#yandere sephiroth x reader

[crisiscutie]

punishment. (rebirth)

pairing: 🐍Yandere Sephiroth/Fem!Reader🕊️

You thought you could get away from your Yandere lover? Think again...

Content warning: NSFW. Noncon. Yandere Sephiroth. Physical/Emotional Abuse. Fear/Primal Play. Size Difference (yass)

A part of you knew that you wouldn't win. But you tried anyway. Maybe when you can finally be at peace with yourself if you actually fought this time. Whatever happens, you need to make sure that you won't go "home" with Sephiroth.

As soon as you saw him waiting in the dark woods behind the inn, you knew you had to act quickly. The one area that used to be your haven is now tainted with his presence. You just left him, but now it's time to show yourself that you've really moved past him...

You summoned your blade as you rushed at him. For a good moment, he played along, effortlessly parring your strikes. He felt an influx of new strength from you, but it was still not enough to overcome him. Your cute defiance only made his raging cock eager to take you. You're his precious darling, and you need a reminder of who you belong to.

Eventually, he grew weary of this "mock" fight. He closed his eyes and coolly jabbed his blade through your lower arms, thighs, and leg all at once, causing you to yelp and then crash to the ground. You tried to keep your tears at bay as the coppery taste of blood lingered in your mouth.

Don't worry. You still got spirit. You thought. But as Sephiroth's slit eyes flickered open like a snake, the doubt set in. He stared you down, studying the best ways to play with his food. His tall and menacing stature cast a shadow over your smaller frame. He just couldn't wait to have you. Your womb will be his.

The next few moments happened so quick you couldn't keep up with him. He lifted and shifted your body, straddling your legs to his hips. Wooziness washed over you, no doubt from the blood loss. Your vision had a slight blur to it from the throbbing pain that overwhelmed your senses and your arms hung limply at your sides. You just now registered that your panties were brushed to the side, his cock slowly pushing in and out of you. He was just barely inside you, and already your cunt was struggling to take him. His gloved hand cupped your cheek, relishing in your broken, submissive beauty.

As your unprepared cunt constricted around him, his thrusting quickened. He wanted to keep teasing you, but his primal need to claim your womb overrode it. Your body quivered with an odd yearning for his seed. If only your clit and cunt revulsed from him as your mind did.

You were full of love for him at one point. But when his temper and mind games became too much to bear, you had no choice but to flee. But of course, he found you here, at the very inn you both first met. He always said you're so easy to predict. You clenched your teeth when your abused cunt stretched further around him as he descended further. He was just too big for you to take. Not that he cared though. But as if something within him possessed him, he sent you crashing to the ground, almost crushing you under his weight afterward, while a cruel smirk formed on his lips.

Tears cascaded down your face. Your beaten body squirmed from the impact aftermath. He threw your legs over his shoulders as his cock battered your cervix without mercy, as his own satisfaction is paramount, not yours.

No. No. NO!

A sharp, stabbing pain radiated in your stomach as your cervix struggled to resist his brutal mating press. You could only pray to whatever fucked up higher power out there to end this. You didn't even recognize Sephiroth at this point. His heavy, lusty grunts and the savage rutting of your cunt felt more fitting for a rabid, feral animal than the suave mastermind he believed himself to be.

Your mouth opened and closed, but the only sound that escaped were pitiful whimpers. You don't have the means to take care of a child, especially not his. And you don't even want to think about what Sephiroth even is now ever since he became one with JENOVA. You don't want any trace of them in you. The very thought of them cumming inside of you was revulsive. Unfortunately, the sadistic bastard was more than capable of sensing your thoughts and emotions. Your revulsion only fueled his drive to make your cervix yield.

After enduring more and more of this intense mating press, your prayer seemed to be answered as you lost all sense of thought when your cunt juices sprayed and slathered his cock. Not too long after, He let out a soft groan, one that was finally appropriate for his suave persona when his sticky, JENOVA-corrupted spunk flooded your defenseless womb. But he didn't want to pull out of you yet. He was determined to have every single drop of that "repulsive" alien cum in you. His lips drew nearer to yours, just savoring the sight of your tearful eyes rolling back with a sickening smirk he had never worn before. The essence made from him and his goddess mother, whom you dared to reject, will now defile every part of you, and he couldn't be happier about it. He reached out for your stomach bulge, stroking his large cock through it.

