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lalunanymph · 9 months ago

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𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 2)

✧˚ · . three minutes past his 27th birthday, the mass serial killer known as 'dawnbreaker' finally meets the girl from his dreams

✧˚ · . part 1

✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, mentions of illnesses, mentions of injuries, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, pet names (darling, my love, beloved), nightmares, mentions of smoking, MCD, brief mentions of su_cide, nightmares, a not so happy happy ending, minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption

✧˚ · . dawn says: i had to split the last part into 2 because it was literally so long tumblr said nope sorry girlie this ain't making it into the tags lol

✧˚ · . playlist

“You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…”

He exhales it into the suffocating silence:

“Dawnbreaker.”

Your eyes bulge wider, mouth falling open in horror. Of course, you were aware of that name; you knew who he was.

Serina Callaghan, daughter of Detective Callaghan, had told you numerous stories about the elusive serial killer. How no one could find a trace of him.

Yet, here he was—standing in your kitchen with remorse etched onto every pore of his body.

You feel a sick sense of nausea bubbling from your stomach to your chest, threatening to spill onto the floor.

You had taken him in… made love to him… held him in your arms every night… when he had killed all those innocent people…

As if reading your mind, Zayne shakes his head. “These people—the ones who had passed on—I never killed them for fun. They wanted me to end their lives because they were overtaken by the disease… by the Abomination.”

His words shock you out of your reverie; tames your urge to grab the phone and call the police. For a split second, you wonder what Zayne would do to you if you were to lunge for the cordless phone; would he escape?

Kill you?

Forcing yourself to be far braver than you felt, you clutched your trembling hands together, taking in a deep breath.

“So, m-mercy killing,” your voice shook, but your deduction was spot on.

“Yes.” He shrugs off his coat, and you eye the wad of cash he takes out and sets on your kitchen counter. “I will never kill someone unless they pay me to do it. I do not like taking lives, but as one of the last Evolvers in this generation… it is my duty to help.”

Evolver?

The layers of truth were starting to make your head spin. You could barely unravel your spiraling thoughts.

“I thought Evolvers were extinct.”

Zayne shakes his head. “We are rare, but we are still here.”

As if to solidify the truth, he holds out his hand. On his palm, the air condenses, and the temperature in the kitchen drops a few celsius. You watch, gobsmack in silence, as bits of snow appear, coalescing right into a singular teardrop-shaped crystal that unfurls into a shimmery flower with five petals.

“Ice,” Zayne explains, and slowly approaches you. He gently places the flower on the table, right where you were standing.

He backs away, giving you some space to work out your emotions. You stare at the jasmine flower, in silent contemplation.

It’s intricate and beautiful, but ice in itself was deadly.

While it looked harmless falling from the sky, it had the power to bury people under its weight; causing hypothermia, avalanches, and skin burns.

You glance at Zayne, wondering which category he belonged in—if he was a chilly breeze or an entire fucking snowstorm.

His weary gaze spoke volumes, though he let you reach your own conclusions. Zayne was giving you a choice: one many people in your life didn’t.

Stay or leave.

Be with him or turn him away.

Two forks of an outcome; you had no idea what to choose.

Your silence stretches on and Zayne hangs his head forward. He’s about to turn and leave, when you slowly reach out to touch the jasmine flower. It’s cool on your palm, tougher and durable. Not wet and cold like real ice.

“Crystals?”

Your voice comes off low, hoarse. There’s a dazed look in your eyes, one which tugs on the sorrow lining his soul.

He hates to do this to you; hates how conflicted you look.

“This is what you use to kill people, don’t you?”

Astute, again. Zayne would honestly be impressed by your wits if he wasn’t painfully aware of how you were holding him accountable for his horrendous mistakes.

“I know you think awfully of me—”

“Why kill them?” You’re breathing heavily now, anguish coating your every word. “What if you could save them, instead? Can’t that be done?”

Zayne shakes his head, unable to meet your eye. “I have spoken to a few scientists about this… but many of them were taken by the Abomination. It’s caused by constant exposure to Protocores and is incurable. The only thing I can do is make sure those infected have a swift end.”

Your silence strikes him heavier than a hit.

“Infected?" you murmur hoarsely. "Constant exposure? A swift end? Do you even hear yourself?”

You simmer and bubble, cheeks flushed with anger. “Zayne—these are human beings! People with love, dreams and hopes. People with families. They’re not jobs or ledgers. They deserve a bit more dignity than that.”

Suddenly, the despair in his eyes turns ice cold. You’re hopeless to stop him from approaching you, and scramble back until you bump the kitchen counter, eyes wide and fearful. But, he stops just shy of your feet touching, an unfathomable expression on his face.

“I would never hurt anyone. Ever. You of all people should know. Didn’t you say you weren’t afraid of me the first time we were intimate together?” He fights hard to not let his tone turn accusatory, eyes shining with frustration and unshed tears. “What made you change your mind this time?”

“You killed them… you killed them all,” you’re close to tears, trembling from head to toe. Zayne looks like he’s about to cry as well, begging you to see beyond the murderer you thought he was; to embrace him and hold him and share his burden, even though he knows it’s unfair to put all this weight on you.

He was so tired of pretending that everything was alright. And deep down, he knew you were, too.

This world wasn’t kind to anyone, and he only had you to soothe the ache—to be the light he looks forward to every morning.

Please, don’t go, he wants to scream, hands balled into fists at his side. Don’t leave me alone… you are the only one I have left.

A sob bubbles past your lips, and you wrap your arms around you; willing yourself to stand upright and be brave.

“Do you regret it?” your voice is thick, and he longs to staunch the tears falling from your cheeks, but the words are lost in his throat.

“All of them? Did you ever regret killing them?”

Zayne tightens his fists, clenching down hard enough for his nails to leave pale moon crescent indents on his palms.

“There was a boy I had to kill once. Georgie. He would’ve been thirteen…” he closes his eyes, hoping to find some strength to push on. Zayne was so incredibly tired from constantly fighting.

“We celebrated his birthday at a cafe, too. He loved macarons. And chocolate. But, his mother gave him the disease. I had to be the one to put him down. I still think about him every time I hear ‘happy birthday’.”

His words are simple, but they make you bleed, staring at the floor with tears blurring your vision.

You fall into a thick disquiet, and so did he. Zayne stands upright, like a prisoner about to be read his final judgment; willing you to forgive him—god he hopes you find it in your heart to forgive him.

He wasn’t a good man—a fiend of the night people were afraid of. But, Zayne would never forgive himself if you didn’t take him back. He would dig his knees to the ground, beg for you to change your mind.

In the throes of his own self-loathing, he almost flinches when he feels your arms wrap around his torso. Your head thumps onto his chest, and he realizes you’re fully crying now. He embraces you fiercely, quickly. Holding you fast to him as if you both could fuse together and become one.

You leave tear stains across his blood speckled shirt, fingers digging into his shoulders as violent sobs rip through you.

“Do you hate me?” He forces himself to ask through numb lips. Zayne doesn’t know what answer you would give—if you would even reply to him.

But, you shake your head, hiccuping his name.

“Are you afraid?”

There’s a slight pause, and you shudder, shaking your head again.

Zayne nuzzles your hair, rocking you from side to side like he was comforting a hysterical child.

Your sobs eventually stop and you’re both swaying in each other’s arms now.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. Zayne hums in confusion, and you continue. “I’m sorry for being so quick to misjudge you. You’re not the bad guy, Zayne. You were forced into this horror… our world is so fucked up and you were just trying to make it better any way you could.”

You peel your face from his chest, eyes red-rimmed and nose runny. He gently dabs at your tears and snot with the sleeve of his dress shirt, careful not to press down too hard.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you both let the silence scatter and fall where it may. Somehow, your fingers end up in his hair and he’s nudging you back against the hard counter.

Zayne lifts you up effortlessly, parting your legs wide to slot himself in between them, hands gently squeezing and groping your thighs and hips.

The need to reclaim you claws through him, searing his every coherent thought with nothing but the cry of your name.

He looks down the line of his nose, tilting your face up to the light so you meet his eyes. What he finds in your expression makes his heart ache in misery—your sadness and despondency hitting him right in the soul.

“Would you rather I stop killing people?”

It’s a loaded question, one that has your mind reeling. You eye the blood on his shirt, now soaked through with your tears.

“Only if you promise me you will never find pleasure from it.”

He shakes his head, firm in his conviction. “Never. Not once, or ever. I can promise you that.”

“Do the police know?”

A good question, indeed. Zayne nods, catching you off guard.

“Callaghan’s colleague. Detective Ivan. He was the one who scrubbed my records clean. He knows not to seek me out because… it means he’s next.”

Zayne lets the words hang in the air. He hears your mind whirring, thoughts piecing together.

“Detective Ivan found out and agrees with what you’re doing? So, the police are turning a blind eye?”

“Yes,” Zayne murmurs, trying hard not to fall into the gravity of your lips; forcing attention to this distressing topic.

“He was with me when Georgie died. He saw the extent of how the Abomination takes over people. Dark as it is, he agrees with my ethics and now, I only focus on people who come to me through word of mouth. Rarely do I ever hunt them anymore. They choose this end because it is far less painful than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

He steadies himself with a short breath. “Living as a rotting corpse with no control over your body.”

You suck in a sharp inhale. Your smaller fingers fist the front of his shirt, your mind a million miles away.

Zayne nudges your face towards him, fingers cold on your skin. He swallows hard, and you follow the motion—his throat moving, Adam’s apple bobbing. Impulsively, you lean forward, catching him off guard with a chaste kiss.

He musters a low groan when you begin to tug on his hair; sliding your tongue into his mouth.

Frantically, he grips your thighs, hips—fisting your hair to pull you closer.

Hot breaths clash. Moans echo around the kitchen. You lean back, far enough for silvery strands of spit to connect your lips to his.

Zayne devours the dark look in your eyes, and he thinks loving someone shouldn’t hurt this much, but for you, he would go through the agony all over again.

The tormented man wants to swallow you down, break his rib cage open and tuck you safely close to his heart. Your sighs and gasps fuel him to be better—change his ways so he could have you in his life forever.

“Zayne,” you sigh, all syrupy and love-struck. You play with his shirt’s button, and before he can stop you, you start to unravel all of him.

“—No." He grabs your hands in a panic, stopping your intentions in loosening his buttons. Those scars on his skin flash behind his mind, marking him as a lost soul and unworthy of you.

You shake your head, determination lining your pretty features. “Don’t hide from me anymore, Zayne. I want to see you—all of you.”

He’s helpless to stop you from unfastening his armor, greeting those silvery scars with a soft gasp.

There was a reason he never fucked you with the lights on—those lacerations on his body caused him shame.

But, you don't recoil out of disgust like he expects. Instead, your pretty fingers topped with pink nail polish trace the milky white divots; those signs of pain and abuse he had to endure for his entire life.

