wife. So they're your moms now. But loreli is an abusive woman and probably not all that enthused about having a moon daughter.

She's still your mom tho

Then carmilla kills/whatever/breaks up with/???'s loreli and like. What the fuck your mom ???'d your other mom and you run away probably. And then you're kidnapped and have all your organs scooped about Micheal Afton style and it sucks because no one acknowledges you're sentient and you're cut apart and repurposed to being a starship. And that shit sucks you can hardly think right anymore and it hurts

And then your mom comes back!!! Her shitty new son saved you (she REPLACED YOU..) but it's okay now you're not with Them you're with Mom and Stupid Fucking Jonny Who Replaced You And Sucks Fuck Him (your jealous she can hold him)

And then there is Nastya. Who by all rights you Fucking Hate at first because She Is The Princess Of The People Who Stole Your Fucking Organs but she talks to you. She's quiet and smart and so pretty and she fixes things that break sometimes and AAAAA. You're gay. You love her. You love her. You love her.

And things happen.

So many things happen.

You're fixed so many times and different ways that your unrecognizable. You're thousands of years older but also like. You're a moon so time doesn't really work the same because you're a fucking moon

Made of flesh

And also some metal but that's fine now because none of it is The Same Metal and you can carry everyone you love safely inside you and sure you've probably rationalized away a lot of the scary horrors of having every drop of agency you had taken away and replaced with engines that often need repair and shit

But like

You're fine

So anyway you've been fixed and changed and repainted and you like it this way. It's your body.

And then your lovely girlfriend goes "I fucking hate this. You're not the same [person] you were 10 thousand years ago"

And like of course you're not. You want to scream. You can control your own course. You're not branded by Them on every plate. You're not a Cyberian Vessel you're just Aurora. You're a moon made of flesh and emotion and self. You're the most you you have been since your moms divorce murdered eachother and you ran away

And Nastya says you've changed. And that you can't work. And then she's gone. Out.

And you're not alone this time.

But she is.

And she's gone.

Just gone.

#nastyaurora #the mechanisms #can you tell im ill about them

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theworldisabrokenbonebutitishome · 2 months ago

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I know it's used partly as a 'ah-ha! gotcha!' plot twist that the letter in episode 3 is actually for one of the girls to go to university, and not that stacey devlin was leaving brandon for another man, but i still appreciate that it's a subtle way of saying this man has not been wronged at all and is not deserving of a seconds moment of sympathy. i don't think someone cheating or leaving a relationship for another person constitutes a loophole for murder, just to be clear, but it is the type of thing that some people would use to victim blame and rationalise the actions of bad men, there are plenty of news reports that could provide supporting evidence for this. women and girls who turn a man down and then he goes on a killing spree and yet it's the woman exercising her autonomy that gets judged, no matter how subtly.

of course jenny has already made this point when getting asked about the murders earlier in the episode: who cares what his trigger was? it is never going to be something that could excuse or rationalise his actions so why even bother trying to work out his logic because it will never result in justice? the reason is meaningless to her, it will never change the fact that this was a man who murdered his family, nothing excuses that.

but then, it turns out that the letter isn't actually causing the loop either. the contents of the letter actually becomes rather irrelevant to solving the case. it comes down to the vhs recording of the murders captured on the cameras brandon devlin installed. he caused their deaths because he was a controlling prick who could not bear the thought of his daughters one day leaving his house, his control, and his surveillance. and he caused them to get stuck in a loop reliving that night for 30 years because he had previously set up hidden recording equipment that captured the trauma. he didn't know that was possible but nevertheless every part of the horrors these women have been stuck in has been caused by him. there is no way to excuse him spying on his family in their own home and everything that spirals from that sickening behaviour.

i just think it's important how this episode really emphasises that the actions of controlling and abusive people is what causes the pain and suffering. victims should not have to answer questions about how they set off their abuser because that is not something they can control and also is rarely a rational thing, abusers are not reasonable.