His domination didn't even stop there. Even his seeds in your body relentlessly hunted and ravaged your lone egg for as long as they could, coiling around it like a snake until the last seed penetrated it. Twisted, happy delusions flickered in Sephiroth's mind afterwards, the future visions of how this seed of life will blossom into a beautiful product of love that he and you created together.

When he had finally come down from his orgasm and the rush of power, his touch became surprisingly gentle and affectionate toward you, but there was still a mocking air to his actions, of course. He cradled your petite body and healed it using his dark magic.

"Good girl~," he said and gently patted your head. You lost the privilege of becoming his true equal, so now, the special role of his pet is what you'd have to resign to. You're his property now. Though it's something you can't be ungrateful about. It was a special mercy that he would only extend to you.

As his dark magic slowly mended your wounds, you felt a brief sharp sting of pain, a reminder of the despair to come, resulting from your disobedience. From now on, as Sephiroth's pet, you will no longer be addressed by your name. Your identity will be completely under his control, tailored to his cruel likings. After the mending was complete, he set a course for "home". The environment around you two distorted as he summoned a dark purple portal. He princess carried you into it and glowered at your small, broken form one last time.

He can't wait to begin your training.

While in the process of posting old and new stuff to my AO3, I ended up rewriting most of an old fic. Hope you guys enjoyed this!

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

I dunno, just a funny little scenario that played out in my mind though I couldn’t translate it to words very well. It’s written so I’ll post it. I really like the idea of Sephiroth being the sweetest Yandere in the world. Like yea a little property destruction and harm to others, but he’d never hurt you. He just loves you so so so much, poor baby gets overloaded with emotions.

****************************************************

You roll over, tucking yourself into the blanket, letting out a long sigh. “Get out.” You say almost a little too sweetly. It’s hard to hold your composure after he’s completely ravished your body.

“Really?” He questions, walking around to the other side of the bed to make eye contact with you. “You can’t possibly still be upset, I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Pouting. Of course he’s fucking pouting, gods you could just go back to riding that pretty face of his. But fuck this is exactly how you ended up in this situation. 20+ missed calls and lord knows how many texts confessing love, anger, plus death threats for whomever you’re with next.

If we’re being honest, you absolutely love that THE Sephiroth is obsessed with you. That Sephiroth is in love with you at all is amazing to you because you love him but-Did you expect him to be a stalker? No. Did you expect 12am arguments because he’s suspicious of other men(insecure but he won’t own it this early)? Nope. Did you expect him to bust in and almost ruin you and Tseng’s mission because he’s sure Tseng has feelings for you? Absolutely fucking not. This man even accused Angeal of looking at you the “wrong” way. He’s never looked your way again.

“Don’t ignore me y/n.”

Pulling yourself back to the conversation at hand you finally look Sephiroth in his eyes. “You know you’re an absolute loose cannon right? A ticking time bomb really.” You say, narrowing your eyes at him. “You kicked down my front door, yes I want you out.”

Making his way into bed regardless of your weak attempts of pushing him back and your even weaker portrayal of being mad at him cause him to chuckle. Sephiroth wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close and peppering you in kisses. “Y/N, my love, you should’ve taken that into consideration before you fucked me. Besides, you know I’m not going anywhere. You’re supposed to show me what forever truly means.”

[icycoldninja]

Could you write a Sephiroth x GN!Yandere reader?

Ooh, a yandere reader fic! I've wanted to write one of these for ages! Thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

Together forever (Sephiroth x GN!Yandere!Reader)

You'd become obsessed with Sephiroth the moment you laid eyes on him. His long, shimmering, silver hair, paired with his lovely, delicate face and those glittering neon green eyes captivated you. Everything about him was pure perfection--as if he were designed just to snatch your attention and hold it, even after he left the room.

You couldn't stop thinking about this gorgeous angel, your mind was constantly fixated on him. The way he moved, the way he spoke, the sound of his voice, all of it was so addictive.