Peering at you pass thick lashes, he sees you lick your lips, the desire on your face as clear as day.

“You’re so beautiful, Zayne.”

Not giving him a chance to speak, you dip your head forward, pressing your soft lips reverently to the scar just above his heart.

Zayne feels like something seismic has just happened—an internal earthquake which rocks him apart.

Outwardly, the world doesn’t change; the flickering light he keeps on forgetting to fix over your sink still casts intermittent shadows across your face; the outside world whirs with sounds of robots and automated deliveries.

Nothing has changed and yet, everything inside of him has fundamentally been shifted.

A strangled sound emanates from his chest, and you look up quickly, afraid that you might have hurt him.

But, Zayne’s not in pain—not in the least. His green eyes shine verdantly like a forest after a storm, locked right onto your flushed face. You think that out of all the realities in this messed up world, you might find the real meaning of adoration in them.

He cups your face, smoothes your cheeks with his thumbs.

“I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said this out loud. His breathing stutters, caught off guard. And you’re staring at him, too. All wide eyes, and parted, perfect lips.

Slowly, you defrost, bringing your hands up to your face, pressing your palms to the back of his hands.

The silence is deafening—a pin could roll off the counter and fall to the ground, sounding like an explosion. Zayne swears he can hear the blood rushing in his ears.

“I love you, too.”

Your voice is soft. Fragile. It echoes with shades of fear, but never uncertainty.

For if there was one thing you were certain in this life, it was that you were completely, sincerely and stupidly in love with Zayne.

His eyes ripple close, and so do yours. Foreheads gently touch, breaths shared as one. The two of you stay like this for a long time, savoring this quiet, beautiful connection you had both created in such a short time.

Zayne has never known love in this lifetime.

Slowly—surely—he was starting to warm himself up to the idea; falling deeper and deeper into a head on collision with your devotion.

None of it scares him; how could it when it’s the stuff of his dreams? Of a forever stretching into the tiniest moments: languid mornings over shitty cereal and sappy medical romcoms on your beaten up couch and nights spent warming your sheets.

He can’t fight it; this feeling of always wanting to be by your side.

And so, he openly and fervently welcomes it.

“You’re glowing.”

Serina’s offhand comment brings you up short, and you fight back the creeping flush threatening to overtake your cheeks; preferring to bite your lower lip and turn you face away so she couldn’t see your growing smile.

Her silence isn’t judgmental this time. Rather, it’s tainted with a cynical curiosity.

“I guess Zayne really does make you happy.”

You hum, going back to your supplies of flour and sheets of freshly roasted nuts.

“He’s staying with me now.”

“Oh.”

You don’t turn to face; don’t have to because you know she’s making a face behind your back.

“Is he coming to pick you up later?”

You think about him astride his motorcycle, dark locks whipping in the wind; fitted black trench coat, pristine suit and tie clinging right onto his frame and feel your stomach twist with nerves.

“Mhm hmm.”

Serina pauses, and you could tell she was struggling with something to say.

“I’m happy for you.”

Whatever it was you expected to drop from her mouth, it wasn’t this.

You turn around, and the incredulity must've been transparent on your face because she bursts into laughter, doubling forward to cackle with glee.

“Your face! You look like I just came out and told you I sold children’s blood by the bag.”

She snorts and straightens, wheezing slightly. “I am happy for you, you idiot. I’m glad you’re not fish food yet and you’re glowing and you have a stupid amount of hickeys you try to cover up every day with that shitty concealer I got for you five fucking years ago. Point is: I’m happy for you.”

Serina emphasizes the last word, and you shyly lace your fingers together, feeling both sheepish and incredibly exasperated.

“I… Thank you.” Not knowing what else to say, you flash her a small smile, one which she returns instantly.

Scoffing, she runs a hand through her platinum blonde hair and tosses the rag she was holding across her shoulder, gesturing to the door.

“Go. I can handle closing time. I know you’re dying to see Zayne tonight.”

You perk up, in disbelief. “Serina—”

“Leave those nuts in the fridge. They should be easy to chop up and temper with our chocolate bark tomorrow.” Hustling you out of the kitchen, you squeal at the feel of her cold fingers prodding your lower back. “Now, go. Call Zayne up and let him take you home. I’m sick of your love struck puppy expression.”

Despite yourself, you laugh, and unlace your apron. “Are you sure you can handle it? I can stay with you and help.”

Serina makes a face, though you could tell she was joking. “Ugh, and have to be around you for another hour while you pine for and miss him? Yuck. Get out of here.”

She jokingly swats you with her towel and you get her message loud and clear.

“Okay, okay. Goodnight, you ass.”

“Goodnight, simp,” she drawls, and you scoff, rolling your eyes while you pick up your phone to call Zayne.

Serina waits together with you, smoking a cigarette and filling you in on the latest online celebrity gossip.

When Zayne arrives, sharp on time and sharply dressed as ever, she shoots you a smirk and a wave. You wave back, and slip on the helmet he passes you, stradling behind him to speed off into the night.

They look happy together.

The young woman chuckles tiredly, scrubbing a hand down her face. She trudges back into the cafe, cleans up the remaining plates and cups, humming under her breath. As she fills up the dishwasher for its final load of the night, she hears the front doorbell tinkling.

Frowning, Serina wonders if you had left something behind when the sound of heavy footfalls resounds in the quiet space.

Thinking nothing of it, she straightens, a scowl on her blush rose lips.

“We’re closed,” she calls out in her most polite voice.

The presence in the dining space does not remove itself. From her stance inside the kitchen, she could just make out the silhouette of a tall man partially hidden behind the pillar separating the main hall from where she stood.

Fuelled with distaste and annoyance, she rounds the corner, fully prepared to fight off this stranger and tell them to piss off.

“I said, we’re closed—”

Her words are cut off when she notices a faint glow of purple surrounding him. His eyes which were once blue were now soulless and drained, clapping onto hers, their pupils widening slightly.

Strange bulges appear on his body, and in the limited light, they seem to move up and down his arms.

Crawling like they were filled with life.

She takes a step back, a sharp scream piercing the air.

The man falls back, putting his hands over his ears. He yanks on his graying hair, teeth bared and spittle splattering onto the ground.

“Shut… up…”

His moans rattle and thump, filled with pain. He looks at her, and in the briefest of moments when they make eye contact, Serina could plainly see the anguish in them—the desperation for someone to end it all.

“Please,” his hoarse voice makes her skin crawl, her hairs stand on end. “Someone… Help me… kill me…”

The stranger falls to his knees, back arching like a cat poised to throw up all over the polished, hardwood floors.

He heaves, and spittle drips from between his clenched teeth. Serina can’t move; completely frozen to one spot, locked on the sight of his pale hands curling into claws.

Those choked sounds he made would haunt her for the rest of her life. But, nothing could prepare her for when he lifts his head and the bulge under his right eye bursts, revealing a dark, tentacle appendage dangling from his cheek.

“Please,” he begs her with what was left of his humanity.

“You have to help me… you have to save me.”

Zayne’s arms wrap around your waist as you’re stirring a pot, his hum of adoration and contentment rumbling against your back.

“What?” you tease, picking up some bay leaves and tossing them into the fresh marinara sauce. “Are you excited to make me cook even after I slaved for a whole night in the kitchen?”

He clicks his tongue, kisses you right on your pulse point.

“Feisty. And here I was, about to fully offer you my assistance.”

He drops his arms, and you turn back to him with a pout.

“I was joking,” you backtrack, fluttering your lashes. “I could really use your help,” and add, “Please,” when the beginning of a smirk plays on the corners of his mouth.

“Alright,” he hums, grabbing a handful of sweet basil and a knife, chopping them up finely to be added to the pasta sauce once it was done.

It was comfortable working alongside him. Zayne didn’t need endless chatter to fill in the void, and neither did you feel obliged to talk his ear off.

You start to hum, and he tunes in, admiring the rise and fall of the melody; how clear and bright your voice is.

“Would you like to put on some music?” He suggests, pointing to the old radio sitting atop your kitchen counter, a fine layer of dust on its smeared screen.

You take him up on the offer, nodding.

Zayne pushes a button and the last recording you had on plays in the room. A voice from long ago vibrates with nostalgia, reminding him of days passed and a comfort only found from warm sheets on a Sunday morning.

“Why don’t you ever let me into your home?”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Pardon?”

You exhale a laugh, and a teasing quality takes over your smile. “Your apartment. How come I never see it? Do you have piles of bodies you’re hiding from me?”

A slender, calloused finger materializes by your hip, poking into your side. You flinch and giggle, locking eyes with his amused expression.

“Careful. Do not go around unnecessarily exposing me.”

“So, you do have them under your floorboards.”

He decides to challenge you back. “Are you afraid?”

You scoff, picking up a wooden ladle to stir the sauce. “You must be mistaken, Zayne. For it isn’t me who should be afraid of you, but you of me.”

He resists the urge to pick you up and spin you in his arms for being so damn adorable. Reigning in the cute aggression, he titters a laugh. “And why is that so?”

“Because,” you turn to him, your teasing smile growing wider. “I know things you don’t know. I have a certain set of skills not many have knowledge of and I can and will use them to my advantage.”

“Oh, really?” He drawls, raising a brow. The expression draws his handsome face into a comical curiosity; it nearly breaks your resolve not to laugh. “Enlighten me on these skills.”

You clear your throat, setting the ladle down. “For example, I can bet you that I am a better dancer.”

Unexpectedly, he sweeps you into his arms, grabbing your left hand with his right and encircling the other one around your waist; you had no choice but to place your other hand on his broad shoulder to keep your balance.

He was close—much too close—and it makes your face burn hot, your mischievous quips dying in the back of your throat.

Zayne holds you fast, sure—swaying you from side to side as you both slowly circle the room, one gliding footstep at a time. He makes sure to lead you properly, careful to keep you two in an orbit far from mishap.

You feel safe enough to lay your head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and breathing alongside the sweet, romantic music. Eyes falling close, you lavish in this sense of serenity and comfort you had never felt in your life.

Zayne, too, takes a second to savor this moment. He gazes at the peace suffusing across your face and feels his heart growing lighter.

I want this for the rest of my life.

The thought jolts him from his reverie; scares him enough to convince himself to take it back.

But, as much as Zayne wants to delude himself, he can’t run away from the truth.

He wants this for as long he breathes on this godforsaken planet. As long as the seas ebb and flow and the sun turns on its fucking axis—he wants you. Zayne doesn’t care what others might think; how they would make a mockery of your connection to him. He would kill anyone who tries to get between you both.

And he hopes that deep down, you feel the same way, too.

He wakes up in the early morning to his phone vibrating on the dresser.

Zayne groans, feels a sinking weight on his chest and realizes you had fallen asleep sprawled on top of him.

His instincts override his fuzzy mind to not wake you up, nimbly grabbing his phone and answering the call without looking at the screen.

“Zayne.”

