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ailaafterdark · 3 months ago

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𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬

𖹭 pairing: viltrumite!mark grayson x flesh-hungry!female!reader (A.K.A warlord prince with god complex x bio-engineered monster girl built for carnage)

𖹭 TW: DUB CON, dark content, blood, gore, violence, power imbalance, swearing, possessive behavior, death, non-human biology, captivity, enemies-to-lovers trope?, face-fvcking, p in a v, size difference, breeding k1nk, dumbification, belly bulging, master/pet dynamic, overstimulation, biting, marking, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: This fic is long, messy, heavy edited and 100% born from my horny little brain while watching Invincible Hope you enjoy :P

Silence had never sounded so victorious.

What was once a vibrant blue planet, bursting with resistance and stubborn will, now lay in ruins. Cities crumbled. Skyscrapers reduced to bones. Blood dried into the dirt...Humanity tried its best—they fought with desperation, with all the fire they could muster.

But in the end, it was never a fair fight.

The Viltrumites walked the Earth's surface like gods claiming what was rightfully theirs.

Mark Grayson—son of a human mother, molded by a Viltrumite father—flew alongside the others in silence, dressed in the same white uniform. His gaze was sharp, scanning the rubble below. He didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just watched as his people moved like a plague across the land, searching through the decay not for survivors, but for something more valuable.

Secrets. Weapons. Leftovers of mankind's final, frantic efforts to defend itself.

They scoured beneath the ash, the collapsed buildings, the bones of a world that had tried to resist. Eventually, they found it—underground bunkers hidden deep beneath the crust of a dead world.

Inside, scraps of humanity clung to life. The scent of sweat, fear, and filth hit them first. Then came the screams—raw, panicked, and pointless.

The survivors didn't beg. They knew better. They cried, they clutched each other, they tried to run.

Mark said nothing. Not a single word. He didn't interfere. He simply watched, unmoved, as the others handled it. Blood filled the halls and screams died quickly.

There was no mercy left to give. Only silence and death.

Not a single emotion flickered in his eyes. No sorrow. No pity. No guilt. Nothing.

Not even as he hovered above the charred remains of the planet that birthed him.

Earth burned. And he watched.

He had been taken away before he ever had the chance to experience what this world could have offered him—just a boy when his father brought him to Viltrum, to be raised as one of their own. As a soldier. As an heir.

There were no childhood memories to mourn. No human attachments to cloud his judgment. To him, Earth was not home. It was a mission. A conquest. Another name on the long list of worlds that fell beneath the Viltrumite flag.

A hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

He didn't flinch. He knew that grip—it was measured, heavy, and commanding.

He turned his head slightly, meeting the sharp, weathered gaze of his father. Nolan stood beside him, armor stained with blood and ash, his cape fluttering in the dead wind. He looked at his son, not with warmth or pride—but with the calm precision of a general addressing his equal.

Nolan's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting from his son to the smoldering wreckage below. The quiet crackle of still-burning buildings echoed between them like a lullaby of conquest.

"It's pathetic." he muttered, voice slicing through the smoke. "The ones hiding underground. Crammed in piss-soaked bunkers, clinging to some foolish hope that their heroes would come back for them."

Mark said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"They should've surrendered," Nolan went on, colder now. "Some did. The smarter ones. But the rest?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Cowards. Hiding like insects in the dark. It’s disgraceful."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant wind and the distant creaking of a collapsed tower.

Then Nolan spoke again, glancing sideways at Mark. "We should check the GDA's underground facilities. Cecil was always hiding something. Back when I worked with him, I caught whispers—rumors of illegal experiments, unnatural weapons… even bio-creatures bred for war."

Mark’s brow furrowed slightly. "You think they actually built something strong enough to stop us?"

Nolan let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Doubtful. But who knows? If there is something down there, it could either be a useful tool… or a lingering threat. More likely, just another one of Cecil's pathetic failures rotting in the dark."

He looked ahead, eyes sharp. "Whatever it is, we can't leave it unchecked."

Without another word, Nolan lifted his hand and gestured.

From above, four Viltrumites dropped through the smoke in perfect formation, landing beside them in silence. Their white uniforms were stained with dirt and streaks of blood, but their expressions were calm and ready.

"Head to the GDA headquarters," Nolan ordered. "New York is nothing but bones now, but if they hid anything, it's down there. Deep." He turned to Mark. "We dig. We search. No stone left untouched. I want their secrets exposed and buried with them."

Mark gave a small nod and took off, the others following behind. They soared through the grey sky, silent wings of death gliding over what was once one of the busiest cities in the world.

Below, skyscrapers stood like charred tombstones, windows blown out, steel skeletons groaning in the wind. The familiar spire of the GDA building jutted out from the rubble, half of it caved in, the rest barely standing. Whatever was beneath it had remained hidden even through Earth’s last breath.

The Viltrumites landed and began tearing into the rubble like it was paper, shoving aside steel beams and broken machinery.

They crashed through steel and concrete with ease, moving deeper into the abyss beneath the ruined city. Reinforced floors gave way. Labs long abandoned passed in a blur of rusted equipment and glass. The dust thickened. Lights flickered, dim and weak like dying stars. The silence turned heavy. Tense. Wrong.

Then they found it—buried farther than any of them expected. A sealed facility, hidden beneath layers of stone and steel. Carved into the earth like something meant to stay forgotten. The air down there clung to them, thick with rot, blood, and iron.

The hallway ahead was narrow, smeared with the stains of time and something more violent. Rust bled down the walls in lines like veins. Blood left in handprints. Claw marks. Torn restraints bolted to the walls. Some of the doors were dented from the inside.

Nolan stepped forward and shoved one of them open with a metallic shriek.

WEEOO-WEEOO-WEEOO—

The alarms wailed like dying animals, echoing up every floor and spilling out into the ruined city above. Scarlet lights flooded the hallway, pulsing like veins. It was a scream. It reached the top of the building. The streets. The sky. Every Viltrumite nearby the area turned their head at the sound that's coming from crumbling structure.

And in the depths of that pulsing red light... something laughed.

Soft at first, childlike and playful.

Then it grew louder. Sharper. Hungrier.

A small figure dragged itself from the darkness of a ruined chamber, half-naked, blood-stained, nails cracked and filthy, hair tangled into a wild, matted mess. Your eyes were wide, glowing faintly under the emergency lights. Your body was trembling—not from fear, but from hunger. You hadn’t fed properly in months. Maybe years. And their scent—those clean, proud Viltrumite bastards reeking of blood under their pristine uniforms—hit your senses like a drug.

You smiled wide.

Your gaze snapped to the Viltrumites—and your pupils dilated.

You lunged.

It all went to hell from there.

The first Viltrumite barely had time to blink before you slammed into him, your fangs tearing deep into his throat. You shook your head violently, ripping out chunks of flesh like a starving beast. His scream gurgled to nothing as you twisted—snapping his neck and tearing it free with a savage pull.

You bounced off the falling body, landing on all fours like an animal, with his head still in your hands. Then you bit into it, chewing with noisy satisfaction, like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

The others quickly charged, and one swung but missed.

You dropped the head mid-laugh, and grabbed his wrist, twisted it until the bones snapped loud enough to echo. He screamed. You slammed him into the wall so hard the stone cracked. The third came next—until your claws tore through his chest and you punched into his stomach, yanking out his organs like candy from a piñata.

"Oooh, so warm~!" you cooed, blood dripping from your chin. "Fresh meat really hits hard."

Mark stood frozen, mouth slightly open. His fists clenched and unclenched like his brain hadn't caught up yet. "What the hell...?"

Nolan didn't speak. His expression was hard, unreadable. But his eyes narrowed—and he took a single step back when you ripped the body in half, gore spraying across the floor in a wet splash.

No mortal prisoner stood before them—but a demon cloaked in flesh.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall as more Viltrumites stormed in, drawn by the alarm—only to find two of their own dead, one barely clinging to life, and you at the center of it all. Blood-drenched, crouched low like a beast, surrounded by the shredded remains of their comrades. You grinned from ear to ear, fangs glinting in the scarlet light, eyes sparkling with joy.

You looked up at the new arrivals and waved with a severed hand.

"More food?" you asked sweetly, licking blood from the stiff fingers in your grasp. "Hell yeah! Looks like we're going full course for breakfast today."

Mark's stomach twisted. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He was frozen in shock, even as his fists clenched on instinct.

Nolan's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening with rage.

And then you moved again—laughing, a blur of gore and teeth as you lunged forward.

The fight erupted.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You left a trail of carnage in your wake—bodies were torn, blood still warm, the taste of Viltrumite flesh clinging to your tongue like candy. They fought hard. Harder than you expected. But not hard enough to stop you.

Some were left twitching on the ground, ribs shattered and lungs heaving. Others were little more than red pulp smeared across the concrete. You didn't kill all of them—not out of mercy, but because you were too full, too high on the rush of violence, and too focused on one thing now.

Escape.

You burst through the final floor like a cannonball, tearing through the layers of the GDA's underground like tissue paper. The red lights still flashed behind you, alarms screamed themselves hoarse. Your bare feet slammed into the cracked pavement of the surface—them you froze.

For the first time in decades, you felt air that hadn't been filtered through vents or tasted like copper. The sky opened above you—gray, grimy, sick with smoke, but still a sky. Buildings stood in disrepair, cracked and leaning, some half-swallowed by the earth like rotting teeth. The world wasn't at peace. But it wasn't the warzone you remembered either.

You stood on shaking legs—bare, blood-streaked, sun-drunk—blinking hard against the harsh, unfiltered daylight. Everything felt too big. Too open. Too quiet. You could still hear the screams of the underground, the alarms howling like dying things, the wet crunch of bone in your teeth. Blood still clung to your mouth like honey.

What happened here—?

A sudden gust of wind blew behind you—it was sharp, fast, and heavy.

Before you could fully turn, something slammed into your cheek like a meteor. The impact sent your body spiraling backward through the air, crashing through an abandoned car and skidding against the pavement before you dug your claws in, stopping yourself with a screech of broken concrete.

You snarled, wiping blood from your mouth, eyes snapping up at the figure hovering midair.

Dark hair. Blood on his fists. Chest rising and falling with tight, controlled fury.

Mark Grayson.

His eyes locked onto you, not with fear—but something worse. Cold, seething frustration. His fists clenched at his sides, twitching like he was holding back the urge to rip you apart on sight. He was scratched up, bruised, panting. Signs of your earlier encounter still painted across his skin. Behind him, more Viltrumites descended from the clouds like vultures, with Nolan among them, arms crossed, silently watching.

"Well, well," you purred, dragging yourself up to your feet with a crooked grin. "Aren't you a pretty one."

Mark didn't waste time. He charged.

You stepped aside like you were dancing, catching his arm mid-swing—but he twisted, and the two of you went crashing into the ground. His body slammed into yours, forcing the air from your lungs. You hit the pavement hard. It cracked beneath you.

You laughed.

Your legs locked around his torso, muscle to muscle, as you twisted and the two of you crashed through the skeleton of another half-standing building.

"Is this how you greet girls these days?" you breathed, grinning at him. "Tsk. No flowers? No sweet talk? Geez. What's up with men lately?"

Mark gritted his teeth, trying to overpower you.

You leaned in close, whispering against his jaw. "You always this rough on your dates, pretty boy?"

The two of you clashed again and again—flesh against flesh, teeth bared, blood spilled. The ground split open beneath your feet with every collision, debris flying, the city echoing with the sound of carnage. You were laughing—breathless, wild, drunk on adrenaline. Mark was giving you a fight, and god, it felt good.

But he was starting to slip.

You saw it in the way his chest heaved, in the slight delay between his punches. And worse—he hesitated. Just once. His gaze dropped to your mouth, flushed and slick with blood, and he flinched when you licked it slow, grinning through the chaos.

"Fuck, that hurts so good..."

That's when they invaded.

The other Viltrumites descended like mad hounds. You didn't get a warning—just the sudden weight of five bodies crashing into you mid-lunge. You screamed, thrashed, tore into one's side with your claws and sent another flying with a headbutt. One tried to grab your wrists but you quickly snapped his fingers like twigs. Another went for your legs and you sunk your heel into his jaw.

You were brutal. A machine built to kill. But they didn’t care. They kept coming.

You growled, nearly feral, muscles screaming under the strain of so many hands forcing you down. Your feet left the ground. You were held in place by sheer numbers that had your back arched and neck straining. One arm was pinned behind you, another around your ribs, another around your throat.

Then you saw... him.

Nolan.

Hovering just out of reach. Watching you with cold judgment in his eyes.

Something inside you snapped.

You lunged, with your head whipping forward like a beast. You nearly got him—teeth bared, inches from tearing into his throat—but you were yanked back at the last second. Still, it rattled them. They didn’t expect you to go for the general.

And neither did Mark.

He moved without thinking and slammed into you with enough force to break a mountain, shoulder in your gut, arm locking around your chest as he drove you to the ground.

"Stop!" he shouted, his breath hot against your skin.

You twisted in his grip—then bit down. Hard.

Your sharp teeth sank into his forearm, tearing its skin, ripping the muscle. He shouted, blood running warm across your tongue. You could taste him—Viltrumite blood, rich and violent, flooding your mouth like a reward.

He yanked his arm back and without pause, drove his fist into your jaw—forcefully.

You were still smiling as you went down, lips smeared in red. "...fucking awesome." you muttered breathless, the taste of Viltrumite blood still warm in your mouth. Your eyes rolled back as the world cracked sideways. Your body slumped and the sky above you blurred. You barely heard the other Viltrumites yelling before your knees buckled and your vision started to go dark.

The last thing you saw was Mark's face—shocked, bleeding, staring down at you like he didn't know whether to be petrified or fascinated.

And then, there were arms around you.

Strong and steady. Definitely his.

Mark caught you before you hit the ground completely, lowering you into his hold like he wasn't still bleeding from your bite, like he didn't just knock you out cold. You didn't feel the relief in the others, or the weight of containment cuffs snapping around your wrists. All you felt was warmth, before darkness swallowed you once again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You stirred with a groan, pain blooming at the base of your skull. Your body ached, heavy and sore like you've been hit by a planet—and maybe, in a way, you had. Your thoughts came sluggish, swimming through the fog in your head. Voices echoed around you, distant and distorted at first, like they were bouncing off the walls of your skull. But slowly, they grew clearer—they sharpened into words, whispers, and conversations.

Your eyes cracked open.

Bright lights seared into your vision.

You were kneeling.

Both knees pressed against freezing tiles, with your legs spread apart as if it forced open with no mercy. Thick restraints clamped tightly around your wrists behind your back, made of some dense, unyielding alloy that even your strength couldn't break through. The cold kiss of metal crawled over your spine. Chains dug into your skin where you had already been bruised, holding you still.

You were naked.

Completely.

There was no cloth, no covering—nothing to shield you from the cold or the sea of eyes watching from every corner of the stadium. The air prickled along every inch of your exposed skin, and the lights were focused solely on you, spotlighting every inch of your body—every inhuman line, every unnatural curve, every scar and every mark. Every part of what made you a monster was put on display.

A muzzle clamped tightly over the lower half of your face, molded hard against your jaw. It silenced you completely. No speaking. No biting. Just the soft rasp of your breath through your nose, quick and sharp, barely enough to calm the burn in your lungs. Your mouth was sealed shut.

A low growl rumbled from deep in your chest.

The sound cut through the low hum of voices like a blade.

Conversations stopped. Heads turned. The entire stadium fell silent.

Dozens—no, hundreds of eyes snapped to you.

They were all Viltrumites.

All of them. Rows of them, seated in ranks dressed in pristine white uniforms, most of them were cloaked—like some twisted cult of gods looking down at their captured beast. Their faces were cold, observing, and judgmental.

You shot the crowd with a venomous glare.

Then, one of the seated figures stood.

"It seems the beast has finally awoken."

The voice cut clean through the silence—calm, commanding, sharp as a blade. "Good."

General Nolan stepped forward, his presence heavy like gravity, each step deliberate. The stadium seemed to tense beneath his weight. He didn't look away from you, not even once, not even while the crowd of white-cloaked Viltrumites leaned in, listening. Hanging on his every word.

"This is the weapon that slaughtered twenty-seven of our finest." he announced, voice crisp and brutal. "An Earth-born experiment that crawled out of her hole after decades of silence. Not a soldier. Not a warrior. A threat. One that’s proven herself to be something far more dangerous than even a Viltrumite..."

You weren't listening to him.

Not really.

You didn't care for his dramatic little speech. All you cared about was the weight of the chains digging into your wrists and the deep, familiar ache that sparked in your muscles. You shifted on your knees, raw skin scraping against the cold metal floor as you tested your bounds again. Harder. Rougher. You knew they were watching. You simply didn't care.

Your breath came fast through your nose, the muzzle clamped over your mouth keeping you from speaking, biting, screaming. It was tight. Containing. But it wouldn't hold you back forever.

A low growl rumbled in your throat.

Then came the footsteps.

One by one, other Viltrumites stepped forward—soldiers, elites, survivors. Each of them wore the scars of your fury like badges of shame. Torn uniforms, burned skin, bruises blooming down their jaws and ribs. Some limped, others stood stiff and bloodied. They looked like warriors who had fought something far worse than their own.

They stood beside Nolan, forming a silent wall of evidence, an undeniable proof of your destruction.

"...To those who doubt what she's capable of," Nolan continued, gesturing toward them, "Let these survivors be your reminder—of the massacre she unleashed. Of the destruction this monster has caused."

A ripple of hushed awe and unease moved through the stadium. Even behind disgusted whispers and down-turned mouths, you could feel it.

Fear.

Respect.

Even some admiration.

They weren't just looking at you like a monster. No. Some of them were looking at you like you were unstoppable.

A force of nature.

You kept your head high despite the chains, the cold, the exposure. And as your gaze flicked across the stage, your eyes locked on something else—someone else.

Pretty boy.

He was standing just behind Nolan. Silent and stiff.

His face was hard to read, his jaw tight, but his eyes never left yours. Even after everything, he wouldn't stop looking at you.

And then there was Anissa, standing beside him like a shadow. Arms crossed, chin lifted slightly, like she was trying to figure you out. Judging and calculating. Not impressed—but not dismissive, either. She whispered something to Mark, a sharp little comment masked behind a smirk.

He didn't look at her. Didn't react. His gaze was locked on you.

And despite everything—despite the bruises on your body, the metal biting into your wrists, the weight of every eye watching—you smirked behind the muzzle.

Even now. Even here.

You could feel it.

That heat in your veins.

That wild pulse in your chest.

That hunger.

And he was still watching.

Their voices rose around you—cold and calculating, debating your fate like you were some unruly creature rather than a living being. The Viltrumite council spoke in harsh tones. Some suggested you be kept alive for study, molded into a living weapon. Your strength was too rare, too valuable to waste. You were a weapon, after all—unrefined, but powerful. Others disagreed. Their voices were sharp with caution, insisting you were too dangerous, too unpredictable, as you had already killed too many.

But then, the conversation shifted. It spiraled—quicker than your still-throbbing head could follow. But you caught enough.

They weren't talking about justice anymore, or even punishment.

A new thread had slithered into the room, it low and quiet at first. A suggestion that made your skin crawl.

"She's female." one of the council members said plainly, studying you with clinical detachment. "And clearly fertile."

Your jaw clenched behind the muzzle.

"She may be human in origin, but her body’s resilience and strength—those are above even standard Viltrumite females." another added. "Breeding with her could produce a hybrid that surpasses us. A child born of her might become the key to furthering our strength."

Disgust curled in your gut.

Breeding.

Shit. They were seriously discussing breeding you.

You could feel the weight of their eyes on your bare form. They weren’t just looking at a criminal anymore. They were evaluating you like a broodmare.

The female Viltrumites didn't object either. One of them tilted her head and added, "Her frame suggests high reproductive capability. The musculature, the hips, her bone density—everything aligns."

You wanted to laugh. To rip the muzzle off your face and tell them to shove their breeding program up to their asses.

But all you could do was breathe. Controlled, but furious.

And yet… somewhere under the heat of that fury, something twisted—a perverted, morbid curiosity coiled in your gut.

Breeding you?

Like you were some kind of baby-making machine.

You were trained to kill. Built for war. A monster, they said—and now suddenly, they were talking about your hips, your womb, your usefulness as if you were nothing more than a vessel. A thing to be filled, broken, used to build their empire from the inside out.

Your stomach turned. The word fertile echoed in your ears like a curse.

What were you now, a walking cradle? A fucking incubator for the Viltrumite legacy?

And worse—part of you wondered. What would it even look like? You, monstrous and wild, collared and panting beneath someone they chose for you. With your body betraying you. Bearing Viltrumite blood. Creating something terrifying. Something worse.

Something like you.

Your eyes narrowed, seething through your lashes.

You weren't going to let them own you.

But gods, the idea wouldn't leave. It curled around your brain like smoke. Sick. Curious. And Violent.

They didn't want to kill you.

They wanted to breed you.

A tall, scarred warrior stepped forward from the group of survivors—his arm still in a sling, a fresh wound slashed across his chest.

"If she is to be contained," he said, "then she must be broken. Handled. Someone will have to... train her."

The word train sent a flicker of rage down your spine.

"She won't yield to just anyone. Most of us tried, and barely survived. But according to the surviving officers…" His eyes narrowed at you. "There was one who managed to fight her back. Who held his ground longer than anyone else."

You stopped moving.

"Mark Grayson." he said.

The silence that followed was loud. Heavy.

"She responded to him. Almost like she enjoyed it." another commented. "We observed it—she was smiling. Laughing. Every time he hit her, she hit harder. She didn't want to kill him. It's almost like she wanted to play."

The crowd murmured again.

"She was having fun, and yet he still managed to injure her. To bring her down."

Mark's hands were clenched at his sides now, his brows furrowed, jaw tight. His silence said more than words could.

"She's a beast." the first speaker said. "But beasts can be trained. And if anyone is going to do it… it has to be him."

General Nolan finally turned slowly to face his son. "Mark."

Mark lifted his eyes, and for the first time, you saw the faintest flicker of conflict in them.

Nolan's voice rang clear, loud enough for all to hear. Cold. Final.

"She's your responsibility now."

"Break her. Tame her. Turn that wild thing into something useful. Think of it as… training a new pet." Nolan sharply commanded.

The word pet hung in the air, heavy and cruel.

And just like that, the decision was made.

You were no longer just a monster.

You were his task. His burden. His possession.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You were moved into Mark Grayson's private quarters two days later.

You were escorted like an animal—your wrists locked in thick cuffs, a black gag secured tightly between your lips, and a gleaming high-tech collar locked around your neck. It pulsed faintly red, a constant reminder of the shocks it could deliver. You had already learned its bite. The plain white prisoner uniform clung to your body neatly but it couldn't hide the tension in your muscles or the defiance in your eyes. Your hair had been washed, but left wild and tangled, like they hadn't cared to do more than rinse you clean.

His father led the procession, flanked by five other Viltrumites. They walked in silence—grim and towering, like they couldn't wait to be rid of you. When the door to Mark's quarters hissed open, they shoved you forward without care. You stumbled, unbalanced, but didn't fall. You landed on your knees before him, like a stray beast dumped at the feet of her new master.

Mark said nothing.

He stood tall in his pristine white Viltrumite uniform, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable. His eyes moved over you—your face, the collar, the gag, the subtle twitch in your smile. You could feel his gaze, cold and heavy, like he was judging you.

He didn't look surprised. He didn't even look particularly interested.

But he looked at you like you were his. Like you were already his.

The cage in the corner of the room was built just for you. Reinforced alloy. Thick bars. It wasn't hidden—it was a fixture in the space, something he'd clearly made room for. You were shoved inside it without grace, and the door clanged shut with a low, echoing finality.

His father said a few quiet words before departing with the others. Something about obedience. About control. Mark nodded, silent and cold, never once looking at you again until they were gone.

Only then did he approach the cage.

You were lying inside, already curled on your side like a cat. When he finally turned his gaze to you, you met it with a wink.

He stared at you with an unreadable expression. There was no lust, no hatred—just something… calculating. You could sense the effort it took him to stay composed, to look down at you and not act. You could feel the discomfort behind that stare. And you loved it.

He left you alone after that.

But when he returned hours later, the cage was torn open like it was made of paper. One of the bars was bent backward, and sparks flickered where the internal locking system had fried. You sat lazily in the center of his bed, legs tucked under you, the remains of your uniform hanging from your hips. Your upper body was bare—slick with sweat and blood, lips red from raw meat as you gnawed on something half-cooked

It stained his bedsheets. It stained your fingers.

He stopped in the doorway and stared at you for a long moment.

Then he exhaled slowly and murmured, "I really hoped you'd stay in the cage."

You licked your fingers, then flashed him a lazy grin. "I'm not an animal, Grayson."

He said nothing as he entered, stripping out of his uniform until he was half-naked. He moved toward the small kitchen like you weren't there, calm and composed, even as you followed him with your eyes, your teeth still sunk into the meat in your lap.

"Don't you have anything better to wear? Didn't my father give you something?" he asked over his shoulder.

You stood behind him now, silent, completely naked. You stretched your arms up—slowly, deliberately—exposing yourself without a single shred of shame.

"Ooh, don't like what you see?" you asked, with your voice sickly sweet.

Mark didn't turn around. "You don't get to tease me, pet."

Your smile widened. "That collar says otherwise."

And then—before you could take another step toward him—it sparked. Electricity crackled across your throat in a violent shock. You collapsed to the floor with a hiss, trembling and panting, but still smiling through the pain. He still didn't turn around.

"You're mine." he said flatly. "And pets don't speak without permission."

You lay there twitching on the floor, laughter bubbling from your throat even as your body spasmed.

You were such a problem. A walking mess of temptation and chaos. A feral, sharp-toothed creature he hadn't tamed yet. You stalked around his space like a spoiled cat—shedding blood, climbing on his things, curling up naked where you didn't belong. You didn't eat the rations he gave you. You rejected everything cooked. Mark quickly learned that the only way to keep you fed was raw meat, still dripping. And when he gave in and brought it, you looked at him with gleaming eyes like he was rewarding you.

He hated that. Hated the way you made him feel like he enjoyed your presence. Like he looked forward to your games.

You were always touching his things, brushing against him when he walked past, whispering into his ear when he tried to sleep.

"You're fun when you're pretending not to want me." you whispered one night, your breath warm against his neck. "I was just wondering how long it would take before you finally snapped."

His hand gripped your jaw tight, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed slowly along your collar

"I will break you..." he murmured, voice low and lethal. "And you'll beg me for it."

You met his threat with a wicked smile, eyes gleaming with challenge.

Gods, you were such a naughty thing.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Living with Mark was a war of nerves.

He didn't speak much, not unless he had to. He gave orders, not conversation. Every time he walked into the room, he expected obedience—and every time, you gave him the exact opposite.

He tried to tame you with structure. Routine. Food. Clean quarters. The cage—still bolted to the corner of his room—was meant to remind you that no matter where you roamed, this was still captivity. You were still his.

And yet, you prowled through his space like a cat. A filthy, bloodthirsty little thing with sharp teeth and mischief in her eyes.

You made a game out of pissing him off.

You ripped the sleeves off the black Viltrumite uniform he had ordered for you, claiming they were itchy—then refused to wear anything else. You slept wherever you pleased, most often curled in his bed, stretched across the sheets like you owned them. You dripped blood on his floors from your stolen snacks, purred at him in mockery, and bared your teeth every time he looked too calm. You called him "pretty boy," "master," "hot stuff" and "Grayson," depending on what reaction you were hunting for.

Sometimes, you stood right in front of him, naked and smiling, collar still glowing red.

Sometimes, he didn't say anything.

Sometimes, he did.

And when he did, it was never nice.

Still, you could feel it—beneath all that authority and arrogance, something was cracking. Every time you got under his skin, every time his jaw clenched and his fists curled, you felt it coming closer. That first fight between you hadn't just been survival—it had been ecstasy. Something deep in your corrupted instincts craved the collision again. The pain. The rush. The blood. And the way he had looked at you, panting, bruised, victorious.

You wanted to taste it again.

But Mark had been sent off-world. Called away on a brutal conquest with other Viltrumites. Rumors spread fast—it had been ugly. Ugly and loud. You could practically hear the taunts in his ears, the rage in his fists. You knew how he got when pushed too far.

So you pushed him further.

By the time he returned, there was blood on Viltrum's walls.

You had tried to escape.

You tore through six Viltrumites before they even realized what was happening. Ate one. Injured another so badly they couldn't walk. You laughed the whole time, dripping with gore, half-mad with the thrill of it. You're not actually trying to leave, not really. You just wanted to fight. You wanted to feel alive again.

Once they captured you, they threw you into one of their most heavily guarded prisons. Chained you like the monster they said you were. But not before you left your mark.

So when Mark came home—wounded, furious, soaked in blood and sweat—he didn't go back to his quarters.

He went straight to the prison.

And when the cell door hissed open, there you were. Naked again, legs casually crossed, sitting on the floor like a satisfied beast after a feast, while still wearing your collar like a choker. Your mouth was stained with red. Your arms were chained above your head, but your eyes were calm—glowing with smugness and something else.

You tilted your head. "Welcome home, pretty boy~"

He stepped inside. The door sealed shut behind him with a cold hiss, and he didn't speak. He just stared and his silence was loud.

You didn't lower your gaze. Didn't shift or flinch under the weight of it. You wanted this—you wanted that fire in his eyes, the heat of fury crawling down his spine. You wanted that unhinged thing in him to wake up. To bare its teeth. To bite you back.

You smiled, slow and sharp. "You look like shit."

His jaw tightened. The cuts on his face were still fresh. Blood streaked down the side of his neck, half-dried, and his hands were trembling from self-control.

You cocked your head, chains clinking above you. "What's wrong? Mission didn't go so well? Or are you just mad I had a little fun while you were gone?"

You let out a giggle as he moved closer. Boots echoing off the cold floor. You shifted, legs still crossed, thighs open just enough to tempt.

"You killed six." Mark said, voice laced with coldness, "Injured five more."

You smiled with your teeth. "I was hungry."

His palm cracked across your face before you even finished the sentence.

Your head jerked to the side, the taste of copper blooming on your tongue. You spat, a string of red falling to the floor between your knees, then looked up at him with a smug, bloodstained grin. "There he is…"

He stepped closer. Towering. Trembling with restrained fury.

"You think this is funny?" he snarled.

You laughed, low and taunting. "It's hilarious, actually. They cried so loud. Struggled like babies. You should've seen their faces, pretty boy." Your voice lowered to a mock whisper. "I think you're getting soft on me. Not the same Viltrumite who left me broken on a battlefield."