You didn't realize it at first, but your obsession soon evolved into something much more than a mental preoccupation. You started stalking the man, following him around wherever he went, no matter how far away he traveled. You were willing to give up everything for him, forsake your friends, family, fortune, and even your home, if only you could make that man yours.

Sephiroth was well aware you were stalking him, but he never thought much about it because you were just a lowly mortal--you couldn't touch a blessed, all-powerful Chosen One such as himself. Therefore, he let you continue with your creepy behavior, not bothered by it in the slightest.

Not showing concern towards your acts had to be the worst mistake Sephiroth could have ever made, because in doing so, he allowed you an opportunity to break into his hideout one night and ambush him while his back was turned. The normally alert ex-SOLDIER would have usually sensed an intruder, but since he didn't take his not-so-secret admirer seriously, he let his guard down.

Once he found himself with a knife pressed against his throat, Sephiroth, being the arrogant, prideful man he is, still thought of your actions as weak and pathetic. He was so sure he could disarm and decapitate you with ease, but he was quickly proven wrong. For starters, you were way stronger than you looked--it seemed that your obsession with him resulted in you working out and gaining quite a lot of muscle. Not only that, but you had clearly been taking martial arts and weapon weilding lessons, as the way you held your knife was nothing short of expert.

"What do you think you are doing?" He demanded, struggling, for the first time in his life, to escape your grip.

"Hush my darling," You cooed, running your fingers across his smooth, supple skin that felt oh-so-lovely under your fingertips. "Don't be afraid. I'm here now--now we can be together, forever."

Sephiroth squirmed in your hold, seething with rage. He knew you were crazy, but to think you'd have the audacity to hold him at knifepoint to mumble some nonsense about being together!? As if! He'd like to think he could do better than you.

Deep down, however, there was a little spark of excitement that resonated throughout Sephiroth's core, waking up the cold, numb heart that had lumbered in his chest for so long. To be controlled and dominated like this was an entirely new experience for him, and perhaps, if you played your cards right, it would become something he could enjoy, especially if you meant what you said.

A small smile appeared on his face as you lightly dragged your blade across his throat, barely grazing the skin with the metal.

"Together forever?" He repeated, green eyes glinting with mischief. "Can you really keep that promise?"

Giddiness spreading through your body at the possibility of your dreams becoming reality, you placed a hand on Sephiroth's angelic face and turned his head so he was facing you.

"Yes, I swear it with my life," You told him. "And my knife." You noticed the smile on Sephiroth's face looked softer and warmer than his usual evil smirk. It seemed the prospect of having a constant companion was appealing to him in ways beyond carnal needs.

"I promise," You repeated, turning him so he faced you and throwing your arms around his shoulders. "I promise we will be together forever."

Slowly, tenatively, fearfully, Sephiroth's arms came up andaround you, reciprocating your hug.

"That...is all I need."

[after-witch]

That Great Triumphal Arch [Yandere Sephiroth x Reader]

Title: That Great Triumphal Arch [Yandere Sephiroth x Reader]

Synopsis: Sephiroth took you. And now all you know is pain. FF7R-verse. 

Word count: 2096

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, physical abuse and violence, noncon and sexual abuse, unwanted pregnancy for reader

You’ve been hurt before. You’re not some dainty thing, kept in a tower all your life.  You knew the streets. There were arms broken in alley tussles, noses bloodied through a drunken bar fight, and lately--far more lately--cuts from blades and the edges of Turk bullets and all those aching wounds that come with willingly signing up for a fight far bigger than yourself. You were under no illusions, when you joined with Cloud, what might lie ahead.

Though perhaps, being kidnapped by Sephiroth was not in your visions for the Could Happen in the Future. Getting hurt, yes. Being wrapped up in some insane plot to save the world, sure. 

Being targeted by Sephiroth? Not so much. 

Yet it happened. It happened so fast that if you were asked to recall the specific details, you couldn’t say. You remember the blow to your stomach, the blow to your head. You remember looking up and seeing Sephiroth staring down at you, a smile on his face, the grayness of your vision blurring with the glimmering silver of his hair. You remember, or at least you hope it’s a memory and not just something you imagined, hearing Tifa shout out something, hearing the clash of blades. 

But then there was nothing but grayness and fog and an awful, dreamless sleep. 