The voice on the other end jerks him fully awake, and he resists the urge to jolt upright, remembering you were still fast asleep.

“One second,” he murmurs into the receiver. The other man hums.

Zayne puts the phone back down, gently scooping you up and rolling you to the side, tucking the covers under your chin.

He sits upright, turning to plant his feet to the ground and picks the phone back up.

“Detective Ivan?”

“We have an emergency.”

Zayne stops scratching his bare chest, tired green eyes sharpening from the urgency in the older man’s tone. Ivan would never call him unless it was serious and usually there was only one reason why he would.

“An Abomination has attacked a young woman in a cafe. Nightstar Cafe. One of those oldy diners that open till early morning.”

Ivan doesn’t hear Zayne’s sharp breath, nor is he there to see how terrified the younger man looks, turning his gaze to the sleeping woman next to him.

“A young woman? Was she blonde?”

He can feel Ivan frowning on the other end. “How did you know?”

Zayne concocts a lie. “I saw the cafe in passing. Is it serious?”

“We have no visual on the Abomination and neither on the girl. We’re stuck and we need your help. Only you can track her down.”

Zayne racks his brain, thinking of his apartment that’s almost an hour away from yours. If he could get to his tracking systems quickly, maybe there was still time to solve this case…

“Alright,” he made up his mind. “Give me half an hour to find her. I’ll alert you to her whereabouts.”

Ivan breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Zayne.”

“Do not mention it.” He clicks off the call, turns to find you still fully asleep. As quietly as he could, he stands and gets ready, dressing in a nondescript black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, bundling up with his trench coat to keep the autumn chill at bay.

Just as he’s about to grab his bike keys, he hears you stirring.

“Zayne?”

Your voice is fringed with exhausted curiosity, bleary eyes blinking and trying to pin onto his figure in the total darkness.

He’s next to you in a heartbeat, bending down to place a kiss on your forehead. “I have an emergency. You stay here and rest, alright? Wait for me. I’ll be home for you soon.”

You could only nod obediently, watching him rush out of the room; the front door closing behind him with a loud thud.

Wondering what could’ve spurred Zayne into such a frantic mode, you close your eyes, about to drift off when you hear a knock.

Woozily, you get to your feet, stifling a yawn. The hem of his too big shirt brushes your thighs, and you rub your eyes, frowning when the knocks get more insistent.

“Coming,” you call out, and trudge to the front door.

Peering through the security monitor, your heart skips a beat when you notice your best friend on the other side, her expression wild; eyes darting down the hallway and jaw strained.

“Serina? What’re you doing here at this time?”

Your voice carries out to the front, and you hear her over the security intercom.

“Babe, please. Let me in. Something terrible has happened. I can’t explain it, but I need your help.”

She sounds afraid and terrified, and your heart squeezes in fear when she glances down the hallway again, as if she were being chased.

Without another thought, you unlatch the door for her, and she comes barreling in, sinking to the floor the second you shut the door closed.

You fall to your knees next to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Squinting in the darkness, you faintly make out splotches of darkness on her tank top, and it’s not until you switch on the lights that you notice it’s blood.

“Serina!” you gasp, and in the brightness, her irises have completely pin pricked, only a thin ring of blue surrounding them.

She grabs your hands, tugs you closer to her face. Your heart is about to fly out of your chest, and you fight back, trying to break free from her grasp.

But, she’s fueled by fear and something else—something which ramps her paranoia up to concerning levels.

“Man. Wanderer. He hurt me. Tried to kill me. I ran… I ran here. I had no idea where else to go.”

Her words slur and clash in a cacophony of confusion. You can’t make heads or tails what she’s trying to say, but you attempt to piece it together for her sake.

“Hold on, hold on. Breathe.” You grab her thin shoulders in your white-knuckled grip, trying to shake the fear out of her. There was no time for confusion; you needed to know exactly what happened to her. “Start from the beginning, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand.”

Without warning, tears fill her eyes and she pitches her head forward, breaking into silent sobs.

Your arms automatically wrap around her, pulling her into your embrace. She cries, screams and wails, breaking down in total fear.

“It’s okay,” you soothe her, like how you had soothed Zayne many, many times in the aftermath of his nightmares. “You’re fine. You’ll be safe.”

She shakes her head, hiccuping incoherently. “He hurt me. He cut me with his teeth. I—” A full body shudder goes through her.

Alarmed, you rock back on your haunches, eyes wide and locked on her pinched expression. “Serina, are you okay—?”

The words die on the tip of your tongue, and you instinctively stand up, backing towards the wall when you notice her eyes starting to glow a bright purple.

“Serina—!”

She curls onto the ground, crying out in pain. Her body starts to writhe, and a gruesome crunching sound cracks through the air.

Too late to escape, you watch in horror as her body convulses, the bones of her spine breaking and twisting. Her skin turns a revolting shade of purple, and spittle froths down her mouth.

Before the petrifying purple light entirely consumes her body, she manages to hoarsely cry out two words which shakes you to your core:

“Save me.”

SOBS im sorry to have to cut it here but it was too long </3 last part coming soon !! reblogs and feedback are sincerely appreciated 🩷

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy my concept, repost my stories or translate and post them to other platforms

#🦢 writes #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne angst #love and deepspace angst #dawnbreaker

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feyascorner · 11 months ago

Note

Ok but what if tav is the hero of baldurs gate right, the god killer, slayer of the chosen three, savior of the emerald grove etc etc and after all that is told they had this incurable illness that the parasite had only slowed down. Now, with it gone, it’s progressing again and Tav can’t help but feel so stupid, weak even, that such a mighty hero could be struck by the weaknesses of their own body

Maybe pushes everyone away when they find out, too afraid to tell them that after everything they’ve been through after surviving all of that that they were going to die anyways

AND THEN ASTARIONS REACTION!!! Because surely he would not take that news sitting down (if he found out at all)

a/n. anon how did you know this type of prompt is exactly my cup of tea <33

It's not fair.

You did everything right. You saved the grove, the Tieflings, the Druids, the gnomes, the city, and even those who did not deserve saving, you always came to their aid. You've slayed gods, mind flayers, githyanki, even a bloody elder brain. And now, finally, after so long, with the brain having been defeated, and nothing but pure bliss occupying your headspace, you think you finally have time to relax.

Instead, you're reeled over the bathroom sink, eyes blurry from how much your body seems hellbent on making you miserable.

Ah, you remember. No matter what you've done for others, no matter what you've sacrificed, you're reduced to nothing but a sick patient. One that has no hope for a cure.

The months spent with little to do with your illness has left it to come back tenfold, and now all you can do is grovel on the bathroom floor, head in your hands as you understand that this is all you were meant to amount to. In the end, you were always destined to rot away by yourself and succumb to this gods forsaken disease. You are no hero. This is what you truly are---the pitiful remains of someone who longed for more.

The weeks following the defeat of the elder brain are filled with mournful streets for those who lost their lives and the joyous laughter of those who live on for them. Celebration--though it's difficult with half the taverns having collapsed in the battle--is not out of the ordinary. Strangers and friends alike come together every night, singing praises to whichever gods they worship. Your companions are no exception.

But each and every time, you deny their offers. You've become quite skilled at making up excuses about feeling tired, about having errands to run, or having loose ends to tie up. In reality, you're a coward. Despite the trust they put in you, you cannot provide it back--not in matters like this. Not when you've all been through so much, just for your own journey to amount to nothing.

It's not like you haven't known about this disease. You knew your death was imminent. But now, after experiencing just a fraction of what life has to offer, you no longer want to let go.

It's just not fair.

For what seems to be the millionth time this week, you hear someone knock at your door. Whichever one of your companions it is, you don't bother taking a step from your bed, face still planted into your sheets. You don't have the energy to move, and the useless healing herbs scattered across the room don't exactly hide your secret. So instead of standing, you bury your face deeper into your bed.

"You can't stay in there forever."

You flinch as you realize it's a voice you've dreaded hearing. One that invokes so much love yet fear as you remember that if you see him right now, it might be your last. And you don't want that. Not at all.

"I don't know what we've done to make you push us away like this," he says through the door, and your fist tightens in front of your chest. "But this is getting ridiculous, darling. You have to come out eventually."

You remain silent.

"Gods, just--" he stops, and you can hear the hesitance in his voice. You swear it almost cracks a little. "--Have I done something wrong?"

At this, you're suddenly on your feet, rushing to push yourself against the door, but unwilling to open in. "No, Astarion, you haven't done anything wrong. Don't you dare think that way."

You can hear him shift. "Then why do you avoid me? The others, I can understand, but me?...I mean, I thought we were more than that..."

"We are, it's just..."

"Just what?"

The final thread of your resolve snaps, and you reach toward your lock. Your hand falters for a moment, but you eventually open the door slowly. And if the way his face falls tells you anything, you must look absolutely dreadful.

"Oh, my sweet, what's happened to you?" he whispers, his eyes widening even more when he sees the mess of your home behind you. The clothes all over the floor, the blinds shut despite there being no sunlight to shield from, the healing potions and herbs messily tossed around...you'd feel ashamed if you weren't so tired already.

"...Are you sick?" he steps inside, taking his time to take in the state of what you call home. When you don't answer, he whips around to you, alarmed. "You're sick. Is it a cold? Flu?"

You shake your head, sick of having to lie to the one person you don't want to deceive. "It's a long story."

"I'm undead, darling. I have all the time in the world."

"It's not a very nice story."

"If I wanted a nice story, I'd be listening to a bard someplace else," he says, and you feel your eyes bubble with tears as he steps closer. "What's happened?"

The words spill out like vomit, and you're soon telling him what's been weighing on you for so long. You find yourself sliding down to the ground, and he goes with you, letting you grasp desperately at the sleeves of his shirt while you tell him everything. You can barely breathe with how fast your talking but you're afraid you won't say everything if you get any slower. The entire time, he just stares at you, his arms circled around you, and only when you're done does his gaze finally flicker.

"...Surely, there must be a cure." He's suddenly glancing around the entire room, at pieces of herbs. "Surely, at least one of these would--"

"None of them work, Astarion."

"Then we can find the finest healers in the city--we can even go back to that damn druid, and ask him."

"I've tried."

"Well, you haven't tried hard enough, obviously, if you haven't found a bloody cure!"

You give him one hard look--one with dark bags under your eyes and a weariness that stretches on for weeks--and his temper seems to cool. His shoulders slump, but he reaches for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just felt so weak," you whisper. "I didn't want you to think that too."

Immediately, his eyes harden, and he takes both sides of your face in his hands. "No. I don't think you're weak, and that's not going to change. You've proven yourself more than I can count, and I know you enough to know that you can't let it end like this, love. You can't leave like this."

"Astarion..."

He shakes his head. "I won't let this take you from me. There have been too many opportunities for us to lose each other, and we've overcome them all. We'll just do it again. We'll go to the most skilled healers in Faerun. We'll go to all of them if we have to, and we'll start tomorrow."