His eye twitched. His chest rose and fell like he was holding back the urge to throw you through the wall.

"What do you want, huh?" he snapped. "Another beating?"

You cocked your head, smile dripping arrogance. "I want to see you snap. I want the same fire that pinned me down and made me feel alive. You've been boring since you brought me here... there's no fun."

Something shifted in his face—a cold fury, flickering with something darker.

His hands moved.

He simply undid the belt of his white Viltrumite uniform, then let the fabric drop away just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, and mean. Veins tracing the length like dark roads, the head was wet and angry.

You blinked. Frowning, your mouth twisting into a sneer. "Eww, gross—what the fuck do you think I'm gonna do with that!?"

Mark stepped forward, towering over your chained form. His hand wrapped around your collar, tilting your head back roughly.

"Open your mouth."

"Fuck you."

"I swear," he growled, leaning down until his breath scorched your lips, his voice is low and seething, "If you don't open your fucking mouth, I'll tear your jaw open and shove my cock down your throat until you forget how to breathe."

Your eyes narrowed as you watched Mark stand tall before you, his 8.5 to 9-inch cock jutting out, the swollen tip slapping lewdly against your parting lips. You could feel the heat radiating off his thick shaft, smell the heady musk of his arousal. His girthy length hovered dangerously close to your face, a silent threat and a promise of what's to come.

You opened your mouth slowly, not out of submission or eagerness, but to bare the sharp, wicked teeth you were so proudly known for. It was a challenge, a silent dare. Your tongue darted out, flicking against the weeping slit of his cockhead in a teasing caress that was barely a touch.

Mark's eyes flashed dangerously as you slowly parted your lips, revealing the glint of your sharp teeth. This was no act of submission, but a silent challenge thrown down between you. "Tuck those fangs away." he growled, his grip in your hair tightening warningsly.

You met his glare with a defiant tilt of your chin, not complying. "Make me." you taunted, your voice dripping with insolence even as his fingers dug into your scalp.

A dark snarl rumbled in Mark's chest. "Brat," he spat. His other hand shot out, gripping your collar possessively. "If I feel even a graze of those little fangs on my cock, I will snap your fucking neck. Got it?"

Before you could react, he pushed it forward, the thick head of his dick forcing your lips apart and stretching them obscenely around his girth. You gasped as he pushed deeper, your throat squeezing around its size. The tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively.

Mark paused, allowing your throat to adjust to his size. His thumb stroked along your jawline, not a gentle caress, but a dominant, controlling gesture. "Breathe through your nose." he commanded gruffly. "You can take it."

Trapped and stuffed full, your glare was your only remaining weapon. Mark started to move, his thrusts initially slow and deliberate. Each drag of his thick length along your tongue and throat sends jolts of unwanted pleasure through you. As if your body is betraying you, you can feel your cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing as he used your mouth.

His pace increased, fucking your face hard and rough. Wet, filthy sounds of flesh slapping echoed through your cell. Drool and precum mingled, dripping down to your collar and to the floor. He gripped your hair tighter, holding your head still as he hilted with each brutal thrust.

He forced you to take his entire length, over and over, balls slapping against your spit-slicked chin. Tears streamed down your face from the relentless face-fucking and lack of oxygen, but he showed no mercy.

Suddenly, with a harsh tug on your hair, he yanked your head back and pulled out abruptly. You gasped desperately, drawing ragged breaths, thick ropes of your saliva was connected to his cock and the head of his dick was an angry red, flushed and leaking, hovering inches from your face.

It was then silent between the two of you, nothing but the sound of heavy breathing filling the tense air. His chest rose and fell, sweat beading at his temples, while you knelt there—lips swollen, throat aching, eyes glassy and unfocused from the brutal rhythm he'd forced on you.

Your head swayed slightly, lightheaded and dazed, the aftershocks of it still buzzing through your body like static. You blinked up at him, not out of defiance this time, but because your mind hadn't caught up yet—too fogged to realize he had pulled out without even cumming.

Mark grasped the metal cuff binding your wrists and, with a simple flex of his superhuman strength, tore it apart like it was nothing more than paper. The sudden release sent you off balance that you collapsed forward with a grunt, catching yourself on your hands and knees in an undignified sprawl. Before you could push yourself up, his fingers hooked under your chin, jerking your head back to meet his gaze.

A slow, mocking smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of your disheveled state. Then, without a word, he grabbed you and with a sharp, effortless motion, hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The air rushed out of your lungs as your body collided with the hard wall of his chest, muscles shifting beneath you as he began walking out of your cell.

As you attempted to slip free from his hold, one hand gripped your rear possessively, giving it a sharp, punishing slap. The stinging pain radiated through you, a silent warning from him. You bit back a yelp, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry out.

Mark walked down the corridor in heavy silence, his steps echoing ominously as he carried you like a trophy draped over his shoulder. Viltrumite guards paused to stare, their gazes lingering on your bare, used form. You could feel their eyes crawling over your skin, filled with assumptions, judgment, maybe even envy at the power play unfolding in front of them. You shot them a sharp side-glare, though the faint blush dusting your cheeks betrayed the heat pooling beneath your skin.

Without breaking a stride, Mark took off into the air, the force of his flight making the wind whip past your ears. In seconds, you landed hard on the balcony of his private quarters. He barely gave you a moment to react before tossing you onto the bed like you were nothing more than his personal possession. The moment your back hit the mattress, he was already stripping off his bloodied uniform before crawling on top of you, pinning you down with the full weight of his body.

And then his mouth crashed onto yours. It was not gentle or loving but a brutal claiming. His tongue forced its way past your lips to dominate your mouth. He poured all his pent-up frustration and lust into the kiss, one hand gripping your hair to hold you in place as he plundered your mouth.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he released your bruised lips, both of you panting harshly. "You've done nothing but push and provoke me—every damn chance you got." he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "But now? You're right where I want you."

With one swift motion, he caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head in one large, unyielding hand, pressing them into the mattress. His body hovered close, radiating with heat and fury as he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "No more games."

Mark shifted his hips, positioning himself between your spread thighs. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, already slick with your unwilling arousal. "It's time someone taught you the meaning of obedience." he rasped. "And I'm going to enjoy breaking you in."

With a single, brutal thrust, he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight, dripping cunt. A guttural moan tore from his throat as his aching cock sank into the silken heat of your depths. Your back arched off the bed, a scream of pained pleasure punching from your lungs as you were split open on his massive shaft.

"AAHH~!"

"Fuck, you're so goddamn tight..." Mark grunted, giving you a moment to adjust to his size stretching you wide. "This cunt was made for my cock." He rolled his hips, grinding against your cervix, before pulling back and slamming in again.

Each relentless thrust sent lewd, wet sounds bouncing off the walls, your moans rising higher with every slap of skin against skin. His free hand roamed up your body, seizing your breast in a firm grip, fingers digging its softness as he pounded into you without mercy.

"Aah! Aah! Aah! Fuck! Mark! Mark—!"

Mark's mouth found your neck, his lips and teeth teasing over the sensitive skin. He licked and nipped at your racing pulse before soothing the sting with his tongue, almost tenderly. Mark's lips trailed up to your ear as he continued his relentless pace. "That's right. Scream for me." he demanded, voice a guttural rasp. "Let them hear who owns you now." His hand slid from your breast to your throat, fingers wrapping around it possessively, not squeezing, but with the clear threat of doing so.

He pistioned his hips faster, each powerful thrust striking your cervix and sending bolts of white-hot pleasure spiking up your spine. Your cunt clenched and fluttered around his plundering cock, slick walls gripping him like a velvet vice. The stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly towards a peak.

Mark panted harshly, sweat dripping down his brow from exertion. "Take my cock. Fucking take it, you whore." His grip on your hair and throat tightened in tandem with his increasingly brutal thrusts.

He could feel your body tensing, your legs starting to quake. "No." he growled. "Don't you dare cum without my permission." To emphasize his point, he reached between your bodies and pressed down hard on your clit, pinching the sensitive nub almost cruelly.

"No! No! Aah! I-It's too much! Aah! I can't—AAHH~!" Your back arched, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your cunt spasmed and clenched wildly, milking Mark's hard cock as wave after wave of ecstasy consumed you.

Mark groaned, the rhythmic squeezing of your cunt pushing him closer to his own release. "You think you deserve to come after all the shit you've pulled? You'll be punished for this." he growled, his hips slamming into yours with a punishing force as he chased his own pleasure.

With one last, brutal thrust, he buried himself balls-deep inside of you. His cock jerked and throbbed as it unleashed it's hot, thick ropes of seed directly into your spasming walls. He filled you with his essence, flooding your empty womb, until you were overflowing.

As the final pulses of your shared climax fades away , Mark collapsed onto you, pinning you into the mattress. He caught your lips in a searing kiss, more passionate and intense than the one before. When he finally broke away, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes searching yours with a dark, triumphant gleam.

"We're not done yet. You think you get to rest after cumming without permission?" he growled.

Your hazy eyes fluttered open, cheeks flushed deep red. Still breathless, you gave him a small, teasing smile as you slowly dragged your wet tongue across your lips, hungry for more.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The night blurred into a haze of relentless, brutal coupling. Mark's stamina seemed boundless as he took you in every position imaginable, each thrust driving into you with punishing force and precision. The bed creaked and groaned beneath the onslaught, a lewd symphony of carnal lust.

You were drunk on pleasure, drowning in the overwhelming sensations of his body claiming yours over and over. Laughter bubbled from your lips, interspersed with wanton moans and cries of ecstasy. It was a stark contrast to the pain and fury of your first fight; this was a different kind of battle, one where you found yourself surrendering to the enemy's touch.

"Look at you," Mark growled, voice thick with satisfaction as he pounded into you from behind. "Taking my cock like a bitch in heat." His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, fingers sinking into the flesh as he rutted into you with wild abandon. "Such a good little pet."

He leaned down, teeth finding your ear as his hips snapped forward, striking your cervix dead-on. "You're going to look beautiful, all round and full with my child..." he murmured, voice dripping with dark promise. The filthy words sent a shiver down your spine, even as a traitorous part of you thrilled at the idea.

Your body was a canvas of marks and bruises, each one a testament to his ferocious desire. Your breasts bounced with each powerful thrust, the two slick with sweat and come. The obscene squelch of his seed sloshing inside you with each roll of your hips was the only sound louder than your escalating moans.

You lost count of the number of times he filled you, painting your insides white with his release. Your womb was flooded, as your belly starting to swell with the sheer volume of his cum. It looked as if you were already pregnant, the bulge of his seed a perverse parody of new life.

As dawn approached, Mark finally slowed, his thrusts growing less urgent as he chased his final climax. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt, cock jerking and pulsing as he pumped you full once more. He collapsed against your back, crushing you into the mattress with his weight.

After a long moment, he rolled onto his side, spooning you from behind. Mark's strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your limp, body flush against his chest. He nuzzled into your hair, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat that clung to your skin. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, gradually slowing as exhaustion claimed him.

As exhaustion threatened to pull you under into a deep, dreamless slumber, Mark's strong arms encircled you from behind, holding you close against his muscular chest. He curled around your limp body like a lover, one hand possessively splayed across the slight swell of your belly, feeling the way it strained with the heavy load of his seed trapped inside you. A look of dark satisfaction flickered across his chiseled features as he surveyed the results of his relentless claiming.

"Rest now, my love." he whispered against your ear, a tender darkness in his tone. "Close your eyes… because when you wake up, I'm going to make you mine all over again."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

#𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒕🐈‍⬛𖹭.ᐟ #viltrum mark #viltrumite mark #viltrumite mark x reader #invincible variants #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #invincible fanfic #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x fem!reader #invincible smut

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yandere-daydreams · 9 months ago

Text

Screening: Nightmare on Elm Street (1984).

Pairing: Yandere!Capitano x Reader (Genshin)

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Somnophilia, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Fingering, Size Kinks, Arranged Marriage, and Obsessive Behavior. Mild Spoilers for the Natlan Story Quest.

Capitano only ever visits you at night.

Part of it is merely the reality of Harbinger’s schedule. If he’s in Snezhnaya at all, let alone lodging within his own estate, it’s a given that he’ll still be working tirelessly to carry out the Tsaritsa’s will, whether that means training incoming soldiers or busying himself with the paperwork deemed necessary by more bureaucratic types, like Pulcinella and Pantalone. It’s rare for him to return home (if it’s fair call that lifeless, desolate place by such a sentimental name) early enough to speak with you properly, and when he does, you only seem to hurry off to bed all the earlier. He’s not a fool. He knows you aren’t fond of him, that the company of your husband brings you little comfort. There’s no doubt in his mind that you assume yourself to be as ornamental as his manor, as his medals, as every other gift from his archon that he displays and maintains not out of gratitude, but polite obligation. He’s never corrected you. From what he can tell, the thought that he bears no great fondness for you has only ever eased your mind – eliminating such troublesome thoughts as those of a loving husband or happy marriage.

No, you don’t believe he loves you, and as far as he can tell, you’ve been given no reason to love him. Thus, he visits at night.

In plainer words, when you’re not in a state to remember he came to you at all.

You don’t share a bedroom. He has his barracks, attached to his office and furnished with only the barer essentials, and you have your nest – a small bedroom tucked into the tightest corner of the highest floor, just large enough to allow you to hoard all the softened, frivolous things you think you’re collecting behind his back. He’s careful not to brush against the woven tapestries crowding your walls as he crosses the threshold, not to disturb the careful arrangements of heaped blankets and silver trinkets you tend to leave scattered across your floor. He only pauses in front of your vanity – removing first his helmet (which, he notes with an inordinate amount of satisfaction, slots perfectly into the space left between your many combs and perfumes) then his coat, left draped haphazardly over the velvet-cushioned stool. He had the foresight to have the metal of his helmet tinted, to allow silver adornments of his uniform to tarnish beyond the point of reflectivity, but your mirror provides fewer safeguards. His vision catches on his own face and despite his better reasoning, lingers there.

The rot is no better or worse than it was when he first came to Snezhnaya, and yet in the dim light of your bedroom, it always seems a little more progressed. A jagged line of decay connects the corner of his lips to the point just above his ear, discolored flesh contained on either side by thick barriers of frostbite giving way to pure, abyssal void where there should’ve been bone. The skin around the corner of his mouth had gotten the worst of it. Grit teeth catch dull moonlight where his lips pull away and char, red viscera visible where the rot had nearly been allowed to take its toll. He’s thankful, in moments like this, that you keep your distance. Surely, it’s better to think yourself married to a monstrous man than know you were bound to monster merely masquerading as one.

Letting out a shallow breath, he forces himself away from the mirror and toward his true destination, your bedside. It’s with only the upmost care that he brushes away the sheer curtains, that he kneels onto the down-stuffed mattress – careful not to wake you with unnecessary noise or thoughtless movement. He finds you as he often does; slumped against your headboard, your sheets clumsily thrown to the side and the book you must’ve fallen asleep reading still spread open in your lap. It’s a good thing he cares for you more than he appears to. Snezhnayan nights are unforgiving, and without his daily visits, you most likely would’ve frozen to death by now.

Your book is closed and placed on the neared nightstand, your body drawn carefully onto the mattress, where you roll unconsciously onto your side. Your nightgown (your favorite, judging by how often you where despite the vastness of your collection) is long enough to reach your ankles, and yet, your fitful sleep and his disturbance has the skirt pooling at your waist. Your body is no stranger to him, and yet, impatience pricks as the back of his throat as he moves closer, as his fingertips graze over your ankle, then your thigh – so plush in comparison to his hardened, calloused form. It’s only when he reaches your hip that he thinks to remove his gloves. There aren’t many things he’s willing to risk exposure to feel, even fewer he lacks the self-restraint to resist, and yet, he never seems to be capable of that same control when it comes to you.

His hands were, thankfully, spared from the worst of the corruption’s wrath – his skin in-tact save for a small patch of exposed bone near the jut of his left wrist. You stir slightly as he traces aimless patterns into your waist, but your anxiety passes with time, and he waits until you’ve gone still to slip two fingers bellow the hem of your panties, dragging the thin material down just far enough to cup your sex properly. One day, he may grow brazen enough to take more time, to undress you completely and take in your body as a whole, rather than dividing it into such meager bits and pieces, but tonight, he contents himself with the slick heat of your cunt, the raspy breath you let out as he rocks the heel of his palm gently against your clit. It only takes a moment for you to reposition yourself, settling onto your back and parting your legs, making room for him in your bed where your heart remains closed. He knows nothing you could do in such a state would ever be considered intentional, but he spares a small smile as he leans forward, kissing the top of your head to the best of his limited ability. Despite himself, he cherishes the rare moments of faux-mutual intimacy he shares with you. Your mind, of course, would never let you take a walking corpse as a husband, but your body isn’t quite so discerning.

You’re sensitive, dampening quickly under his dutiful touch, and not for the first time, Capitano is reminded of why he grew to love you. He knew you were a delicate thing from the moment you were given to him – a former servant of the Tsaritsa, rewarded for your years at her beck and call with a hasty betrothal to a masked stranger and a sudden dismissal from your post. He’s sure one of the other Harbingers had something to do with it – the Doctor with his cat-like grin and morbid sense of humor, or perhaps Columbina with her warped idea of romance – but he had no reason to refuse, and you were never going to try, even if you’d been sobbing too violently to speak on your wedding day. No, he wouldn’t hear your voice until weeks into your marriage, after you’d begun to settle into your new role. Even then, you’d trembled through every word, your eyes never leaving the floor at your feet.

Your request had been a simple one – to have one of his soldiers help you bury the dead rabbit you’d found in the manor’s gardens that morning, while you were tending to your evergreens. When he mentioned that it would be difficult to bury much of anything this deep into winter, that surely the task would be better off left entirely to his soldiers, you only bowed your head. “I know,” you’d said, wringing the fabric of your skirt. “I… I don’t think they’d treat it with much care, though. I’d rather handle the poor thing myself.”

…

His first visit to your bedroom would come a little more than a month later. He still fucks his fist to his memory of your expression, from time to time.

Two of his fingers slip into you with ease. Your lips part at the sudden intrusion, a high-pitched mewling sound escaping from somewhere deep in your chest as he curls his digits against your clenching walls. Upon further thought, it must’ve been the Doctor responsible for your engagement – no other Harbinger would have a sense of humor cruel enough to see such a delicate creature paired with such a beast, to know how your thighs would twitch and shake as you struggled to take his fingers and still think it to be a fitting match. He really does try to be gentle with you, but he’s still human, still at the mercy of his vices, and the way your breath hitches as he thrusts a third digit into you is worth more to him than any amount of gold or gems or angels’ song.

His free hand is braced beside your head, his wrist angled to better allow him to fuck knuckle-deep into you, but his eyes remain fixed on your face as your features scrunch and relax in turns, as your lips purse only to fall open for every little, pleasured noise that bubbles up inside of you. The loose collar of your nightgown falls off of your shoulder, and his mouth finds your exposed collarbone, tongue lapping greedily (but harmlessly, he reminds himself, harmlessly) over your chest. It’s strange, how drawn he is to you, but not unexpected. Rot always spreads the fastest when fed with fresh meat.

You arch your back, crying out as his fingers curl inside of you, and his head dips lower – latching onto your nipple and sucking gently, gently, his teeth barely grazing your skin. Your hands knead satin sheets mindlessly, and against his will, his mind drifts to how you’d look if you were ever forced to take something more substantial than his fingers, if you’d paw at his chest the same way as he eased you onto his cock. The thought alone has his digits pumping into you with a reckless sort of haste, his palm grinding sloppily against your clit until you stiffen underneath him, until your pretty cunt spasms and drips around his fingers.

Ultimately, it’s not your climax that wakes you, but his own weakness. You buck against his hand and, with a deep groan, he slips – teeth burrowing into the supple curve of your breast with just a touch more force than he’d ever used, before. His eyes dart back to your face just as yours blearily flutter open, still weighed down by sleep and clouded by exhaustion. In the place of panic, displeasure, you portray only confusion – the corner of your lips quirking downward as you struggle to make sense of the sight in front of you. It’s only as he draws back, carefully removing his hand from the space between your thighs and resuming a more dignified position, that you seem to remember how to speak. “…my lord?”

“It’s only a dream, my love.” He cups your cheek, tilting your head back and pressing another feather-light kiss into your forehead, then your cheek. “Close your eyes and rest.”

Your gaze remains fixed on him for a second longer, but with time and coaxing, you retreat back into yourself, letting your eyes close and your head lull into his hand. With an airy laugh, he lays you down, righting your nightgown and covering you with the sheets and quilts you neglected, when trusted with the task on your own.

It only takes him minutes to don his helmet and slip out of your bedroom and yet, by the time he crosses the threshold, he’s already longing for tomorrow’s visit to come all the sooner.

You can count the number of times you’ve sought Capitano out on a single hand. You try to limit how often you speak to him, how many reasons he has to re-think the convince of his marriage to you, but doing dangerous things is sometimes necessary. You hope that, one day, you’ll grow a bit braver and those dangerous things won’t be so hard to do, but that’s not a reality you currently live in and, thus, not a reality worth entertaining, at the moment.

(You also hope that, one day, you won’t consider it dangerous to speak to your own husband, but as you’ve already explained, fantasy is something you rarely had time for. Best not to focus on something so romantically outlandish and devote your attention to crueler truths.)

You find him in his war room of an office, where he almost always resides when he’s home. You can hear him muttering to members of his legion as you approach, but by the time you reach the doorway, they’ve been sent elsewhere – out of earshot. You’d planned to hold your composure, to meet the void where Capitano’s eyes should’ve been, but it’s one thing to plan to be daring and another to try and force yourself into the pit of endless blackness existed beneath his helmet. Ultimately, you settle for keeping your eyes narrowed at your own feet and your shoulders squared as you break the quiet.

“Good morning, my lord. I’m so sorry to bother you, but…” Suddenly, your throat feels dry, your legs unsteady. You risk a quick glance toward him, but regret it in an instant. You wish he wouldn’t wear that helmet, not at home, not around you. You’d heard that his face was no great work of art, that he’d been left scarred by some ancient battle, but it couldn’t have possibly been worse than the blankness he expects you to satiate yourself with, in place of anything more substantial. Many people had scars, but very few thought to hide them underneath such punishing masks.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to go on. “Were you in my bedroom last night?”

His back straightens, and for a moment, you’re able to convince yourself that, if you’d been able to see his expression, he would’ve looked taken aback. “Of course not,” he says, and you take pains to convince yourself that the note of condensation you hear is simply a product of your imagination. “Why do you ask? Did something disturb you?”

You try (and fail) not to recall the distorted fragments that’d been haunting you all morning – all broken, all confused, too ungrounded to be called a memory yet too vivid to be written off entirely as a dream. A sharp pressure in the pit of your stomach, a damp heat dripping down your chest, a man with a scarred face and your husband’s voice laid over you; none of it makes sense, but you can see it in your mind clear as day, feel its realness in the soreness of your chest and the ache between your thighs. Capitano has never shown an interest in, uh, consummating your marriage, and even if he did, you would never think him capable of something like… like that. He’s a Harbinger, a leader, an honorable man – albeit, a very cold one, too. Even if he’s never been particularly kind to you, he isn’t a monster, and you would be ashamed to think of him as one.

“No, no, it was my mistake. I—I think it was just a bad dream.” You force yourself to laugh, falling into a shallow courtesy. Of course. Of course. It’d only been a dream. It was foolish of you to come to him at all. “I’m sorry to waste your time on such a petty matter, my lord.”

His solace comes in the form of a curt nod, a silent dismissal. You take that as a sign to make your escape, retreating before you can say anything else to make yourself seem paranoid and foolish.

Hopefully, tonight will prove to be more restful.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact imagines #yandere capitano #capitano x reader #capitano x you

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

Text

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it

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TW: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, angst, nationwide destruction, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, Shane is creepy (and maybe slightly ooc ?), mentions of past abuse.

Part 5

Dead Weight - Part 6

The forest floor was a mosaic of decay and rebirth, leaves crunching beneath Daryl's boots as he tracked what might be nothing more than a fading hope.

Three weeks Sophia had been missing. Three weeks in these woods teeming with walkers. Logic said the girl was dead, but Daryl Dixon had never much cared for logic.

The ravine appeared suddenly, a steep drop hidden by overgrown brush. Daryl paused at its edge, squinting down into the murky water below. Something caught his eye—a flash of fabric against the muddy bank.

The search for Carol's daughter had become his personal mission. Rick had the group, Shane had his guns, and Daryl—Daryl had this.

He made his careful way down, crossbow held ready. Years of hunting had taught him to move silent as a ghost through these woods, each step calculated.

The object became clearer as he approached—a doll, half-buried in mud. Sophia's doll.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, crouching to retrieve it.

She'd been here.

Maybe passed through recently.

He tucked the filthy doll into his belt and scanned the area for more signs, finding partial footprints heading east.

The climb back up was treacherous, loose soil giving way under his boots. Halfway up, a root he'd grabbed for support snapped, sending him tumbling backward.

The world spun in violent flashes—sky, earth, trees—until a white-hot pain exploded through his side.

Daryl gasped, the impact stealing his breath. He lay stunned at the bottom of the ravine, the crossbow beside him, one of his own arrows protruding from his side.

Blood bloomed around the shaft, soaking his shirt.

"Son of a bitch," he wheezed.

For several minutes, Daryl lay still, fighting to remain conscious as waves of agony radiated from his side. Blood soaked his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin. With trembling fingers, he explored the wound, cursing again when he felt the shaft of the bolt protruding from his flesh.

Darkness edged his vision. He fought against it, forcing himself to tear strips from his shirtsleeve to secure the wound.

His fingers felt clumsy, too large for the task.

"Look at you," a familiar voice drawled. "Bleedin' out in the dirt like some wounded animal."

Daryl's head snapped up, vision swimming. There, perched on a fallen log, was Merle—looking exactly as he had the last time Daryl had seen him, before they'd left him handcuffed to an Atlanta rooftop.

"Yer not real," Daryl grunted, turning back to his wound.

"Real enough to see what a sorry sight my baby brother's become," Merle laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet forest.

"Out here playin' hero for a bunch of people who don't give two shits about you."

"You forgot about good ol' Merle,"

"They left me there to die, and you just fell right in line with 'em." Merle snarled, his face twisting with contempt.

"Tried real hard to find you bro" Daryl muttered vision blurring.

"Tracked you through half of Atlanta."

"They ain't never gonna see you as one of them," Merle continued, leaning forward. "Rick, Shane, all them others—they're just usin' you. First chance they get, they'll leave you behind, scrape you off there heels like you was dog shit."

Daryl tried to stand, legs wobbly beneath him. The ravine wall loomed impossibly high now.

"Look at you," Merle sneered. "Can't even get yerself up a little hill. What happened to you, Darylina? You used to be tough."

"Shut the hell up," Daryl growled.

"What you doin' out here anyway?" Merle circled around him, boots leaving no imprint on the forest floor. "Searchin' for some little lost girl? Got a thung for little girls now ?"

Daryl ignored him, focusing instead on reaching the doll. He crawled the few feet to where it lay, snatching it up with a triumphant grunt. "Found somethin'," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, a dolly!" Merle's voice dripped with mockery. "That'll make everythin' better. Maybe that mousy little mother will give you a gold star. Or maybe you hopin' for somethin' else? A little kiss on the cheek?"

"Ain't like that," Daryl growled, tucking the doll into his belt.

"Sure it ain't." Merle squatted down beside him, face inches from Daryl's.

"You always was soft. Daddy saw it. I saw it. Now you runnin' around playin' hero for folks who wouldn't piss on you if you was on fire."

"Shut up," Daryl muttered, gritting his teeth as he managed to get to his knees. Fresh blood pulsed from the wound with the movement.

The arrow snapped with a crack that sent fresh pain spiraling through Daryl's body. He doubled over, forehead pressed to the cool earth as he fought to remain conscious.

"Know what I think?" Merle continued, unaffected by Daryl's suffering.

"I think you gettin' sweet on that foreign girl."

Daryl's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"Hit a nerve, did I?" Merle's grin widened.

"Baby brother gone and got himself a crush. How cute. She know you piss yourself when it thunders? know about them scars on y'back? About how you cried like a little bitch when Daddy took his belt to you?"

"Shut up," Daryl snarled, louder this time.

"She's outta your league, Darylina. Woman like that wouldn't look twice at trash like you. Not unless she desperate. And even with the world gone to shit, she ain't that desperate."

Daryl grabbed a nearby stick, using it to lever himself up to standing. Pain tore through him, but rage provided its own kind of anesthetic. "Don't know nothin' about her."

"I know she's educated. Got that fancy accent. Probably never had to hunt her own dinner or sleep in a car 'cause Daddy was on a bender and locked her out." Merle circled him again, predatory.

"What you think's gonna happen? She gonna fall for your charm? Your sparklin' conversation?"

Daryl began the arduous task of climbing back up the ravine, each movement sending fresh agony through his wounded side. He refused to look at Merle, refused to engage.

But Merle wasn't done. "I seen how you watch her. All puppy-dog eyes when you think nobody's lookin'. It's embarrassin'. A Dixon man pinin' after some woman who thinks she's better than him."

"Ain't like that," Daryl grunted, fingers digging into the earth as he pulled himself up another foot.

"Oh no? Then why ain't you made a move? 'Cause you know, deep down, that she'd laugh in your face." Merle appeared above him on the slope, looking down with contempt. "Or worse, she'd look at you with pity. Poor damaged Darylina."

The climb was excruciating. Twice Daryl nearly lost his grip, sending small avalanches of dirt and stones cascading down the ravine.

Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the grime and blood. But he kept going, one painful inch at a time.

"Y'know what's real pathetic?" Merle continued, always just a few feet ahead. "You lettin' yourself get sweet on a girl who's got her eye on that cop. Big fella, looks like he could snap you in half."

"She hates Shane," Daryl spat before he could stop himself.

Merle's laughter echoed through the trees. "Oh ho! Listen to you, defendin' her honor! She tell you that, did she? Sharin' her secrets with dirty ol' Daryl? Or maybe you just seein' what you wanna see."

Daryl reached the top of the ravine at last, collapsing onto his back, chest heaving as he stared up at the patches of sky visible through the canopy. The bolt in his side sent fresh waves of agony with each breath.

Merle's face appeared above him, blocking the light. "You know what's gonna happen, don't you? Even if you find that little girl. Even if they throw you a damn parade. She still ain't gonna want nothin' to do with you. 'Cause girls like that don't end up with folks like us."

"She ain't like that," Daryl repeated, but the conviction in his voice had wavered.