#mutterings into the void #dead boy detectives #the case of the devlin house #save dead boy detectives #does this make sense?#dbdagency on twitter got me thinking about ep3 and this spiralled when i should be in bed so i apologise if it's not the most coherent

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after-witch · 9 months ago

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Too Darn Hot [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Title: Too Darn Hot [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Synopsis: It’s just too hot to deal with Dabi right now.

Word count: 3048

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, past mentions of bondage and abusive behavior

You didn’t think it was possible for a person to sweat this much, yet here you are: sprawled out on the worn mattress, tangled in freezer-cooled sheets that warm all too quickly underneath you; drenching your skin and the sheets and the mattress and probably the damn coils inside it with your sweat.

It’s. Too. Damn. Hot.

Nothing helps. Or at least, nothing helps long enough to be actually soothing. The freezer chills the sheets--and your clothes--but the effect is gone within minutes. Sitting in front of the rickety fan, when it chooses to work, only results in hot air being blown in your face. Even the breezes from the open window offer no cooling relief--only warm air wafting through the sweltering apartment.

Ice melts in your mouth too fast, but there’s only two trays.

Dabi said he’d get more one morning, then came back that afternoon shrugging his shoulders. They’re sold out everywhere, what with the heat wave and all.

Even the popsicles are all sold out. There’s half a box left in the freezer, and you ration them out carefully. But you can’t really savor them--they melt too fast, sticky juice getting all over your hands, if you don’t eat them right away.

It’s been days--days--with no relief in sight.

Yet you could maybe deal with the heat wave, could wait it out because surely it will eventually break, if it wasn’t for one wrench in the works: Dabi himself.

Ever since the temperatures climbed and you found yourself begging for the slightest bit of coolness against the brutal heat, you’ve refused to let Dabi near you.

He’s not allowed to lay in bed with you. He’s not allowed to hold you or kiss you. He’s not allowed to touch you. Sometimes you even yell at him for looking at you, as if his personal heat might radiate from his gaze over to your sweaty, sticky skin.

He’s too hot, and the world is too hot, and if you combine the two of them--you’re not sure that you’ll survive it.

So you say no.

No, no, no.

He calls you “disagreeable.” You call him an overheated asshole. He doesn’t punish you but you think it’s only because of the pitiful way you groan and wipe down your sweaty neck with a towel and fruitlessly fan yourself with a newspaper-page-turned-paper-fan.

It’s too hot to argue.

Technically speaking, you[d stopped being broadly disagreeable, as Dabi called it when you refused to let him do whatever he wanted to you, ages ago. There is only so much that you can take, really, before it stops becoming worth the emotional turmoil to fight back. Retaining a shred of dignity in your refusal to play along with his obsession wasn’t worth the screaming matches, the threats, the clink of a heavy chain around your ankle.

So you gave up. Life became easier. Less stressful, at least, on the outside. Sure, there was usually a pit of stress in your stomach because of the whole “being held captive by a villain” thing. But at least you weren’t shouting at each other every day. At least you could get up to go to the bathroom whenever you wanted. At least he listened to your preferences, brought you your favorite takeout, snuck back into your apartment to steal a few personal effects.

Your favorite stuffed animal from childhood currently rests on top of a dresser, watching you groan about the heat with impassive black eyes.

Letting go of your fight against Dabi gave you another gift, and perhaps a more surprising one: insight. Dabi was a villain, yes. He killed people and he’d kill more in the future, you were sure. He could be cold and callous and cruel.

But he was also so damn lonely. You think that’s why he took you, that loneliness. It’s like a giant weight draped over him, abated only when he’s got someone else to hold. Someone like you. Someone he can sleep with, and kiss, someone he can whisper to in the dead of night when he thinks you’re sleeping.

He’s--clingy. Who would have thought you’d use the word “clingy” to describe a notorious villain? If you’d told yourself this fact a year ago, you would have laughed and shaken your head pitifully.

Now, though… now.

Dabi outside these walls, away from you, is someone else. The news reports on TV occasionally report his victims, burnt corpses that left behind broken families and friendships. That Dabi is a cruel killer who has no remorse for what he’s done, who would surely look down at his begging victims and kill them without a second thought.

But then he walks through the threshold of the apartment and hangs up the ghost of burning flames and ruined corpses like other men hang up their coats after work.