You can feel yourself tear up again, and he kisses your tears away while you sob in his arms.

"I'll save you," he mumbles against your temple. "Even if it's the last thing I do."

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3

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noctxj · 5 months ago

Text

hanahaki disease “… in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies…”

part i / part ii / part iii / part iv

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“have you considered trying to make your feelings known?”

all things considered, the bed agent was sitting upon was more comfortable than what the barracks’ had.

but not as cozy as kyles’ chest—

“i can’t,”

the doctor frowns, pausing his tapping on the tablet, his eyes looking up to search agents face; not staring at him, rather just across from them.

a blank canvas—in pain—but nonetheless a perfect mask of apathy—

“why not?”

“i just can’t, doctor.”

agent sighs, turning their sober gaze to the doctor. simply put, agent would not have been able to take their rejection— their disgust, their hatred, their bellows to leave and never come back, once they realised an outsider who did not even belong within the same scope as the taskforce would develop such frivolous feelings such as love. agent would never be able to witness them renouncing the contract laswell carefully pieced together, watch their backs turn on agent for the last time, visibly see the trust delicately built over the past several months to crumble away into nothing, as if it never existed, as if they never existed, as if they never touched agents life in a way no other had been able to.

the doctors eyes remained steadfast on agents, a silent urge to continue.

“… i know that… that i wouldn’t be able to bear their… rejection… but this, this procedure?”

diverting their gaze to their lap, swallowing back the familiar metallic taste on their tongue.

“this... this i know i can endure”

i’ve been through worse—

the silent words allowing agent to meet the doctors eyes again.

you’ll see eventually doctor, all my scars: permanent reminders. reminders born from miscalculations, wrong decisions, torture—

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the same scars the taskforce were mistakenly exposed to. an undercover mission with agent used as bait for their target within a gala. a mission that wondrously ended up with the back of agents’ strapless dress ripped all the way down to their tailbone— stupid man with his stupidly gaudy rings— a furious agent using one hand to clasp the front of their dress lest they flash the idiotic target, and a handgun in the other, pointed at said idiot dazedly sprawled on the floor with a bloody (broken) nose.

agents’ back to the door as the taskforce spilled through, following agents’ signal for backup, only for agent to hear them pause by the doorway, their breaths collectively inhaled at the same time—

“who did this to you?”

simon’s gravelly voice asked— no, demanded. agent turned their head, handgun still pointing at the (idiot) target, confusion written on their face, brows furrowing as instead of responding, stomped over until he was looming over agent.

“ghost, now is not the time—“ the captain tried to reason as the air seemed to get tighter and tighter.

“who. did. this. to. you.” not a demand anymore, but an order. one of simon’s gloved hands sweeping over the raised discoloured scars running along agents back; a pattern of scars resonant of whip marks, some of cigarette burns and others as if skin was gouged over and over and never allowed to heal properly again.

agent who blinked, once, twice, before slowly turning their head forward again, avoiding simon, john, kyle and johnny’s faces’. handgun slowly lowered till it was facing the ground, a hollowness seemingly eating at agent from the inside out—

“it doesn’t matter. i killed all of them anyway.”

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

agent could only imagine the bleeding cracks that were appearing on their carefully placed mask, the madness that had been chasing them their entire life finally being able to swallow them whole. another soulless killer… assassin… spy… murderer, feeding off of rotting corpses just to survive another day, another assignment. agent was able to taste happiness and love for the first time, an addiction they never could have prepared themselves for; never could have foreseen it leading to a solution providing more pain— more pain to just to remain in all of their lives for just a little longer.

“and what if you’re wrong?”

… what if? my entire life has been nothing but timing and precision; the notion of “what if” is equal to failure and death—

“what if they return your feelings?”

agent could feel a plume of flowers unfurling at the base of their throat.

“… i wouldn’t deserve them.”

could feel them slowly fluttering their way up their throat.

“doctor, i’m by no means a good person; have never pretended to be. i’m not someone worthy let alone deserving of love.”

but i’ll rip myself apart over and over just to be around you all for just a little more time—

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“now, if you could count to ten out loud for me please”

“one…”

everything will be okay—

“two...”

agent could feel a tangled swath of thorns and petals pushing themselves up their throat—

“it’s okay, just keep breathing. keep counting for me.”

“… three…”

once this is done, i can return to them. they don’t have to know, they’ll never have to know—

“… four...“

agent could feel their mind slow down, their thoughts feeling nonsensical; the effort almost pointless as everything began to flicker in and out of focus, blurry at the edges.

“… f-five…”

in the distance, agent could hear a loud commotion coming from behind the closed doors. what was that? their eyes fluttering, noticing the nurse holding the mask sending a questioning look to the doctor, his attention turned towards the door.

agent could hear… yelling? they— more than one, had deep, masculine voices.

why did they sound so familiar?

agent took a hold of the nurses’ wrist, their attention snapping back to them; communicating to ease the mask off their face as thunderous reverberations of heavy footsteps grew louder and louder, until there was a split second of silence— and then the doors to the surgery room swung open with a resounding crack as they slammed back against the walls.

four large bodies barging through the seemingly small doorway, blurred masses of power—

it was them.

they—what?

how—?

agent could feel their eyes blink in surprise, the panic slowly filtering in through the fuzziness of their brain.

nononono—

theyshouldntbehere—!!

despite agents mind racing, the small amount of anaesthetic had already taken effect; only seeming to slacken their grip of nurses’ wrist, agents’ finer motor skills out of reach—

—including the effort of swallowing back the vicious thorns and bloodied flowers now erupting out of agents mouth in a painful choke; blood spraying against the mask and now the nurses’ hands as they are ripped away—by simon??

a skull mask with such dark eyes—so close— reaching out to grasp their shoulder to turn their body to the side, his familiar scent of dark whisky, and just simon invading agent’s senses as they follow the direction of his pull. another pair of warm gloved hands on their back and hip assisting in the turn—kyle? his calming earthy scent that reminded agent of the heat of the sun, wafting to their nose. with another familiar—and safe— scent seemingly punching through the mix of simon and kyles— johnny? an addictive smell of sweet cinnamon akin to one of his addictive bear hugs that he often followed up with a playful ruffle to the head, now instead gently cradling agents head forward.

agent couldn’t stop the onslaught of mixed emotions and painful hacking up of blood, flowers and thorny stems spilling out onto the cold floor. confusion, helplessness, fear— a concoction that only seemed to encourage another heaving of blood and flower petals.

i-i-icant-thisistoomuch—

the beeping of the bp monitor now frantically blaring out in a staccato rhythm, agents’ panic mixed with their chocked hacking reflecting their suffocating agony.

ithurtstoomuch—

the hand formerly gripping the nurses’ wrist left flailing in the air, until a heavy set of hands grasp it and hold it against a prickly—john? agent trying to focus their tear filled eyes onto the blurred figure kneeled before them. the captain whose rough and calloused yet gentle hands encompassing theirs against his mouth; puffs of his breath hot agents’ cold trembling fingers, his smoky scent swirling around agent in a dizzying trance.

“it’s okay little love, were here.” john lowly murmurs against their fingers, the plush feeling of his lips and prickly beard sweeping across agents’ knuckles so lovingly.

as if it was following a command from their captain, agents’ tense body finally relaxed back onto the sheets (and their beloveds’ gentle embraces). feeling safe and secure for the first time in weeks since leaving the taskforce; the distant beeping of the monitor slowing down in its rhythm—

only for agents eyes to finally close in exhaustion, as the last of the crimson petals drop from between their bloodied lips.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

i love how i keep saying to myself like yeah this’ll be the last part aND THEN IT ISNT (ಥ‿ಥ) peak clownery. the amount of dialogue keeps increasing (as is the word count) per chapter but uhh oh well.

had a lil flashback midway there, i may write short? drabbles of little peeks as to how their relationship developed from the day agent met the taskforce = a potluck of more angst and pining!! yaayyyy !!!! but dw there will also be fluff and shenanigans to heh (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･��✧

part iv will defs be the last one of this series ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)��* ̀ˋ

thanks for reading this far!! ♡︎♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username!)

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cursedmoon-doll13 · 1 year ago

Text

Blackhearted

(Sirius Black x Reader)

Cw: Noncon, Angst, Smut, Afab Reader, Dark!Sirius, PnV Sex, Somnophilia, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Tender But Nasty™️, References to Alcohol Abuse, Reader has head + pubic hair, this got kinda bleak and depressing

READ WITH CAUTION

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: 12 Grimmauld Place is a miserable home.

But for now, it is yours. A lost and vulnerable soul, you find refuge in the owner of the house; a man as troubled as yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he’s sunken his teeth in far deeper; clutching onto you like a lifeline, and the dark, harrowing isolation of winter may drive him to commit acts unforgivable…

Ao3 || Masterlist || Dividers by @/saradika

In mid-February, it’s so cold, so desolate, it reminds him of sharp, icy fingers, clamping down on— His childhood home, decrepit with neglect and age, is the last place Sirius ever hoped to return to. It’s lost, crumbling into undignified ruins, deteriorating into filth. With his pest of a house elf still clinging to the old family values, it’s properly gone to the dogs, and he’d gladly let them pick off the carcass.

But now you’re hiding alongside him - not by choice - you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and ‘fix it up.’ Sirius almost scoffs at the mere thought of it— At you, whose nose wrinkles distastefully at the grime and mould that gracefully adorns his kitchen. You don’t understand that the disease has progressed far beyond the point of recovery. It’s everywhere; it’s in the air you breathe, in the walls, in the carpet. It’s lurking inside the very infrastructure, festering like cancerous growth. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, haunted by its rotting opulence: the decaying decor, the cursed, priceless artefacts, the tattered, hateful portraits, courtesy of mum.

Sirius, who has long since forgotten the luxury of owning his own clothes, wraps himself in the same mothball ridden finery his father died in. Sometimes he feels— He’s eaten alive by the fabric. By vestiges of the past. It still stinks of stale drink, and on nights like these, Orion’s son glares down at the bottom of an empty wine bottle, and thinks that he might be following in his footsteps after all.

On a night like this, the aged floorboards squeak under his heels as he prowls the dilapidated halls. Sirius’ stalking route leads to you, as it usually does, far past midnight. Your bedroom door is sealed tightly shut - probably to keep the heat in - but you never lock it. As if he isn’t dangerous.

Gripping the weathered knob, he twists it, and lets himself in. The dim, yellowy glow of the gaslamp bolted to the corridor wall is his only light, flickering as it pours into the musty guest room he’s lent you. Sirius lingers on the precipice, his fingers still curled around the handle, sobering up rapidly.

Blinking slowly, he looks down at you.

You’re lying on your side, both arms grasping the pillow, dressed in that novelty pyjama set (‘to ward off the draught,’ was the unspoken function of it) Tonks had gifted you for Christmas; a sort of consolation prize. Greatest sympathies, to prepare you for the sordid husk you’ll now inhabit— With him, no less, a man you thought at first to be a killer.