"She's probably back at that farm right now, battin' her eyes at Officer Friendly or his partner. Hell, maybe even that damned Asian kid."

"His name's Glen," Daryl muttered.

"Oh, excuse me! Glen." Merle's voice was acid.

Daryl forced himself to sit up, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. "You're wrong. 'bout 'em."

"Am I?" Merle crouched down, eyes boring into Daryl's. "Then why you out here alone, little brother? Where's your new family when you bleedin' out in the dirt?"

The question hit harder than Daryl wanted to admit. He looked away, focusing instead on tearing a strip from his shirt to secure around his middle, staunching the worst of the bleeding.

"Face it," Merle continued, relentless. "She looks at you and all she sees is some dumb redneck who's good for huntin' and not much else. You think she'd be interested if she knew the truth? If she saw how weak you really are?"

"Don't matter what she thinks," Daryl mumbled, but the words felt hollow.

"Sure don't. 'Cause you too scared." Merle's voice softened to a dangerous purr. "You ain't never gonna have her, little brother. Best you accept that now."

Daryl turned his head, but Merle was gone—if he'd ever been there at all. In his place was only empty forest, the wind rustling through leaves. He touched the doll still tucked in his belt, a reminder of why he'd come out here.

But Daryl pushed on, trying to outpace not just the physical pain, but the deeper wound Merle's words had inflicted.

Because the worst part—the part that made his chest ache worse than the arrow in his side—was that broken piece of him that said his brother might be right.

About who he was.

About what he deserved.

The sun hangs high above Hershel’s farmhouse, warm but not yet oppressive. The fields are quiet, a breeze tugging at the grass in lazy waves. A few birds sing—rare music these days.

Most of the group is out tracking through the woods. Rick. Shane. Daryl.

You stayed behind.

Carl sits cross-legged in the dirt, a few pebbles and sticks scattered in front of him.

You kneel across from him, your hands dusted with dry earth, your sleeves rolled up.

“This one can be the fort,” you say, tapping a flat rock with a smile. “And this one’s the lookout tower.”

Carl’s face lights up—not with wild joy, but with something close.

You see the boy he was before.

It’s in the way he leans forward, as he moves one of the sticks like it’s a soldier.

“And that’s where the walkers come in,” he grins, dragging a pebble along a line in the dirt like it’s sneaking up on a camp.

You gasp, playing along. “Oh no, not again! Not the lookout tower!”

The two of you burst into quiet laughter—soft and low, like you’re both pretending the world outside your little circle doesn't exist.

Behind you, from the porch, Carol folds laundry, watching with something like longing in her eyes. Dale sits beside her in a sagging lawn chair, hat low over his brow.

“That girl,” Dale murmurs, “she’s a soft touch. Would spoil that kid if he asked.”

Carol lays another shirt in the basket. Her lips purse.

“She’s good with him,” she murmurs softly to Dale, not taking her eyes off you.

“She’s good with all of us.”

There’s a pause. Then Dale hums.

“Even Daryl?” Dale asks, half-serious.

Carol folds another towel, her voice a whisper. “Especially Daryl ... He just doesn’t know it yet.”

The Greene family farm had become a temporary haven, though you knew better than to mistake it for safety. Nothing was safe anymore. Especially not today.

Andrea was on watch duty atop Dale's RV, rifle in hand. Voices raised in panic. Someone shouting about a walker approaching from the woods.

"I got it!" Andrea called, taking aim despite Dale's protests below her.

The shot rang out, clean and sharp in the afternoon air.

Then Rick's panicked voice "No! NO!"

Your blood turned to ice as they carried him in. Daryl - unconscious, blood-soaked, with a makeshift bandage hastily wrapped around his head.

A string of walker ears that he'd been wearing as a grotesque necklace now hung limp and gory from his belt. His crossbow was being carried by Glen, one of the bolts stained crimson.

"What happened?" you asked quietly.

Rick's face was grim. "He fell on his own arrow searching for Sophia. Then Andrea shot him."

"Is he-"

"Just grazed his temple," Hershel said, already examining the wound. "But the arrow wound in his side is concerning."

The next few hours passed in a blur. You lingered outside the bedroom door where Hershel worked, ignoring Shane's attempts to draw you away.

"Nothin' you can do for him right now," Shane said, his hand settling uncomfortably on your shoulder.

"Why don't you come help me check the perimeter?"

You shrugged off his touch. "I-I'm alright here"

Later, when Daryl was finally stable and resting, you slipped into his room. He was propped up against the pillows, shirtless except for the bandages wrapped around his torso. The bloody string of walker ears had been removed.

You settled into the chair beside him, pulling out the torn shirt you'd been meaning to repair. The repetitive motion of needle and thread had always calmed you, even before the world ended.

"Ain't ya got better things to do than watch me sleep?" His voice was rough with pain, those blue eyes narrowed at you.

"Probably," you replied, not looking up from your stitching. "But Glen and Maggie are making eyes at each other, Shane's being Shane, and Lori's giving me a headache."

A grunt was his only response, but you noticed the slight relaxation in his shoulders.

Daryl lay still on the bed, eyes closed but not sleeping. You could tell by the rhythm of his breathing, the occasional twitch of his fingers against the sheets.

He'd been lucky—twice.

The arrow had missed any vital organs when he'd fallen on it during his search for Sophia, and Andrea's bullet had only grazed his temple.

"Ya don't gotta do that," Daryl mumbled without opening his eyes, referring to your mending.

"I know," you replied simply, continuing your stitching. "But shirts are in short supply."

He grunted in response, shifting slightly and then wincing. The movement revealed the edge of older scars across his back— long-healed remnants of pain that had nothing to do with the apocalypse.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the silence. Carol peeked in, carrying a tray with a sandwich and a glass of water.

"I brought you something to eat," she said softly, her eyes full of maternal concern as she approached the bed.

Daryl's body tensed almost imperceptibly. "Ain't hungry."

"You need to keep your strength up," Carol insisted, setting the tray on the bedside table. "It was brave what you did out there, looking for Sophia."

"S'what anyone woulda done," he muttered, uncomfortable with the praise.

You continued sewing, your eyes focused on your work but your attention keenly tuned to the interaction unfolding beside you.

Carol's devotion to Daryl had grown steadily since he'd taken up the search for her daughter with such dedication.

Before Daryl could protest, she leaned down swiftly and moved to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

His reaction was so subtle most would have missed it—a sharp intake of breath, a minute flinch away from the contact, a reflexive curling of his shoulders.

But you caught it.

A small flinch, a learned response.

Carol either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, although you suspected she noticed more then she let on.

"Get some rest," she said before quietly leaving the room.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. You continued your methodical stitching for several more minutes, giving Daryl time to settle again.

His breathing had quickened during Carol's visit but was gradually returning to its normal rhythm.

When you finally spoke, your voice was casual.

"Parent or partner?"

Daryl's eyes snapped open. "The hell you talkin' about?"

Your hands still worked the needle through fabric, you didn't dare look up.

"That flinch."

A beat.

"Parent or partner?"

His face darkened instantly, shutters coming down behind his eyes. "Ain't none of yer damn business," he growled, pushing himself up on his elbows despite the pain it clearly caused him.

"Ya think you know somethin' about me 'cause we both survived the end of the world? We ain't friends. We ain't nothin'." His Southern drawl thickened with his anger.

"Just 'cause you lost yer country don't mean you get to go diggin' around in my past."

You didn't rise to the bait.

"Old boyfriend. Had a thing for backhanding me when he'd had too many beers."

Daryl snorted, but there was no humor in it. "Shoulda picked better then."

The barb stung, but you kept your face impassive. "Probably. But you don't always see the monsters until you're trapped with them."

"Ain't trapped now, are ya?" he sneered, plucking at his fingernail with agitation.

"Got plenty of options round here lookin' to warm yer bed. Shane's been eyein' ya like a damn steak. Why don't ya go see what he's got to offer?"

Daryl's mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "In fact maybe ya should go tell yer sad stories to Officer Friendly. Shane seems real interested in whatever you're sellin'."

The barb was meant to wound, and it did. You knew he'd seen Shane's persistent attempts to get close to you—the unwanted touches, the suggestive comments that made your skin crawl.

"That's low," you said quietly.

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe—but it was quickly buried beneath the familiar wall of hostility.

"Why don't ya just go?" He mumbled

You paused at the door, looking back at him. The evening light cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the fresh wound at his temple. Scowl in place, every part of him designed to keep people at a distance.

Daryl stared at the closed door long after you'd gone, the silence in the room now oppressive. He absently rubbed at the bandage on his head, fingers tracing down to the still-tender wound in his side where his own arrow had pierced him.

""Damn idiot," he muttered to the empty room.

He hadn't meant to lash out like that. Hadn't meant to bring up Shane, knowing how the man's aggressive advances made you uncomfortable. But the moment you'd asked that question—"Parent or partner?"—his walls had slammed up hard and fast.

No one was supposed to see through him like that.

The air is still, quiet in the way only rural places can be just before dark. Crickets have started to chirp, and the barn creaks faintly in the distance.

You step out of the farmhouse, arms folded tightly around your middle, your expression quiet but a little tired.

Your tent’s just a few paces away, your little sanctuary after another long day. But as you reach the steps, Shane calls out behind you.

“Hey, wait up.”

You stop, instinctively polite, offering him a small smile.

“Hey, I was just gonna—”

“I know,” he interrupts, swaggering forward. “Just thought maybe you didn’t wanna turn in alone tonight.”

You chuckle not from flirtation but from nerves.

“I’m okay, really. Thanks though.”

But Shane doesn’t stop.

He’s too close now. Close enough that you can smell the beer on his breath, the sweat from the heat of the day.

“C’mon, girl. Don’t act like you don’t know what’s going on here. You’re sweet, yeah, but your not dumb.”

He reaches for you—playfully at first—but it lingers. His fingers wrap tighter than necessary.

Your smile fades. “Shane, stop. I said I’m okay.”

He chuckles, low and cocky. “Just messin’. You’re too soft for your own good.”

He brushes his hand against your hip, too casual to be innocent. You flinch, try to step back, but he follows.

“Don’t,” you say again, firmer this time, your voice shaking slightly.

He laughs, head dipping and hands grasping.

A hard, clean sound that echoes in the quiet air like a firecracker.

You slapped him before you even realized you'd moved.

Shane freezes. His hand twitches at his side. And you look up at him—eyes wide, breath trembling.

You don’t realize that Daryl’s window is directly behind you, wide open to the porch.

Daryl had been, bristling with restlessness aince you'd left. His arm’s draped across his ribs, and his temple’s throbbing, but he’s alert. Watching. Always watching.

He’d heard the screen door creak.

Then voices.

Then your voice.

Too polite. Too damn gentle.

Then your tone changed. Firmer. More afraid.

When he heard the slap, he moved. He was at the window. One hand pressed to the sill, eyes narrowed to slits.

He saw you standing your ground, trembling but defiant.

And Shane—cocky, looming Shane—just standing there, jaw tight.

Daryl’s jaw flexes, nostrils flaring.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, half to himself, but the edge in his voice is pure venom.

He doesn’t even register the pain in his side as he grabs his shirt and heads for the door.

Shane sneers. "Uptight little bitc—" moving towards you with purpose.

You’re still blinking, when you hear the screen door slam open behind you.

Boots hit the steps with force.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’?” Daryl’s voice is a low snarl.

Shane stops mid-stride and turns, raising his hands. “Relax, Dixon. It was a joke.”

“Don't look funny.”

Daryl’s moving now, slow and deliberate, that wounded swagger still dangerous. He gets between you and Shane with one hard stare and a stiff shoulder.

Daryl doesn’t turn to look at you.

Not yet.

He stares Shane down until the other man shrugs and walks off, muttering to himself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Silence stretches between you.

But then—so quiet it’s barely audible—

“Saw 'im put hands on you.”

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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Three: blood always recognizes blood

tw: child abuse

The water won't stop running.

It has to be some cruel, twisted fate that makes the walls of his room so small. This home has always felt like a prison in some capacity, but it’s grown ugly teeth in the form of closing walls and a decaying ceiling. Or, maybe the room is just trying to match how small his body has become. Peeling posters rattle as heavy footsteps pace outside of his room. They grow louder, almost loud enough to drown out the running water in the bathroom next door, but it’s not enough to quell his sniffling.

Fat, hot tears stream down Simon’s face as his hands press against his mouth. If he could, he would smother himself. Desperate fingers claw at his throat as the urge to rip out his vocal chords nearly eats him alive. Even now he can hear his brother’s warning clear as day.

Not a sound. If you make a sound, he’ll shut you up for good.

Simon doesn’t realize it, but it’s useless. His father’s hearing transcends anything human, and he should have known better—his father became a monster long ago. It’s only natural that his senses follow such a bestial transition. No matter how tightly he clamps his hands over his mouth to stifle his cries, he’s already lost. His father can hear the blood that gushes through his veins, smell the salt in his tears, taste the fear that seeps beneath his bedroom door.

Blood always recognizes blood, and Simon’s is screaming clear as day.

There’s nowhere for him to run when the door opens. The walls have closed in so tightly that they’re holding him ripe for the picking, cornering him like an animal. Yellowed, bony fingers grip the collar of his shirt with surprising strength. Simon can’t hold back his childish sobs any longer. Monsterish in nature, but still human-like in appearance, Simon begs his father for forgiveness—for pity. But such terrible ears are not meant for hearing useless words; they’re meant for hearing screams.

His father yanks him off of his bed, tearing off the Superman themed comforter as he’s dragged out of the room. Digging his heels into the floor, Simon wails against his father’s arms as he attempts to wiggle out of his grasp. Blood always recognizes blood, and he’s praying that this time it will do him some good. He prays that the blood in the man who’s hurting him will finally have sympathy—that he’ll be forced to realize the hot sin that sears through his heart and allow him to go free. But he has no heart. The only thing that flows through his veins is bile and rage.

Wood floor turns into tile as the sound of running water becomes overwhelming. His father barks something at him, but he can’t hear it over the pulse in his ears and the running bathtub spout. More silent words leave his father’s lips, and Simon watches in horror as his teeth morph into daggers, like he’s ready to taste the muscle and bone that lies beneath his son’s flesh.

Instead, those terrible, spindly fingers grab him by his grown out hair and he’s tossed him into the tub.

His nose cracks against the spout before his flesh meets cold water. There’s no need to waste warm water on an easy kill. The spout is unforgiving as his father holds his face underneath the flow, causing Simon to sputter and trash. Tiny limbs try grabbing for any purchase he can find in the area only to be met with frigid tile too slick to aid him.

Simon wants his mom. He wants to curl into her side underneath a thick blanket while his favorite cartoons drone in the background on the TV. He wants to fall asleep nestled safely in her arms and let the bruises heal beneath her soft kisses.

Simon calls for her. Or, at least he tries. The moment his mouth opens his words are drowned by algid water filling his throat. He finally realizes that nothing can save him from the wrath of a father who hates his spawn.

But blood always recognizes blood—especially when it screams.

Kinder hands—softer hands—reach into the depths of the water to rescue him from the tub. It’s not until his head breaks the surface that Simon realizes the water is no longer running. An overwhelming silence cracks as he coughs and sputters, forcing the water out of his mouth. A familiar smile fills his vision as he blinks the water from his eyes, still trembling.

“My sweet boy. What has he done to you?” his mother ponders as she rubs a hand against his cheek. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re tainted a bright pink.

“I can’t! I wanna go home!” Simon wails. His voice feels small and warbly, like it doesn’t really belong to him. Like it’s a voice that’s been long lost in his throat.

“I know, but there is still so much fighting ahead,” she says, voice somber. “You’ve been so strong. So brave. My brave boy. I just need you to be strong for a little longer.”

“I don’t wanna!” he sobs. Tiny fingers grab at her, tearing at her shirt and skin like he wishes he could crawl back inside of her. “Please mummy, take me home. I’ll be good! I wanna go home!”

Instead of responding to him, she presses her lips against his forehead before gently lowering him back down into the water. Simon’s eyes widen as his fingers reach over the edge of the tub only for him to brush against ceramic rather than flesh.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she says as she lets him go. “You have to learn to swim eventually.”

Simon is wet when he wakes up.

Not from the bathtub that he had suffered in during his dream, but from the sheer amount of sweat that soaks him head to toe. It turns his skin into a warm, sticky mess that has his bedsheets clinging to him as he sits up. Tense fingers press against the bridge of his nose, and he winces as if the wound is still tender.

A thin veil of darkness shrouds his room. Dawn has yet to break over the city, leaving him sitting in the early hours of the morning in an empty bed. He’s up much too early for how late he was up last night chaperoning his boss’s drunken wife and her friend. Still, his muscles pulse with thick blood, and his mind refuses to quiet.

His sigh comes heavy as he swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands. It’s useless to attempt to sleep again after dreams like these. Though the man has been dead for years, Simon’s father still haunts him like some ghost he can’t quite exorcize. Not that it usually bugs him. Simon doesn’t think of his father often as the memories aren’t that fond, and he has more important things to do than mourn a man as rotten as him.

Important things like fixing the damn door in your apartment.

Hardware stores don’t open until later in the morning on Sundays, which is fine as Simon figures you’ll be sleeping in today anyway. He takes his time retrieving the screws and plate; he even goes far enough to grab several different sizes just to ensure everything fits. Though he had been a butcher by trade—and part of the mafia as of late—Simon’s always been good at fixing things. Usually, he would patch up holes his drunken father would punch into the walls at his mother’s home, but he likes the smaller fixes too.

He always keeps his hands busy with something, lest his mind begin to rot.

When his knock sounds at your door around noon, you nearly jump out of your skin. Lips pressing together, you urge your heart into submission as you stare at the entrance, arms firmly wrapped around yourself to prevent your towel from falling. You’re not expecting anyone today—if you were, you certainly wouldn’t have been caught in nothing but a towel fresh out of your shower.

Tossing your towel to the side and haphazardly donning a robe, you approach your door before cautiously peering through the peephole. Much to your surprise, Simon waits on the other side. He’s rubbing at his jaw as he stands back from the door, staring down at the floor by his feet. Your brows draw together as you unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open.

“Simon,” you greet. You attempt to sound happy to see him, but confusion seeps into your tone before you can stop it. “What are you doing here?”

A small paper bag rustles in his hand as he holds it up for you to see. With a gentle shake, you hear small metallic clinking, which only confuses you further.

“Came to fix your door,” he answers.

That jogs your memory a little. You recall his scrutinizing gaze at your door last night and how he picked at the screws that held your door plate together like they would fall out of the wood with a simple glare. Fatigue had pulled so viciously at your mind last night that you didn’t really pay much attention to him when he said he would fix it, but you do recall it now. You hadn’t expected him to come over so soon.

“Oh,” you reply simply.

An internal panic bubbles in your chest as you quickly remember how exposed you are. Body hidden behind nothing more than your bathrobe, you try not to let the awkwardness of it all choke you. You wrap your arms around yourself and nod as if it’s of no importance before backing out of the doorway.

“Come in. I’ve just gotta change real quick.”

Simon doesn’t follow you very far as you slink back into the flat. Really, he doesn’t pay any attention to you at all as he kneels next to your door and begins to get to work replacing the hardware. Grateful that he’s distracted, you grab your clothes from the corner of your bed before sneaking off into the bathroom to change.

Once you’re hidden safely behind a door, Simon glances around your apartment. With the aid of daylight, he’s able to make out more now than he was last night when he dropped you off. You’ve spun your own little twist to the decaying walls with various posters and gifts, and he finds himself chuckling at the faux fur rug by your bed.

Still, the window next to your bed looks cracked, and there’s an incessant dripping sound coming from the kitchen that makes his ears ache. Your upstairs neighbor seems to have little care in the world as he screams over something playing on his television, and someone a few doors down is having trouble getting their infant to sleep. It’s terribly small—almost inhumanely so—and with the housing prices in London, he doesn’t even want to think about how much you have to pay to live here.

That’s none of his business, and he won’t make it his business.

It doesn’t take Simon long to fix your door, and by the time you exit the bathroom he’s already begun to gather up the old hardware and toss it into his bag. Though there’s a little reprieve in being properly dressed in front of him, that small pit of anxiety still fumes just as strong as ever.

He’s gone through all this trouble to buy the supplies and come to your home to fix it, and you have no way to repay him.

You hate being in debt to people.

“Thank you for this, by the way,” you speak up.

It takes him a moment to respond. He’s too busy shutting the door and pulling on the handle to test out his work. Once satisfied, he turns to you, giving you his undivided attention. “Don’t mention it.”

Still, you aren’t about to let him leave without at least the promise of some way to repay him. There’s not a whole lot you’re able to give him. Twiddling your fingers together, you quickly take a mental note of all your options. You’re strapped for cash, you have nothing useful to gift him—so you go with the next best thing.

“I, uh, work on Tuesday this week. If you want to drop by, I can comp a meal for you or something. To say thanks,” you offer. It’s not much, but it’s all you have.

Simon pauses as if he needs to think about your offer. “Sapori, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, surprised he even remembers.

Nodding, he curls up the paper bag in his hands before tapping it against his palm. Simon is… an odd man. Kind—as he’s proven—but different than what you’re used to. He’s quiet, yet still enjoyable to be around. He takes off the pressure for awkward small talk, at least. Aside from anyone at work, the only man you ever interact with is John, and like Aelin, he treats you like a sister. You’re used to the awkward doting and familial love, but otherwise, you aren’t used to being around people at all.

Well, there’s Marco.

“See you Tuesday,” he answers.

Once your plan for Tuesday night is confirmed, you promptly forget about it. Your memory isn’t the best these days, but there is little need for you to remember many things as you only ever seem to work. It’s for the best anyway. If you had remembered, you would have spent the rest of your much needed days off worrying about it—about him. Instead, you have a near heart attack when you witness him stroll through Sapori’s front door Tuesday night.

He’s dressed differently than he normally is. A thick leather jacket sits unzipped around his shoulders, which is a jarring sight than his usual cotton long sleeves are. Mussed hair sits on his head like he’s just rolled out of bed, and he rubs a hand over the strands to try and wrangle them back into shape. Out of all his attire, it’s the leather gloves that grab your attention. You’re unsure if it’s just some strange fashion sense he hadn’t shown previously, or if it’s just his way of biting off the chilly November air.

As he approaches your station, he slips the gloves off of his hands before stowing them away in his jacket. “Evenin’ sweetheart.”

“Hey,” you greet a bit more tense than you intended. “Is there, uhm, anywhere you’d like to sit? It’s pretty quiet tonight, so we’ve got lots of options.”

Simon’s eyes flicker to the area behind you in a quick scan of the building. There’s still a fair amount of people, which is to be expected for a restaurant of Sapori’s status. A dull hum of conversation vibrates through the air as patrons eat their meals and enjoy the company of their loved ones. He hums as his eyes settle on a table meant for two shoved in the furthest corner of the room. City lights reflect off the pristine window next to it, giving it a fair few of the streets just beyond. He nods in its direction before bringing his attention back to you.

“That one over there’ll do,” he decides.

It feels strange leading Simon through the restaurant. He trails behind you like a dog, but not in the cute and innocent way. More in the brooding, dangerous way, like he’s ready to bite anyone should you give the command. Maybe that’s why John hired him for security at Terminus; if there was someone his height and stature couldn’t scare off, his glare certainly would.

A part of you feels guilty for being relieved when he sits. Since you work at the front of the house, you rarely have to deal with the patrons aside from seating them. It’s something that made the job so appealing to you in the first place. You don’t think you would be able to handle it if you had to keep checking in on him and asking how everything tastes. You hope he feels the same, or at least doesn’t hold it against you if he doesn’t. You are giving him a free meal, after all.

A free meal—and once he’s finished, then you won’t owe him anymore. Once you don’t owe him, you plan on keeping it that way.

“Hey, who’s that bloke you seated at table fifteen?”

Halfway through updating your seating chart, one of the waitresses snags your attention as she approaches you on your left. Eyes narrowing, you pull at your ear.

“Oh, right, sorry,” she chirps before squeezing over to your right. “Table fifteen? Who is that?”

Bianca—who everyone calls Bee for the way she always buzzes from station to station—is one of the few people aside from Aelin who you consider your friend. She’s the granddaughter of the owner, but she refuses to act entitled about it. Chipper and sweet, she’s everything you wish you were. Bright, always smiling—she keeps her curly hair in a high ponytail and always wears different earrings to work each night. Though she’s not allowed to wear her more—as her grandfather put it—obnoxious earrings, there’s always something cutesy about them hidden in the form of a cat’s paw or small flowers.

“Oh, Simon? He’s… a friend of mine,” you answer. You don’t bother to glance over your shoulder or check the seating chart—you’re already well aware of who she’s referring to. “I’m comping his meal tonight, by the way, so don’t give him a ticket.”

“Christ,” Bee mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with so much ink on them before.”

Confused, you finally give in and turn to face the tables and you nearly choke on your own spit at the sight of Simon. All other times that you’ve seen him, he’s always been wearing long sleeved shirts. Even earlier when he first arrived his jacket had been covering his arms, but now that jacket hangs off the back of his chair, leaving his arms completely exposed as he types away on his phone.

Dark ink swirls around his arms in hypnotizing patterns, and it’s difficult to swallow the lump in your throat now that you have him in sight. You’ve only ever seen hints of them from underneath his sleeves—the parts that dance along the edge of his wrists—but now they’re on display. Not even all that ink can cover the plushy, defined dips of the muscles in his arms. Bulky; healthy. You quickly bring your attention back to your work before you can sweat anymore than you already are.

“Yeah, quite the art connoisseur,” you say half sarcastically.

“How long have you two known each other?” she asks.

Your brows draw together at the odd tone of her voice. It’s as if she’s insinuating the two of you are anything more than uncomfortable strangers.

“Like… a week or two?” you answer.

Bee hums as she leans against the counter. She pulls at her butterfly themed earrings as she nods. “You sure know how to pull them.”

Before you can respond, Bee quickly blends back into the noise of the restaurant, which you decide is for the best. Whatever pathetic retort your brain could muster would have certainly turned you into a fool—as if you aren’t already one already. Tight muscles begin to scream in your neck. The galling thrum of a headache begins to tap against your skull, one you desperately attempt to ignore as you return to work.

Except, you’re never good at ignoring things. They always linger somewhere in your mind, appearing just in time to inflict the most amount of damage. So you keep your hands moving. Always moving. If not with string, then with work. If not with work, then with—well, something. Anything. You have to, lest Marco slip back into your mind. If things get too quiet, then the hum of the patrons around you might begin to sound like the whirring of dryers in a laundromat.

If things get too quiet, then the breathmints sitting in the bowl at your station might just suffocate you.

“Thanks for dinner, sweetheart.”

You look up from your work just in time to watch Simon shrug his jacket back onto his shoulders. Rich leather stretches to accommodate the sheer wideness of him, but you try not to pay too close attention as you give him a courteous smile.

“Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed,” you say, pulling out the robotic response you normally give everyone else.

That should have been it. It would have if you said it to any normal consumer, but as you’ve grown to realize, Simon is very far from normal. Instead, he holds his hand out for you where a small piece of receipt paper sits folded between his fingers. He passes it to you like it’s a note he’s attempting to hide from a teacher during class.

“My number,” he explains at your hesitation. “I’d like to fix the faucet in your kitchen. Can’t imagine what the water bill is like, or how you can stand the sound. Figured I’d try and give you a better heads up before headin’ over to your place again. Don’t wanna catch you out of the shower again.”

A tense laugh bubbles up in your throat as you grab the paper from his fingers. “Yeah, probably not.”

“Just let me know what time works for you. I’ll make it work,” he finishes as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and slips them back on his hands.

You two mutter simple farewells to one another before Simon vanishes out through the doors as if he had never been here to begin with. Sighing, you stow that bit of paper away in your pocket. You’ve found yourself in a conundrum—if you message him, you’ll just end up owing him again. If you don’t then…

“Hey!” Bee says out of breath as she slides into your station. “That friend of yours? Simon, yeah? He still around?”

“No, he just left a bit ago,” you say.

“Fuck,” Bee sighs. Her head rolls back as she stares at the ceiling, fingers pressing against her temples. “This isn’t good.”

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

Relaxing her shoulders to look at you, Bee’s teeth sinks into her bottom lip. Sighing, she pulls something out of the pockets of her apron as she shuffles closer, keeping whatever is in her hands hidden from prying eyes.

“Look at how much he tipped!” she exclaims in a whisper.

Your eyes widen at the sight of the cash in her hands. It’s difficult to count all the notes just by sight alone, but you’re certain there has to be at least two hundred quid.

“It’s gotta be a mistake, right?” she asks. “Like, who tips this much?”

Bee quickly shoves the cash back in her apron as if afraid someone will chastise her for earring so much. You swallow the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as you glance back toward the door. Simon’s long gone, yet your legs still urge you to chase after him.

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure her, though it’s difficult to get a smile to fall on your lips. “He’s rather generous. I comped his meal tonight, remember? He probably just gave you what he would’ve ended up paying if I didn’t.”

“Well… shit,” Bee decides after a moment of deliberation. “You should invite him back more often. And, by all means, keep sitting him in my section if that’s the case.”

Your laughter makes a good cover for your anxiety as Bee leaves to continue her work, but an uneasiness begins to creep through your body with the promise to destroy you. You don’t like being in debt to people, and tonight was supposed to be your way to pay Simon back. Yet here he is, slithering through the cracks of your life and making himself at home by repairing your ancient door and tipping your co-workers.

The tension in the back of your neck only worsens as your fingers retrieve the crumpled receipt paper that has Simon’s number. Incertitude gnaws at the grey matter in your brain as you add his number into your contacts before you type up a flat sounding text thanking him for what he did for Bee tonight.

Once more. You’ll let him fix your sink, you’ll pay him back for his generosity, and that’ll be it.

After that, you’ll never have to deal with Simon Riley again.

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megapteraurelia · 3 months ago

Text

EPITHIMIA. — talisman #1

☾ SUMMARY;

— having been sent up to tokyo as an exchange student to spy on the first-years, your objective had been crystal clear: don't meddle. don't change anything. just observe. you didn't expect fushiguro megumi to foil your plans that quickly — but it's not like you could help yourself, not when he refused to be someone you could respect. so, what else to do but meddle?

☾ WARNINGS;

— fem!reader; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; attempted character study?? (badly done!!); angst; TW: mention of blood, death, hospital

☾ WORD COUNT;

— 10,102.

☾ AUTHOR'S NOTE;

— if there's technical loopholes about CT and stuff, don't come for me, please. i tried my best T_T also, this was super difficult to do, because i kept thinking i didn't have a proper grasp on megumi, because honestly, this guy's all over the place in the beginning. also, nonnie, i am sooo sorry that this turned less romantic, we'll fix it in part 2, i pwomise

— back to masterlist.