Honey, I’m home.

Not that you’re some kind of ideal house spouse waiting for him with an apron and a cooking spoon.

He doesn’t expect you to cook, actually, although the ability to do so was granted after you’d been “well behaved” long enough. Knives are only available under his supervision, of course.

But takeout is the norm for both of you. Mostly your favorite spots, when he’s feeling generous. On occasion he’ll cook a thing or two, like eggs for breakfast. Sunny side up with toast for dipping.

He doesn’t expect you to clean, either, but you do anyway. It keeps your mind occupied, which in turn keeps you from losing it. Who wants to live in a pigsty, anyway? And you think he likes it when you clean, although he won’t admit it. He’s always a little softer when he comes home to find that you’ve folded his clothes or made the bed all nice and tidy.

He does have expectations for you, though. You’d be foolish not to know that.

He does expect you, above all, to let him touch you. Hold you. Kiss you. Fuck you. And do it all without complaints and irritated squirming and pleas to be let go, to go home, for him to just leave you alone.

But right now?

It’s just too fucking hot. The thought of his warmth, comforting during the cold winter seasons, makes you want to throw up.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy, the first night you told him that he had to sleep on the couch or the floor but he certainly wasn’t sleeping in the bed with you. You’d held up your hand and said, plain as day, that if he didn’t sleep on the couch then you would.

That was days ago, but there’s no end in sight for this unrelenting heat. You’ve hardly even eaten. The cold noodles Dabi brought home tonight were a welcome relief from the usual warm dinners, but the heat made your stomach cramp and you couldn’t eat much of them.

“Hey.”

You jolt up from the bed, now-warm sheets in your arms. You didn’t even realize Dabi had come home. Was it possible to lose your hearing from too much heat? Maybe you were getting delirious. More than likely, you were too wrapped up in your own sweaty self-pity to hear him come in.

“Hey,” you sigh out, turning the sheets over in your arms, searching for one vaguely cool spot left in the fabric. No such luck.

Dabi drops a bag of takeout on top of the dresser and you huff petulantly from your spot on the bed.

“Don’t put it there. You’ll get stains on Mr. Snuggles.”

You can practically hear Dabi’s face scrunch up without even asking him to face you to see if it’s true. He has his tells. Mostly in his voice, in the way it’s tired and strained. “Well, if Mr. Snuggles doesn’t want food stains on him, he can stay away from where I normally put our food before dinner.”

You flop an arm over your forehead, willing it to be cool--it’s not. “You should put food on a counter, not a dresser. Dressers are for clothes and… trinkets. Or something.” There’s barely any energy in your voice. It’s too hot to put in effort, even the effort required to be annoyed.

“Do you have to complain about everything this week?” Goosebumps creep along your arm despite the heat. You recognize the irritated tone. And you should back off. Really.

Instead, you sit up properly on the bed and frown at him.

“I wouldn’t be complaining about everything if it wasn’t so hot.”

Dabi turns to face you, and you really ought to stop talking. But sweat beads along the back of your neck and the fabric of your shirt is damp, and it’s too hot to stop now. Fuck it.

Even simply standing there, it’s like he’s radiating heat that only makes the bedroom even more stifling. And he either knows it and doesn’t care, or doesn’t know it which might be worse. Ignorance, you’ve decided, can be so much worse than knowledge.

Regardless of his personal acquaintance with the heat of his body, he walks right over to the bed and sits down next to you. As if you haven’t been telling him to back off all week. As if you weren’t worried that his heat would transfer right down into the mattress and make it impossible to sleep on for days.

It takes all of your self-discipline to avoid bolting off the bed entirely to avoid him.

“You have the fan. There’s ice in the freezer. We just gotta ride this heat wave out, okay? It can’t be much longer.” And oh, the coo in his voice. The soft tone. The sweetness.

He’s trying to sound sympathetic towards you and it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

How can he suggest just “riding the heat wave out” when you’re the one sweating buckets every day, finding it impossible to get comfortable, unable to do anything but lay in bed and pray it stops being unbearable? It’s easy for him to say--ride it out. He’s used to the heat. He lives in it every day.