And you, well… You’ve been left skittish from whatever you’re on the run from. He reckons that’s why you’ve latched onto him so powerfully, hoping this unredeemed convict will see fit to protect you from the isolation and the horrors. To help fill the long stretches of time when it’s just been the both of you to keep each other company. Sirius can’t deny his own strong attachment towards you.

Your presence is comforting, and he’s fallen deeply. Too deeply. It’s why he so often finds himself standing here, watching over you. Sirius envies you, the peaceful sleeper. But he also covets you; if only you’d stay and lay beside him, to heal wounds never spoken of… But he doesn’t know how to ask.

Silently, he crosses the boundary.

Rising over your unconscious form, he lifts the quilt, a heavy, lumpy thing, and tentatively rests his knee on the mattress. You sleep peacefully on, even as the rusty old bed-springs squeak underneath him. Sirius slides his exhausted body in behind you, and the dark mass of his own scraggly black hair spills over the cushion. For a moment, he lies there, unmoving and quiet. Even at this safe, chaste distance, your body heat, radiating off you in gradual waves, is enough to soothe the permanent chill that’s seeped into his bones… Sirius can’t resist. He shifts, before placing his forefinger over your throat.

Sirius can feel your pulse, throbbing with blood; you’re a real, flesh and blood human, warm and alive. Merlin, he’s been deprived for so long, a strong vein feels like it’s a lifeline. This is all he’s ached for, but— No... No. He’s already overstepped a line, one he shouldn’t have ever— He needs to stop, he needs to leave, now, before this all goes too far and he ruins it; ruins you, as he knows he inevitably will.

But he doesn’t. Sirius’ breath catches in his throat as he tilts his chin ever-so-slightly, and he presses his cold mouth against your exposed nape. You twitch, but do not stir. Sirius licks his dry lips and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he nudges down the fleeced collar of your pyjama shirt with his thumb. The slope of your neck is covered in fine, delicate hairs, and he can’t help but smile affectionately down at you. Your defenceless state is sweetly endearing. To be so close to you like this, almost holding you, tender as lovers.

Sirius hesitates, then, squeezing his eyes shut as he endures the lurch of churning revulsion in his gut (he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t—), he leans forward and plants a string of wet kisses over your bare flesh. So human, so vulnerable… You twitch again, shivering as the ticklish brush of his whiskers rubs lightly over your naked skin. Shame burns like acid in his stomach; but his need for you burns brighter, hotter than fire now, all-consuming… He heaves a jagged sigh, and, unable to stop himself, drags the starving flat of his tongue over your neck, lapping up hungry stripes of perspiration. Sirius tightens his grip on you and shudders with relief— He’s finally quenched his thirst, if only a little. Your intoxicating scent, your taste…

He’s stolen things, too, before this; he’s not proud of it, but he’s done it. It’s convenient enough to blame it on Kreacher, who hoards all sorts of objects in the first place… What is the difference, really, between the Black family heirlooms and soiled knickers from the wicker basket? No, It hasn’t been so hard to convince you it was Kreacher; to lie and to fib— his old, senile house elf is simply a raging kleptomaniac… You trust him so much… And now Sirius has gone and betrayed that trust entirely.

Merlin, he needs to stop, he needs to… This should be enough… No, it’s not enough… It’s never enough, he’s barely touched you… Sirius groans feebly into the nape of your neck, slipping the palm of his hand under your nightshirt, desperate for your sacred, lifesaving heat, just a little bit— And then he’ll stop, immediately— just a tiny bit more… You shiver once more, twitching repeatedly as the pads of his fingertips skim over your stomach, still asleep… Sirius brushes his lips over your throat again, as he locks you in wiry arms, inching up your shirt, exposing you to the dark and cold. He traces the slats of your ribs, searching further, until he comes to knead coyly at your breast, teasing your nipple. He dips, finding the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, thumping robustly… Proof of life.

And you’re definitely real, aren’t you? Not a hallucination, not some illusion… He’s sleepless for the nightmares, but the dreams are always worse, because they remind Sirius of everything he can’t have, not ever again… But he can have you. This stray thought, forceful and insidious, leaks into the dark recesses of his brain. Yes, He can have you— It’s his house, his rules, isn’t it?

Fuck, he’s disgusting. The realisation of what he’d just conceived of, even momentarily, assaults him with a new stab of remorse. Sirius flinches away, pulling his offending hand out of your pyjamas; but the damage has already been done. By now, he’s pressed flush against you, leeching off your comforting warmth, and his dick is straining tightly against his trousers. Merlin… He’s perverse.

He throws his forearm over his eyes, blinding himself. Sirius intended for this to be a wholesome encounter, to be sweet and innocent. And now… Have all those years of degradation truly rotted him to the core? Is this what he’s become now? A lustful wretch? This has gone too far, too far— He should leave—

But now, Sirius has known your touch, and it’s embedded itself parasitically into his mind. He’s swiftly hurtling into addiction; he can’t settle for mere table scraps— To retreat with his tail between his legs, only to find a cold and lonely bed, would be unbearable... Sirius rattles a breath, grasping onto that frayed rope of inherited entitlement he’d meant to cut off a decade ago— He deserves this one thing, surely, after a life of torment… Right?

You twitch again, mumbling incoherently. Sirius grimaces. He needs to be careful… You might be a heavy sleeper, but he’s already disturbed you too much. If you wake up screaming… He wouldn’t like to think of what he might do. But he’ll stop— He’ll stop after this, he swears it to himself, licking his lips, feeling harder and hungrier than ever.

Sirius’ forearm props up your leg for him to gain enough access, spreading your thighs open. It’s awkward, but he manages. He tugs down the waistband of your pyjama bottoms, just a bit, so he can touch you, feel you so close to him… Sirius’ hand brushes over a soft tuft of your pubic hair, and he twitches a faint smile… So endearingly vulnerable, before dipping his fingers into your pussy.

You’re not aroused, but the heat of your core is enough to satisfy him, if only temporarily. Sirius hasn’t done anything like this for a long time; it feels unfamiliar, like all human contact does. He nudges away the curls, tracing your labia, before recalling the shape and form of it, and gently rubbing your clitoris. Fondness, mixed in with his sickening shame, rushes into him, and he presses his lips to your nape again, pleading and soothing like an apology.

Then, Sirius bites his tongue, justifies himself with the excuse of repaying you with sweet dreams, and pushes his index finger deeper inside your pussy. He hums quietly, indulging in your little twitches, the way your walls flutter around him. It’s not particularly romantic to pleasure you without receiving consent, but lying back-to-chest in the darkness, planting scorching kisses down your neck, he can use his mind to fill in the gaps. Easing out his intruding hand, Sirius tastes the heady flavour of your slick— Merlin. He licks his fingers greedily, drenching them in spit, before plunging them back into your warm cunt, spreading wetness over your folds.

You let out a sleepy whimper at his touch, and he pauses, going completely stiff with alarm. But— But you haven’t woken up… And now he’s uncontrollable, beyond all morality, relishing in your soft, breathless gasps as he toys with your clit, his damp fingers sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You moan faintly, and the noise vibrates straight to his cock. He’s throbbing, now... Groaning, he forces down his guilt and remorse, discarding them as trite, worthless things. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you? Though you’re still fast asleep— Yes, maybe you’ve hoped for this all along… Secretly. Secretly. Of course, you’ve just been too embarrassed to admit it, but that’s fine… Right now, you’re all his.

But that’s still not enough.

Sirius knows what he truly needs; to bury himself inside of you, to merge with you entirely, to steal your warmth for himself— This aching desire, it’s wrong, so revoltingly wrong, but so is he; the entire expanse of flesh covering his body feels like prison, mired in filth, and he’ll never be clean again… He only wishes you could alleviate his pain— Oh, but you can, Sirius will find solace in your heat even if he has to take it from you. He grinds his palm against his temple as he decides. He fights it, but his selfishness wins… Yes, he needs it, needs you— Fuck, he’s about to do something unforgivable, commit a genuine offence; but he’ll make it up to you, of course he will—

Sirius carefully shuffles down your pyjama bottoms until they’re bunched up around your ankles, followed by your moist panties. He shifts, now painfully hard and weeping in his trousers, and allows your thigh to fall momentarily to unbutton them and release his erection. Rigid and leaking precum, his dick falls over your ass. He readjusts his position on the bed and strokes himself roughly, before hooking his forearm around your leg and lifting it. You jerk unceremoniously and mumble, stirring, but he ignores you— He’s too close, he’s gone too far now… Gritting his teeth, Sirius guides his cock into you, finding you elusive and slippery in the dark, but— The slick of your folds sliding along his length feels heavenly. Sirius licks his lips, smearing precum over your inner thighs, and finally enters you.

He stifles a raspy moan into your neck. The hug of your tight, wet heat is almost overwhelming— Shuddering, he wholly eases himself inside you. Merlin, you feel so perfect around him… Sirius, gasping rapturously, begins to move, savouring every long, torturous drag against your gummy walls. You’re rousing, now, slurring confused murmurs— “What, what’s going on, hm…”

Sirius doesn’t miss the flutter of lashes, a sharp intake of breath— But he continues, regardless, thrusting in slow, tender arcs. Flinching, you let out a strangled, high-pitched noise, and that’s how Sirius knows you’re truly awake— But he’ll make it up to you, he will— he spreads your thighs wide, to penetrate further, sucking affectionate bites into your neck as he ravishes your quivering body. You tremble and shriek, and your panicked struggling fills him with guilty regret. But he needs this now, he needs you now, he’s been alone for too long— And he’s not going to stop until he’s finished taking you… Feverish, Sirius’ other forearm digs underneath the pillow you’re clutching onto, white-knuckled. He tightens his grip on you before he sinks in deeper, spearing into your intimate core

You whimper, spasming involuntarily. Sirius rumbles with approval, his lips still latched onto your throat. He grabs your thigh firmly, bracing himself against the old headboard. He growls and snaps his hips upward, hitting that delicious spot over and over, trying to elicit more of those sweet noises from you. Even if you’re being frustratingly reticent - too shy, he pretends - you’re still unable to muffle your cries, twitching and writhing in his relentless grasp.