4th of March; 17:46. — gojo satoru.

"Oh, who is a good boy?"

A vicious growl sounded out, animalistic and threatening, drowning under the annoyed timbre of a certain black-haired student, "I suggest you back off unless you want to lose fingers. They don't take well to being petted."

Gojo Satoru thought watching his two adorable students, old and new alike, bicker might be one of his favourite past times. There was a specific sort of sadistic satisfaction that tugged on the sides of his mouth at the faint pulsing of Megumi's vein in his forehead even when the kid tried to school his features into one of impassiveness.

But the way his student's knuckles turned white, the way the precious Divine Dogs stood at attention around the new exchange student from Kyoto, made Gojo feel like he might kiss Gakuganji for his ploy, after all. Only might, because despite the piqued interest in where this might be headed, he wasn't quite into old, wrinkly men who smelled like decayed grandeur. So, maybe no kissing.

But hey — as far as he was concerned, the sentiment alone was something worth noting.

Gojo leaned back; the tiles of the old school building's roof non-existent underneath the perpetual film of Infinity coating his fingers.

It was no secret that any of the old farts in the headquarters were leeching to gather information on Tokyo Jujutsu High's first-years and their annoying amazing teacher: himself with his high standing in the Jujutsu world, Yuji's bodily curse and the impending doom imminent over all of Japan at best, Megumi's technique and the perpetual stand off against the Zen'in clan and their desire to steal his student away.

Not that any of it mattered.

They could attempt all they want to try and spin the rigged wheel. If Gojo Satoru had anything to say about it, and oh, he did — somebody like him always did — then there was going to be hell to pay.

"Ouch, hey— what the hell, Fushiguro?"

But until his new exchange student actually gave him reason to intervene, Gojo was more than happy to watch the way you had pulled away your hand at the last second, the sharp teeth of Megumi's black wolf grazing the flesh of your fingers with maliciousness that usually were only reserved for curses that seemed to personally have wronged him.

Gojo's eyes narrowed with interest, his smile turning a bit sharper. Oh, this was going to be really interesting.

"I told you to keep away. You just really suck at listening."

Megumi called his dog back with a flick of his fingers and really, he didn't even have to — a silent command would have sufficed, too.

So you watched the posturing, the exaggerated movement of his hand, the way he threw over to you the hint of a condescending look, and you couldn't help the way you thundered over to him, fiery eyes and a grimace on your face from the slight pain of the dog's snapping jaw.

"You," seething, you pointed at him. His dogs sat patiently, albeit still posed to defend, next to his heel, "Don't think I didn't notice that, you prick."

Fushiguro Megumi ignored the way you shook your finger in his face, turning away to continue his training, "Don't you need to get to Shoko-san's already? Hurry then."

Gojo couldn't help the boisterous laughter leaving his mouth. Maa, this was brilliant.

13th of March; 09:02. — fushiguro megumi.

"Yo, Megumi! You're up for a mission. Solo. Except not."

Megumi's eyes narrowed as he watched the carefree grin of his teacher, the hands shoved in his pockets, "Who's the not?"

"Just, you know, your favourite person in the world."

"With her again? She's impulsive, never listens, and half the time I'm cleaning up after her screw-ups."

Gojo's hand played with his strands of hair, and his sunglasses caught the light, "Aw, come on. She's not that bad. Keeps you on your toes. Makes you use full sentences. You know, the likes!"

Megumi thought he might strangle his teacher.

"I work better alone."

"Yeah, yeah, but then that vein in your forehead doesn't twitch, and that's hysterical."

"You enjoy this way too much."

Gojo's smile was slow and wide, "Obviously."

13th of March; 20:12. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi thought that when he realised what type of mentor Gojo Satoru would be, he had met the quota of absurdness in his life already. Then, he enrolled into Tokyo Jujutsu High and found that his bar was set too low, and there were many other people capable of pushing it higher.

Much higher.

The shenanigans of Inumaki Toge and Panda put aside, Maki and Yuta by extension were the only second years he really respected. His own classmates, though—

Though, if Megumi had to really categorise any of them, Kugisaki Nobara barely counted, for she came at him and Yuji with condescension from the very beginning. It wasn’t hard to adjust to something so straightforward, letting her complaints go through one ear and come out on the other side.

Then there was the other thorn in his side, Itadori Yuji, who was fairly agreeable, wearing his heart on his sleeve, steadfast and solid, so Megumi’s line of what he could tolerate was not crossed that often.

If anything, Gojo had the bigger nerve to flit around Megumi, fussing in a way that bordered between sweet patronising and his deep duty of care. Seeing as how he was supposed to learn from his teacher, that too, he could ignore.

For the most part.

What he did not expect was for another person to test his tolerance, and to test it so well at that.

“You know, if you smiled once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for the world's biggest Debbie Downer.”

Barely ignoring the whispering voice right next to him, Megumi thought that he’d rather follow Nobara into the depths of hell (her weekly trips through the entire shopping avenue, from start to finish and then back again) than have to be paired up with you any longer.

Usually, Megumi had no difficulties letting stupid comments whiz past him; god knew he’d had enough practice, so assuming a stoic expression should have come easy to him: smoothing out his brows, allowing his eyes to reflect the amount of how much he didn’t care, mouth as still as possible — really, it wasn’t supposed to be difficult. But then there was you, whose grin never seemed to falter, who knew how to poke at him and have his blood pressure rise up, who seemed to cross him at each junction, who didn’t know what it meant to stay still and hatch out a plan.

So, Megumi told himself that the twitch in his eyebrows and the annoyed press of his lips together was merely because he was bothered with this mission, but the words escaping him were more than proof that it was less about the assignment and all the more about you.

Under his breath: “And if you shut up once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for an idiot. Now be quiet.”

The infuriating thing about this all wasn’t the fact that he felt prompted to respond in likes. No — it was the fact that you didn’t seem half as annoyed as him; that you exhaled a quiet laugh, almost victorious in having riled him up enough, that somewhere along the line, there was a competition on who would win each clashing of heads, who could one up the other, who would have the last laugh.

You sniffed; voice full with amusement and a certain bite, quieter than before, “Wow, that almost sounded like a full sentence. Careful, Fushiguro, or else someone might think you're concerned about what other people think of me.”

"You're insufferable. Quiet."

"Mhm, but you're still listening."

Leaning forward, Megumi ignored the way you lingered close, ignored the tone of your voice — low, offhanded, like you meant nothing by it or maybe that you meant something by it — and peeked around the corner of the hallway; sharp eyes used to the dark.

A weird, grotesque feeling swung in the air; pregnant with charged particles. What should have been an alluring, sultry atmosphere for the love hotel was turned into an eerie caricature of all the shame bundled up in between the sheets of the beds, all the heartbreak hidden behind each creak of floorboards, lost love, bitter what-ifs.

Two of the Grade Three curses rampaging through the isles had already destroyed half of the east side of the building, the other two lingering close by.

"Alright, this is what we're going to do—"

A gust of wind whirled around debris, and cut off Megumi's sentence. There was a flash of your weapon infused with cursed energy, followed by a crash against the wooden beams of the wall as the deformed bodies of the curses slithered around the corner right towards him, maw wide open.

For fuck's sake—

13th of March; 22:38. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi was certain he was going to hand in a complaint.

“You’re so boring. What does it take for you to finally ditch that unimpressed look? I mean, I did take out three curses before you even finished your fancy hand signs, you know?”

Yeah.

Definitely handing that in to the principal and maybe, he would have a chance to circumvent Gojo’s incessant obsession with forcing him to team up with you for the various missions he gets sent on. He had mentioned it a bunch of times to his teacher already — disliked the way you were so messy with how you dealt with your curses, seemingly no thoughts planned, no care for the damage left behind. But to no avail.

If anything, Gojo regarded him with a smile that really said more about what an asshole he was than it being successful in placating Megumi. But alright, Gojo’s agenda usually was an enigma, so there was also no hope of getting through to him once he had set his mind on something.

And it wasn't like his teacher was known to explain his reasoning.

Megumi thought that maybe this was punishment. Maybe Gojo really did feel resentment taking care of him for all these years, and now he was left to deal with the strain of handling…you, and all your chaos.

He stopped walking, a heavy sigh brewing deeply in his chest at the cheerful way your voice nagged at his collar, his dirtied pants, his ripped uniform on the right shoulder, “They were Grade Three. A trained dog could’ve handled them.”

Your eyebrows raised up, and you were quick to slink in front of him. His narrowed eyes lowered to follow where your finger was digging into his shoulder, right where the fabric had ripped because you couldn’t wait two seconds to hear out his strategy, instead swinging into the action like you didn't care to have an advantage by analysing anything.

You blinked sweetly, finger pressing right into the cut hiding beneath the shredded material and it stung, “Your cute shikigami didn’t, so I’m not too sure about that, actually.”

"They have better instincts than to waste their time trying to impress me," Megumi pushed away your hand and walked past you; his headache announcing itself alongside the hiss escaping your mouth, "Must be nice not knowing the difference."

Oh, if only he could give in.

21st of March; 16:22. — you.

"Look at us, working so well together, eh, Fushiguro?"

"You nearly got me impaled. Twice."

"Oh, you'd miss the excitement if it wasn't for me. You're welcome for that."

Megumi's look of disgust made you cackle, "Your idea and my idea of excitement don't match up. I suggest a hobby to live out your recklessness. Preferably one that doesn't involve me and far away from here."

"But then who would save my ass? Admit it, I grew on you."

"Like mold, maybe."

2nd of April; 14:58. — you.

When you transferred, you thought blending in was going to be no problem. Your entire purpose was not to change anything in anybody's life, nor to influence any on-going schemes. If anything, that would be the worse outcome, your existence useless in its point of service for you were just an outside observer, trying to catch any slipped up information. Easy enough, right?

You'd heard a lot about the strongest modern sorcerer of this time: the grief he brought Gakuganji first and foremost, for your principal was incredibly youthful in the way it took hours for him to stop grumbling.

It wasn't like you really had any personal desire to meet him— seeing Gojo Satoru fight in action would have been thrilling, in the way you would watch something unexplainable and awe-inducing happening right in front of you, something akin to a supernova.

But essentially, you also cared little in seeking it out if not prompted. You were here because you were ordered to; because the authority carried by the Jujutsu Headquarters was founded in experience and power, because their word was law.

Or so it went. That was what Gakuganji loved spewing, and it wasn't that you necessarily disagreed, it was just that you weren't known to care for it a lot. But then again, it wasn't their concern, so long there was enough intimidation and results to be showed. It probably could have been any of the other first-years in your school, it should have been, because you weren't exactly somebody who blended in super well, you were too on the nose for it, but the excuse you'd been sent over on was that your cursed technique could only properly be trained by the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High.

That was a lie.

One you didn't really care to uphold more than necessary. Truth was that your cursed technique had no adequate teacher nor was it a family heirloom to be able to scour clan records for. It existed and you had to deal with it, simple as that.

But then, the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High would know that, too.

So rather than it being an actual excuse, it was merely a way to save face. Rather dish out a lie like that, as unbelievable as it may be, than accuse anybody — doing that would lead to showing one's suspicion and that would prompt a reaction; they would have been, for all intents and purposes, asking for retaliation.

It was too much hassle to plan a counter for it, so slap a label on something and call it a day.

Chances were that your appearance had been noted as such — a way to do some reconnaissance, but the way the first-years and their teacher behaved hinted that they either didn't, which was unlikely, or they did and just didn't care, which was stupid.

In any way, you didn't care to complain, either. It was going to interest nobody in Kyoto Jujutsu High, so you just had to deal with it in any way you saw fit.

"I think I'd be a capybara."

Like lingering amongst the first-years here in Tokyo Jujutsu High and hope that you'd find something interesting to note down for Gakuganji to analyse later. If there was something amongst this conversation of deciding on your spirit animal worth writing down.

Nobara, who had been lazily scrolling through her phone, looked up, one sleek eyebrow of hers quirked up, "A what now?"

Sprawled on the ground with his limbs extended like a star fish, Yuji's eyes tracked the clouds, envisioning different shapes onto the white fluff travelling in their lane on the wide blue.

"You know, one of those giant guinea pig things. They're just so chill," he explained, hands coming up to hesitate for a second — how did one even imitate a capybara? — before forming a big blob and hoping that his words conveyed enough of a picture to make up for the lack of gestures. Out of the peripheral of his eyes, Yuji watched the uninterested look in Megumi's eyes and wondered if his friend would be able to do a shadow puppet of a capybara.

Nobara snorted. "No. You're like a full-blown chimpanzee."

"No way, I'm so chill—" Yuji sat up swiftly, eyes wide, but the girl interrupted him, waving him away her manicured fingers, "Always climbing things, making weird noises, eating like you've never seen food before…"

Yuji was almost offended, if it weren't for the fact that she wasn't exactly wrong, either. "But chimps are scary. They, like, bite people's faces off!!"

"So does Sukuna," Nobara looked at him with an expression that told anybody in immediate proximity exactly how little brain cells she thought he had, "Don't try to play innocent with your 'I'm a chill guy!' when you literally have a face-munching demon playing house in your body."

"He's not me, though!!"

She shrugged, shoulders touching the tip of her hair with the movement, "You share rent. That counts."

Itadori Yuji grasped his uniform, the material bunching underneath his hand before his fingers let go of the jacket, one by one. It was only a moment, but your eyes, trained on the pink-haired student possessing the King of the Curses, were observant, catching the way a strange, detached expression flitted over his face. Hollow, dissociated eyes that seemed so far away.

Digging your heel into the ground, you tried imagining what it could be that he was feeling out in that moment, what Sukuna could be saying, what horrible things he could be taunting Yuji with in the personal space of his mind that nobody could access. The things Yuji kept hidden behind an exterior that beamed like the sun, locking the force of the demon behind rattling doors.

You wondered whether Yuji's body remembered the things that Sukuna did.

As quick as the expression having made its way over Yuji's face, it was just as quick that he whirled around to face Megumi with mock offence. Yuji's finger pointed towards the other first-year, who looked like he'd rather not be here, listening to the non-sense the others were arguing about.

"Megumi!! Come on, man, you gotta be on my side, right?"

Megumi, whose body had been slowly turning away, inch by inch, halted, and his eyes closed, his chest moving with a sigh escaping him, "I don't even want to be on anyone's side."

Yuji's mouth almost formed a comical downturn,"I miss when we were friends."

"I miss when it was quiet."

"Don't worry, Yuji," Nobara threw her leg over the other and leaned back, "He's only pissed because his fashion sense sucks."

Your eyebrows raised at the eye roll of Megumi's; it was offensive in its own right, the way it conveyed the exasperation sitting deep in his soul, "I don't care about fashion. Or this conversation."

Nobara nodded to Yuji. "That's exactly what someone without drip would say."

Yuji nodded back. "He'd totally be a hedgehog."

A snap of her fingers towards the pink-haired, "Oh, that's such a good read. All spiky on the outside, and so soft on the inside. Yuck."

"I'm going to leave."

"Running away again, huh?"

Maybe you were not supposed to influence any ongoing schemes, but you couldn't help yourself.

When there was somebody in front of you who seemed so incredibly closed off, like anything pelted off him like rain on an umbrella, it was so very tempting to be the one who could bring out the twitch in his eyebrows, the clicking of his tongue.

It was a race, the way you ran to see who could piss off the other faster. So that he could drop this pretentious holier-than-thou attitude, thinking he was better than everybody else because he played the part of a brooding hero so well, because he refused to partake in conversation that retained his youth.

"What?" his voice was quiet, composed, and he could have fooled you had he not stopped mid-step.

"They're just joking around, grumpy-pants. That got you all bothered?"

Megumi's shoulders were tense, a small quiver running through his muscles, like there's something repressed running beneath his skin. The curve of his jaw hardened, and through gritted teeth, he spit out, "No. But you're starting to."

There was a certain charge in the air; a reluctance to accept you in their midst, like a bystander, too easy to be forgotten. They had already settled in a comfortable exchange of energy, and here you were, disrupting it — a new current of electricity that nobody really knew where to direct it through. Yuji was the type to be accommodating, friendly and open; who didn't have a problem to pull you in. Nobara, who saw you had no interest in entertaining her whims, grouped you together with the rest of the first-years but not necessarily that rejecting.

Megumi, though. Megumi was the one who distrusted you the most.

To his defence, you were an intruder. He might not know it outright, but the protective barrier he had risen around himself and almost around the other two as well gnawed at you. There they were: those three, belonging together, one playing off the other, the two chaotic kids needing to be reined in by the rock in the midst of crashing waves.

It almost made you jealous. Almost. If Megumi didn't want to trust you, then so be it. You weren't banking on that, anyway, you just…liked riling him up.

Nobara had nudged closer to Yuji, her hand facing his, palm up: "Ten bucks says he threatens to summon his dogs or whatever in, like, five seconds."

"You're on," Yuji whispered back; his hand meeting hers in a quiet clap.

You mirrored Megumi's eye roll from earlier, made sure to put in all the mocking you could, "You always take everything so seriously. Jeez, no wonder no one invites you to anything fun."

Megumi's knuckles were the second thing to follow to express his displeasure, the annoyance bubbling in his veins, the way the tips of his shoes almost wanted to turn around, "You done?"

Scratching at his ego, you knew your words were sharp. That he also had valid reason to fight you — if anything, you might start respecting him more if he just finally snapped. If he just finally gave you a reason to believe that he believed what he was saying, that he wasn't full of shit.

"Just wondering how long you can pretend like you're not dying to prove something."

He moved his head and you caught a glimpse of his eye; the heat in them that he tried to desperately squash, the cold that he layered on top of it, the iciness with which he regarded you, and you returned the look, challenging him.

"I'm not pretending."

"Oooookay, wow. That's, uh, super healthy tension here," Yuji laughed, a nervous undertone swinging in his tenor, and he got up from the floor. There were a few blades of grass stuck on the outside of his pant legs, and a few floated to the ground when he stepped up, ready to intervene.

Your relaxed stance didn't falter.

Because you knew. Because Megumi knew. Because both of you knew he wasn't going to do anything. Because he didn't have courage enough to give in, because he'd rather swallow the annoyance than act on it, because he'd rather burn than to show his feelings and be vulnerable, than to stand by what he believed.

Because he was a coward.

He left instead, and you watched the way he walked away, the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, deep, like they were a bottomless pit that could swallow all the frustrations he felt.

"Don't trip over your own brooding!" you called after him sweetly, and his shoulders tensed even further, before he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

You clicked your tongue, feeling unsatisfied because goddamn, did he have to make it so hard to get him to explode?

"You think you're being so cute," Nobara said, and despite her voice sounding syrupy, there was snark swinging underneath it, cutting through the silence that ensued after Megumi left.

You shrugged. "He can't handle jokes, that's not on me."

"Oh, we were joking, alright."

Yuji sent you a look, unsure, hesitating. He didn't want enemies, not when he wanted to get along with his classmates, and you had no interest in forcing him to, so you left as well.

3rd of April; 02:14. — you.

Your hands moved steadily, the black ink seeping through the thick pale slip of paper with every brush stroke. It had to be deliberate, so the creation of talismans usually were a slow business, though it also didn't help that the scripture was far from modern. Old and twisted from teachings long forgotten.

The brush dragged through ink and painted intent, and with each swing of the bristles, you exhaled out, the room cold as it seemed to use up the heat and energy to create a hidden message behind the charm.

You whispered confines into existence, orders; a veil of false reality settling on top of the ink slowly at the last of your brush strokes. Shimmering, the talisman looked like it had embers glowing inside of it, the edges of the paper slip singed dark.

Quickly, you wrapped an unassuming thread around the charm, tying it up, then — a bead of blood pressed right on the seal.

Clicking your tongue, you licked the welling of another drop of blood off. There wasn't much to inform Gakuganji of yet, but you were expected to send a status update anyway. In your eyes? a complete waste of good, thick paper. The world was getting expensive, after all.

5th of April; 16:11. — fushiguro megumi.

"Oh no, you don't."

"Megumi, you wound me. I haven't even said anything yet."

"Gojo-sensei. With no respect at all, you're coming in here with her."

"If he's wounded, I'm heartbroken, Fushiguro. How could you say that— hey, don't ignore me."

Megumi shut his book, "There's plenty other people you could send."

"Eh, I figured you two would make a good team. You know, balancing each other out, but also your people skills needs some training," Gojo shrugged, nonchalant, but the way he leaned against his door made Megumi think that really, this was just another one of Gojo's shrewd teaching methods.

"He'd definitely get it down if he stopped thinking he was better than everyone else."

"I don't think I'm better. I just don't care enough to play along with you," he bit out.

A clap of Gojo's hands and a gleeful smile, "See? Perfect chemistry already. You may call me Master Matchmaker from now on."

"Over my dead body."

"Aww, come onnnn—"

"No."

5th of April; 19:02. — you.

"Stop moping, Fushiguro."

"I'm not moping."

You grinned, leaning closer to him, "Mhm, I'm not so sure of that. You look like you need somebody to cheer you up."

He threw you a sour look, before turning his head to look out the window again. The car ride was strained. Itawa, the manager issued by Tokyo Jujutsu High, was gripping the steering wheel silently. Itawa didn't have anything to say, as per regulations, and Megumi and you didn't see eye to eye.

Gojo had announced the mission that both of you were to fulfil, gleefully putting both Megumi and you in a team together. It was clear that he was enjoying the way Megumi bristled in the face of spending more time on missions with you than he was already forced to. You weren't exactly sure why; maybe he suspected you and liked to keep you in check with his trusted, experienced student.

But maybe he also just enjoyed seeing him sweat. It was difficult to tell with Gojo and the blindfold that concealed far more than his eyes.

Megumi, though, had his dissatisfaction ooze from his every pore with a force that could have rivalled any lash out of cursed energy. You couldn't help but wink at him when you caught his eye, the smile growing wider at the darkening of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth.

To his fortune, it wasn't a difficult mission. Iwata had already relayed to you both the details:

The shopping mart in Yurakucho had suddenly sealed itself under a spontaneous veil, civilians having gone missing. The windows had reported back to the Jujutsu Sorcerers about a cursed womb presence, and sooner than later, Megumi and you had been dispatched for elimination.

When you stepped out the car, the street was empty; the civilians that had occupied the space before not needing to see curses to notice the change in the atmosphere, the danger lingering in the air. It wasn't supposed to be a high Grade curse, but with cursed wombs, it was difficult to tell.

The veil drawn on seemed to almost glitch like it was unable to keep up the facade of a normal shopping mall; the false reality cloaking the building sporting tiny rips in its fabric.

"It will be easy to find its weak point since it's not a strong curtain. It will take but a moment," Iwata assured, and true to his word, it did not take long to create a hole in the spiritual structure for you both to slip through it. But when you and Megumi entered the curtain, you hadn't expected for it to be almost harder to breathe than outside, as if the air was carrying more fluid than it should, like you could be drowning any moment. Without a word, the divine dogs appeared around Megumi's legs, at attention.

The automatic doors were broken, the glass cracked like something had escaped rather than broken in. There were tiny splinters covering the face of the floor and the jagged edges caught the fluorescent light flickering behind it, throwing indiscernible shapes on the floor.

"Creepy," you muttered as you stepped on the shards, faint music swinging in the air accompanying the strange static of the place. It tasted weird, too, when you had opened your mouth to speak.

Megumi nodded but kept quiet, barely glancing at the screens of TVs mounted on every wall, a product advertisement looping over and over again — the same smile, the same pour of coffee.

He would never buy this specific brand of coffee machine. Not now. Not ever.

Instead, Megumi moved through the first floor; eyes sharp, trained on the surfaces of the place. They were weird, some were too clean, others were smeared with dark brown substance. It was humid, too, like there was a storm brewing.

Feeling out the situation, you sent a low pulse of your cursed energy out, meant to ricochet off the walls and tell you the density of everything that existed within the confines of this place, but the sound echoed outwards and came back to you distorted, like part of it disappeared. Your eyebrows furrowed.

His voice sounded far away, even though he stood right next to you, "We should split up, cover more ground. There's three floors, after all. Who knows which one the curse calls its new home."

"I'm hurt, Fushiguro, wanna get rid of me so early?"

Megumi swallowed his sigh, "Yes, but it'll also be faster that way."

"I'll take the upper floor then, Your Majesty."

You whirled around to get started, but his scoff held you back, "You're so impatient, hold on for a moment."

"You don't need to give me a goodbye kiss, Fushiguro, I think i'll manage just fine without it."

He threw you a look that you decidedly chose to ignore and said, "Take this."

Catching something sleek and black, you took a closer look at it. It was a short ranged communication system; a wireless ear piece that had you raising your eyebrows at him. Prepared much, was he?

"I thought I felt it before but just earlier, when you activated your technique — it felt weird, like— like the building's reacting to our presence. Not just cursed."

"Yeah," you said, eyes trained on the ceiling and the flickering lights, "I think it may be feeding on the energy. I sensed far less on its way back than what I sent out."

"Yeah."

You sent him a kiss through the air when you parted from him, because you thought the way his usually impassive face contorted in a grimace was a good memory to own, and then took the emergency stairs. The escalators were dead, and you hardly believed that the curse was going to help you out by allowing you to take the faster way.

The second floor's sign post indicated the toy's section to be up ahead — or at least, that was what it was supposed to be. Instead, you were met with shelves that had been cleared away, the toys scattered all over the floor like debris from a fight that dominated the room beforehand.

There were cracks on the floor and your eyes tracked them upward to talismans on the ceiling and sticking to the pillars on the edge of the room. Hand-drawn with shaky lines. The ink hadn't dried yet, and one such drop followed gravity and splashed on the linoleum floor.

It wasn't ink, you realised when you saw the thinned out edges of the liquid on the ground, it was blood.

Cursed energy swirled around the slips of paper, tugging on your senses like an invisible leash. It called for you, asked you to come witness, to come watch, that there was nothing else for you to find and do on this floor than to come look at the centre of the floor and see the wide circle set on the floor.

Messy, but red.

It pulsed, and you couldn't blink as you watched the circle writhe, like it was almost alive.

Megumi's voice startled you when it came out of nowhere, "This looks—ke a ritual of— sort. Still— active."

You stepped back automatically, looked away from the circle, the siren call broken. Despite the static cutting through his words, you couldn't help but offhandedly notice the way his voice sounded through the ear piece, and it sent a weird shiver down your back. Had it always been that deep?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you pressed the in-ear piece deeper, "This shit's weird. Almost made me step in."

You shook your head to clear up the heavy air settling on your senses, and tried to keep your cursed energy locked in, taut around your body, not allowing it to leak from your skin, but it felt like the cursed womb tasted it anyway. A shudder in the air, sudden and subtle. Like a breath drawn in by something enormous.

"It doesn't feel like an ambush," you said, "It's like it's waiting. Like…it wants us inside the circle?"

Megumi's voice cracked through the in-ear, "I swe— don't get any du—ideas. Stay put, I'm— com—"

You weren't stupid.

No way in hell would you just oblige the desires of a curse, but you also didn't want to wait on Megumi and risk allowing this thing, wherever it was, to haze your senses. Not when you could feel the delightful shiver in the air at your attention.

It really was a better idea to find the cursed womb fast before it could manifest fully, anyway. Sorry, Fushiguro.

5th of April; 20:38. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi's head was already hurting.

He had to hurry because there was no telling what your next move was. If anything, he could count his blessings that up until then nothing worth mentioning happened, that you both were able to decently communicate and investigate the floors.

But then he threw a talisman from his sleeve and flicked it into the circle and the paper caught fire midair, the red turning blue from the force of energy swirling in the circle before the charm was slapped into the floor. It left a decently sized dent from the force and the cursed energy rippled outwards; the air swinging heavily and even though there was no breeze, Megumi thought that he still felt movement caressing his cheek.

There were more than just the blood markings on the floor; deep in the open cracks, there were sigils buried, carved.

So no, he had absolutely no faith and did not want to take a chance on whether your resistance was sufficient enough not to step into the damn circle.

His Demon Dogs were already ahead of him, fast, barely hindered by the debris on the floor; the energy that had pooled in his palms slowly dwindling. He set out to follow, taking the stairs two at once, but when he just entered the second floor—

A scrape, a soft whimper, shushing.

Even though the overhead light buzzed as if a swarm of flies kept bumping into the light source, even though there was a faint thrumming, even though Megumi's ears were strained to catch all the tiny noises, high alert, it faded when those new sounds registered in his mind.

Megumi found them off the side, tucked behind a fallen aisle of grotesque looking toy cars. A teenage girl, eyes wide and sharp with her arm looped tightly around an older man's shoulder. There was sweat glinting above her upper lip, and her fear was palpable on his tongue, sharp and tangy.

From one second to another, uninvited, flashes of—

A hospital bed.

Rain against the window.

Limp limbs.

Gone.

I'm saying you can't.

He snapped back to reality like a rubber band, the air heavy and stale. Megumi shook his head, and the inside of his hands felt clammy. He closed them to fists once, hard, with intent. A reminder.

This wasn't the time.

The girl didn't cry when she looked up at him: odd, like he was the odd one out. He wasn't odd, he belonged here, he was meant to do this. He had to, or else—

Stop. Stop. Not the time.

He crouched in front of her, his eyes flitting over the old man, falling into the old routine of analysing. Detached, categorise the threat, deal. The old man was barely conscious, but still breathing; the rise of his chest shallow and weak. There was a thin line of blood trickling down his temple. Then he allowed his gaze to wander over to the girl again.

"You hurt?"

She shook her head, her fingers digging into the old man's — her grandfather? — shoulder, deep, gripping the material. The pressure in the air felt like it was coiling tighter, ready to rip — something about the floor was moving wrong, and he couldn't risk wasting a second longer to let them linger here.

"Okay. We're getting you out, so on my command, you run. Keep him moving. You don't stop until I say."

5th of April; 20:52. — you.

Megumi's voice hadn't sounded out anymore. You briefly wondered whether something happened, but when you turned the corner, it escaped your mind, because right there in the centre of the aisle: the cursed womb.

It wasn't hiding anymore. No, worse: it had built a body.

Twisted metal of broken shopping carts; the limbs of mannequins attached to each other, bent like the joints of spider's legs, and in the middle of it, curled up in the protection of its centre was a blob of flesh, deep green in its colour, moving like it's molding. There were something like bones sticking out of its side, like ribs, expanding, trying to breathe. Trying to imitate.

It was not human and yet it craved it so.

At its feet was half of the torso of a store employee, and there were obscene sounds. Slurping, drinking. A few metres away was another store employee, already dry, the skin ashen and wrinkled.