“C’mon,” he tells you. “Let’s just relax in bed for a minute, eat some dinner, and we can sit on the balcony for a bit once the sun goes down. It’ll be nicer out there, I think.”

The thought of sitting outside should be a tempting one, but you’re too focused on your present discomfort. On the way it seems like it’s gotten a few degrees hotter in the last few moments since he sat down. Couldn’t he just leave you alone?

If his audacious sympathy weren’t bad enough, it’s what comes next that stuns you into bleary, heat-derived action. He actually reaches for you. Sure. It’s a gesture he’s done a million times before. But now, with the heat, with the sweat, he might as well be slapping you in the face.

His arm just makes it around your shoulder, pulling you close in a way that you recognize as a precursor to a cuddling session, before you shove him away.

“Get away from me!”

There’s a flash of hurt on his face before he smooths it to something like calm and collected irritation.

“What,” he says, fingers twitching, “is your problem lately?”

“My problem…” You grit out the words. “is that it’s too hot. And maybe I wouldn’t be complaining about it being hot if you weren’t always hovering around me, making it worse than it needs to be because you’re too warm to be around and--”

Dabi grabs your upper arm. Not hard. Not cruelly. It doesn’t hurt, no, no, no. But it does bring back memories--memories of screaming matches and kicking and fighting; memories of you trying to bite him while he held you and getting chained tightly to the bed for your troubles.

Memories of when you hadn’t figured out that accepting your situation made your chest stop hurting, gave you the ability to sleep more easily, and made you able to find small happinesses in your current existence.

It was an awful time, then. Even more awful than the misery of the current heat wave.

Your muscles go limp, and your chest feels like it seizes up all of your breath.

I’m sorry, you think. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Or maybe you say it out loud. You can’t tell with the adrenaline pumping through you, making you forget the heat--though you’re in no position to enjoy any relief from it.

His muscles go limp, too, and he lets you go almost as swiftly as he grabbed you.

“Sorry,” he says, mumbling, quick. “Shit, Sorry. Didn’t mean to…” He stands up and steps away, scratches at his hair. Paces towards the open window, the rickety fan that’s sputtering in the corner. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t stay. He mumbles something about having to run out, tells you to eat your dinner, and says he’ll be back later tonight. Go to bed without him.

That, at least, is something you have no problem doing.

Maybe, with everything going on, dinner should be tasteless to you. But it’s your favorite dish and you can’t help but enjoy the flavors in between sips of chilled water.

Before bed, you tuck the leftovers into the fridge. Part of you wants to leave them to spoil so Dabi can’t enjoy them, but… he did go to one of your favorite spots again, didn’t he? And got your favorite dish?

There’s a pang of something like pity at the thought of him being hungry, at the imagined flash of his hurt face if he saw that you left his food out. Must be the heat scrambling your brains, you decide.

Soon after, you fall asleep fitfully, dreaming about fire and chains and takeout containers.

You wake up to a roaring engine that startles you out of sleep as readily as a slap to the face.

It’s a truck or a motor or a plane flying above--whatever it is, it’s loud, and close, and your heart starts to beat a mile a minute.

That’s when you feel it--something cool and delightful. Was the fan working? Was the heatwave over, and it was dragging in a blissful night breeze?

You blink away sleep and sit up in bed and are greeted to the sight of Dabi slapping the top of a window air conditioner which, even in the dim moonlight, had clearly seen better days.

It doesn’t matter, though. Because it works. It’s cool. No, no. It’s cold.

All thoughts drain out of your brain and you leap out of bed and slide in front of it on your knees, knees skidding against the hardwood floor.

“Oh,” you say, a long, languid sound. It’s bliss. True bliss. Your eyes close of their own accord and you lean your head back to let the cool blasting air hit your sweaty neck; you begin flapping at your night clothes, and the dampness of your warm sweat is sweetly relieved from the forced breeze.

“Almost didn’t think it would work.” You open your eyes. You had almost forgotten about Dabi, who is currently screwing something shut on the windowsill. To keep it from falling, you think. “Found it… in a dumpster.”