When you woke up, he was there.

Smiling.

Speaking words that felt like black tar in your ear. How you were his. How you were a gift. How you were meant to be there.

And he hurt you.

So, so much.

He hasn’t stopped.

The pain is relentless, fresh, raw. You can’t get used to it, not like you might eventually get used to the ache from a broken rib from a single ill-timed bar brawl. It’s ever-changing, day by day. 

Maybe that is why it’s taken you out so completely over the past few days (and just how long has he had you, in all?); got you weak and speechless, barely able to breathe much less think much less fight back much less--

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

The voice from above you is grating to your ears, like gravel being rubbed right into your bleeding, sore kneecaps. You’ve heard that damned voice so often lately, and sometimes you swear--you swear--that his lips aren’t moving when he speaks.

But why is he above you, again? You remember him hitting you this morning, you remember the kick that broke your ribs. You remember spitting in his face. And then, quite clearly, you remember the tip of his sword puncturing right through your wrist, leaving an almost disgustingly clean wound behind.

That was the last clear memory before all this.

So why is he above you, hair almost shimmering, eyes bright and piercing--what is that sensation, that awful, awful sensation? Like being pierced from the inside out. 

“Beautiful… when you’re bleeding for me.” His voice is just a little breathy. A practiced sound, you think, because he doesn’t break so much as a sweat when he spends hours hurting you. It’s not like sex was going to knock the wind out of him, like his boot connecting solidly with your stomach once or twice or umpteen times did to you so readily.

Unwillingly, reality finally comes back to you, sore and sticky and painful, with his gloved hand tapping at your cheek; with the realization that he’s inside you, again, thick and intruding and insistent. It’s like a drum beat in your lower body, a rhythm you’ve come to understand after all this time--and it makes you feel sick, still, no matter how familiar it’s become. 

A gloved thumb runs along your lower lip, catching on a scab healing over. 

“Everything you do is for me… bleeding… breathing… your very existence.” There’s a sticky coolness to his voice that makes you want to peel your skin off even more than the ever-present sensation of his body above yours. 

His voice continues, no matter how much you wish it would not. 

“When will you come to accept that?”

You ignore the content of his words (you so often do, when you can get away with it) and merely squint your eyes, desperate to make sense of things despite your aching body. But you still can’t tell. 

Did his lips move… or not?

His thumb presses down on the scab. And it’s such a small pain, really, compared to what you’ve been through. But you groan nonetheless, and squeeze your eyes shut to block out the stinging sensation spreading across your mouth.

“Answer me, and I may grant you mercy.”

You laugh, or at least you think it’s a laugh. A hoarse stuttering sound that wheezes out of your used and abused chest. In response, he thrusts harder, and your fingers curl on the sheets underneath you, desperate to gain purchase.

Above you (and inside you)-- there are signs that he is human, that he is not some infallible granite creature. Sweat on his naked chest. The movement of his hair, tickling your skin, as he begins to thrust quickly enough to signify his end. 

A soft, low sound as he pushes inside you so deeply that it hurts, and then warmth--a burning warmth that shouldn’t feel like it does, stinging and slick. Is it because he’s fucked you so often, creating tears? Or is there something wrong with him, to make his seed more unpleasant? Or--the thought comes, unbidden, awful--something wrong with you? 

His gloved hand taps your cheek again. It’s like being chided by a friend for dropping off in the middle of a conversation, but nowhere near as lighthearted. 

“Where did you go, I wonder?” 

You can’t answer him right away. Not without sacrificing dignity. So you keep your mouth shut and wait until your breath isn’t coming in so hard, and your heart rate has regained some sense of normalcy. 

You look straight at him, at the eyes that seem to glow from within now, something awful inside them. You wait until he’s raised an eyebrow, just a little, a sign that he’s expecting you to speak.

And you do.

“I’ll never accept whatever delusion you’ve created about me.” 

Yes, your voice is tired and hardly filled with the bravado you might have spoken with before he took you. But at least you got the words out. At least you know you spoke them with your own damn mouth.

His thumb returns to trailing gently on your lips. Almost soft, almost kind.

“But you’ve already accepted so much…” 

You don’t ask what he means, exactly. 

Later on, you’ll wish you had.