Eyes widening, you realised what was happening.

When you tried to speak into the communication piece, Megumi's voice finally pushed through.

"I've— two civilia— we—" it cracked horribly in your ears and with the brewing of electricity in the air, your hair stood up on its end, "—start evac— protocol."

"Forget that. We don't have time!" you pressed the in-ear so hard, it hurt your ear canal, and you heard a sharp "What?!" coming from him, but you couldn't entertain him, you needed to make him understand, "I found it, Fushiguro. It's some goddamn department store mascot made from some mannequins and—"

You paused when you heard heavy breathing, "And people."

You continued, because he wasn't talking, and you needed him to know, "It's feeding, and I'm not going to lie, it looks ready to burst."

There was a low groan coming from the curse, echoing through the walls. The shelves creaked as they started tilting on their bases, not from motion but from bending. A bad feeling unfurled in your stomach, your fingertips tingling. This was not good.

"We don't have time," you decided, because he wasn't saying shit and you had to stop the curse from fully manifesting, "We need to collapse the upper floor. Drop it with everything we've got, bury the curse, halt it — whatever it is, we need to do it now."

"—not bringin— roof down on—eople!"

You cut through his words, urgent when you heard the Demon Dogs running towards you, "Then get them out faster, because there's no way in hell that I'm waiting."

5th of April; 20:55. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi's hands were frozen near his blade.

His eyes darted towards the girl and her grandfather — she was still crouched behind him, her breath heavy, painted dark with fear. Their eyes met for a split second and he knew she understood enough from his words.

"We're not sacrificing people," he said, almost snarled, turning away from the girl who looked at him like he was her only salvation, and his shoulders were heavy, threatening to crumble from an invisible force. Whether it was the responsibility he shouldered or the ever-growing output of pressure and energy from the cursed womb, he could not say.

"—risk let— manife—"

He hissed, "Yes," because it was true. Because he'd, "—rather that than dig two corpses out of the rub—"

The shifting of the building cut him off. Aisles buckled and turned, warping like wriggling worms, intestines that were in the middle of digestion. When the empty shelves started stretching outward, hungry, he whirled around, mind set.

His hand gripped the girl's arm hard, his fingers pressing in with frustration, urgency, anger, and he knew the girl winced underneath the harshness of his touch, but he couldn't be worried about bruising her or her old man, when the alternative was them dead. Deleted from this world, under his watch.

"Move. Move," Megumi grunted, and she stumbled over her legs, and then, a shift in the comm line. A sharp click. A decision made.

Megumi's eyes snapped up—

Impact.

A burst of cursed energy tore through the roof, fast and brutal, a calculated cave-in. The concrete groaned, jarring, as a blast erupted from above with an ear-deafening volume. Cracks formed along the ceiling above them like it was chasing the bolt of a lightning strike.

His instincts flared, hands crossing in a familiar gesture.

"Nue!"

The shikigami appeared in a gust of wind. Wings spread wide as it flew straight up towards the ceiling, its body crashing against the bulk of the collapse. It sounded like a thunderclap, the way the force split, the scattering of debris, the fracturing of ceiling away from the civilians.

The girl was crying softly behind him, and Megumi hated the sound. He hated that his chest squeezed, a reminder that he could have failed, he hated that he was in charge, he hated the fury coursing through his veins that you decided to forego his plans, that you put him in a position like that.

He hated you.

5th of April; 21:12. — you.

Megumi's divine dogs surrounded you, growling, threatening, but you weren't going to do anything, anyway.

There wasn't a point anymore. It had been the perfect time — the concrete was about to rain down onto the cursed womb, suffocating it, but then Megumi's goddamn flimsy convictions came in between. Now, the cursed womb was gone. Escaped. God knew what damage it would cause now.

The silence should have been deafening, but the ringing in your ear from the explosion was too loud, the heat on your skin too strong, your throat too dry.

His voice, unhindered from the lack of static interference now that there was no curse in sight anymore, was too loud as well, cold, "They're alive. Not that you'd care to—"

The communication piece crunched under your boots.

5th of April; 22:43. — iwata.

The car ride back was silent, even more so than before. This wasn't just Fushiguro Megumi and the exchange student from Kyoto not getting along —this was a failed mission. This was the culmination of stubborn heads and clashing ideals, and Iwata thought that he could drown in the thick tension simmering between you both.

When the curtain dropped, there was cursed energy lingering in the air, but not as remnants of an exorcism. Active, swirling, faint. That was the signature of a curse that had been here and was now gone.

The first-years looked worse for wear, but it wasn't just the rips in their uniform — it was the look in their eyes: the resentment, the anger, the guilt, the unsaid words sitting on their tongue, ready to be spit out.

Iwata's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He really did hope that his car would not become their battlefield, that he could drive just a teeny tiny bit faster so that he wouldn't be around for when both of you decided to hash it out.

5th of April; 23:07. — you.

You entered Tokyo Jujutsu High's protective barrier together. Well, as together as Megumi walking a few steps behind you was. It was cold, the weather reminding you that spring was barely amongst you, but you refused to rub your arms in an effort to warm yourself up. You didn't want to show weakness in front of Megumi, not when you could feel his gaze trained on you from behind; the accusation lying behind the heavy attention.

You pressed your lips together.

The curse was gone, barely traceable for you anymore. When the curtain fell, Iwata had called Gojo at once, though the white-haired teacher had been busy doing god knew what, so you had to relay to Iwata what exactly happened. It was a pathetic display of how much you messed up when both of you started talking over each other, but then Iwata had kindly requested alone time with each of you to go through the details.

Embarrassing.

It wasn't even your fault, but the tip of your ears burned anyway at the incompetence they must have seen when you couldn't stop yourself from responding to Megumi.

Right when your paths diverged, he spoke, voice cold and repressed.

"You dropped a floor on two innocent people."

You couldn't help whirling around to meet him face to face — his' was shadowed, the moon barely illuminating anything. In the silence of the world, your steps sounded hard and deliberate, "You let it escape."

The look in his eyes grew darker, "I made a call and you ignored it."

"No," you shook your head. It was far simpler than that, but of course he wouldn't see it. "You ran from the fight, like you always do, and I didn't."

"Ran? I didn't call to drive them home and tuck them in. We just needed to get them out, but you almost killed them," he scoffed, his hands balled into fists. There was a tremor in his shoulders, one that he tried to suppress with gritted teeth, "and all i'm hearing is that you don't give a damn."

It angered you — the easiness with which he accused you of not caring. Him, who willingly threw away the way Jujutsu Regulations had always been, who played it safe because of what? Because he was scared? Because he couldn't handle making a choice that was supposed to be the one you had to go for? Curses first, people second. Because in a world where people died, to ensure there wasn't more to kill them, was more important.

You had seen the look in his eyes before when somebody died. It wasn't anger, it wasn't pain. It was something quieter, sharper. Regret. Like he could have changed the outcome if there had been more to him than what he was. The way he steeled himself and searched the rubble like he was hoping to find a better version of himself buried under the wreckage.

He thought that made him better. You almost snorted, because it didn't. It just made him dangerous, because he was going to hesitate again. And again. And again.

So yeah, it angered you beyond control the way he threw your principles in front of you and stepped on them when his entire spiel was a lie. It was bullshit.

Your finger dug into his chest, an accusation and a challenge, "There won't be anybody left to give a damn about, because that curse is hatching out somewhere. Who knows how many more people are going to die, hm? Those lives less precious than the ones you saved?"

He looked at you like you grew a second head, but something flickered behind the confines of his eyes, something that he swallowed over and over, that he tried to hide. He slapped your hand away, a sharp sting where your skin met his, and his voice sounded rough when he replied, full of resentment, unbelievability because —, "Who made you god? You don't get to choose who dies, whose life doesn't matter."

"That's the thing, Fushiguro. You wanna keep pretending you know that that's what the job entails, but you don't live up to it. You've never lived up to it. Noble hero, my ass, you're just a coward with a clean conscience."

His hand had snatched the front of your clothes so quickly, you barely had time to react. Nose pressed against yours, his eyes harsh, wild. The uniform strained underneath your arms and you could feel the warmth emitting from his body, the faint smell of him after this long day, sweat and hidden desperation.

The heat of his anger and his hair brushed your forehead, "Say that again."

You narrowed your eyes at him, not moving away. If he wanted to invade your space because he couldn't handle the truth, then you'd meet him right there: "What, you think restraint makes you better? Want me to say it again so badly? You're just scared to admit that you've already made peace with casualties."

A humourless laugh escaped him, his fingers tightening on your blouse, "Funny. I can say the same thing about you—"

"No, but that's the thing: I don't have a problem agreeing with it. I'm telling you right here, right now that yes, I'd sacrifice those two to keep others safe," you interrupted him, watching his face, the flicker in his eyes, the angry twist in his mouth, the grimace that he couldn't hide behind an impassive wall anymore, "But you— you keep doing that, you know? Acting like you don't care because you talk quieter."

Fuck the stoicism that he wanted to cling to, the control he didn't want to give up — you wanted him to get angry, wanted the squeeze of his hand around your uniform to evolve, wanted him to finally tip the edge over and be honest, no performances. He was teetering there, you could see it. It was clinging onto every fibre of his being, pushing him, asking, challenging him. Then— a harsh exhale, his breath warm against your skin in the cool of the night, and he let go.

"If you think that's what it is, then you don't know shit."

You allowed your shoulders to drop, a sigh heavy in your voice, "I think you'd rather break your own bones than admit what you want, Fushiguro. You're not sparing lives, so I don't know who you're kidding. You're just dodging the part where you have to live with who you become."

He walked past you, silent, the gravel underneath his boots filling the air like it was supposed to take over for him.

There he was, running.

You aimed the words at the air in between you both, the ever-growing distance, "At least, I make the calls I can live with. You make the ones you hope no one remembers."

5th of April; 23:59. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi felt sick to his stomach.

His dormitory door closed shut behind him, quietly. It was deep in the night, his window looking outward to the side of the moon, painting everything in a soft blue hue. It was silent, but it felt charged, like it was waiting for him to make a noise. He didn't want to.

His face felt weird.

He tried to fix it, to go back to the way he looked, the way he always allowed his face to look, but it wouldn't sit right. His eyebrows felt so heavy, the neutral set of his mouth too numb, his cheeks too hollow. The mask he had gotten so used to putting on didn't want to hold. It kept sliding off, and he tried again, but again, it fell into a grimace.

His breathing sounded weird in his ears, too, like it was far away, like this wasn't his body, like Megumi wasn't human and he didn't belong here. Did he ever? When he was out there, standing in front of people and curses, did he? Had he done enough to deserve existing here, safely tucked in his dorm room whilst the curse roamed free out there?

The death of more people, on his hands—

He opened his mouth and exhaled. His body listened, but if he hadn't known that it was his body right now, he might not have recognised it as himself. The intake of breath, his chest expanding, the smell of orange lingering in his room from earlier, the silence. It was so silent.

You ran.

Something — somewhere — tightened, and then everything rushed in at once, like it was scared that if it didn't come say hello now, it would never get its chance to. His hands lifted up into his line of sight, and they were trembling, slightly. He pressed them into his eyeballs like he could squeeze the guilt out this way, like he could dig them deep enough to enter his brain and stop it.

His voice was barely more than a whisper: "I didn't freeze."

He didn't. He couldn't have. He made the hard call. He did. He— you let it escape.

"I didn't."

Nothing in his room answered. What would it say, if it could? Would it agree with Megumi? Would it think that he was a coward, too?

He shook his head, hard enough that the strands of hair clung to his temples, damp. He hadn't noticed that he was sweating. Or was it tears? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. There was pressure building in his chest, up in his throat, trying to claw out, to rip free from his skin.

It barely registered in his mind when his his hands came together and cursed energy lingered between his palms, nor when the soft fur of his Divine Dogs brushed the hands, the tentative swipe of their tongue on his skin.

The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for a second he thought he saw himself reflected in the window amidst the black and white fur surrounding his head.

It didn't look like him.

6th of April; 00:19. — you.

You were exhausted to the bone.

Your chest felt like somebody had taken a hammer and chiselled your organs around until all the anger had fizzled out, until only fatigue was left, muscles aching, deeply; throat scratchy and raw from the shouting.

Megumi's face kept flickering through your head; the look in his eyes, the way they didn't harden, the way they looked like a kaleidoscope, fractured in a million pieces. The way they dropped. Just a bit, just enough.

Fuck. Had you been too rough? Too sharp?

You hadn't wanted to pick a fight — not really. You just…you couldn't take the way he stood there like the weight didn't touch him. Like he wouldn't turn around and then not care if there were civilians on the line that he didn't know and hadn't promised to save. Like he had any right to accuse you of anything.

But why couldn't you ignore it?

It wasn't like that was your first time meeting somebody whose principles were all weird. Hell, you didn't even mind that, if only he stood by it. But he didn't, and something about that bothered you.

He needed it, right?

Because if you didn't push him that hard, he would just continue hiding. Because if you didn't slap him awake, his restraint might get everybody killed. Because maybe you wanted a reason to respect him, to believe he was someone worth following. Someone who, if he really tried, could stop pretending and step up, stop being a shadow of what he could be.

No. You had to. Because if you didn't, nobody would. Because he was the heir to the Zen'in clans technique and he was wasting it. Yeah, that must be it.

Why does it matter to you? Why does it keep mattering?

You got into bed and ignored the question like it wasn't sitting there beside you in the dark like it was something alive.

6th of April; 04:52. — gojo satoru.

Gojo Satoru stepped into the broken shopping mall deep in the middle of the night.

The scent hit him first — burned plastic, the water-logged fertiliser from the gardening section strong in the air, the blood faint but still there, like it soaked into the bones of this mart. Residues of cursed energy hummed low, traces of them visible to Gojo's eyes, though it was dissipating with the hours passing. Gojo thought it almost seemed shy the way it was trying to hide from him, like it was ashamed to stay.

He huffed, an exhale whirling around the dust from the collapse, "Could've been worse."

The circle with the ritual completely cracked in half, the shards on the floor, the bodies of the employees — yeah. Definitely could have been worse.

Gojo moved through the mall like a ghost, his footsteps light, his posture relaxed and easy. His Six Eyes were everywhere, scanning the remnants of the talismans, tracking the remaining energy across the linoleum and the shattered shelves.

He didn't have to look where the curse had blown away to, he already knew.

Instead, he knelt beside the dried streaks on the floor, his fingers brushing the scorch marks from a lightning strike.

Megumi.

There was a small smile pulling at the corner of Gojo's mouth, sharp, "Sloppy, Gumi-chan."

The kid was still too soft.

Though, of course, if it had been Gojo Satoru, he wouldn't have needed to blast the roof to exorcise the curse. He would have just killed it from the get go, and whoever was stuck in the mall would've been able to get out safely, afterwards. Not that he would have stayed around for that. That was what Ijichi would have been for.

He did admire that about Megumi, his ability to deeply shoulder the guilt. He thought it made him human, and that was always a good sign. But Gojo resented it, too. The world they lived in didn't reward hesitation, or holding back. It didn't reward worry about whether your hands would be stained.

It punished it.

But that was how kids were supposed to be and to an extent it relieved Gojo, but it also twisted something in his chest. If they didn't grasp it soon—

He didn't want to scrape off their remains.

Gojo stood up, slow and fluid, a dance he had done before a thousand times. The air shifted around him and then he stood in front of the half-born, desperate curse. Tracking it was easy, teleporting to it even easier.

"You had your chance," he murmured, picking off non-existent lint off his sleeve, his voice bored and almost cruel. "You made it to the edge of something special. Congratulations."

He raised his hand, "Now disappear."

A pulse of cursed energy, no technique even needed, and it was gone like it never existed at all.

A deep sigh escaped him as he stood in the silence of the outskirts of Tokyo, surrounded by shadows of a fight that wasn't his, but became his, anyway. Like it always did. That was what he was for. He handled what his kids couldn't. Not because they were weak and couldn't deal the finishing blow, not because they failed when they should have succeeded.

But because they were learning and that was his duty. For as long as they were — he'd work himself to the bone cleaning up their mess.

Now, on to destroy that talisman you had written up to send off to Kyoto.

AUTHOR'S NOTE | thank you for reading!!

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #megumi x you #jjk megumi #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #megumi x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #megumi angst #jelly writes #jelly fic: epithimia

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wickedusername · 1 year ago

Text

Apple Red

Curse!Reader x Mahito || 18+ MDNI

Synopsis:

In which our favorite shape shifting psychopath discovers the wonders of sex with someone equally fucked up in the head, all under a philosophical motif of the Knowledge Argument/Mary's Room, a thought experiment posing that certain mental states can't be known unless you experience them yourself.

A/n: Bringing this over from AO3! It was brought about in my annoyance at every Mahito fic being non-con and others yet thinking the man is illiterate. Listen, he may have been born yesterday but he's read more philosophy than you and me. This has an overarching Mary's room motif, skim it over, your enjoyment will be increased threefold. Just like your cl- Wikipedia article if you can't watch.

Tw: dead dove: do not eat, body horror, sadomaso, asphyxiation/choking, blood kink, double penetration, p in v, anal, murder kink, necrophilia mention, shapeshifting. However!! praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, consensual sex, size kink, no actual murder takes place.

Word count: 6,1k words

Epigraph:

He lowered his abs over your back again and got close to your ear. Licks, pecks and bites peppered your back, popping up in places you know mouths shouldn't be. “The pleasure of your wet, gorgeous pussy, deep and clenching for me… No dead or unwilling thing has it. You'll come for me again, won't you, dearie?

"Absolutely feral” is not enough to describe what was going on between you and Mahito. He groped every part of you, your ass, your thighs, your breasts, the fat on your hips. Arms scratched and pinched at the muscle and fat on every part of your torso with his fingers. All while his tongue licked all over your mouth and lips, swirled around yours, elongated down to your throat. His jaw took in more and more like he would gobble you up. You had your hands way up under his poncho, scratching his back to raw flesh.

This had started as a conversation. You were barely a sketch of a curse, not rivaling the strength of the other ones you knew, but shapely enough to pass as human to those who could see you. You tried your best to mind your own business and stay in hiding, fully aware the persecution of sorcerers could end you in one fell swoop. The unfinished subway station you liked to call home was where you spent most of your time. Nestled between the decaying scaffolding, the staff room was where you sat with him, the only furnished room among the many half-finished nooks of the construction site. The bare surfaces didn't bother you, and the room had remained thankfully untouched in the two or so years since construction was halted and abandoned.

You, however, neglected none of the room. Whenever you had the chance to be around humanoid curses, you made a point to invite them over. You loved to banter and befriend, but just as much as you loved to occasionally hit the jackpot for one that you could sleep with. You didn't care to investigate your origins, but you weren’t born of anything family-friendly, you knew that much.

You'd known Mahito for a while. He was introduced to you by Kenjaku, an annoying body-hijacker who'd seeked to recruit you for his revolutionary cause. You wanted none of it, especially keen on self-preservation, but the two of you had hit it off. Two curses of the psyche had plenty to commiserate about, so you often hung around each other. And you'd just now managed to have him in your nest. Of course it wasn't every time you dragged someone to your staff room that you wanted to fuck them, and you certainly wouldn't mind if it led nowhere. But he was the most human of all curses – maybe of all there were – so of course you wanted to ask him about sex. To your surprise, his opinions were less than satisfactory.

“It's not as good as murder, to be honest.” He tapped the arm of the couch he was slouched on, staring you down with conflicting feelings. It was definitely not what he was here to talk about, but it did leave him curious.

“Are you serious? You've been doing it on things that don't move, haven't you?” It was the explanation you could conoct for why he would think that.

“I can make them move, you know? I've put the parts together, it's just not all that.” He retorted.

“It's about more than the parts. It's the entirety of the person you're with.”

“I've tried full, intact humans. The first one I, uh… killed them by accident. Another one I killed beforehand and they start going cold and don't feel as nice. I kinda gave up after that, I really don't see how it's so hyped.”

“Yeah, that's not the fun way to do it. You're trying to get on the level of fragile, puny humans.” You looked to the side in pure contempt.

The disgust for human weakness nearly seeped out of you. You'd tried humans, and as good as sex was with anyone, you also boasted similar results. You had no need to kill or force, like he likely did. They flocked to you. It was easy, it was your nature. But it always ended in a body to discard. You did wonder, partly, if it was in the inherent fact of being a curse that your drive to fulfill your desire ended in human death. But killing wasn't the drive you yearned for, and you were more than happy to have something that would live to fuck another day. It was the whole reason you enjoyed other curses much more, anyway.

“Alright, I'll bite.” Mahito smiled. “What's the fun way?”

Your lips curled into a smile worth a hundred bucks. Now here you were, gripping his hair, licking his teeth and waiting eagerly for what came next.

Mahito lifted you up into his lap with what seemed like two arms wrapping around your thighs like thick belts. Two others squished and pulled on your asscheeks, torturing them, digits slipping forward to tease your clothed entrance from below. You wrapped your legs and arms around him, even though you didn't need to make much strength to be carried around. Against your belly, his hard-on pushed a tent on his leather pants. He pulled away from you with a laugh.

“This really isn't bad!”

“We haven't even started.” you leaned into his ear, scraping your lips against it before biting hard at his earlobe. “The fun part is that you can fuck me up”.

His eyes gleamed with fun and desire.

“How?” He pinned you against one of the walls. His smile was unnaturally wide, tugging at the muscles of his cheeks, pushing them up against his lower eyelids that squeezed against his fiery wide glare.

“However you want.” Your own stare burned with passion, knowing the idea of destroying you would fuel his fire to the maximum.

His dick twitched in his pants, achingly hard. A fifth arm stretched out of his stitched, toned right shoulder. His hand caressed the side of your face, combing your hair slowly back, tucking it behind your ear, before gripping your face roughly and pushing your head against the wall. He deformed it, veins and muscles bulging and pulsing in waves through your face and down your neck, while you healed up, undoing his damage and rolling your eyes back into your head. You savored his torture. His mismatched eyes burned with glee and he laughed, near maniacally, at your enjoyment.

“You-! You are too much fun!” He licked his lips and continued to cackle, like he had a front seat in the world's best joyride.

“More from the inside.” You teased. You lowered your hand to his pants and wrapped your fingers around the outline of his dick. He hissed as you stroked him, making you bite your lip at the sound.

The hand that was deforming your face stopped its transfiguring and moved to the top of your head, where it pulled your hair. He pressed your body further against the wall, giving you enough stability to bring both your hands to his pants, unzip them and allow his cock to spring free from the leather. You wrapped your hand around it and stroked him. Starting at the base, where it sprouted through the patch of brown fur that framed it, all the way to its pink round head. Your other hand caressed his abdomen, circling and clawing at the stitches in his cum gutters.

Mahito moaned and bucked his hips into your touch, squeezing your ass and thighs harder, pulling on your hair tighter. His eyes fluttered and his mouth hung open, before his sight landed on your chest, rising and falling under your tight fit shirt.

You encouraged him with a hum and the hand that was pulling your hair moved downwards, where its forearm split into halves. They promptly scrunched the cloth at the neck seam, one on each side, and ripped it apart, turning it to a cluster of circular tatters hanging from your waist and arms. His lips let out a long loud breath with the aftersound of a suppressed moan, almost like he was trying not to drool at the sight. He buried his face in your chest with nothing but nirvana in his mind.

You held the back of his head and nuzzled his hair as you kept stroking him, his pleasure-filled expression hidden between your breasts. Your breaths were heavy, and he would not stop letting out quiet grunts at your handjob. His hands roughly massaged your ass and the flesh belts around your thighs cut circulation to your feet, making them tingle. The arm that had split in two reunified, being joined by a sixth on the left side, and they both fondled your breasts. Mahito squeezed his face between the mounds and placed unrestrained bites and licks on them. When he felt himself getting close, he placed his lips against your ribs and muttered into them.

“You were right. I need the rest of it. I need to get in you.”

Mahito gripped your shoulders and slammed you against the wall once again, making you fumble the stroking rhythm you had. With the other pair of arms he gripped your asscheeks like rough dough and pulled you against him, rubbing his dick over your crotch. His nails dug in to the point of piercing cloth.

He brought his arms down from your breasts to fumble with the string of your pants. Unable to pull them or rip them away because of your legs around him, he turned around and let go of your ass, making you fall head-first into the floor. An unpleasant cracking was heard and blood splattered in a beautiful halo around your head, and you just healed the concussion shut. The only thing off the floor were your legs, still held at the sides of his hips. He stepped back and pulled your pants off with two hands at the rim and the two belts at the thighs, now sliding down to your knees and shins. When the pants were off, he tossed them to the side and recoiled the belts back into his body.

With now four arms, he crawled over you and pressed your legs apart. Mahito ripped the underwear you had like it was made of paper, throwing the pieces to the side. He held his dick in one hand, gently rubbing the head against your labia.

“God, I'm going to ruin you.” He grinned with a sing-sing tune of pure glee.

You grabbed him by the poncho and pulled him down to your level so you could talk.

“Think I'm not already rotten?” You whispered into his ear and licked your bottom lip, awaiting his response.

Instead of a witty remark, he just buried himself into you until bottoming out. He bit his lip and swallowed a big gulp, and you salivated with lascivious anticipation watching the stitches on his neck rise and fall from the movement.

“Fuck… This is good.” He muttered almost resentfully.

He threw his head back and enjoyed the feeling of your warm cunt. It was slicker than whatever he had before. Deeper. Warmer. Everything about the real thing, with the wetness and interaction of a willing participant, didn't compare to what he had done to transfigured humans, or to corpses, or to himself. Snapping back to reality, he started moving, and without much buildup he went right to pumping into you repeatedly. He was not at all mindful of still having his clothes on, of being on the cold floor, or even recalled being able to transfigure you while he was at it. All he could enjoy was the feeling.

You gripped the cloth falling over his back and started bunching it over his stitched shoulders, tucking his hair out of the way. When you got to the rim, you pulled the poncho over his head and he carelessly shoved it aside, shaking it off of the single arm that was stuck in its segmented sleeve. His hair fell forward with the movement and it now hung over you, grazing and tickling your chest. The view of his abs over you as he pounded was significantly better than a damn windowpane poncho.

Your own hands were busy as you tugged forcefully on a strand of his hair and decided to touch yourself, bringing about the familiar buildup of heat and electricity in the pit of your stomach. He noticed your hand and soon had it joined by an extra mouth, sprouting comically forward from his lower abdomen, right through his treasure trail. The mouth licked right with and over your fingers, and soon you were holding your pussy open for him, pressing down on your labia with your fingers. Their occasional twitching, your body's way to dispel some of the tension it was building.

“Do you want to feel what it's like when something comes around you? When they squeeze with you inside?” You teased, coaxing dirty talk out of him.

“I do… Come and scream my name. Fuck, I want to watch your face while you do it.”

“Then fuck me harder…” You mewled. His thrusts got stronger and he brought one of the arms sustaining his torso to grip your shoulder and push you harder against him with every pound. Your back chafed against the concrete, ripping at the skin of your scapulas. The mouth on your clit latched on and flicked its tongue around, catching the bud repeatedly.

Mahito lifted the last arm that sustained his torso from the floor, putting his weight on your thighs with the other pair. It forced them higher. It made your muscles sting. You unfolded your knees and placed your calves on his shoulders, and the position was riveting. He placed that hand on your mouth, where he pulled your lips, pinched your tongue, enjoyed the drool. Mahito straightened his back, lifting his torso away from your face. He ended up gripping your lower jaw like a handle, his knuckles under your tongue and thumb pressing into the soft spot under your chin. His nails cut the bottom of your mouth and he probably dislocated your jaw a couple of times with his thrusting, but fuck if you cared.

Your eyes rolled over as the heat built up higher and your toes curled around nothing. You thrashed your feet about in restlessness and the hands holding your thighs apart just tightened their grip, wavering with the movement of the muscles underneath them. You called out to him as promised and came around him. The pressure washed away in waves, rolling over you one by one in electric spasms. The tongue in the abdominal mouth flattened against your clit and you let it lick a trail slowly upwards. He could barely process his thoughts when the first spasm jolted your lower region.

“Ma- a- Ah!!” you fumbled your attempt to utter his name a second time.

“Ah...! Shit!” His eyes shot open and his mouth hung agape as you clenched around his dick.

He lost the regularity in his thrusting and let his sight glaze over, twitching at the feeling of your slick. The pulse brought him over the edge, and before your orgasm had fully waived he was moaning and pumping sloppily into you, spurting warm cum through your insides. His moans were even louder than yours, and his arms shook from the pleasure. Your half-lidded eyes framed by sweat met his and he had to shut them and turn his head away so he wouldn't be distracted. He moaned with the shivers that ran down his legs, his abdomen spasming and clenching. The abdominal mouth hung and drooled against your crotch, devoid of mind.

“Shit… you got so tight.” Mahito sighed, catching his breath, still coming down from his high.

“Isn't it so nice? You'll have to make me come again if you want more of that.” you giggled, partly trying to convince him to please you harder.

“Oh, I'll do so much more than make you come.” The man shook his head softly and looked down on you with a grin.

He didn't have such an issue as a refractory period. As soon as his dick went soft, he just made himself a new one and pushed that within you instead.

“Ah… More…” you cooed after his first few thrusts and it gave him a brand new idea.

Without ever pulling out, he made his cock a full double its volume. It shifted with delicious waves to the length of his foot and the thickness of a wrist. You bit your lips feeling its growth inside you, expanding your walls tighter. He pulled it out just to tease and even pushing it back took a little effort. The member stretched you open, the friction helped by all the wet and seed already inside. You felt a tinge of pride in your own pussy for taking it. He went right back to fucking. The pounding of this new dick made you feel so delightfully full, and the mild pain of his tip hitting your cervix was nothing but seasoning to your masochism. He wouldn't slide all the way in, instead he just pushed against the spongy back of your pussy until he felt too much resistance and slid back out, again and again.

The hand he once had in your mouth slithered down to your neck, where it was soon joined by the one that held your shoulder. He now had two hands on your thighs and two on your neck. He put his full weight on your trachea, and he seemed to love the feeling of wrapping his fingers around your small chunk of spine and muscle and grip it tight, with full suffocating intent. You couldn't breathe, but you didn't need to. His rhythmic slams against your cunt translated to his fingers digging harder and harder into your flesh, unrelenting as tugs on a zip tie. Pump after pump after pump, the pressure on your neck and on your cervix mixed in your head. They fought for your attention in turns with whichever felt strongest at any given second.

“Ah… I want to kill you so bad. I wanna blow you up into pieces.” Both arms pressed into your neck hard enough to scrunch it thin, folding the skin into rolls. He admired it as its color transitioned in a spotty gradient from pale to pink to red, to near grape under his fingers.