You expect it was probably found in someone else’s window. All you can hope is that they’re alive. But you don’t even dwell on that concern for long, because for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you’re cool. Comfortable. No longer sweaty and feeling heavy, hot, and worn down.

It’s so relieving that you might just start crying.

Dabi slinks down on the floor next to you, crossing one leg and pulling his knee up so he can prop one elbow on it.

He stares at you for a few long moments, and you look back with none of the heat-induced venom from earlier. Instead, you press your lips thin, and smile a little.

Slowly, he leans in, scooting on the floor to get closer to you. You let him. He reaches over and puts one arm around your shoulder, pulls you towards him. And you let him do this, too.

The warmth of his body is no longer agonizing. It’s even a bit welcome as a contrast against the cold blast from the AC just a few feet in front of you. It’s… pleasant. Like climbing under a warm blanket on a cool winter’s night.

Only the blanket is Dabi, and it’s the middle of summer, and despite it all, you put Dabi’s leftovers safely in the fridge before you went to bed and he went out and found you an air conditioner so you weren’t miserable.

Nothing is said or done at first. After a few more moments, you lean your head against his shoulder. It’s a slow move, but one you do willingly. Or as willingly as you do anything, now.

”Thanks, Dabi.”

He hums, but says nothing more about it. His hand drops from your shoulder to your waist, keeping you close. It’s the first time he’s been able to properly hold you since the heat wave started, and maybe that’s why neither of you want to say anything for a while.

“Do you…” You begin, turning your head to look at him. His face is partially lit by the blue light of the air conditioner panel. “Want to get on the bed?”

He glances at you, keeps his gaze trained on yours. There’s a little smile in his expression. Relief is in it, yes, and something else too. Regret? Affection? A sad little mixture of both?

“Not yet.” He leans his head against yours. His hair tickles your cheek. “We can sit here until you’re tired. I’ll carry you to bed, if you fall asleep.”

You wonder how long it will take for your eyes to begin to droop again; for your brain to start getting fuzzy and silly, pulling you halfway into dreams. Will you wake up when Dabi carries you, or will you find yourself startled in the morning when you’re tangled in the bedsheets and Dabi’s arm is locked around your waist?

“Sure,” you tell him. “I don’t mind.”

At least you won’t dream about fire anymore. At least, not the kind of fire spawned by oppressive heatwaves.

#yandere dabi #yandere bnha #yandere my hero academia #yandere #afterwitch writes

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leclerc-hs · 1 year ago

Text

fille stupide pt. 3 - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader / max verstappen x fem!reader Summary: in which you now kind of know French and a not so stranger is still here Warnings: smut, oral (f-receiving), angstyyyy (?), cheating (again, i'm sorry), 18+!, not proofread!!, bad French (correct me please!!), bad Dutch (correct me please!!) Word Count: 1985 Author's Note: ok so I think we'll end fille stupide here 🤭 I absolutely loved writing this (if you couldn't tell by how fast i was able to write it lmaooo). I honestly WOULD NOT mind writing more scenarios for them in the future. Like if I ever write mean dom charles, my mind will automatically come back to them. please don't forget to leave feedback! love y'all french edited by @shewantsvengeance!!! dutch edited by @deanlovescassie!!!

PART 1 PART 2

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

STARTLED BY A loud bang in the kitchen, you jolt awake. The bright sun streaming through your windows blinds you as you try to make sense of the abrupt awakening and your surroundings. You were no longer naked; a large plain white t-shirt enveloped your body. A t-shirt you don’t remember even putting on or falling asleep in. A t-shirt, that’s not even yours.

Caution gripped you as you inched towards the kitchen, moving slowly down the hall. The muffled sounds persisted, their meaning elusive, while the clattering of cabinets continued. As you finally reached the corner of the hallway, you were met with the sight of a partially naked Charles in the kitchen, an array of food on the stove top cooked. The aroma of bacon and eggs wafted through the kitchen, prompting your stomach to audibly grumble in response. You leaned against the countertop across from him, just watching the muscles of his back flex with each deliberate movement. He stayed?

You let out a breath of air in relief at the sight of him. Not just because he was there and stayed, but because it wasn’t somebody breaking in.