--

Your head lolls side to side. The pillow underneath, damp with your sweat, does nothing to ease your discomfort or the gnawing ache inside your chest. 

“Do you really think they’ll come for you?”

Yes, you want to say. They are my friends. We would never give up on one another. But you press your lips tight. 

“Don’t you know how long it’s been? How far they’ve traveled? They haven’t even tried to retrieve you.”

He’s lying. They would never just give you up, let you stay in his clutches. If they traveled, it was out of necessity, to find help or create a plan or get a better vantage point. Yes, that would be it. He’s… lying. Isn’t he? 

“They’re concerned with far greater things than you, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll choose you over this world’s pretended sanctity?” 

Yes, you want to say. Yes, yes, yes! But even you can’t pretend that wouldn’t be a bold, ridiculous lie. One life--or the world? Even if it was you… Even if it meant you were trapped here, with Sephiroth.

His voice continues to drip honeyed poison straight into your ears--straight into your mind. Soft whispers in the dark, over and over, reminding you, taunting you, telling you things that you must surely admit (deep, deep, deep down) are likely the truth. 

But he can’t be doing this to you. It’s impossible. Because he’s not speaking. You’re staring right at him, right at his detestable face, a face you could now describe with uncanny certainty… and his lips are not moving.

You weren’t sure, before; you’d wondered at the way his whispers seemed to squirm right into your ears, no matter how far away he was or how fuzzy your vision got from pain. 

You let out a confused groan that covers up whatever vile thing he blows into your ear next, though it doesn’t stop the awful sensation that comes with hearing him inside your skull. 

“I don’t understand.” You practically moan the words out, like a sick child on a feverbed. The damp sheets and your clenching fingers, rubbing the sheets raw, are much the same. “How are you doing this?”

“Oh, darling.” He says--but doesn’t say--as his hand skims down your chest and rests on your stomach. The feel of the leather is cold and harsh, like a ragged seam dragging down your skin.  “Don’t you know?”

You don’t know. You don’t know what he means, or why he’s doing this, or how the fuck he’s talking inside your head.

His hand doesn’t move, exactly, but presses down in a remarkably gentle gesture.

“Don’t you know what I’ve put inside you?”

There’s a terrible, long moment where the world drops out from underneath you. And then you’re back above with no air in your lungs, because you’ve screamed--you didn’t even know it.

He stares down at you with a patient smile until your breathing comes back, ragged and uneven.

“You’re lying.” Hot tears prick at your eyes, because you’re not stupid and you know what he means now, and you know that it’s the awful truth. You can deny a lot of things (and have done so at every opportunity) but this? This was real. It was sick and real. 

“I never lie to you,” he says, lips still unmoving. 

You know. You know. The calmness in his tone terrifies you more than any of his sweet poisons, than any of his bruising grips or swift strikes to your vulnerable body. 

“It’s remarkable, what her cells can do. And you took to them so quickly.” His smile has an almost edge of ecstasy to it that turns your insides sour. “It’s destiny. Even you must admit that.”

You think the word “no” comes out, but you can’t be sure you actually said it. Maybe you’re talking without opening your mouth now, too. Maybe you’re losing it, like frayed edges of an old blanket, just waiting to be pulled out. 

Sephiroth, if he notices your growing inner hysteria, chooses to ignore it. Instead, he leans down, taking a moment to rest his cheek against yours. He inhales softly through his nose.

“I thought you were at your most beautiful before, but this?” The hand on  your stomach trails up until he’s grasping your chin, keeping you in place. “This might be preferable…”

“Stop.” The words come out soft and perhaps pitiable to anyone but the man above you. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge them. Maybe you didn’t say them at all. 

There’s something determined in his eyes now, as he stares down at you. You’re almost afraid to find out what it is. 

“Mother has given me two gifts,” he says, softly, with reverence. “And I now will prove myself all the more worthy to her.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips. It could be chaste, if anything Sephiroth ever did might ever be called that. The kiss tastes of his breath and your own tangy blood. 

This time, when he speaks, his lips move--cruel and hot against your own.

“Do you think Cloud will be able to look you in the eye, once he knows what’s inside you?”