The bed creaks noisily as he hastens his pace, showering wet kisses on your rapidly bruising flesh. His movements are heated and urgent now, growing increasingly desperate— Now he’s inside you, he must fill you utterly— He longs to feel alive with you, slipping a hand down towards where you join together and connect, feeling the way his cock effortlessly slides in and out of your pussy. He dips further to rub harshly at your clit, and you whine, arching. Sirius strokes you mercilessly, his wrist cramping from the awkward positioning—

But it doesn’t matter, you’re spurring him on with your ecstatic moans, croaky with tears. He doesn’t let up, teasing in sloppy, frantic circles as he bucks into you, revelling in the stickiness of your skin against his; the lewd, wet sound of flesh-on-flesh is obscene. Sirius groans hoarsely, his hips jerking and stuttering as your cunt squeezes around his dick with his every forceful thrust— You are enjoying this…

Fuck, he is too— Hot pleasure jolts up his spine like the tightening of a knot; and you, crying out with loud whimpers as your spongy insides clench and squeeze around him— Sirius can’t take it anymore. He forgoes gentleness, pounding into your cunt with beastly intensity. You choke out a sob, lurching away from him, but he overpowers and holds you down, still abusing your sensitive clit— He’s going to fuck you until you cum, whether you want it or not— And his hungry mouth returns to sink livid, red marks into your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Something in the wooden bed frame cracks ominously—

But he ignores it, his breathing growing laboured and husky as he slams his hips into you, again and again, forcing you to whine until your voice breaks. You’re shaking violently in his grip— He can sense it, and you’re close, so close— He’s getting sloppier; rapidly approaching orgasm, and your reactions are boiling his blood, whipping up a primal frenzy in his brain— Sirius pinches your clit, and you climax.

Your euphoric moan chokes into a loud sob. Sirius growls at the way you clench around him, and pins you down with his body weight. His hand slips and pushes your leg up high, fucking you harder still through your orgasmic tremors— He’s following right behind you, on the cusp— You’re impossibly tight—

Merlin, you’re so damn tight— Sirius barely remembers to— He pulls himself out with a heavy groan, and his seed spills messily over the inside of your thigh. Hazy static pours over him, smothering the guilt, the emptiness… As it gradually tapers out, he feels the absence of your heat, of your closeness, and it pangs like the pain of starvation. It takes a moment for him to recover, lying beside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Then, he pushes himself up onto his elbow.

Panting, Sirius’ damp hair clings to his forehead, stinging his eyes. He wipes it, and fog clears, revealing only desecration.

As if murdered, you lie very still— Or try to, but your breathing is ragged and uneven. You’re glistening with orgasmic sweat, chest heaving as he rests your trembling leg back onto the mattress. You jolt, as if hiccuping, still wracked with sobs. Sirius’ heart aches for you— Merlin, no, what has he done?— He wants to take this moment back, but it’s too late now. The only fix he can think of is practical, like ridding a crime scene of evidence…

Sirius pulls out his wand, flicking shakily, evaporating his cum, but the scent of your lovemaking still lingers, thick in the air. With as much dignity as he’s able to grant you, he tugs your pyjamas and knickers up your hips. He tucks himself in and buttons his trousers, swimming in post-climax numbness. For a few minutes, he resumes his vigil behind you, as if he’d never done it at all. But you’re colder and distant; farther away than he’s ever felt you. Sighing, he gently strokes your hair. You don’t flinch or shiver away from his touch, but lie still, perfectly still… Your tear-stained cheek is still stuck to the damp patch on your pillow. Sirius passes over it deliberately. You’ve been asleep this entire time, blissfully unaware… That’s a lie he’ll peddle for both of your sakes, until this all melts safely into a nightmare.

It’s agony to tear himself away from your warmth, but Sirius knows he’s ruined everything by violating you, and lingering will only hurt you more. He presses one final, adoring kiss to your neck, yearning to embrace you, then slips wordlessly out of bed.

To forbid himself, he uses magic to bolt the lock.

Morning brings clarity.

He walks into the kitchen, and the stone tiles clack under his boots, echoing, echoing… You’re there, also, preparing a slow, tedious breakfast.

The silence is heavy. Sirius wants to break it, but the quiet feels impenetrable; a chasm of his own design. For a moment, he frowns, looming uneasily over the dining table, aggravated by the clinking of the jar as you spread jam on your toast, eyes downcast.

Then, he pulls out a rickety chair and sits down.

You don’t smile at him today. You don’t return his probing gaze. You knife up more slimy jam— Too much, now, and the bread has gone soggy.

If you’d only burst into tears, he’d gladly take you in his arms to hold you now. Sirius could be your solitary comfort, as you have been his… Only, your new, withdrawn, gloomy state unnerves him. His face darkens… Your bond has truly been broken.

But there’s something else, too.

Remorse gnawed his flesh until daybreak, and was scarred over by something cruel and hard, burrowing gruesomely inside him like an infection.

He could think of it this way: returning to his old childhood home has done very, very strange things to him. Yes… That’s it. Sirius has never had anything so warm and lovely in this place... And indeed, he’s spent much of his life out of control and powerless… But he does have power over you. It occurs to him abruptly. He does have power over you.

Sirius leans back in his chair with a squeak. His guilt, hot and shameful, broils fiercely in his gut, but it intertwines with a kind of grim satisfaction.

It’s his house, his rules…

So why shouldn’t he have you?

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter smut #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black smut #dark sirius black #dark sirius #post azkaban!sirius #post azkaban sirius x reader #tw noncon #smut #angst #my writing

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kaika7 · 1 year ago

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You're Not Alone

Despair Disease Nagito Komaeda x Shy/Awkward and GN! Reader

Summary: You visit Nagito Komaeda when he's ill with the Despair Disease and make sure he feels loved and not alone.

Warnings: Discussions of dying (no one actually dies!)

A/N: This is my first fic, so it's likely far from ideal. I hope you still get something out of this though!

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You anxiously made your way to the hospital with Hajime and Fuyuhiko. Ever since Akane, Nagito, and Ibuki fell ill with the despair disease, you all decided to split into two groups to prevent it from spreading to everyone. Originally, just Hajime, Fuyuhiko, and Mikan were going to stay at the hospital with them, but you insisted on joining their group. Everyone was a little surprised by your insistence, but they went along with it.

In truth, you were really worried about Nagito. Sure, he was a little scary before- especially during the first class trial. But, you couldn’t help but sense there was more to him beneath the surface.

As you had tried to talk to him, he seemed quite delighted that you wanted to spend time with him. His face would light up every time you came by.

“Wow, I can’t believe someone like you wants to talk with trash like me!” He beamed with a cheery face.

Over time, he began to open up to you about his past, and you learned about his luck cycle. He had a beloved pet dog that got hit by a truck and passed away, but the dog allowed him to experience the joy of love and companionship. His parents died in a plane hijacking, but he survived, gained his independence, and a large inheritance. He was kidnapped by a serial killer and thrown in a dumpster, but he won millions of yen in a lottery ticket he found inside. He was diagnosed with stage three lymphoma and frontotemporal dementia, but he was accepted into Hope’s Peak academy. This caused Nagito to believe that if a horrific event happens, something amazing of equal magnitude will happen and vice versa. That’s where his belief in hope came from.

Despite his easygoing outward composure, you couldn’t help but sense a deep anxiety constantly brooding within him. Wherever he went with you, he would constantly be analyzing the terrain and the activities you’d be engaging in to make sure you’d be safe. He wouldn’t even go swimming with you because he casually said you could be taken away by a rip tide and stuck at the bottom of the ocean…. And then be eaten by a shark.

After learning all of this and seeing the way he treated you, you couldn’t help but sympathize with him…. and start to develop feelings for him. You were beginning to understand him more; he was not the malicious person others labeled him as. He did some questionable things for sure, but he did them with good intentions. Plus, his frontotemporal dementia was clouding his judgement, making him take things further than he normally would have.

Yesterday, you went for a walk on the beach with him. His eyes constantly scanned the sand and occasionally darted to the water, as if he was looking for any sharp objects or crustacean that could injure you. When you sat down under the palm trees, he checked the trunk and branches to make sure it was sturdy and not going to break and fall. He also checked for any loose coconuts. Once he felt it was safe, he took a seat next to you.

“…I…” He stuttered, not looking at you. He just stared out into the ocean. “I’ve always been alone… never had anyone’s love. Not that I deserve it, but…I’m just so scared to die alone.” He stayed silent for a bit, and you were just speechless. You wanted to tell him so badly that he’ll never be alone. That you love him. You’ll stay by his side, but you just froze in the moment. The words in your mind could not make their way to your lips.

Sensing the silence, he quickly retracted his previous statement. “Ah, that was just a quote I read in a book somewhere! Speeches such as those can surely evoke sympathy in others, right?” His lips curved to form a plastic smile.

You could see right through his excuse, but before you could say anything, he apologized for “wasting your precious time” and left.

And now, you are going to visit him in the hospital with Hajime and Fuyuhiko. His lymphoma already made him so weak to begin with, but this despair disease really put his body over the edge. You really wondered if this would be the end for him.

“How’s everyone doing?” Fuyuhiko asked Mikan.

“Akane and Ibuki are still ill, but they are stable. Nagito, on the other hand, is in quite a precarious state.” Mikan explained solemnly. “His pulse is so weak, and I’ve been tending to him nearly non-stop for the past day.”

“May we see him?” Hajime asked Mikan.

“Of course, but he’s not awake.” Mikan guided them to Nagito’s room and let them in. Nagito lay motionless in the bed in his hospital gown. His face was even paler than normal and he had a mildly pained expression on his face. Beads of sweat were formed on his forehead, and his chest rose and fell shallowly.

Your heart sank seeing him like this. Your anxieties only grew seeing just how badly he was doing. “Mikan, do you think he’ll make it through the night?” You solemnly asked.

“I-I will make sure I take care of him properly all night, so he will be okay!” Mikan squeaked out. “But…” Her voice grew more slow and serious. “It is possible that he won’t pull through, despite my best efforts. So… you may want to take a few minutes with him now.”

Fuyuhiko and Hajime stepped by Nagito’s bedside.

Fuyuhiko crossed his arms and looked down. “Goddammit, man. I know you are a pain in the ass, but we can’t have anymore people dying, ya hear me? We’re all getting off this damn island, and that includes you.” After he finished speaking, he abruptly turned around and walked out still looking down.

Hajime watched Fuyuhiko leave with a pained expression and took a deep breath before facing Nagito. “Nagito, I know things have been weird, but you gotta pull through, okay? Like Fuyuhiko said, we’re getting out of here together. And once you feel better, I-I want to try to understand you better.” Hajime let out a soft chuckle and a genuine smile. “Maybe we could even become friends.”

Hajime started to slowly walk out, but he noticed your eyes welling with tears. “Hey… do you need a moment alone with him? I know you guys seem sorta close.”

You silently nodded your head. You definitely couldn’t talk with everyone around.

“Hey, Mikan. Do you think we can give Y/N a few minutes alone with Nagito?”

“Let me see…” Mikan quickly checks his vital signs and dabs the sweat off his forehead with a towel. “His fever is still high, and his pulse is still very low, but I suppose he doesn’t need me to tend to him for a few moments.” She looked up at you. “I can give you a few minutes, but if anything strange happens, please call me in, okay?”

You nod and Hajime and Mikan walk out of the room, closing the door behind them and leaving you alone with Nagito.