He didn’t even turn around before saying, “Où ranges-tu tes assiettes?” Where do you keep your plates? “Oh, I found them!” He didn’t have to turn around to sense your presence; all his senses seemed attuned to your proximity. Your body called to him, like it demanded his attention. As if your cells were able to alert his own, screaming for them to merge with yours.

You felt a swirl of need form in your stomach at the sight of your scratch marks on his back. As if he was marked for your territory only. You also felt a surge of panic form in your throat as the memories of last night came flooding back.

Tell me who your body belongs to.

Je t’appartiens, Charles.

A sensation of unease churned in your stomach as thoughts of Max’s face crossed your mind. The guilt weighed heavily, and you felt on the verge of nausea for what you had done to him. How was it possible that something so bad felt so good? It was as if Charles held complete control over you, rendering you senseless and devoid of rational thoughts and actions. Tears prick at your eyes as you observe the bruises on the insides of your legs and felt the welts on your neck. Your body looks and feels both used and abused. Nothing about this situation is okay. Last night, you both had been remarkably careless.

The panic began to subside only when Charles turned around and met your gaze. His eyes, an unusually light shade of green, captured your attention. His disheveled hair hinted at just having woken up not too long ago.

“I didn’t know you stayed,” you began, confusion laced in your voice. “I heard the door shut last night.”

“Fille stupide,” Stupid girl. A smile crept on his face, carrying a mocking undertone that seemed directed at you. “I went to store to get you a pill last night. Je suis revenu.” I came back.

You despised how profoundly his words impacted you, how his return stirred a need for you to rationalize both your actions and his, even when there was no justification for what had transpired. Anxious, your fingers fidgeted with the end of the T-shirt that rested at the middle of your thighs. He advanced towards you, trapping you between him and the counter – a familiar position whenever you find yourself in his presence. His hands find their way to your face, their size enough to envelope majority of it. His fingers sprawl on your jawline, and his thumbs rest on your cheekbones as he looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. Like you’re a textbook and he has a test to study for.

“Tu es tellement belle,” You’re so beautiful. Despite his sweet words, a sinister gleam in his eyes followed the contours of your body, his hands firmly gripping your hips as he pressed himself to you, “I meant what I said last night.”

Mine, you’re fucking mine.

The ache in between your legs was growing with each passing second. He was too close, his smell and warmth surrounding you, creating a sense of intoxication. You felt the need to press your thighs together, but Charles stood between them, smirking down at you like he knew.

Words fail you as you gaze up at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He stands there patiently, waiting as you study the furrow of his eyebrow. He stands there patiently, waiting as your eyes delve into his, memorizing every shade of color within them. He stands there patiently, waiting as your gaze fixates on his lips.

It was almost as if you didn’t have a choice. Like he was a pre-determined answer to your life. A definition to your word.

“Guess I didn’t give it to you hard enough last night, hm?” It wasn’t until your hands settle on his biceps that he realizes you’ve given him consent. Suddenly, his hands are everywhere. Roaming your body like an unexplored map; squeezing your waist, pinching your nipples, squeezing your butt. He just can’t get enough of you. “Need me to take the ache away?”

A moan escapes your lips as you yield, unable to resist him. Your body, seemingly under his command, surrenders to its desires.

His tongue presses against yours, never losing contact. He quickly flips the both of you around, pushing you until your back met the countertop of the island. With determination, he lifts you onto it, shoving anything that finds solace there, to the floor. His hands push you down, so you now lay sprawled on the counter in the center of the kitchen. You replacing the breakfast Charles had made.

“Mon dieu,” My God. He growls at the sight of your legs spread and bare for him. “Je pourrais mourir heureux.” I could die happy. You have no idea what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Especially when his tongue met your clit, licking you as if you were the last meal on Earth and he was starving.

His two fingers slid into your heated core, curling them to brush your g-spot with every stroke. “Tellement bon,” So fucking good. He’s moaning into your pussy, sending you into oblivion.

“Putain de salope.” Fucking dirty slut. He manages to mumble in between your legs, the vibration of his words pushing you closer to the edge.