You couldn't talk, but you ran your finger under his chin and up his cheek, up to the stitches near his ear. You gripped the hair at the back of his head with both hands and held the blue-gray strands tight while he rolled repeatedly into you. He hissed in contentment at the feeling of you around him, at the sight of him around you, at the collapsing of your trachea under his hands. It made him way too aroused.

His gaze dropped slowly to your abdomen again and, with an intrusive thought, he decided to push into you until the base of his shaft. The pain stole your attention fully to your nether region. He pushed past any point of comfort into your cervix and gawked at the sight of your abdomen bulging ever so slightly to accommodate him. The sight made his dick twitch with the will to release. The feeling of pushing into your cervix past its intended size put wonderful pressure against his head. He pumped again and immediately had to stop himself because his stomach was coiling in pleasure against his will.

“Shit… I don't wanna come again already.” He let go of your neck and pulled out of you with haste, leaving with a loud sigh.

The curse panted loudly and stood up with laborious effort. He used this break to get his pants fully off. Both gasped for air, though you had much more of a reason. He wormed his legs out one after the other like boneless noodles and threw the pants in roughly the same direction where his poncho sat on the floor.

“You've made yourself such a gorgeous body.” you sat up and reached forward to grip the stitches in his thighs with admiration. You ran your digits over the raised clamps along the scar lines and resisted the urge to lean forward to kiss them. Mahito had kept human legs, even if the hairy patch around his base was still more like fur than pubes. Everything about his body was perfect to you. He snorted.

“You like it?” His smile widened. “How about this?”

With that, he split the dick mercilessly in half and reshaped both semicircles to the same girth as the first. He now had two wonderful shafts of exquisite size hanging from the soft brown fuzziness of his crotch.

“Fuck…” You whined, wordless except for the blushing in your cheeks and the glistening in your eyes. You scooted closer to him and sat up on your knees to get your mouth to the height where it could ghost over the shafts. You held them and fidgeted with their shapes, occasionally running your tongue along them, kissing their sides and cupping his balls. You looked up at him as you placed a hard lick over one of the tips and then the other in succession, tasting the precum that seeped from both. He could swear his balls ached at the sight.

“Get up and turn around for me?” Mahito grabbed both shafts and stepped back to keep you from worshiping them any longer. You bemoaned the loss, but got up and turned your back to him.

He embraced you with care and placed pecks on your neck. Mahito stretched an arm to the side and pushed the small wooden table that sat in the middle of the room against a wall. He walked forward with you until he had your legs pushing against the table’s edge and both of you faced the wall. You watched with wonder and a tinge of horror as a bramble of independent limbs split from his own and wrapped around the table.

Mahito placed a long, breathy kiss on your nape before putting his palm on your back and bending you over. You let him hold your wrists delicately and put them together above your head. He guided your forearms to lean against the wall, where he gripped them tight, making sure your hands wouldn't go anywhere. Two hands stretched from the table only to hold you by the lats, steadying you. Still carefully, the curse rubbed your shoulders and bent over you. He kissed your back and ran his other three hands down your sides, squeezing your anatomy and rubbing gentle scratches on the fats he could grip.

“You are being so wonderful, sweetheart.” Mahito placed kisses all over your back, his hair dragging ticklish paths along your sides. You looked back at him. The mood seemed to shift to something more loving than you ever expected.

“So caring all of a sudden? What's the matter, are you insecure about the b-- ahh?” He immediately shoved the top shaft inside your pussy until the base, shutting up any cocky comments coming out of you. The pain devolved your words into incoherence.

“You don't think I'm some kid, do you? I enjoy your teasing, but I'm inexperienced, not stupid. I'm being nice because I need you to relax if I want them both in.” He patted your butt and rubbed it in circles with both hands. “So you'll just enjoy it for me, yes?”

“I will… Mahito.” The line left you breathless. He was suddenly so much hotter than you'd thought. So far you thought you'd been commanding him, but it hadn't crossed your mind that he knew what he was doing. He knew what he was doing.

As he was standing behind you, he had a perfect view of your entrance dripping for him and he gripped your asscheeks and hummed while looking down at it. The way your back arched so nicely against him when he rolled his hips into you was almost as riveting and the feeling of the bottom dick rubbing against your clit with his back and forth. He pushed a few times, letting his cockhead rub on the hood of your clit, before he reached one hand around your thigh to your crotch. The man felt for your clitoris and then gave his palm a mouth to eat you out with. His fingers sprawled under your entrance, where he kept slowly rocking against you.

“Not that you don't have something I didn't know, but the missing piece was feeling it. I know plenty. It's… a Mary's room situation.” He kept talking, earnest and lost in thought while his hand sucked and licked your clit, mindlessly rubbing and patting your curves in admiration. The second shaft twitched and smeared precum on the back of his hand. “I guess it's just that… I can be too rough for humans to have any of the good stuff, I assumed I just couldn't get it.”

He placed one palm on your back and you felt the most sensitive spot of your clit peek out and expand, becoming bigger, more sensitive. Within your muscles, nerve endings branched and reached, making the pleasure increase threefold. If before you were casually enjoying his eating out, now you spasmed and lost breath as the feeling moved you dangerously up the drop of a roller-coaster. You whined incoherent.

“But you… You've shown me the pleasure in them.” He lowered his abs over your back again and got close to your ear. Licks, pecks and bites peppered your back, popping up in places you know mouths shouldn't be. “The pleasure of your wet, gorgeous pussy, deep and clenching for me… No dead or unwilling thing has it. You'll come for me again, won't you, dearie?”

“Mahito- I'm- Ah, I'm-!” Your breath hitched with the building electricity.

“That's just what I wanted to hear!” He chuckled with a genuineness that felt out of place.

The roller-coaster stopped for only a second at the peak of chilling anticipation before dropping you into a storm of pleasure, washing away. You moaned without thought, the sound echoing against the walls and bringing heat to your cheeks with the embarrassment of your pathetic noises. Your legs shook and threatened to give in, but he had more than two arms holding you tight. As you came off it your heartbeat thumped in your ears, in your chest, in your clit.

He praised you as you came, closing his eyes to enjoy your spasming velvet walls around his dick. You felt like heaven, tight, swollen to all hell, plush, malleable as a squishy toy. He couldn't believe he'd willingly discarded it as literary hyperbole. It could be as good as he'd imagined, and it was breaking him. The red of Mary's apple, sitting right in front of his eyes.

Before your mind was back to the present, he pulled out his cock dripping with slick and pressed the tip softly against your ass. With the hand that ate you out, he gathered as much wetness and he could on his fingers by rubbing them between your folds and brought that hand to your anus, where his fingers entered you to spread it all around.

He now had one hand holding your arms and one in the small of your back angling your ass up at him, another one that thrusted softly into your anus and a final one held his top shaft, preparing it to enter. You had just come off your orgasm when he pushed the shaft inside, slowly against the resistance of your ring. The burn reminded you, what you'd almost forgotten by now, that his dicks were still unpleasantly too big.

You whined and he reassured you with shushes and pats until he was in to the hilt. “You said I can fuck you up and you can't take this much? You're disappointing me…”

“It's not- a complaint.” You clarified. It really wasn't, the noises you produced were entirely reflexive.

Mahito hummed in agreement and held the bottom shaft that peeked between your thighs. He pumped it with his fist to spread the excessive precum that seeped from the tip. It had been dripping, neglected since you last licked it. He curved it towards your pussy and pushed in. You felt stuffed, entirely full, with no space left for yearning, no matter how much arousal had deepened your canal. Especially with both their sizes, it was entirely too much.

“This… is so crazy good. Even when I'm not doing anything else…” Mahito sighed as he slid leisurely back and forth into the holes, fully devoted to feeling. The pleasure of a slick recipient was doubled, occupying more of his mind than anything else had. He gripped the back of your head without looking and felt the sticky matted dirt of blood on your hair.

“Hm? What's this from?” He removed his hand in surprise.

“You… when you got my pants off.” You murmured.

“I like it.” He brought the hand to his mouth and licked the blood off it. “I think I know what I want to do…”

“I don't care what you do, just fuck me… please…” you whimpered, growing desperate at his stalling. You tried remove your hands from his grip, but they were well secured above your head. He ran that thumb over your knuckles in consolation.

“Hm, like this?” He pulled back and slammed into you in mockery.

“Yes! Please…!” you nodded vigorously.

“Is that so? I think I would rather…” He vexed and extended two of his arms forward, where they wrapped around your neck and forehead to pull your head back as far as it could bend. Your neck ached and your mouth opened wide in an effort to relieve his grip on your neck. “Even like that?”

“Anything… please-!” You begged, filling up his sadistic ego.

“Aye aye then…” he cheerfully agreed.

He held your hip with his only free hand and pounded you, over and over, without restraint. The arms that held you stretched unnaturally long to allow him to straighten his posture and pound with his full body. Grunts left his lips that sounded entirely too hot to be caused just by effort.

Mahito kept a steady rhythm and pulled your head back with his hands, forcing every muscle in the front of your neck to stretch taut. Your sight was confined to your forearms rubbing against the unpainted cement wall. His grip on your wrists turned your skin white, outlined by a flurry of red streaks. You spread your pinkies apart, trying to place your fingers on the wall, but barely achieved it, still restrained by his fist.

The hand on your neck twisted your anatomy, sending bulges of vein and muscle through you like shivers, pulsing your entire body with gross transfiguration. Not only that, but it sharpened, the web of this thumb thinning into a blade's edge and piercing into skin with his grip. You gasped in desperation as it started to dig into muscle and tried to heal the cut shut against his hand. He tightened his grip and shook your neck, back and forth, to dispel your effort.

“No.” His hand pierced further. “Let it run.”

Blood dripped down your torso, tickling your chest in its path and leaving sticky ruby trails in its wake. Drips ran down his arm and over your collarbones, contouring the mounds of your breasts, until they could reach your belly and fall to the ground, heavy with accumulated volume, unable to reach any further down and losing their grip on skin from the shaking of his pounds.

The cut burned like fire, stealing your attention from anything else. To get your focus back down, Mahito slammed into you hard and started sliding the shafts in alternating paces. He didn't need to thrust his hips: they pumped autonomously. The feeling was like nothing you'd ever had, either. You attempted to force words out of the hyperstimulating cacophony of sensations he was putting you through, shaking your attention away just to call his name. You bucked your hips backward into his thrusts, helping his movement in the only way you could.

He wrapped two more arms around your waist, gluing his body to yours again, and gripped the softness right below your ribs. You lost count of how many he had. He curved his fingers inward into the middle of your abdomen, sharpening his fingertips into precise blades, piercing at the skin and gripping as if he were going to pull out chunks with his bare hands. He gripped your fat and rammed his hips deliciously as blood ran piping hot down his forearms. The curse moaned and let his mouth hang agape, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, as the inherent eroticism of entering flesh turned him on so bad he thought he might come immediately. The pained cry that left your mouth went from his ears straight to his dick.

“Fuuuuck.” He leaned down and breathed hard against your back. The shaft in your ass twitched, bringing too much tension to his lower belly, relaying the message that with another second his balls would turn blue. You clenched your hole around it, milking it for release, and he couldn’t hold anything back. It pumped your ass full of seed, spewing jets of white inside you. Mahito placed his forehead against your spine and whined, his mouth ghosting over you with a small string of drool below. His fringe caught on beaded sweat and stuck to your back, but still he never stopped pumping. It was all only from the dick on top, the one that had been in you the longest. The one in your pussy still hurt for release, winding a fiery coil in his stomach.

His palms distorted you, shifting your insides so your flesh would compress and release against him. He was using you, making you a flesh toy, providing squeeze in his own terms. It peeved him for being too little effort from you, too close to what he already knew, but just the puffiness of your cunt against him was novelty enough. He didn't care now that he was in despair, pining for a second orgasm that didn't delay much further.

He came for the second time with cries that seemed almost painful and whipped his spine straight, carelessly forgetting himself and pulling on your head enough to snap it backwards. He moaned pathetically with the shakes of every muscle and attempted to rock his hips with faltering success. He let go of the grip in every hand and dropped his sweat-covered frame over you, pushing your body down into the table.

“Ah… ah… are you- alive?” He asked meekly at your limp, unmoving frame. He'd done things that would kill a human a few times, but he wondered if this had been too much.

“I told you I would be.” You replied with equally breathless lilt from underneath.

Happiness painted his perspective in pink and he recoiled all but two arms back while the main pair slithered underneath to hug you tenderly. The sticky layer of blood made his hug that much warmer in the literal sense, giving tangibility to the figurative warmth of his thanks. He pulled you tight into his embrace, and you folded your arms over your shoulders to pat his head on your nape, both waiting for their breaths to settle.

“I know it's been dragging out for long, but still… I don't want it to stop.” Mahito turned to nuzzle the side of your head. “I still wish I had more… more of the things only you can give.”

You pushed yourself off the table, forcing him to slip out of your holes and lift himself off as well. You turned to him and cuffed his chin to bring his lips down on yours, kissing him with sloppy nods, which one could almost mistake for a loving trade of affection. He wrapped his bloodied hands on your back, dragging trails that mixed with sweat to smear more than they should. Your lips separated and your eyes met his mismatched pair, half-lidded and full of wonder.

“Tell me…” you whispered into his lips with confidence he had expected to have snuffed out after all this.

“I want to experience your body more…” He licked his bottom lip, unable to divert his eyes from yours. “Let me find out how much I can dismantle you before you break”.

“If you still have the vigor, I'll give you something that you really never had from your attempts.”

You pushed him backwards, making him stumble with crooked steps and fall on his ass. His smile spread further than humanly possible when you got down and crawled over him, dressed in a stained scarf of blood that licked your entire torso in red.

You kneeled at the sides of his hips and reached down to ride him.

#mahito x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk x reader #mahito #mahito smut #fanfic #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #smut #dead dove do not eat

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sunbl3achedfly · 6 months ago

Text

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?

Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33

Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!

5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)

part one

masterlist

When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.

You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.

"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."

Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.

On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.

Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”

You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.

The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.

They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.

But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.

Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.

"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.

"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.

Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.

From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.

She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!

His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.

"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."

There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.

“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.

The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.

You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.

You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.

“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.

The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”

You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.

Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.

When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.

Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”

You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.

The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.

You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.

The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.

“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.

You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”

His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.

“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.

The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”

You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.

Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."

You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.

Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”

The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”

You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”

But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”

Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.

"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."

Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.

You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.

There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“He—he used different embalming tools.”

Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.

Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.

The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.

The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”

Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.

His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.

Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”

You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.

“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”

Another flash—

The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.

The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.

Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.

“What else?” he asked, voice strained.

You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.

You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.

“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”

You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.

Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.

“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"

Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.

"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."

A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.

Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”

“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.

“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.

Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.

You weren’t alone in this.

And for now, that was enough.

As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.

The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.

“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”

You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.

“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.

Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.

You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.

"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”

Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”

“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”

You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”

Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.

“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.

There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.

He finally spoke, "Why?"

You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”

Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.

"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."

Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."

You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."

Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.

Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."

Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”

“For staying,” you said simply.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”

You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.

After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.

Freedom. Finally.

Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.

“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”

Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”

You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”

“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.

The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.

You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”

He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”

Spencer shot you a look.

You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”

You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.

“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.

You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He froze.

“Oh.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”

Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”

He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”

You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.

As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.

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solspina · 8 months ago

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Absolution in Angelism

Luis Dante ⋆˙⟡

trapped within an endless and grotesque night terror, dante realizes that he’s been here a million times before. with his serf finally losing her title and nothing changing, something has to be done.!

have part two to my dante blurb because i can’t find motivation to write rn :( so sorry if this feels rushed!

tw: heavy descriptions of gore

tags: @ottobooty @kit-williams @moodymisty

the pulpy floor seemed to yield with every step dante took forward. blood splashed onto the golden calves of his armor with every sickening squelch the ground made, occasionally accompanied by the snapping and cracking of fragile and decayed bones. trapped pockets of air were released from the endless heap of flesh beneath his feet, emitting muffled gurgling in their wake. the air was thick with the stench of rot and putrescence, and it pooled in his throat with every shallow breath.

this was no battlefield; he had walked through those before and come out relatively unfazed. he had seen the bodies of his brothers, and been able to identify each one by their faces and mourn them as individuals. that wasn’t the case this time. instead, each face engraved into this unholy amalgamation of human meat was indistinguishable. if he looked hard enough, he could make out the shapes of different body parts. hands, feet, arms, faces here and there, all cauterized together into an unholy organic mixture.

but the sights, the horrors, were no longer new.

dante had been here before.

the soles of his boots were soaked in shimmering crimson, the gold underneath providing a metallic finish to the display of gore beneath him. he used to tremble at such an image, completely appalled by the gore and putrid smell of decay within this world. now, though, he simply continued walking.

the emotions this place had brought forth in him before now felt minuscule in comparison to what took their place.

he once hesitated to cut away at the arms that reached up to pull him down, for although this mound of flesh was undoubtedly a hive, each limb seemed to react to his presence as if it were an individual. the arms would recoil in pain, the hands would be crushed beneath his feet with a deafening crack, the faces would release guttural and piercing screams from their throats before blood erupted from their mouths as they choked.

axe mortalis no longer spared them it’s mercy.

once he believed them innocent. once he believed them individuals, some form of human.

but they tormented him. night after night they dragged him back into this morbid, pungent smelling nightmare. night after night they made him watch his personal serf be cradled in the arms of his beloved primarch, had his primarch been a bloodthirsty and hideous monster. night after night he watched die the woman who made him wish to keep living, her death unwanted but granted by the hands of the demi-god who had denied him the death he both wished for and deserved.

“dante…”

accompanied by his thoughts were the apparitions he had walked for miles to see.

she lay limp and nude in sanguinius’ arms, a familiar sight to the now scowling dante. the lips of the angel were wrapped in tight suction around the skin of her neck, and tears fell from her sorrowful and pained eyes.

many times, he had fallen to his knees and pleaded this monster for mercy. he had allowed it a thousand times to torment both him and the helpless serf in its arms. he no longer cared. he was not real, and neither was the blood dripping from axe mortalis or the endless sea of limbs that reached up to claim him. the fear, the sadness, the pain, all faded into resentment for this mockery of his primarch.

how dare it wear the face of the angel.

his expression remained unchanging as he pulled infernus from his waist and aimed at the chest of the false sanguinius, his hands steady and his voice firm as he spoke to the mimic.

“get your hands off of my wife.”

it’s lips departed from the woman’s neck as it’s face contorted into both confusion and shock. dante was not afraid of him? what had happened to the trembling and sobbing man that used to fall to its knees in anguish? was it abnormal in the modern world to use weaker serfs for blood letting?

no, dante had become just as much a terrifying spectre as the false sanguinius had. blood found itself on his body from head to toe, and he showed no sign of hesitation in pulling a gun on his beloved primarch.

“get your hands,” dante readied the great infernus, placing his finger on the trigger and closing one of his eyes. “off of my wife.”

“dante…”

his wife turned toward him, still caged in sanguinius’ arms, trembling as blood fell from her chin in waterfalls. her breathing remained shallow, now accompanied by wheezing and the occasional moan of pain as the angel dug sharp fingernails into her skin. blood trickled from those wounds, too.

“i love you, dante…”

his eyes closed at the bright flash of white light that consumed his vision.

with a hiss and the ringing of his ears, all had gone still.

had sanguinius killed him?

had he been pulled under again?

no. he could still feel the squelching of meat under his armor. he could still see red all around him. red, and only red. not the shining gold of noble armor or the white of two perfect wings…

red, and only red.

he had pulled the trigger.

he woke with a sharp intake of air, but without his heart skipping a beat this time.

he let out a sigh of relief, for the lack of him jolting awake meant that his peacefully sleeping wife could remain in her state of blissful rest. he looked upon her features, something he was seldom able to appreciate when she was merely his serf, a title much too low for someone of her beauty and compassion.

she had been up nearly every night with him, increasingly so after their marriage. bags had begun to develop under her eyes as a result of her constantly interrupted sleep.

maybe he would allow her rest this morning, rather than wake her to join him for his morning routine. a celebration, he would see it as, for their nightly routine was over.

finally over.

he had little time until his day would begin, and so he lay back down. his body faced the sleeping woman, his eyes continuing to memorize every centimeter and detail of her face.

he lay still for many moments, fighting the urge to close his eyes again and slip into the first peaceful dream he would have in years, a liberty only afforded due to his newfound protectiveness over his wife. for being his wife meant he could treat her as a serf no longer, she gave him duty to attend to… that of her life in the false primarch’s hands.

even after everything he had done both in his dreams and in the waking world, deserving this felt impossible.

it was death that he deserved. the sweet release of death, not the warm and loving embrace of a woman he once held in servitude and only recently brought up to his level. she deserved better long ago.

he moved his hand to gently remove a stray hair from her head, placing his palm down on her cheek once her hair had been tucked securely behind her ear. one final moment in bed to remember throughout the day, a reason to look forward to the next period of rest.

with a kiss placed gently to her forehead, he rose from the comfort of the sheets, immediately missing her warmth, wondering if he could make an excuse for not tending to his duties today.

no. he was responsible for half of the imperium. those duties could not wait.

though they would, if it were ever her need.

he walked toward his door, sparing her one final gaze before he turned his attention to axe mortalis, taking it in his hand as it surged to life with power at his touch, just as she had done to him. his spare hand reached for the keypad on the door, pausing to gaze at the foreign object taped over the numbers by the handle.

a paper, an incredibly small one in which words were inscribed upon its surface with the same pristine delicacy that dante’s smile held as he read over the writing.

“i love you, dante”

#primarch x reader #dante x reader #luis dante x reader #40k x reader #warhammer x reader #luis dante

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bleedingichorhearts · 2 months ago

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Hi <33 Can I ask for something angst with Nurgle? Thank you<33

“Angst? For Nurgle? Out of all the gods you could despair? Man, you got me thinkin. It was a bit hard to make somethin' up for him with no direction.” - Ichor

Summary - “Nurgle kept you too long by his side without thinking of his your mortal body could handle his power.”

TW // Angst-Ish, Death, Gore? Flash Fiction(543).

Nurgle was a bit oblivious to the blights of the mortal body like a Great Unclean one to a Nurgling.

He hadn’t kept in mind that a mortal cannot survive within his domain. It didn’t even cross his mind. He honestly thought you would be resistant like Isha, but… he should have known better. The mortals were always a bit… weak… not that he judges his potential children.

Now, here he stands with your dead, rotting body in the cusp of his hand. It should have been something he would coo and faun over, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not this time. He will not make this mistake of his to be keen of, for he loved creation, not death. Death destroys his gardens while creation keeps them alive.

Except, creation of his couldn't keep you alive. His creation took instead of evolving; recreating you. It took what shouldn't have been taken, and he didn't even bother. He thought you were fine and dandy in that little cage of yours.

He could revive you in his own way, but that would make you... to obeying. Too... less of you. He could ask Tzeentch, but again, that won't be... you. Not only that but he's not one to go to Tzeentch out of all beings of gods. They conflict with one another, and he wouldn't trust that he would switch up his little mortal with their power. So, he does the next best thing, or so he thinks it is.

He stores you like some ingredient for his cauldron of disease, and that's what you have become, an ingredient.

He uses you for only the best recipes. Never taking more than he should from your body that grows maggots, worms, flies, acid, gasses and surprisingly? Mushrooms. Never taking any bones like: fingernails, and well... your skeleton. He wouldn't take your hair either, and if a curious Nurgling gets too close to your body of internal rot? They are getting squished, even a Great Unclean One and Champion knows better than to potentially show greed around the most precious ingredient of his meals.

Sometimes, the God of Decay lays and curls around you, hoping to feel that warmth you used to give, but instead he just feels the coldness of you. He just smells the mildew and delicious decay of your body. You weren't alive, your body wasn't. Your soul, however? Is stored in an overly protected place within his garden. Strings of pulsing, soft pink flesh wrapping around your casing as if you were a caterpillar getting ready to become a butterfly. Yet, that would never come unless it had to be ultimately done. Unless your soul wishes to leave and infect another body.

If your soul has a drive to do so, he would let it and follow. His spirts high for a recreation and capture of you. All while reminding himself that he needs a way to not let you rot once more within his care, but until that happens? Your soul is stuck in a ball of flesh, and your body used for the best soups and foods, made by his own hands.

You had just become another essential in his plagues. A more special one at that.

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

#🗡️ichors’ warhammer request’s #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #nurgle #nurgle x reader #chaos god #tw: angst #tw: death

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hauntingmiser · 1 year ago

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[ GORE WARNING AND SPOILERS FOR P4/ P4G IG idk????? But yeye ]

MERMAY DAY XXIX ?

sooner or later the investigation heard noises coming from the middle of the fog ever since teddie's submarine was put down in the middle of the fog

The team settled to go to the bottom middle of the fog and put an end to the curse once and for all

until they heard a sore throat yet horse voice calling one of their team members name........

"hₐₙₐ-cₕₐₙ....." the voice said, suddenly yosuke was shocked and questioning if he had heard this voice before and then it clicked on him, it was that girl the one that yu found when he was in his evening swim and the one that he met in June's and so after realizing that voice he shouted through the fog and called her name by the amount of luck he has

"HUH!.....S-S-SAKI!?" yosuke said stuttering his own words

she approached the investigation team and from that day forward, yosuke was all correct all along....

" 𝗛 𝗔 𝗡 𝗔 ~ 𝗖 𝗛 𝗔 𝗡 !!!!!! "

"....oh god......" yukiko feared "this can't be....right?"

" I believe so..." yosuke frightenly answered

The fog covered the team's vision, then vanishing the only to find a merzombie corpse approaching them slowly.....oh god

It's her......

saki....konishi.....the second victim of the crystal curse of "mother nature"

what did this to her? If teddie was right about the biomechanical warfare and that means...

The investigation team had no choice but to attack her and kill her just to keep going until they find the center of the fog

#saki konishi #persona 4 golden #persona 4 #konishi saki #ladies and gentlemen I give you zombie mermaid free of charge also she's a blue fish and before she was like this she was the daughter of #her father's business there was one day when her father told her to take out the trash and the trash can was at the far bottom of #and she swim with no hesitation until when she took out the trash she noticed two green crystals she decided to take a little one #for herself to show it to her father #but it was very heavy like really heavy the point where her hands got stuck in the sand and it was really bad when it decayed on impact and #mutated and mutilated her flesh into large claws #she yelled help at the stasis of her throat being on fire because it feels like the radiation is coming for her neck next #the father came in and noticed her daughter in trouble he tried to help her but he couldn't for no avail #he gave up only to get sick immediately and fall down #and in many days later she cried and cried and cried #but nobody seem to help her it was like she was chosen to be lost alone even #but I'm so sorry for your loss #she's become one of the fog now #and she's vengeful yet sad #anime and manga #mermay 2024 #mermay #but at least she gets to meet her guy friend lol #also my apologies if this Lore became really bad I'm having burnout / don't feel like doing shit I apologies for being late #it pretty much shows #anyways I'll try not do anything “late to the party”( yet ) anymore so goodbye!#tw : gore #because she's a zombie!!!!!#blehh :3

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thequeenofcurses · 6 months ago

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Where You Left Me (Part 1)

Part 2 ->

summary: based off this post by @yeagersss | Zombie AU. Sukuna x f!Reader Sukuna has always been a survivor in a world overrun by the undead. But when he finds himself tethered to you, survival takes on a new meaning. As the walkers close in Sukuna must confront the question: How far would he go to protect the one thing he can’t afford to lose?

wk: 850 tw: uh zombie stuff and people dying/violence ig. smut later maybe? sry i'm not good a tws

Sukuna’s heavy black boots hit the ground with a crunch, as he stomped on a skin bag. It’s brains sticking to his heel. The smell of the flesh rotting filled his nose. He wiped his feet and searched the corpse for anything useful. Nothing. Damn it.

The air was thick with decay, and flies buzzed around the corpses littering the ground. The faint rustle of leaves in the wind kept him on edge, it could be nothing or something far worse

CLICK! CLACK!

Another zombie appeared behind him. And then another. And another. “Tch,” he shook his head. Where the hell do these things keep coming from? His group cleared this area days ago. “Let’s dance dead fucker,” he said with a cocky smile.

He pulls out his machete from his side pocket, turns, and immediately lobotomizes the closest zombie. The next two take an off angle, walking at him from both his front and back. Making a quick decision, Sukuna kicks the front walker with powerful force, causing it to fall backward.

He raised his machete just in time as a shadow darted to his left. A decayed hand shot out, fingers clawing at his boot. With a growl, he stomped hard, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the air.

Now, a one v one, Sukuna takes on the zombie at his back. The rotten skin bag throws its arms forward, desperately trying to get a grip to bite him. Effortlessly dodging, Sukuna ducks, left, right, then uppercuts the zombie with his machete. One left. It was still on the ground, barely managing to crawl forward at him. Its decaying teeth rattled as they chomped and clicked up and down, wanting a bite of his flesh. “Die you ugly thing,” Sukuna commanded as he stepped on its neck. Just to be safe, he sliced at its head, destroying its brain.

"Y/n," he growled under his breath, scanning the area. His chest tightened as he glanced over his shoulder, his grip on the machete tightening. Where the hell are you?

You were supposed to be watching his exit, yet somehow three lamebrains managed to get in behind him.

Sukuna lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he sees you.

He didn’t understand why his chest felt lighter when he saw you running toward him, dirt and blood covering your hands. Relief wasn’t something he allowed himself to often feel, but here it was, twisting inside him. It infuriated him how easily you could be taken from him, how little control he had in this godforsaken world.

“Sorry,” you panted heavily, running up to his side. Your hands were covered in dirt and dry blood. “I was dealing with some walkers outside and a few managed to get by me. I’m sorry.”

He nods and shrugs off your apology. “I’m fine,” he affirms. He wipes off the blood on the walker's clothes and holsters his machete back at his side. “You alright?” You don’t notice it, but Sukuna’s eyes scan your whole body, checking for injuries.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I didn’t think there’d be so many stragglers here so soon.”

“Where’s Sora?” he questioned. It was his damn idea for us to come out here again. “I don’t know how much longer we should—”

“Foun' 'em!” Sora chirped, his accent grating on Sukuna’s nerves. “Cheers for havin’ me back!” He stuffed the books into his bag, and Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. Too quick, too suspicious. “With these books, we'll surely boost our farm at the camp, so we might even whip up a bit o' medicine!”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, but nodded all the same. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he waved him off. “I still want those extra food rations for this.”