You stepped closer to his bedside and pulled over a chair so you could sit beside him. He looked worse close up. His hair even more disheveled than normal, and several strains of it stuck to the dried up sweat on his forehead. His eyebrows were furrowed with discomfort, and his lips were slightly parted as small gasps of air struggled to rhythmically flow between them.

You gently held his hand and looked at his shut eyes. “Nagito… I don’t think you can really hear or understand me right now… but I want you to know that I’m here.” You pause and nervously laugh to yourself. “I’m sorry I don’t always know what to say. It’s hard for words to come out sometimes. But, I hope you can at least feel the warmth of my hand and recognize my presence.” You took a shaky breath. “Please, please know that you will never be alone. I-I really love you, Nagito.”

You gave his hand a light squeeze, and put it over your heart. “I have to leave soon. But, please know that even if I’m not physically beside you, you will always be right here with me.”

Nagito remained unresponsive throughout this conversation, but fortunately his breaths remained constant. You sighed and rested his hand back along his side. Then, you began to get up. “I… I won’t say good bye tonight… You will make it through this! I’ll come visit you in the morning. I promise. I’ll see you soon…”

You turned around and left the room, and Mikan immediately went back in to tend to Nagito. You, Hajime, and Fuyuhiko went back to your cottages with heavy hearts- hoping for the best.

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You could barely sleep a wink all night, but you did manage to dose off for a little bit. You woke up to the sound of knocking on your cottage door. Groggily making your way to the door, you unlocked it and opened it a crack. Seeing it was Hajime, you opened it more and instantly woke up. With desperation in your tone, you quickly stammered, “H-Hi! Did you hear anything about Nagito?”

Hajime reassuringly smiled. “Yes, I came by to let you know Nagito’s condition has improved! Well, a little bit, anyway. He’s still not in good shape, but he can sit up in bed and talk now- though he says quite bizarre things…” He forced a chuckle and shrugged his shoulders. “You could try visiting him if you’d like, but I just saw him and he told me to hurry up and go away. He even said that he didn’t want to see my face anymore.” Hajime exasperatedly sighs.

You stood there dumbfounded for a minute, but adrenaline quickly rushed through your veins. “Hajime, you LEFT him after he said that?! I-I have to go now!!!”

You sprinted out the door, still in your pajamas, towards the hospital as Hajime turned around and watched you run with a confused look. Geez, this guy sure has a serious case of the clueless protagonist syndrome! Nagito has the liar form of the despair disease, which means he means the opposite of everything he says. The poor thing must be so scared of dying alone.

Finally making it to the hospital, you opened the door to his room with a wheeze. “N-Nagito. H-how are you? May I come in?”

Nagito did indeed look better than last night. His he was drooling a bit and still sweaty, but he was now propped up in bed with a glazed look in his eyes. He turned his head in response to your voice and said weakly, “I’m feeling quite excellent today! And I really need you to get as far away from me as possible. I want to be alone.”

You felt a pit form in your stomach. He certainly had improved, but he was not out of the woods yet. You walked closer to his bedside and looked compassionately at him. “I’m here, Nagito. I’m right here with you.”

Upon looking at him more closely, your eyes drifted unconsciously to where his hospital gown loosely was wrapped around him, leaving his collar bones and upper chest exposed. Seeing his bare chest slowly rise and fall in synchronization with his breaths made your cheeks flush and your mind freeze. You were pretty inexperienced with love to say the least, so these feelings are hard for you to process.

Nagito began speaking again which made you snap out of your frozen state. “Y/N, I didn’t hear what you said to me yesterday. You’re a nasty person for not thinking about someone like me, Y/N.”

Holy crap, he actually HEARD YOU? He heard your love confession?! That has got to be the worst way to be confessed to. Ugh way to go, Y/N.

With a shaky voice, you began, “Oh, I- er… I’m sorry you had to hear it like that… But I really meant everything I said. I-I’ll never leave you alone, and-” You paused to take a nervous breath. “I love you…”

An ounce of focus and shock came through Nagito’s dazed eyes. “Really? I thought you were telling me the truth just to be mean to me?”

With a slightly more confident tone, you said, “No, I wasn’t just saying it to make you feel better… I really do love you. I’m so sorry about the other day. I was just so shocked, and I didn’t know what to say right away.”

Nagito sat there stunned for a moment, and his eyes slowly started to well with tears. “I-I hate you too, Y/N. You’re the most despicable and malicious person I’ve ever met. I have zero gratitude for the love you’ve shown me, and you’re so awful for letting me die alone. I truly deserve it.”

Your eyes grew wide in surprise as a gentle blush spread across your face. After a few moments, tears formed in your own eyes. You could barely believe that he reciprocated your feelings, but you pushed your own insecurities aside to focus on supporting him. “Nagito… may I hold your hand?”

He shook his head ‘No’, so you gently squeezed his hand. “You will get better. You won’t die here today. There’s always hope, remember?” You gave him a little smirk, which made a smile crack on his face. “But even if the worst does come, you won’t be alone. I’ll repeat myself a thousand times: I’ll always be with you. You’re not alone.”

At this point, the tears were already profusely streaming down Nagito’s face, so you grabbed a tissue to dab them away for him. “Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“I know this is truly a selfless request- I’m so wonderful for even thinking to ask this- but c-could you not hold me?”

You blinked in disbelief. “You want me to cuddle you, right now?”

“No, that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do in the world. But I’m truly considerate for even asking you this. I’m so not sorry for taking advantage of you like this, I-“

Mustering up all the confidence you could, you cut Nagito off by pulling his blanket down, and then climbing into the bed with him. You laid down next to him and gestured for him to lie down. With a shocked look, he quickly complied. You gently held him close to you, letting his head rest over your heart. You stroked his soft and fluffy white hair comfortingly, hoping to ease him of any discomfort.

“Y/N…” Nagito said with a blush forming on his face. The sound of your heart beat and the warmth of your embrace was so soothing to him. He was so touched starved, he didn’t even remember the last time he was hugged. He never had experienced anything like this before.

“I’m here, and I always will be. You’re not alone, Nagito.”

#nagito x reader #nagito komaeda #nagito x y/n #nagito komeada x reader #nagito x gn reader #hajime hinata #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #mikan tsumiki #danganronpa #danganronpa 2 #sdr2

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incorrect-tmnt2012-quotes · 6 months ago

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Casey: Hey Red! Can I keep my lunch in your locker? April: Why? Casey: Well, you’ve got that air conditioning vent right there and it might keep it from spoiling. Ya know botulism is the silent killer. ...Well botulism and carbon monoxide... and heart disease ...and obviously ninjas!

#incorrect tmnt quotes #source: ant farm #tmnt 2012 #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #casey jones #april o'neil

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somegrumpynerd · 8 months ago

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please please please please just hear me out-

Nightmare, like one day he senses some weird negativity abd is like "Uhhhh, panic?"

And anyways he goes downstairs to find the following:

Killer freaking the F out, pointing to a blood spot on the couch.

Dust scrubbing said blood spot, trying to get it out.

Cross is panicking and thinking how to explain this to nightmare

And Horror is gone.

Now, NM thinks it's pretty weird hus boys sergeants are panicking over a little blood, so he goes up to them and is like, "What is all this?"

And Dust and Criss go dead silent, abd killer breaks first and starts sobbing and talking about how horror is dying-

Nope

After some mild explanation, it clicks for Nightmare. Horror (a trans guy) lost his period since he hadn't eaten well in like, forever.

But now that he's actually a healthy weight again, and eating well and resting, his period just popped up one day. And nobody knew Horror was trans because he didn't tell anyone.

Anywho, then Nightmare sighs and goes finds horrir—Gets him and like, just holds him

Pfffffff I love that the immediate - and only - explanation is that Horror is Dying. Like Killer and Dust have so many murders under their belts but the panic of Friend Is Bleeding makes them forget about dusting completely.

Also the fact that Horror apparently got up, presumably to go deal with it, and just left them all to freak out about it lol

I bet Cross feels especially silly after they get it all figured out since he's the only one who grew up with a girl (assuming all monster periods would work the same, since he'd probably be at least somewhat aware when Alphys got hers, if not actively trying to help).

Although alternatively maybe Nightmare tells Horror he doesn't have to come out if he doesn't want to, just make up an excuse and Nightmare will back him up. It isn't until after Horror tells them all "I have a disease where if people are mean to me and don't bring me snacks I start bleeding to death" that he should have specified a reasonable excuse.

#UTDR #Ask #Anon #Bonus funny points if they're all trans #but have been on whatever the monster equivalent of hrt is long enough that they just forgot periods existed

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randomfoggytiger · 20 days ago

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Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part XV): Making an Effort

In the last part, Mulder was able to see (for the first time since his abduction) that Scully hasn't, won't, and will never give up on anyone she deems "worth the effort"-- and that, he concluded, included him.

This being the case, it seems he's made it his mission to prove that she, too, is worth the effort.

Mulder Tries

After Monica Reyes assists in the arrest of the alleged culprit of Luke Doggett’s murder, Mulder finds Doggett by Scully’s bedside; and silently orders the other man into the hallway. Though angry at this exchange-- and angrier at the world and its injustice-- Doggett relents and follows him out, jaw clenched tightly shut as he moves as far away from his partner's partner as possible.

Unbeknownst to Mulder, the latter was in the grips of his own PTSD flashback-- the day his son’s burnt body was discovered. The episode connects clear and blatant dots between his journey to belief and Scully's (including a cursed scene transition, here); but we are also left to draw a few obvious conclusions: Doggett lost his son and was assigned to the files while Mulder gained a son (a baby of unspecified sex, at this point) and was blocked from the files. Both men suffer from PTSD, to varying degrees; and both men are thrown together in the latter end of Season 8 to protect Scully and her baby-- a redemption of their own past losses. (And while these parallels, ideas, and themes are intriguing, it would be nice if they were properly fleshed out in their execution.)

Doggett's anger evaporates in the hallway; and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, slowly nodding as Mulder immovably explains, "She just fell back to sleep."

Head down, he says, "I just wanted to check to see how she's doin'." But that's not all; and Doggett exhales before further stating, "'Course I'm here with this other thing-- we, uh, we caught this killer Jeb Dukes. He's in the ICU. He may not make it."

Mulder runs his tongue over his lips and swallows-- a nervous tick-- while the other agent finishes. Despite everything he's been through, those profiling skills are still spookily intact: "And now you're wondering if there really was a connection?"

Doggett doesn't answer, not wanting to admit his doubts; but he doesn't bother to deny it, either. There's a defensive, curious stance in his stooping shoulders and sideways-upright glance, as if he is inviting Mulder's opinion while shifting away from his scrutiny. In short, Doggett is posturing: pretending to be rationally stable while adrift and looking for guidance.

Never one to leave others floundering or in pain, Mulder decides to act on Scully's insight, and offers an olive branch: he opens up.

Looking down at first, he begins, "When I, uh, when I first came to work at the FBI, I worked at Violent Crimes."