Around his fingers, you clench. You revel in the feeling of him in you, no matter what or how it’s done. Your fingers clench in his hair, it’s longer than the first time you met, tugging to anchor yourself. His hands on you are equivalent to an out of body experience. You could never tire of it.

“You like that?” Yes! You wanted to yell. You more than liked it. You loved it.

It wasn’t until his other hand, the one not inside of you, groped one of your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, that you went flying over the edge, relishing in the waves of pleasure as he continues to thrust his fingers in you – coaxing you through the orgasm.

His mouth is hot on you, swallowing anything you’ll give him. Your legs shake, his mouth on you becoming too much as you squirm until he stops and looks at you, his lips glossy and coated.

“Tellement foutrement doux,” So fucking sweet. He murmured as he pulled you up, holding you in an upright position to look at him. You still don’t know what he’s saying, but you didn’t care. Your ears were ringing as you came down from your high, feeling limp against the hands of Charles.

You shut your eyes as you began to feel the panic surge. You gave in, again. He peppered small kisses to your neck, almost too softly, a stark contrast from how he treats you in the midst of sex. He was soft with you now -- tender. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop. As if sensing your panic, Charles tips your chin to look at him.

“Cherie, you are made for me.” You feel the panic claw at your throat, constricting you, and the tears begin to spill from your eyes. “Don’t you see?”

You did see it. You could see it clear as day. After all, there wasn’t a day that he wasn’t on your mind since the first encounter. You don’t understand what’s happening to you. How could you betray Max like this? He didn’t deserve it, and you didn’t deserve him. It feels like there’s no choice when it comes to Charles. It’s as if your body responds instantly to his mere gaze. He’s the batteries, and you’re the remote control. Completely useless without its batteries.

You knew you had to tell Max. You couldn’t bear to hurt him any further. You observed Charles begin to furrow his eyebrows in frustration as he sensed you withdrawing from him. The sight pained him, and it hurt to witness.

“I need to tell Max,” You started, but were quickly cut off by a voice.

“Tell Max what?”

You felt your heart stop and face flush red, as none other than Max stood just a few feet away in the entry way of your home, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a spare key to your apartment in the other. Time seemed to slow down as you observed Max’s eyes darting between the proximity of you and Charles. There you were, perched on the counter, with Charles standing between your legs. Your cheeks flushed red as you sat with nothing but Charles t-shirt on your body. The kitchen island was wiped clean, everything scattered on the floor. The air hung heavy with an unspoken tension.

He didn’t even speak. He simply dropped the flowers and spare key on the entry way table and turned around, heading for the door. You shoved Charles out of the way, running towards the door. Running towards Max.

“Please, I can explain,” you were shouting. Completely panicked. But really, there was nothing to explain. It was clear as day, all cards laid out on the table in front of Max’s eyes.

“You don’t need to explain.” He scoffed, his jaw clenched in anger, as his eyes bounced from you, standing in front of him, to Charles, who remained planted in the kitchen. “Ik ben er klaar mee.” I’m done. He spoke in his native tongue, knowing you understood.

“Ik walg van je.” You disgust me. His words were sharp, stabbing you where it hurt most. He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he stepped out of the apartment as fast as he could.

You convince yourself that something has to be wrong with you. You were so mad that you did this. So mad that you hurt Max. But still, despite it all, everything with Charles feels so right.

Tears spilled hotly from your eyes, falling to the floor as you sobbed into your hands. Charles hurried over, lifting you to your feet and cradling you in his arms. Swiftly, he carried you to your bed, gently placing you on the covers. Pulling you into his chest, he held you tightly, providing comfort and solace.

“Je te protégerai.” I’ll keep you safe. Charles mutters into the nape of your neck, rubbing your back soothingly as you cry into him. “Tu es faite pour moi.” You’re meant for me.

You cried for what felt like hours. Charles only continued to whisper sweet nothings to you as he held you. You cried until you were limp with exhaustion, eyes closing, surrounded in the warmth of Charles. You didn’t deserve it.

“I will be here when you wake up, Cherie.” ----------- sorry max, you need to lose something 🤭

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