“Got it, lad,” Sora confirmed. “Ye two 'ave been a grand help in our group, so ye have.” With that, Sora finished gathering all his items and zipped up his bag. “Let’s head on back?” Taking point, Sora leads the long walk back to camp, with you and Sukuna following a few feet behind together.

In actuality, Sukuna walked a half-step behind you, scanning the trees for movement. His machete stayed within reach, even though the area seemed quiet. Just in case.

You walk side by side with the tall tattooed man who once intimidated you. Now, you can’t imagine ever leaving his side. “What were you trying to tell me earlier?” You remember his early statement which got cut off.

“Tell ya later,” he gruffly responds. You see his eyes staring at Sora’s back.

“Okay,” you acknowledged. We don’t have secrets, he pondered. She’ll get the hint. The rest of the walk back, Sukuna made sure you stayed hydrated. It was only a two hour and a half journey, but anything can happen or go to shit immediately in this cursed world.

You were the only thing he had left in his life, and he’ll be damned if he lets you get taken from him. As annoying as Sora’s accent was, he preferred hearing him yap over the new quietude.

The quiet unsettled him. In this world, silence was never a gift; it was a warning.

Part 2 -> ryomen sukuna

#jjk #jjk fanfic #zombie #zombie au #the walking dead #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x oc #divider by cafekitsune #divider by kodaswrld #sukuna smut #jjk smut #later maybe #z nation #crossover au

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

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Title: Idol Worship.

Pairing: Yandere!Devil x Reader (Christianity).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Consensual Sex, Size Difference, Implied (Past) Injury To Reader, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Scarring, and Themes of Religious Trauma.

The path to His throne was paved with salt and brimstone.

Smoldering rock burnt into the soles of your feet like ember, taken fresh from the heart of the fire. Living corpses, their rotting flesh deteriorating further with ever fraught breath, laid motionless on either side of the crumbling archway, their milky eyes watching your every stumbling movement. The air was heavy with smoke and sulfur, but the buzzling of unseen insects, the stench of the decay – that was all kept in your peripheral. It was meant for someone else, someone whose crimes were far more violent and far more damning than your own. Your fate was elsewhere.

The ascent was made no easier by your anticipation, the steps carved from black onyx and made steep enough to warrant your immediate and self-inflicted dehumanization, to force you to your hands and knees in your effort to scramble upward – ever upward, as if you hadn’t yet had enough of the blinding sky. Rough granite tore into the skin of your palms, but the agony was minimal, a shadow something greater that would not numb you to more intentional agony. The heat, too, was distant, rolling over you in tender waves and seeping under your skin to coil around your ribs, to weave in and out of ragged tears in your mutilated veins. Something snapped inside your chest as you finished your climb, fresh blood washing over your aching throat, but any pain you might’ve felt faded away as a great hand descended from the clouds of smog and ash, His calloused fingertips digging into your waist, your stomach as He took you up and placed you, gingerly, on His silk-clad thigh. His touch lingered, a thumb running over your scalp as He spoke. “Oh, my glorious one,” His voice was deep and flat and beautiful. “What have they done to you?”

Anything they could. Everything they could. Your body was still plagued with the phantoms of it, the frigid cold of steel and iron against flesh and bone. You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, muted by means beyond your own. You frowned, more frustrated than you were surprised, but He did not share in your disappointment. “They are sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.” After a beat, He added, “I will not be so forgiving.”

His hand began to pull away, but you scrambled after of it, latching onto His wrist in a futile effort to hold Him that much closer. An airy chuckle fell from Him unmoving muzzle – His golden, slit-pupiled eyes remaining focused on some distant point as He took you into His hold once again, lifting you first to His own height. For the first time, he moved in earnest – tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against yours. “The reason the Son appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work, for the thief comes only to steal and destroy.” His breath was cool against your skin, even as anger seeped into His tone. “And now, instead, you are asked to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.”

It was more of a croak than a proper plea, hoarse and fractured at all the wrong angles. Still, you managed it, your own small hands pressed into the swell of His palm. “Please, my lamb.”

He seemed to catch himself, inhaling sharply as He shook His head. “My apologies, I forget my audience. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” You nuzzled closer to Him, and He allowed you a moment of solace before pulling away, straightening Himself to His most dignified stature. “We have been separated for no short time. Tell me, will you not gratify the desires of the flesh?” A note of humor, a forked tongue allowed to skirt gingerly over your neck. “Will you not allow me to show the length of my devotion?”

You didn’t need to answer, it was a given that you would. His delicate tongue ran over the lacerations on your calves, your thighs - smearing dried blood and soothing open wounds. It flicked upward, lapping at the twin scars on either side of your chest, then the bruises painted across your collarbones, around the base of your throat. His hand shifted, wrapping around your waist, His hold firm and steady as He lowered you onto his length. There were other options – as many shapes and variations as a lustful heart could dream of – but His cock was among His most impressive features. The shaft alone matched your arm in length and your midriff in girth, and yet, it pierced you without resistance, filling you to the brim before He was so much as half-sheathed inside of you. Your knees pressed into his lap, your hand grasping for purchase against his broad chest, but you felt no fear, nor was your exertion necessary in the face of His willingness to serve. He let out a raspy breath, allowing His head to lull back as He thrust gently into you from below. “Earthly one, glorious one,” The pet name fell from His lips like milk and butter and honey. “We will lead each other astray. We will be the force by which the greatest love is defined.”

A growl of a moan as your walls clenched around Him, a sharp snap of His hips. “We will be bound together in perfect harmony,” His hand found the underside of your chin, tilting your head back with only the upmost delicacy. “And those who try to separate us will face only the most just of retribution.”

Your eyes met His, that wonderous gold melting into softened mortality. Where there should have been revulsion, there was only warmth, only light. Foolishly, for a moment, you allowed yourself to scorn the shine of the heavens, to loathe all things that were not Him.

You allowed yourself to believe that you would need nothing else, not so long as His gaze fell upon you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere oc #yandere god #yandere demon #yanderecore #yancore

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grim333z · 5 months ago

Text

Aurora ~

Carl x gn!reader

Word count : 8417

{this is so very towl inspired}

TW: brief mention of a suicide attempt, blood-loss, scars, usual twd gore.

Angst with an itty bitty bit of fluff

[I just kinda died for you

You just kinda stared at me

We will always have that chance

We can do this one more time]

You only had one goal at this moment in time, clearing the camp of walkers, their god awful rotting figures nearing in on the camp, nearing closer to each and every community you'd fought with everything in you to simply just keep up and running; the bridge you'd spent the past three months on a direct route to each community, oceanside, Alexandria, the kingdom, hilltop, the sanctuary. And Walkers simply couldn't be the thing to take it all out, take everything you'd fought and lost so many for. Your heart thrums in your ears as you scramble to find something that could help, your fingers fiddling around to find the smooth polished wood of the handle of your gun, sitting in its worn leather holster dangling from your hips; perhaps it was the sheer adrenaline running through you causing the fiddling.

The moans from the dead whom should be buried echo in the trees around you, the groaning and stumble of undead feet ringing through hardened soil. You spot a few lone stragglers far off in the distance, their rot darkened and decaying flesh blending in with the trees. It had been so long since all of it started you'd yet to grasp the reasoning behind why they're still standing, surely they'd have rotted or starved over the years, but hell you still didn't know why they even started standing in the first place.

The smell of damp moss, soil and long-rotting flesh pierces your nose, still fumbling for some clue on how to drag yourself out of an unfortunate situation, till the faint nickering of a tied up horse rings some where in the distance. Scrambling to your feet, heaving yourself up on a log bench, stumbling towards the source of the noise. The animal could've been surrounded in the horde, part of you knew you it was more than likely a pile of half chewed flesh and organs awaiting. Still you cling to the small glimmer of hope lingering within you that the horse was still living, it was a start.

They were called walkers for a reason, they walk. On a horse going at a steady pace you could easily lead the mass of dead somewhere far enough away to at least deal with later, with time to formulate a plan, gather the masses to assist in whatever needs to happen. You'd diverted plenty of hordes before, they had some kind of...migration pattern? seemingly surrounding the community's during early autumn and migrating off during the spring, albeit in a smaller group. Over the past few years most of the groups had grown accustomed to how the walkers behave, finding longer trips easier in winter when their movements pull to a halt each time they freeze, ending buried beneath snow and ice till they thaw in the warmth of a January sun.

The growls grow louder...like the horde is seemingly getting closer. Then you spot it, you'd taken the wrong route, having stumbled upon one of the more unsteady bridges, large metal rods poke out from where they'd warped and broken over years of unmaintained usage large chunks of brittle concrete fall into the river below. The horse lets out a sound of something that can only be described as fear, before the cold searing pain of metal violating through flesh rings through your body. No longer looking down at the pale path around you, though the sky, the warm sun beating down on your face hot against your skin, before the growling once again hits your ears.

The cold crimson of blood graces your hands as you feel for the wound, part of you cant even fathom if its even really their, or if the heat and your lack of water is playing tricks on you. But know, the sight of your hand dripping in none other than your own blood, seeping into the cracks and valleys of your hands. Your eyes will themselves to look down, to be met with the sight of a thick jagged piece of shrapnel sticking itself out of your side, surrounded by a mass of throbbing flesh. You knew it was never a fantastic idea to pull a what you'd been stabbed with out, right now that piece of metal was keeping a fair amount of blood inside of you. Though met with a horde of nearly a thousand walkers you decide dealing with a gaping hole was an issue for later, and avoiding being eaten alive a more pressing issue at the moment.

The rumbling of the horses hooves are long gone by now, just the hungry wines and moans of the undead, the drumming of their feet, dragging on the floor as they walk. seemingly refusing to rot. Your eyes dart around the environment, searching for something to almost hoist you from your compromised position...without causing anymore damage; the task feeling practically impossible.

The vibration of feet against ground draws closer as the thrum of your own heartbeat raises in your ears, fingers fiddling with your belt having spot a rusty piece of metal sticking out from above you, wincing as your adrenaline fuelled movements jostle the wound awkwardly. Having paused for a breath you throw the belt up to the jagged piece of metal, watching the worn leather loop over the top of it.

Inhaling deeply through your nose you pull yourself up and off the metal which had violated its way through your throbbing side, the sudden movement and blood loss sending you dizzy, a sharp nausea raising in your throat as you try and pull yourself together. Swallowing down the sick feeling, unsure if its the sheer adrenaline running full force through your veins or the fact you're actively bleeding out. The sweat on your skin has suddenly grown heavy and your eyelids are all too aware of their desire to close, and your willingness to keep them open.

Trudging along the paths in hope to make it back to the camp to at least patch yourself up. You manage to keep up a pace to go just faster than the hungry masses behind you, god knows where you're leading them, full circle would be worse than never ever starting. Though a distraction, diversion really could buy you some time to inform someone from some community that you're fucking dying surrounded by a horde.

Then you spot it, the same pale white horse you'd been perched upon before she'd decided to throw you onto a piece of sharp metal, chewing grass beside a small worn down shack, grinding each blade between her teeth like there's nothing to fear.

You huff in relief, horses were faster than nothing. Lumbering over to the horse and pulling yourself up fighting back unconsciousness. The red stains the horses coat as you lurch forward, deciding holding yourself upright and facing the dizziness simply wasn't worth it. You feel the blood ebb from between where you'd been fighting to almost hold it inside, seeping from the shallow valleys between each finger. Your fading sideways vision of your surrounding ripples and flows in and out darkening as you feel your eyelids grow heavy. You keep telling yourself not long now... not long till what exactly? you're not sure. Death? perhaps or help? forcing yourself to simply keep going, it was the least you could put mind to doing.

Slipping from conscious, you see the prison? far off in the distance, the group sat around a small fire in the middle of a once walker infested field, chewing on something Daryl must've caught, You're in the circle but you're not seeing through your own eyes, Beth is singing, her voice doesn't sound how you remember it though, quietened by the distance and muffled, like theres some static buzzing constantly trying to drown it out.

Though pulling you back to consciousness is the almost sweet earthy sent of rot is never ever far behind, the groans whom fade in and out of your mind, like your ears are giving you short reminders of what needs to happen.

and you're back again, though knees pressed into the cold sharpness of gravel as Negan sings his speech, and yet you're looking at yourself, sat along side the rest of them, his words almost echoing around you. Then there's the hard crack of wood against skull. You blink... and you're once again surrounded by masses of walking dead, hunched over on the bony back of a horse as you stain its snow white coat with a cherry wine crimson.

Then their it is, the camp... the tents soft fabric fluttering in the wind and the sent of a long put out fire stings the air still... You hoist yourself off the horse, watching the large animal head to where it knows its meant to be.

The ground beneath your feet feels like its moving when you know its not, the feeling of cold damp sweat forcing the fabric of your clothes to stick to your skin. Theres a strange fuzzy feeling in the ends of each limb, and a weird static feeling ringing like its near enough to be right next to you or far enough away to be humming continuously in the distance.

Then someone calls your name, fuzzy and muffled by the sudden pounding in your head and your astute knowledge that you're in some serious shit.

Your own head feels heavy on your neck and the blood has yet to cease its stream, pulsing from you with no intent to stop. You can't figure out who's called your name, their voice muffled and distorted by what can only be chalked up to as your blood loss. Each breath that goes in is deep and heavy but never satisfying to what you need, like you cant keep up with the pace your heart is beating at.

Then theirs more voices, and it's unclear if its one persons words echoing in your mind or that of several peoples, hell who knows if you're even actually hearing it. The source of the voices is soon spotted to be a huddle of sort of familiar faces, on the bank across from the bridge, looking up at you, as you stumble over your own feet, staggering around like you're not far of joining the huddle of walker friends behind you.

Shit the walkers, you huff in before willing your legs to just fucking move, letting your feet fall to their own rhythm, your lips realising fast sucked in gasps after each movement. The shuffling of uncoordinated feet and never ending snarls thrumming behind your weak frame is more than enough to push you forward. You weren't dead yet, so you had to keep going. After making it this far, death quite simply wasn't on the table for you. Taken out by walkers was not the way you planned on going out.

The opposite side of the bridge approaches faster than you expect it to, turning to face the sea of snapping teeth and rotting limbs. Knees feeling like they're inches from caving, sending you too the floor. A small lingering yearning for this to simply end sticks in the back of your throat. Wondering if giving in to the snarling jaws of the dead would be easier than pushing through, forcing your knees to keep you upright. You'd never wished for an easy route before though. Why start now?

The dizziness somehow grows, your jaw hanging limp as you force more air into your lungs, feeling the saliva build in your mouth and your face grow pale and clammy, coughing out in attempt to rid yourself of the sickness building within.

Looking around for some kind of solution... something to wrap your wound or divert the walkers, a flare to fire in the distance maybe or a bomb... you spot them, fallen from a cart on the bridge, the bright red coating lighting up light a heaven sent solution. Your fingers fiddle for the handle of your gun, hell going out this way was better than being eaten alive. Gripping the cold handle as your arms raise aiming at the explosives.

"What the fuck? what are you doing?" Carl...? Sure you'd seen people on the bank but had you been imagining them...? then it is again, his voice and you know for certain he's speaking to you. "Don't be an idiot..." He Yells, voice laced with a thick layer of panic as you tilt your head to look at him, the dizziness punishing your movement.

The boy looks over at you, being held back by both Rick and Michonne, fighting the two grown adults grip, like he'd nearly got himself killed to reach you. "Let me go, they're clearly hurt" His voice is strained and hopeless as he writhes in their grip, trying his best to yank himself from their restraint.

"Carl..?" The word falls from between your lips, Shakey and pained. He wont have heard it, though he probably gathered from the look on your face as your lips fell ajar.

You force your gaze away from him, back on mission. Pulling the trigger before you even allow a chance at second thoughts, The blow is hard and fast, hot against your already clammy skin.

You find yourself waking up once again in the same plainly decorated bedroom, the cold grey light pours in through the one small window, the same three wind turbines spinning as they have each morning for the past god knows how many years. The gentle hum of the air con blowing cold stale air around the four suffocating walls. You'd never not felt like a Guinea pig being tested on or a rat in a cage; the freedom they pretend you have is an illusion.

You haven't truly been in the moment since that day happened, each person you knew seemingly fading from memory till all you see when your eyes shut is the snarling teeth of dozens of walkers Infront of you and the cold metal of the trigger of your gun. The faces are the first to go, then the voices, its hard to match what someone sounds like when you can't imaging their lips moving as they speak, it wasn't one person at a time, more like chunks of memories, fading leaving the scenes empty in your head.

Sat around a campfire you were sure someone else was sat with you, maybe a group...maybe someone singing. Or the end of a train tracks, there was a sign though the letters no longer form, and theirs just the cold ghost of a group you're not sure if you imagined or not, wandering around each empty community, no one to be seen. Just to wake up in the same place, do the same training, wear the same uniform and act the same. 7am wake up, 7:30 breakfast, 8am morning meeting, 9 am close contact training, 10am helicopter training, then back for lunch at 11 just to be swept back to the outer edge of the compound to plunge a hand designed spear into the mushy brains of roaming rotting hunks of flesh what were once humans.

Each squelch of flesh and crack of skull, ticking off another one and another one till your last name ends up painted onto the brick wall with the top kills number written out next to it. A big 97. Most kills in this section.

They knew what you were, what they had planned for you. Labelled as an "A". They had labels for their civilians, Bs and As. Bs are people simply trying to stay alive and are let into the community via the Consignment Program. Survivors who are encountered by the group are let in, though not for free, having them do janitorial work, clearing walkers to earn their place, However they killed As on spot, fearing their ability to organise and inspire a revolt, risking uproar in the community's. They lacked mercy, finding removing potential threats before they become threats easier.

That didn't stop them from mischaracterising you initially, hell that was the only reason you weren't amongst the hoards of walking dead, listing you as a B. Unsurprising in the state you were in, bleeding out on a river bank. They figured you out not long after, pulling you into a secrete developing part of the Military.

They called themselves the "CRM" or the "Civic Republic Military." a high tech community somehow hidden from any one else, you'd grown to know their dirty secrets over time. Bombing the city's near by, ending every community to discover them. No one could leave for fear they'd be discovered, cause some type of dispute. You'd tried to escape nearing on five times. Surprisingly they asked you to join the military They had plans for you, to pick and scrape at your flesh and mould you into the very leader they needed.

Part of you couldn't grasp why they still want you around, you'd pulled some shit trying to escape over the years, nearly loosing limbs, pulling stitches from past attempts. Just to wind up back in your same room, staring into the same blank wall, feeling the cold of a shard of glass between your fingers and drawing it to somewhere with a surface level artery ; though never being able to will yourself to actually do it.

So when you find yourself in the passenger seat of a helicopter, plummeting towards the ground. You don't panic, seeing it as an easy way out. You fall asleep each night wishing that explosion had taken you out, or that you'd let the dead sink their teeth into your flesh. Years without a familiar face, years without any closure. The people whom had ceased from your memories could be dead, their names unable to fall from your butchered tongue. Finding everything you do or say robotic, accidentally slipping into the mould they'd chiselled out for you.

Feeling the soil greet you isn't something that you dread, closing your eyes as you make impact, just to hit the ground and fucking live. Crawling out of the wreckage, huffing as you pull your frame from the mess of metal and blood. Lurching forward on your knees as you attempt to pull yourself into the moment, each event feeling like you're watching from a distance, like what happens wont really affect you. A numb kind of comfort though. You don't fear death, it can't be much worse than this, can it?

You're blinking, you can feel the weight of your eyelids as they shut, and the sting of salty air from the river not far. and a person? In the corner of your eye, wielding a sword, some clearly very worn tilted back on a head of long almost curly almost wavy hair. The black mesh of your military required helmet blocks your view, not to mention how out of it you feel. The person is pulling the masks of each individual, slicing their throats. They're out here and have clearly been out here. No point in running, so you sit back, knees pressed into the hard rocky dirt, silently waiting. Theres no fear, no nausea rising in your throat, nothing.

You see yourself, like you're looking down, hands limp against your side, each breath shallow and purposeless, the person moves from solider to soldier with a vengeance not to be messed with. Till their cold pale fingers have latched onto the bottom edge of the helmet, pulling it from your head, swallowing slightly as the cold looking, bloodied blade is raised.... and theirs no kingdom come, the cold sharp metal hovers just under your chin...before falling to the floor.

"Holy fuck-" Holy fuck...

You look up, greeted by a familiar blue eye, peering down at your limp form, kneeling as if you're ready to go, like theirs nothing ahead of you. "Carl." You breath, and you're back in your own flesh and bone again, seeing from your own two eyes. a feeling foreign but not unfamiliar grows in the pit of your gut, rising up in your throat. Dirt and stone crunches beneath your feet as you hoist yourself up to his level

"I- I found you..." He breathes, awestruck as he looks at you. He doesn't question your compliance to the blade, the lack of any fight or flight at the feel of the cold metal against your neck. He's too overwhelmed with joy to pay any mind to it, just looking into your eyes. His face is older, more adult, and he's not wearing anything over his scar, deep rippled flesh revealed to the world. "You did..." You hum, unsure on the right thing to say.

Then his mouth is against yours, warm and welcoming, hands wrapping around your armour clad waist. The cold wet of his mouth moving against yours as if you were drinking dry the river Lethe, forcing the years of a yearning thirst for this to simple oblivion. His lips curl up in a gentle smile as he breathes you in, undisturbed by your changed form.

Finding your finger tips laced in the warm gentle curls of his hair, the lack of a flinch when you accidentally brush over his scar fills you with a undiscovered warmth, almost pride. You're the first to pull away, sucking in a breath through your teeth as your head lands on his shoulder, "Carl..." You breathe, garnering your own name back, said in the same breathless manner.

"How'd you find me..." You hum, feeling an overpowering longing to investigate him, ask him how is everyone? how he knew where to look? to just keep asking until he's too overwhelmed with words to form a response. "I- I don't know..." He breathes, not truly believing the luck behind it all. Your head draws back meeting his eyes.

The look on his face must mirror yours. Years of longing to be in one another's embrace, too feel the gentle warmth of his finger tips as he absentmindedly traces your features. Or the hiss he'd make when you'd snag his hair accidently after you'd begged and bargained with him to play with it, knowing he'd never admit how he drank in the quiet intimate feeling of the warm pads of your fingers as they weaved small braids or dragged across his scalp. You'd never really put to mind how easy he is to need, to be around.

Your name falls from his lips, pulling you from your thoughts. The whispered word relighting the burning embers you were sure had been buried deep within you, blown out the moment you'd woken up surrounded by white clinical infirmary walls, leaving you with nothing but ash and ruins. His gentle gaze dragging you from the depth of the hole you'd found yourself in, the hole you'd always intended to be a grave, now all you can see is life, nestled deep within his soft expression.

The moment is interrupted by the loud whirr of high speed helicopter blades, far off in the distance. You knew what they're here for. Destroy all evidence, rescue any remaining. It was simple protocol. However this gave you less time to figure out what to do with Carl. He could run now or join you. And though you yearn for him, his embrace. He isn't fit for this place.

"You either run or do what I say." The words tumble from your tongue, he pulls back slightly nodding, his feet don't move more than a few steps away from you, awaiting your instructions. "They can't know I know you." You urged, a faint shakiness in your voice, prying its way through the cracks, he's made his decision to stay without knowing what they'll put him through.

"Pick a new name, make up a story, act like you need to rely on someone... And don't call them walkers I call them that." His chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath of mid summer air nodding. You raise your hands, looking to him to follow. You pull your military appointed gun from its holster, aiming it at him. Hopefully setting the scene well enough for the military to believe Carl was just someone trying to survive. The raised lump in his throat bobs as he forces down the bubbling nerves with a swallow. The whirring grows louder as the helicopter approaches.

You eyes meet Carl a couple days later, his slender frame clad in the usual brown and orange uniform, a Bs uniform. three embroidered inter-looping circles on the back. You pick up the pace slightly, the once heavy unform now weightless as your feet hit the ground in an attempt to catch up to him.

Pulling him aside into one of the military's vehicle storage ware houses, situation yourselves between two large black CRM trucks, the type they hauled large amounts of artillery or food to different parts of the republic. He'd made it into the consignment program, unbeknownst to him, you had to pry at Thorne to let him in. "They're gonna put you on missions soon." He nods, silently awaiting a continuation on what said missions are; letting his pale pink tongue dampen his lip in thought, "We fly out to overrun chunks of land, clear and secure it." His eyebrows twist uncomfortably at your unusually methodical way of speech, every word seeming to just get the point across, plain and clear. Your expression falters slightly at this revelation, blinking before setting yourself back on task. Slipping a small, neatly folded piece of paper into his pocket. "Wha-" You sniffle pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before slipping your helmet back on and walking out. Re-joining the group of fellow soldiers headed off.

Carl's left with the weight of your note in his pocket, and an overwhelming amount of confusion. Fingers just grazing the folded edge but unwilling to pull it out and read it, for fear he'll loose you once again. He spends the rest of the day meddling with the idea of reading it, sat in his tiny military assigned room, eye on the dark edge of a letter peeking out through the folded gap. He fears whats on the page, but the curiosity threatens to bubble over the surface. Leaning forward to snatch the paper of the desk, fumbling as he opens it out, gliding over each letter.

"I can't go, but you need to. I have a plan but I won't be their to execute it with you. My bit is done, this is your part. Theres a boat, just down the river, slightly out of view and off any route, Theres food, water, a with the route to home. The guards change over at 4, there's a blind spot, but its only open for fifteen minuets max, in-between 3:50-4:05. Go then, Go tonight, they'll notice what I took is gone by dawn. You found me, but you can't stay and I can't leave. I love you."

Scrawled in your messy handwriting and signed with your initials, he runs his top teeth over his lower lip as he scans over the words again and again, but he cant will himself to even put the thoughts to set your plan in motion. Slumping back against the firm barely worn in mattress, staring up at the blank white ceiling as he allows the paper to fall from his grip.

You wake up, the same as each morning, pull yourself back to your feet and go. There's no sign of Carl at breakfast, you take it as he did as you'd told him, he'd be gone, nearly half way back to Alexandria by now. You head back to your room as per routine, slip into your uniform and find yourself clambering into a helicopter, slipping the headset on before looking at Thorne, she states most the key info, where you're going, and what you're doing, clearing walkers on the outskirts of the city, she does however drop some info which peaks your interest, "They're taking a trainee in the other one..." Your eyebrows twist and contort in confusion at her words? A trainee? You let out a quiet mm in response, a quiet acknowledgement of her words not wanting to overwhelm her with questions, trainees were never put on missions like this. It was one of the riskier areas, worn down buildings with bits of metal sticking out, chunks of brittle concrete threatening to fall and unsteady soil, with roots ready to rip out the ground taking the rest of the tree with. Trainees were put on smaller missions, in clearings with just a few stray walkers.

Looking out at the community as it grows smaller beneath you, the surrounding area lined with pine trees nearly two dozen deep and vast hills which seemingly stretch for lines beyond the horizon line.

The stretch of land you'd be working on grows near, the faint movement through still trees makes you certain you're not gonna go back very clean, mentally preparing to scrub dirt and blood off your skin until it is red and raw.

The loud constant whirring of the blades dies down as the vehicle lowers to the ground, slipping your helmet on as you clamber from the seat, there's another solider, and who you assume is the trainee, his uniform hanging off his frame like they'd given him one just close enough to fit. Seemingly unprepared for his debut mission. He slips the helmet off to look at Thorne and you as the Rules and plan for the Mission get reeled off, "G.Rimes, you're sticking with me. We can't have you getting killed on your first go, Group one is on walker duty, Group two on fence duty," Thorne states. G.Rimes? You hadn't looked at the trainee, he wasn't in your group, so he wasn't yours to deal with. It was a silent agreement between you and Thorne, you could both each handle your own.

And their Carl stood, holding the helmet to his hip, making soft subtle glances at you. Blinking you force yourself back on task, telling your group what they're doing. "Group one is on walkers, we need to get in their weld up what we can, and replace what we need to, there's three breaches and I'm assigning two to each one, Me and smith on the first, Byrne and Lincoln on the Second and lastly Carlton and Gurira on the third, you each know what you're doing and you have each other for help. We all know protocol? So get to it." You affirmed, wracking off each word to ensure the mission goes smoothly, following protocol. Having to shove down every word that threatens to escape your lips in Carls direction, you had a job and you wouldn't let emotions overtake the importance of the task at hand. Though in the overwhelming anger you don't even grasp the fact he chose to not go home, to not see his family again, For you. He'd rather keep up the act of an innocent survivor, live under intense rules and protocol to simply just to be in your space.

The mission goes as planned, each breach repaired and nearly every walker in the area gone. Theres a gentle nudge on your side, its Thorne gently trying to get your attention "The trainee want's a quick run through on how the helicopters work, he's really adamant to be shown... And look I would but Beale wants me in for a meeting about some promotion..." She rambles, before heading off. Not leaving you with much choice in the matter. Spotting Carl stood next too the empty helicopter, a faintly sad blank expression on his face. Watching you climb into the drivers seat, following you.

"You don't want me here do you?" He asks but the contents of the letter you'd given him made the answer already clear. You'd arranged an escape for him, with the intent for him to take it. He knew there had to be a reason why you needed him gone, and a reason you hadn't told him.

"I don't think its a good idea for you to be here." You state matter of fact-ly. Eyes focused on getting the two of you back to the main facility. He's chewing on his lip slightly, looking out at the solid concrete facility buildings, ant sized in the distance. "Why." He asks, blue eye staring at you with a new glint of longing lace in his sad expression. "I can't- Carl, you should've ran when I told you to." You huff, knowing that this was for the better.

As the helicopter nears closer to the community he pipes up again, "At least show me how to use this thing, like I'd asked for." He spits, playing with the button on his holster. He'd been given a black, crm embroidered eyepatch, his fingers going to adjust the fabric, having grown used to not wearing anything over it. The twinge of insecurity he was sure was gone had weezled its way back into his mind, maybe the fact you refused to look at him, or the urgency behind getting him something to cover it up with. He's slowly starting to wish he'd never even bothered coming to find you.

You start listing off the controls on the large dashboard in front of you, a mass of flickering lights, knobs and switches. He sits and pretends like he's listening, nodding and humming to your words, like he gives a fuck, in all reality he's buying time with you, formulating a plan on getting you both out of there. You're hovering over a sectioned off area, an old research building which got swarmed just on the edge of the river bank. There was intent to reclaim the building from the dead, expand the walls across to it. Though they never found time, and figuring a way to wall of a chunk of river without interrupting the flow while simultaneously not having any gaps was too much work for one research building. "What does that one do." He questions, hovering over a button. "Carl, do not press that." You urge, you'd already told him what that one does and yet... he still pressed it, sending you both plummeting towards the muddy river bank.