Agent Doggett knows where this is going-- former cop that he is-- and turns his head to the side as Mulder gently drones on.

"I saw the worst of humanity. I saw monsters."

At this, Doggett looks up, trying to guess if 'monsters' is metaphorical or literal.

"And I wondered how they became that way. How these men became so evil. I know, there were--" Breaking off, Mulder shakes his head, shifting through past testimony and reports, "--Psychological explanations: victims of their environment, victims of their parents. But those scientific explanations were never truly satisfying.

"And I began to think," he confesses, moving one hand to wave it around briefly before recrossing his arms, "of evil like, like a disease. You know, it goes from man-to-man, or age-to-age-- most of us walk around thinking we're incapable of any acts of evil. And we are. Y'know, we can stifle that momentary urge to kill, or to hurt-- we have some kind of immunity to it."

"But I think it's possible that there's..."

Again, he trails off, lips pressed tight as he weighs his words. "An occurrence in somebody's life-- a tragedy or a loss-- that leaves them vulnerable." He further gentles his voice when Doggett's face pinches: "And all of a sudden-- at that point in their lives, when they're weakened-- they're open to evil. And they can become evil."

Agent Doggett's skepticism peaks through as he fills in the blanks. "If that were true, then what you're saying is, is... this man we wheeled in here tonight is effectively evil. Same evil that killed my son."

Mulder maintains Doggett's level gaze, swallowing-- not denying the other's conclusion.

"You really believe that, Agent Mulder?"

"Nah," Mulder cracks, a genuine smile shyly peeking through-- the first around Doggett. "I'm not really a good test for questions like that. I'll believe almost anything. Y'know?"

Doggett snorts, acknowledging the joke and chastising himself for grasping at this explanation.

"You may never know," Mulder reveals. "It may be like Agent Reyes says--" an acknowledgment of Monica's instincts, as well as a channeling of Doggett's attention to the other agent, "--it may be random and meaningless: who it affects, who it goes to."

"What if it isn't?"

"Well then you'd be seeing something that I don't, Agent Doggett": and what a conclusion-- Mulder is steering Doggett to trust his own intuition. It neatly attempts to shred Doggett's reliance on Scully or himself, and to plant a seed of faith in his own instincts (or Reyes's instincts of his instincts.)

Doggett walks away, unable to accept that possibility; and Mulder remains fixed by Scully's door, knowing where he belongs and decisively staying there-- a journey the other agent is still struggling through.

She Is Worth the Effort

“Mulder, you never fail to surprise me.”

The scene opens on Scully, perched on a couch with a pizza before her, and Mulder sneaking behind her to hide his surprise present again. Hands on her belly, she turns her head to try to find him, slowly, contentedly continuing, “I just wish I felt like eating it.”

Nonchalantly, he swings around the couch with plates, napkins, and silverware in hand-- silverware, for pizza?-- flippantly assuring, with a comedic lilt in his voice, “That’s cool-- we can just wait for the cheese to congeal and eat it later.”

After sitting and noticing her reluctant smile, Mulder deduces, “You miss your regular pizza man, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Scully pouts as her partner slumps and defeatedly lets the silverware drop to the table.

Mulder is trying to become everything Scully needs: friend to her associate, father of her baby, and delivery boy of her favorite pizza. His efforts, however, are stymied by the new ropes he’s still learning-- forgetting, in this instance, to ask if she would like a pizza fresh from her release; or even if she can eat one. When he realizes his carefully crafted plan falls through, he slumps: Scully’s pizza boy wouldn’t fail because he would know when she needed one. And while that isn’t an entirely logical train of thought, it’s one that’s easily suggestible.

He takes this failure to heart, caving in and avoiding her eyes as the “Aha!” moment turns into a heavy “I should have known this” thud.

Scully, however, has an ace up her sleeve: revealing her expert rouse with a subtle, “That’s okay, he’s coming later.” She’s so pleased with herself that she fails to hold back a smile, outright giggling when Mulder catches her humor and returns it with a mock-stunned expression.

Both visibly glow and twinkle while connecting over this simple couples’ joke-- the second they’ve shared since his return, and the first that is levied back-and-forth with equal, humored fervor (post here.)

As Scully’s giggle turns to a chuckle then peters out, Mulder reaches behind her for the stowaway surprise. (An aside: Scully looks down at her belly before her partner shifts, as if her laughter brought on an unexpected bump of movement.)

He keeps his face focused on her, watching her curious eyes track his hand (knowing his partner loves presents, posts here and here); and stays still, mouth wide in anticipation, as she gasps with delight.

“Bet you forgot about that, didn’t you?”

Shaking her head as emphatically as she can, Scully insists, “No, I didn’t, actually. I thought about it a lot, while I was lying in my hospital bed.” She spares him an assuring, more somber glance while methodically tearing the package open, as if to say you and your efforts were not forgotten, despite my compounding worry and troubles.

Mulder, meanwhile, loses a touch of his joy, eyebrow twitching, eyes tightening, throat swallowing at the acknowledgment of her recent hospitalization.

But he tries to school his features and zone back into the moment. Her words-- “Wondering what on earth you’d given me”-- help; but it still takes effort to shake off, with a bounce, that darker mood.

“And?” he prods, voice intentionally buoyant.

The present is revealed; and Scully is immediately touched, mouth opening in shock. Face pinching, she whispers then croaks, “Oh, Mulder,” swinging the doll around between them to study it intently.

Pleased, he asks, “Is it what you imagined?”

Eyes squinting, she states, “Not even close.” Sensing there are layers of meaning behind this gift-- and that her partner is continuing a reemergence back to his former ways-- Scully looks up and breaks into a smile.

Mulder leans forward, drinking up this freer atmosphere between them. “Oh, my, that’s the wrong doll, actually.” His face slips near the end of his tease; and Scully calls him on it-- to the delight of them both-- by pretending to swipe at her partner with the toy.

He dodges, and they both fall into a fit of gleeful chuckles and giggles.

It’s Scully who switches up the mood first, pivoting suddenly into, “But then that’s the other gift you gave me, Mulder.” She looks up from the doll, staring at his softened, tentative expression: there is a hesitant bracing there--not of having to own up to fatherhood or claim this baby, but of wondering what she’s going to say next; and what she expects him to say in response-- before he relaxes with a tender smile.

And she, as always, throws him a curve ball: “Courage. To believe.” Scully looks down, shy, but decides not to dodge Mulder’s natural assumption entirely: “And I hope that’s a gift I can pass on.” Again, she looks up, lips pursed in a smile, eyes locked as Scully draws their attention to the baby: content, and confident.

And that’s an interesting statement: not only does this imply Scully is having a baby (because obviously) but it also implies she is directly tying something intrinsically Mulder to this child-- meaning, this child will be, and was going to be, connected to him no matter what. We know both know the baby is his, and that Mulder wasn’t jealous or resentful of his child (posts here and here); but what I find more fascinating is that there are multiple, subtle clues that Scully would have raised her baby as Mulder’s child (Skinner’s “he’s not the last” in Deadalive; Scully’s blue mourning-but-moving-on sweater, post here; and her pointed remark in this scene.) This is the first time she’s confessed her intentions to her partner; and that points to how personal this decision is for her-- Scully confessions don’t come lightly; and don’t come willingly to anyone, at all, unless that person’s a Mulder.

Mulder takes this revelation in stride, staring at her bump in contemplative silence before re-locking eyes and nodding.

A split-second one-two-three happened there:

His eyes slid lower, taking in her words as they came to rest on their child.

His eyes snapped up, a wild, possessive, purposefully stilled gleam in them.

His eyes lowered again as he nodded and twitched an eyebrow: I understand and That’s not all I gave you wrapped up in one.

Scully, being Scully, catches this one-two-three. She begins petting the doll’s hair, an attempt to work through the happy, vulnerable emotions that are nearly breaking from her control. The camera fades out as she masters them; and that is the end of Mulder and Scully in Empedocles.

NOBODY GETS THERE ALONE

I'd be remiss if we didn't compare this sweet and affectionate moment to the last time Mulder gave Scully a gift. There are quite a few parallels, actually.

In Tempus Fugit, Mulder takes Scully to their frequent hangout, and loudly sings along to and claps afterwards with the staff's "Happy Birthday" cheer. (In fact, he continues clapping long after the staff leave and the patrons drop off.) Then, he made sure she had something fun to nibble on (either because the local provided it or because he sneaked in a Snoball) while opening her niche gift. Like Empedocles, however, their moment is interrupted by tragedy and more tragedy (Max's and Pendrell's death; Scully's abruption and Luke's killer's case.)

Alongside these parallels, the mechanism for each gift remains the same: to do things right. In Season 4, it was spurred on by Mulder's fear of Scully's cancer and realization of the depth of his feelings (post here); in Season 8, it is instigated by Mulder's return and stabilization after his death. In both cases, Mulder wants to make up for lost time: birthdays (in dog years, he parries) and fatherly moments missed.

And Scully figures him out-- already had him, probably, when he showed up at her door with something from his mother's, post here-- both times, smiling and puzzling over her partner's presents, divining their oblique and askance meanings. "Teamwork" in Tempus Fugit and "Family" in Empedocles.

Mulder's gestures themselves paint a broader, more evolved picture of his feelings for and commitments to Scully. During the cancer arc, Mulder ran and ran and ran headlong into work or self-recrimination or anyplace where he didn't have to acknowledge Scully's death (they both did, post here.) During the pregnancy arc, Mulder returns, despite his PTSD and doubts and fears, after an abduction (This Is Not Happening), after his "death" (Deadalive), after the failed DOD mission (Three Words), after Doggett and Reyes's case (Empedocles), after the black oil rig (Vienen), after a begrudging trip to help Doggett (Alone), after trying and failing to do the right thing (Essence-Existence.)

An important note: the writers carefully picked and chose what present Mulder picked and chose each time. A NASA commemoration medallion in Tempus Fugit pointed to his hope alongside Scully and the fathomless, though largely unspoken, value Mulder placed on their work together. Their partnership, Mulder said, is a gift; and one he needed (needs) to see things through. It was a sentiment Scully didn't hear voiced until Fight the Future, but it's one he was acutely aware of since their separation and her abduction in Season 2. A cloth doll from his mother's pointed to the day Scully was by his side when he lost sight of the answers and would have lost his closure if not for her truth. It was a different time in their partnership, one that didn't require them to step around the danger between them. In both instances, his presents were a symbol of their relationship beating back the darkest hours: her cancer and their hope, his mother's death and his closure. And there is one last meaning to this gift-- the most glaring one: an extension of the Mulder family trinkets to the next generation of Mulders.

CONCLUSION

Empedocles is wrapped!

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #mine #Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma #Part XV #Making an Effort #S8 #Empedocles #Mulder #Scully #Doggett #S4 #Tempus Fugit #Max #xfiles #x-files #the x files

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