You feel him pulling you out with him, rolling onto the dirt as the vehicle crashes into the river. "What the fuck?" You yell, pulling yourself away from him, dragging your muddied form to a stand. Looking at him from the ground. His eyes staring up at you, a less than happy expression on his face. He sits himself up, wincing as a mud covered piece of shrapnel plunges into the palm of his right hand, quickly moving it away. Looking down at the wound as it slowly starts too ooze red, its not deep, not deep enough to need stitches at least.

"I'm getting us out, us. Both of us." He snarls bringing himself to his feet. "They'll come find us, they're probably heading out right now." You respond. "We'll tell them, it malfunctioned or something." He scoffs, heading away from the scene of the crash, towards the upwards slope. "All the reason to get going then." He states, starting to climb the bank, and you have no choice but to follow. He glances around before deciding to head towards the old research facility. "Its overrun." You state, though his pace doesn't slow. "I can deal with Walkers." He urged, slipping the gun from its holster.

The two front glass doors are locked with a black chain, the CRM's lazy attempt at keeping whatever's inside contained. "Carl." You scolded, hearing the click of the metal as he cocks the gun, before one deafening shot rings through the air, breaking smashing the smooth glass of the door. "What are you doing...?" You hiss, watching him duck as he slips through the door frame. "We need supplies, so I'm getting them." He clicks a torch on, looking around.

Rotted walkers sit slumped against the walls, some almost skeletal, most of the dead are in old clothes, not a uniform, a clear final claw at survival before they let themselves end. Part of you chalks the down fall of this place up to starvation. The way windows and doors are boarded up, they'd fought to keep walkers out, not realising nothing else could get in. The bottom floor is empty, research rooms, beakers with brown dry blood encrusted to the bottoms and an open fridge stinking of rot, heading upstairs...its cleaner, obviously the accommodation floor. Bedrooms with the doors open, a few empty, some locked with "DEAD" scrawled across the wooden surface in spray paint. "Carl..? what are we doing." You ask, slowly feeling like any control you have over the situation slipping into Carls grip. "Some of these rooms are secure, supply's and stuff, these guys weren't attacked. Their downfall came from inside." He ushers, slipping into one of the larger bedrooms at the end, it wasn't really a bedroom, more a small apartment. Some kitchen utility's, a bathroom and a small bed. "They have power, I saw the solar panels. We could get our shit together here." He states, setting his mud covered helmet down on the counter.

"My shit is together back there. and your shit is at home, in Alexandria." You hiss, watching him look for something to clean the oozing wound on his palm with. "My shit hasn't been together since I lost you." He hums, finding a half empty bottle of rubbing alcohol popping the cap and pouring it over the wound, "Fuck..." He hisses under his breath. Theres the hum of a long range walkie talkie ringing from your pockets, the muffled voices of two undistinguishable CRM soldiers, stating they've yet to find the wreckage and for you to respond in the event of your survival.

"Give it here." Carl offers his un-injured hand out towards the device. "What..?" You say, passing it over. He takes it, bringing it to his ear for a moment before letting it fall to the ground, hitting the floor with a bang before his boot meets the smooth plastic surface, a crunch and it's out. He'd lost his in the crash, and now you'd lost yours. "What was that for." The crushed plastic glistens up at you from the floor. "We don't need to communicate with them." He responds, looking for something to wrap up his hand with. Though unable to find something.

"We can't just let them win, this isn't life." He hums, searching the cupboards.

"They won the moment they found me, Carl." You spit, stood unsure how to respond to both his words and erratic movements.

"You can't say that." He utters, still franticly scrambling for something of use, moving on to the wardrobe, pulling out some non-uniform clothes.

"I tried to escape, I can't. They'll kill everyone we love, They have to keep themselves hidden." You spit, "Remember, early on. When they bombed Atlanta. Yeah? That was this. They can and will take out Alexandria. "He turns at you, clearly not knowing the full extent of the CRM's capability's.

"We can get their first, evacuate everyone. There's gotta be a way to make this work." He rambles. "We can't" You scoff, running a stressed hand through your hair.

"I should've said I'd be at the boat, then maybe you'd have fucking listened and we wouldn't be in this situation." You spit, feeling an unfamiliar anger, bubbling deep inside you. He looks at you with an unreadable expression.

"If you'd have just Fucking gone, then I could ensure you and Alexandria's safety. I'm doing this for you, not us. Their is no us anymore." He nods, running his tongue over his lip as he pulls himself together, gaining some form of composure.

"This isn't you." He sates, looking at you blankly. "This isn't me how?" You bark back.

"What did they do to you, please..."He huffs, a longing for answers carefully laced in each word. "Carl, we should head back" You state, unwilling to put to words what they've done to you. "Then why can't you leave, do I not deserve answers? Its been eight fucking years and you can't even give me something, who are you?" his words are dripping with anger and hopelessness, he needs something, even a crumb of information.

"We've spent years, loosing people. Loosing our homes and our lives, These people are powerful. and they trust me, I'm working towards a future while all you can do is cling to the past." Your eyes cant will themselves to meet his, gaze lingering on the smashed walkie talkie "What future is this." You feel his eye on you as each word drips from his lips. "I have to do this Carl. I have to." You cry, trying to express the importance of this too him.

"So I'm going, I tried, I really did try. I found you, But I didn't find who I came looking for." He sates as the sound of a knife being pulled from a draw wrings out, followed by the slam of a door. Leaving you alone, in a cold empty room. "I tried, don't think I didn't." You call out.

Carl pauses in the hallway, feeling a twinge of longing tug at his gut, before turning back, pushing the door open, but unwilling to enter the room.

"What did you try for? Did you try to join them? Did you try to find me? You're a prisoner and you can't see it. The doors open, take it. " He urges, feeling the desperation build inside him. You stammer over your words till you deem them worthless, standing and looking at him.

"I don't know you, and I sure as fuck can't trust you. You're lying to me and most definitely yourself." He spits, on the fence about leaving, going home to his family. Or staying, just to see the person he loves distort into someone he'd never want to stay around. Though the look on your face changes, you'd never expected to hear those words from him.

"I can see you trying still, who I knew is still in their, you could've picked up that walkie talkie and told them exactly where we are, but you didn't." He fiddles with the cold handle of the knife in his hand. "You say you can't go home, but I don't think you can just go back either." He states, his voice softer than it was, like he knows something about you that you don't , hitting a nerve. He was right and you knew it, but still the past 8 years spent being drilled with this idea were hard to erase in one conversation.

"I learnt how to die, while still breathing..." You breathe, realising he didn't plan on letting down, deciding it would just be easier to tell him why you've become the person you've become. "at the start, it was just making it to the next day and I'd have the comfort of my memory's. I'd dream about when we first found the prison, and the train tracks, finding Alexandria. All stuff from years ago... but it started fading, chunks of people gone, you were gone. and suddenly I was by myself in these scenes, and I started doubting if they were ever real." You look up at the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the quiet ding of a blade being set down on a counter, Carl doesn't dare interrupt you, silently encouraging you to continue. "Then, it was nothing. I couldn't see you, or the group or even the place, just the dead. I replay their mouths coming at me, and I can hear the moans, smell the rot. I'd hoped it was a sign or something. Every mission after one of those dreams, It felt like that was it, I'd miss step while clearing some walkers, and it would be it for me."

He inhales, giving you space, an open invitation to be vulnerable with him. "And sometimes I'd hope it would be, and then it wasn't to the point I nearly just did it myself, got sick of waiting. I didn't. And if I go with you, and I loose you again, what if I can't die again, I don't want to" You find yourself sobbing the last few words, unsure on where the hot tears falling down your cheeks came from.

"So I wont let you lose me." He says, stepping forward, pressing a gentle thumb to your cheeks, brushing away the dampness. "And theres never not gonna be an us." He hums pecking your lips, gentle and sweet, like they'd always been. "We hunker down here tonight, we go tomorrow. Both of us, home." He breathes against your lips, unwilling to open his eyes as his lips find yours again. You pull back, "Can I take a look at your hand" You whisper looking down at it hovering beside you, "Not yet." He breathes finding your mouth again.

You find yourselves intertwined in the small bed, his head limp against your shoulder as you gently clean his wound, more carefully this time. The soft orange glow of the lamp illuminates the darkened room and his skin, the callous on his fingers from the trigger of his gun, and the small scars where he'd nicked himself accidentally while sharpening his knife. Noticing he still has his eyepatch on..

"Thought you didn't wear one of those anymore.." You breathe gently, reaching to slip it from his face, throwing it into the pile of CRM uniform you intended on leaving behind. He lets out a gentle hum against the warm skin of your neck, his eye meeting yours. You finish cleaning his wound, wrapping it with an strip of an old shirt you'd found in the wardrobe. Letting your fingers slide through his over grown hair, feeling his breathing deepen as he dozes off against you. Not long followed by you, letting your head fall limp against the top of his.

The morning starts of slow, awaking to the quiet shuffling of fabric as Carl clothes himself, finding a backpack hidden in one of the AC vents, having clearly spent a decent chunk of his alone time checking every inch of the bedroom for something of use. He smiles softly at you as you sit yourself up in the bed. Not long after going to find yourself something to wear, getting distracted halfway though at his lips against yours, "Carl..." You chuckle against his lips as his uninjured hand wraps around your waist, after a while of basking in it, you eventually push him off to finish getting ready.

The door clicks shut behind the two of you, a knife in either of your hands, taking out the stragglers left over from when you'd entered the building initially, finding two that look similar enough to each other slipping them into your abandoned uniform and setting them up to look like they'd been eaten alive. Before finally dragging him into the cold metal elevator at the end of the corridor, and throwing yourselves against the far wall, watching as one of the mushy heads of a toppled over walker gets crushed as the two doors shut. "Jesus, eughhh-" Carl exclaims, turning to look at you. However you don't give him much warning before tugging him closer and slamming your mouth into his, at the innocent ding of the elevator making it to the ground floor. You're thrown back into the world you'd grown to know.

Having to battle through a gaggle of a dozen walkers, before finding a Car parked neatly in the back. Carl slides into the drivers seat fiddling with the few multi coloured wires under the dash board before the engine comes roaring to life. He smiles at you, leaning over to kiss you. "Let's go home." He breathes against your flushed lips.

Your fingers entangle themselves with his as he draws out the car park, the crunch of concrete beneath your feet, and his warm musky boyish smell, the knowledge that the CRM was long behind you.

"G.Rimes? " You huff a laugh breaking the silence remembering the fake name he'd chosen "Carl." He glances at you momentarily, "What?" he holds back a smile, he knew what he was doing in the moment. "You could've been more creative...?" He nods, letting the laugh slip from his lips, his thumb gently going to caress the side of your hand, the empty road in front of you. You had a new start, a new chance to live. And live, not survive. Live. And you had all the intent to keep your fingers firmly linked with Carl for whatever the world decides to throw at you next. Or hell, what you decide to throw at the world. "Don't go blowing shit up when we get back, please" He chuckles, and you can't help but smile back.

You take a moment to look at him, the way his eyelashes fall against the gentle flushed hill of his cheek and the way his mouth hangs slightly open with his glistening tongue poking out the corner as he navigates the surroundings, the soft warmth of his hand. His eyes still glistening as he stares out at the world ahead of him, the sun lighting up the green of the trees and the deep enticing brown of the far of hills, and the blue of the sky, revealing colours to you, you'd feared you'd never see again. Both love and terror graces his complexion, a fear for the future but the will to embrace it. You knew in this moment that you had no choice but to love him, any version of you that could've ley dead and buried back there.

Looking out into the early morning sun, with the gentle breeze blowing in through a gap in a window, you knew your only goal in this moment was to go home.

64 notes · View notes

ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: love notes

tw: anxiety

Simon stares at the bathtub.

It hasn’t changed a bit over the last decade or so. No, it’s been a lifetime ago since he was thrown into this tub and its frigid water. It still has the same pale, cracked tiles with ancient peeling caulk. Perhaps the spout is a bit more rusty than he recalls—tiny speckles dot the iron like high impact splatters in old, oxidized blood brown. They sit and fester, like cancer growths on decaying lungs.

He swallows and doesn’t appreciate how tight his throat is. Serpentine constrictions plague his neck as if he were a tasty mouse—he’s surprised he can even breathe. This feeling is so unfamiliar to him. He’s removed himself from this agonizing fear for so long, and now he doesn’t know how to force it into submission. He doesn’t remember how to be strong. All he knows is that if he were to compare his nose to the dent on the spout, the scars would match.

A fluffy cotton towel and fresh set of clothes rest on the corner of the counter next to the sink. It screams at him. It reminds him of what he came here to do.

It’s only water. He’s bigger now.

Five minutes, he promises himself—five minutes, and that’s it.

In reality, it’s significantly less than that. Short hair is easy enough to wash and rinse, as is his body. A part of him is used to washing up quickly, in some terrified way. Less time under water, the better. Less time in here, the better. Without any blood or grime to scrub away, he’s even more efficient. Soap, scrub, rinse, repeat.

Soap, scrub, breathe—breathe.

Then, the tiles start to whisper to him. Hushed echoes of the past bounce around at his feet, saturating the tub, filling it up until it’s at his knees. It's all briny tears, spit, and viscous snot. Muffled cries that can’t quite leave his throat. Childish begging. The yearning for his mother. Angry fists gripping his shirt.

An unceremonious squeak sounds as the water ceases. Fat drops dribble out of the showerhead as clawed fingers drag the curtain open, cold air rushing in to meet his exposed body. Old scars pucker and dance along his skin as goosebumps form, and he sucks in a breath through the brume wafting around him. Pale blue walls turn grey—like dead, rotting flesh. He swallows. His throat is still tight.

Soft cotton rubs across his abrasive skin as he dries himself and quickly dresses. Moisture wicks from his skin and it feels like sweat instantly replaces it. It seeps from his skin as anxiety brews into something tangible and rotten. A thin fog obscures the mirror he attempts to look at, leaving only the shadow of him on its surface. Huffing, he rubs his bare hand across the glass. With such heavy nervosity gripping his throat, he half expects to see a scared child as the image of himself forms. Instead, it’s him.

Just him—his father’s eyes and all.

A knock declares itself with a sharp crack, but Simon’s eyes don’t wander a bit. He stays, hands on either side of the counter, gripping the tile as if he’ll fall through the floor if he doesn’t. The only thing that prompts him to finally move, to crack the stone encasing his body, is the soft sound of anxious feet shuffling against the floor outside the room.

When Simon opens the door, you’re certain you’ve upset him somehow. Furrowed brows and firm set lips make your hands tense, nearly snapping your toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste in half. You look up at him like a wounded animal. Tail between your legs, lip caught in your teeth—you try to smile, but the malaise hanging around him is thick enough to suffocate even you.

Then, something snaps. He melts. His eyes soften as his shoulders fall, and his lips part to speak only to then say nothing. He looks you up and down, still dressed in your pajamas, and then smiles.

“Am I takin’ too long?” he teases.

“No, just wondering if I could squeeze in real quick to brush my teeth before breakfast,” you sheepishly admit.

Warmth swirls around your body and envelops you as Simon steps to the side, letting you steal a spot at the counter. Though he smiles at you kindly, something feels wrong with that room. It festers like a bad wound—a dead body that wasn’t quite cleaned up. Spoiled viscera still soaks the floor for the flies to eat. You stare at your hands—at the way your fingers grip your toothpaste, trying to squeeze it out onto the brush—and you think for a moment, that maybe; maybe that rot comes from you. Sullying everything you touch.

“Is that kid’s toothpaste?”

Fluttering eyes land on Simon as you open your mouth to reply. Nothing comes up but a strained laugh and a half formed smile as you bashfully look down at your items.

“Uh, yeah,” you nod.

“I’ve got real toothpaste if ya want it,” he offers, shaking the tube. You stare at it. That classic minty green freshness flashes in reflective foil like a warning beacon. Cracks form in your smile, and you feel your stomach turn.

“No thanks. I… erm… don’t like mint,” you admit.

Your admittance feels like you’ve laid some sort of hot sin before him, and you avert your gaze in favor of spreading a generous line of paste on your brush. Imitation fruitiness coats your tongue as you shove it into your mouth, and you grimace. You forgot to wet your brush. The texture is rough and sandy, yet you persist.

Simon shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

You try not to let him see the way your eyes water when he begins to brush his teeth. Abrasive mint overpowers your senses, seeping into your nose and churning in your stomach. It’s too strong. Offensive.

You disguise your disgust with a cough.

Breakfast is a quiet event. With the Christmas cheer dwindling into the back of everyone’s minds, the delectable meal of pancakes, sausage, and eggs is brought to the front. Mrs. Riley’s cooking truly is remarkable, and you feel yourself missing her meals already. Bruce keeps you fed plenty well at work when he can, but there’s something different about eating in the presence of her warm gaze. Pale blue eyes flicker like sapphire flames as she glances back and forth between you and Simon. The look on her face isn’t lost on you—that quiet simper that stains her lips isn’t either.

It screams. Shouts at you. You are welcome here.

“So, back to London, then?” Tommy asks as he wipes his mouth clean of crumbs.

Humming, Simon nods. “Yeah. Work tomorrow night. Gonna get busy with the new year.”

“Everythin’ going well at the club?” Beth chirps.

It’s a simple question—an innocent one. Still, it has Simon and Tommy sharing glances with one another. A million words are shared in an instant with one simple exchange. Tight lips, tighter fists; this is what happens with men like them. There is always bound to be some sort of dark secret they keep buried with the old versions of themselves; the versions they had to snuff out in order to survive.

“As well as it can,” Simon nods.

Simon doesn’t completely beguile her. As far as anyone else is concerned, Terminus is doing fantastic. Only occasionally does he have to bloody his hands and toss out patrons who are too pissed for their own good. It’s an easy job. A simple one for a man of his talents.

But there are names that lurk in the depths. Swarming in ruined water, waiting to capture their next prey; their next victim. Andrei. Though he’s been off having his fun with you and his family, the bastard’s name and face etch in the grey matter of Simon’s brain. It’s quite the balancing act, hunting a man who vanishes into smoke and mirrors all while trying not to concern you with the mess. His skin itches at the thought—that terrible memory of you. Doubled over, blacking out.

What would have happened to you if he hadn’t been there?

Clearing his mind, Simon reaches for the plate of toast just as you do. Knuckles knocking, you retract, hand falling back into your lap. Had he not known any better, he would have thought he electrocuted you.

“Sorry,” you mutter, gauche laugh expelling from your lungs in a pitiful huff.

He looks at you, curled forward in your seat like a shriveled bug; always making yourself small. Always too afraid to take up the space you need. His hand persists, fingers gripping a golden slab of toast before he places it on the plate before you. Only then does he retrieve one for himself.

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”

Once plates are cleaned, it’s time for farewells. Everyone meanders around the house, picking up their items and shoving it into bags for easier storage. Simon steals your travel pack like a bandit, refusing to let you assist in packing anything into the car. You’re not sure why you even bother to do anything for yourself anymore; not when you’ve got Simon around to wait on you hand and foot.

So you watch him from inside the house as he loads up the car. He moves everything around with ease as if it’s lighter than air itself. Tommy leans against the boot with his arms crossed as he shivers in the bitter Mancunian winter. Once Simon manages to get your bag situated next to his in the backseat, Simon retreats, back straightening out and stretching as he slams the door shut.

“So. Gonna bring Chip home for Easter?” Tommy questions.

All Simon can do is shrug. “We’ll see.”

“Oh, come off it,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Sleepin’ in the same bed as her, gettin’ all cozy on the couch. Takin’ the fuckin’ piss outta me sayin’ shit like that. Well see? You pillock.”

“What I do in my personal life doesn’t concern you,” Simon says nonchalantly as his hands wave the man off. “Now up. Off my shit.”

Tommy huffs, and it’s cynical. Boiling acrimony laces his words as he mumbles: “Used to think the same thing once. Next thing I knew, I was nearly gettin’ gutted like a pig.”

Flooding memories cause Simon’s eyes to gloss as they sear through his brain. Unpleasant bile eats at his esophagus as he recalls that day at his old job. A butcher’s shop. He would spend his life quartering swine, never once thinking about how similar humans are to pigs. Tender meat. The fiber of muscle and skin. A sharp blade sinks into flesh all the same no matter what you name it. The blood is just as warm. The gasps are just as cacophonous.

Tommy’s warning is clear. It causes his diaphragm to freeze as dark eyes cut through the air to find you like he’s scared you’re already injured. Like he’s ruined you. His heart ceases to beat when he finds you on the porch, little Joseph wrapped around your leg with tiny arms.

“Bye-Bye Aunt Chippy!” he says, unabashed with his gaiety.

Red hot embarrassment burns Beth’s face until her cheeks are the same shade as her hair, and within an instant she’s beckoning her son off of you. Just as always, you are kind. You smile and shake off the awkwardness with as much grace as you can muster. You assure Beth it’s fine. You’re not sure what you are—be you an aunt or something else—but the title fits snug like it’s the first thing you’ve ever worn that fits properly.

“It was lovely having you,” Mrs. Riley cuts in, easing the tension. She’s bundled herself up in a thick blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl, and still she shivers so fiercely you swear she’ll turn blue. Despite the tremor, she reaches her arms out to you, welcoming and warm.

You accept her embrace without a second thought, and for a moment things are quiet. Nothing rings. Nothing buzzes at the tip of your brainstem. There is only the quiet, and the scent of lavender. It leaves your body yearning in a way you haven’t felt for quite some time. A bitter tainted nostalgia dances along your spine and weaves through your ribs—and yet it is welcoming all the same.

“Thank you for having me,” you whisper. Your voice decays in your throat—half formed and hardly ejected.

Mrs. Riley steps back, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. You know you should. You’ve always had to let go of everything eventually, but your fingers flinch and your arms twitch, and you realize this time you can’t. Some sort of mawkish pain squeezes your heart and you fear you’ll crumble if she’s not there to hold you up. You’ll crack and splinter into dust that the December wind will carry away without so much as a second thought.

She doesn’t let you. Instead, she holds you together, scooping you up in her arms until you’re buried in her. Pressure builds and twists behind your eyes, and you ignore the way your throat begins to shred itself.

“You’re always welcome here, dear.”

They wave from the porch when you and Simon leave. It’s a proper send off that has you smiling to yourself and aching for their presence again. Simon turns the heat up the moment you hit the motorway, and you feel your eyes begin to grow heavy. It’s impossible to pinpoint exactly why you’ve been stuck with such lassitude these last few days, but you only feel it worsen as the heat warms your skin. Leaning against him, nearly falling asleep on the couch, resting in his arms… Simon feels safe. Like you can rest and wake up knowing everything—including yourself—will be fine.

He offers you his coat to use as a pillow just as your head begins to nod. You don’t bother to argue. You don’t say that you’ll be fine, or that you can stay awake, or that you’ll just rest your head on the jittery window. It feels nice accepting his help. You think he’s the only person who’s ever been kind to you without it leaving a bad taste in your mouth. So you take it. Bunch it up and curl into a ball in the passenger’s seat as best as you can as the hum of the engine sings you to sleep.

Tobacco and nicotine envelopes your senses. It’s stronger on his coat than it is himself. It’s marinated—burrowed into the stitches.

You sleep so well that you don’t wake up until you reach the outskirts of London, and even then you’re only roused by Simon rubbing your arm. Limbs extending, you stretch as much as you’re able to in the confines of the car as you rub at your face. The afternoon glow ignites the frost lining the railing that leads up to your apartment complex, but it looks like glitter on dull cement. A waste of something pretty. In whatever festive cheer your ancient, crabby landlord can muster, you notice a spindly wreath on the entrance. Perhaps it’s his attempt at making that dilapidating building feel more homey—if anything, it feels more fake than ever.

Simon opens your door with a smile as he helps you out of the car. He’s still on a mission to refuse to let you carry your bag, and he lets you lead the way inside the building as he trails behind you like a good dog. Creaky stairs announce their existence all the way up to the second floor, but their song is quickly drowned out by the violent vibrating of Simon’s phone.

He plans on ignoring the call until he reads Johnny’s name on the screen.

“Hello?” he answers. His voice catches you off guard, and he watches as your head snaps over your shoulder to look at him. He gives you a reassuring smile as he shakes his phone, and you smile back in recognition.

“Got a hit on your dance partner.”

Simon’s heart skips a beat. That deadly killer in him begins to surface—the one that’s cold and calculated; the one that can’t afford to let feelings get in the way. His face hardens as images of Andrei flashes across his mind, but he knows he can’t be too standoffish. Not when he’s with you. Not when you don’t know something’s wrong.

“Workin’ through the holiday?” he asks, attempting to tease but it comes out too gruff.

“Had nothing better to do,” Johnny shrugs. “Aye, but listen. You remember Milena Romanova? Makarov’s financier?”

Simon scoffs at the name, bitter bile rising in his mouth just as you both reach the second floor. “Plays well with Garrick’s mum, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, plenty well. Plenty of letters, threats, the usual,” Johnny deadpans. “Anyway, Kyle caught sight of her at some bullshit aristocratic party his mum was throwing on Christmas Eve and Andrei—whose last name is Nolan, I’ve learned—was there with her.”

The tension in Simon’s jaw grows so tight that he can hear the way the enamel in his teeth creaks with the pressure. It’s an easy conclusion to draw. One that has his chest growing tight.

“Whatever mess Chip has got herself in… Riley, if Makarov’s got his sights on her-”

“I know,” Simon interrupts. It’s sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t apologize for it.

Johnny sighs, breath crackling on the line. “One more thing… you’re really not gonna like this.”

Somehow, Simon has managed to fall behind you. Several paces back, he sees you standing at the entrance to your apartment. You’re frozen. Eyes locked on the doorknob, wide as saucers, lips parting as if to say something but nothing comes out.

“The security system here at Terminus caught some weird activity on cams yesterday,” Johnny continues. “Checked them out this morning and… well, it seems as if Andrei’s not the only one hanging around where he shouldn’t be.”

Your door is open. Slightly ajar, hardly even cracked, but it’s open. You swear you locked it before you left, but it doesn’t matter when there’s splintered wood on the ground at your feet. Simon’s hardware and new screws held up plenty fine. The door plate isn’t even bent. Still, it can only do so much when the wood it’s screwed into is as soft as butter.

The air is wrong. Too thick. Like water. Like smoke. Like it’s someone else’s breath.

“Marco was here last night. It… It looks like he was looking for someone.”

Eyes welling with tears, you turn to look at Simon. His face is like stone. Hard set and rigid as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. The line has gone silent. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I gotta go.”

The line dies.

Neither of you speak as Simon quickly puts himself between you and the door before gently pushing it open. You hold your breath as he does. Quiet hysteria builds in your chest as you wait an eternity to see what’s become of your home. The door creaks and whines as it falls open, hitting the wall, revealing the state of your apartment.

Nothing is as it should be. Plastic plates and cups litter the ground in the kitchen, along with old—and now bent—pots and pans. Cupboards and drawers lay flung open like spilling intestines, completely emptied of their contents, all dumped into a pile on the floor as if setting up a pyre. The rubbish bin is knocked on its side. Old garbage spews from its mouth, staining the faux tile as nameless black bugs enjoy the rot.

As the two of you cautiously press inside, you catch sight of the way your clothes hang halfway out of your dresser. Plastic hangers lay shattered outside of your tiny closet, sprinkling the floor with the shards. The bathroom light is on, and when you meander inside, you find the mirror is shattered. Your reflection is warped. Wrong. A drop of blood stains the sink. It’s old. Hagriding. Clotted. Hardened. You stare at it, and it screams back that you have made a very grave mistake.

There isn’t an inch of your apartment that Simon leaves unchecked. Hackles raised, he turns every corner with care, eyes darting around like an animal ready to strike. But there is nothing. Your flat has always been too small to properly house yourself, let alone hide away anyone that would cause harm. There is no Andrei. No Makarov.

No Marco.

You stand in the midst of your home like a lost child, spinning in circles as you witness the war-torn room. Your eyes widen as you scan everything like a hawk, or some clever fox finding her way out of some precarious situation. Trepidation coils around your chest as you attempt to hold back sobs, but your diaphragm shudders despite your efforts. You are both overcome with terror and yet so devoid of emotion because—in some way—you know you deserve this.

You brought this on yourself.

“Fuck,” you curse, hand slapping over your trembling lip.

Simon’s ears perk at your voice. Heavy feet crush rubbish and clothes as he reaches for you. He’s careful, as if trying to calm a spooked horse. Warm hands bleed through your skin as he holds you steady, but you don’t look at him. All you can do is continue to take in the mess around you.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’ll get this sorted, I promise,” he assures you.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” you snap.

Hands brush against his chest as you push yourself away from him while a hyperventilated sob rattles your throat in the process. You nearly trip on a cup as you stumble around the room. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“How the fuck could I forget? I’ve… never… fuck,” you mumble.

Simon says your name, but you refuse to hear it. Utterly disconsolate, you continue running away, feet meandering throughout the room as if you’re in a drunken stupor. He lets you. Watching you carefully as the emotions overwhelm you, he lets you feel what you need to as you stare at the crumbled remains of your life.

The only thing that isn’t ruined is your bed.

You freeze. It’s perfect. Pillows fluffed. Blankets neatly pressed along the mattress. It looks professionally done with a folded lip at the top for ease of grabbing. Spotless—it almost looks lovingly done.

You don’t remember making your bed before you left.

Careful feet approach the furniture as your nerves begin to fry. You feel your mind start powering off—neurons going silent. There’s no fear or anxiety or anger; there’s just you and your shell. You’re so far underneath the waves that there’s no use in screaming for help. All you can do is let the tide carry you forward.

A pristine envelope sits quiet and docile on top of your blanket. It’s unmarked, but there is no mistaking who it’s addressed to. Simon slowly approaches from behind, hands outstretched, requesting that you hand it over to him, but you refuse. Shouldering him away, your quivering fingers can hardly undo the seal. It tears. Shreds like cloth and skin. You retrieve the note inside.

Missed you on the 25th. Will come by to collect your late fee on the 28th. Same place as usual. You know better than to call the police. Don’t stand me up this time, babe.

-M

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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0bticeo · 1 year ago

Text

j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly.

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?)

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it.

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t.

(drip, drip.

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably.

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen.

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out-

breathe.

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking.

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch.

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not.

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office.

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk.

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings.

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm.

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize.

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.”

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him.

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting.

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes.

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind.

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind.

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come.

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants.

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

#obticeo writes #tma x reader #tma x you #tma x y/n #jonathan sims x reader #jonathan sims x you #jonathan sims x y/n #tma smut #the magnus archives x reader #the magnus archives x y/n #the magnus archives x you

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