Hot tears slide down your cheeks and join the sweat already dampening the pillowcase. 

His hand returns to your belly, cupping the skin there. There is warmth--he’s removed his gloves now--and the sensation makes you shudder. 

“Do you think you can belong to anyone but me now?”

This time, his lips don’t move.

[kitsunefox1108]

Self-aware! Sephiroth x introverted! reader

Sephiroth finds it convenient that such a darling is rather taciturn and aloof due to being an introvert, and he will take advantage of that.

He often watches you as you sleep. He likes how at this moment you are absolutely relaxed.

He imagines how your face can show a frightened expression when you see that Sephiroth is self-aware.

He wants to show you this..

And he wants to make you his. He is in the shadows for a long time, and does not let you know about him that he is self-aware, but at one moment he does not hold back, and shows the truth.

And he knows that you can't refuse. Especially when his sword is next to him and he won't hesitate to draw it.. he often watched you draw pictures related to him. And he likes your style. Maybe he'll even take this art for himself… if you don't mind.

He likes that you are alone. And he makes great use of this to be with you after you find out the truth about him.

And he likes that he won't have to kill anyone who would interfere with your communication with Sephiroth.

[thevanillerose]

SLICE | YANDERE!SEPHIROTH x READER | FFVII

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators.

Author Note: It’s time. I have to write about HIM.

Honestly though, Remake/Rebirth really turned me on to what a hottie Sephiroth is. I finally get it…

CONTENT WARNING: Unhealthy Relationships / Violence / Non-con NSFW

“Poor little thing…”

The point of Sephiroth’s silver blade dug deeply into your shoulder, pinning you haplessly to the ground with no chance to escape. If you tried to jerk or move away, the weapon would only pull harshly through your flesh and rend it open into a bleeding, gaping wound.

If your arm got too messed up, then you’d really be helpless. Though as it stood, it was already looking very bad for you. Sephiroth totally had the upper hand, and then some.

Did he intend to kill you? Well…that was where things got a touch more complicated.

He’d already killed your friends. Cloud, Tifa, Barret, Yuffie, Red XIII, Aerith…everyone…all of them…

They lay strewn and deceased around you, seeping scarlet red blood in growing pools against the temple floor. Above you, the ultimate enemy loomed, the cold breeze running through his long silver locks, flowing gently from his back. His impossibly long sword had stabbed its way into you, his final victim, while you had been trying to crawl to escape.

“You fought so well. And yet, here you fail.” he spoke in a deep and taunting tone, his words purred out past his lips. His Mako-infused eyes were focused on your pained, tormented face. He twisted his blade to the side just to see you squirm and hear you scream.

“D-don’t kill me! PLEASE!”

That desperate, panicked begging was something he had been longing to hear from you. But what a fool you were. Did you think he actually would?

That he would actually kill you?

“...Do you believe that I will?” he asked, his tone taunting and teasing, turning his sword like an oversized key in a tender lock all the while, “Do you believe I would want to kill you?”

You were rendered speechless by both the pain, and his words. You didn’t understand.

“I…” was all you could manage, a little choking start to a sentence before he suddenly, with surprising fervor, yanked the blade back out of your shoulder. Fresh blood splattered and sprayed from the slice he’d made in your delicate skin, and you rolled over, clutching yourself desperately.

“More foolish than I thought…”

Sephiroth began pacing in a slow and menacing circle around where you lay curled up and trembling. He wiped your blood from his blade, but left a little to slide his fingertips against, raising his black-gloved hand up to his eyeline, holding it level, rubbing the red between his thumb and forefinger where it sat so darkly.

“You didn’t consider that perhaps, I was doing all of this in order to claim you? As my own?”

Maybe it was because the agonizing pain made quite the distraction, but his words didn’t make any sense to you. You were totally lost. What did he even mean? Claim you? In what way?? What the hell was he talking about?

“P-please let me go…” you whimpered against the floor, tears rolling from cheek to cheek and pooling with the blood that had run down in rivulets from your shoulder. Your tormentor tutted, coming to a stop where he was standing right in front of your fallen face.

“And deny myself what I’ve always wanted? Since I first saw you in Nibelheim? I hardly think so…”

The two of you definitely had history. It was in your youth when you had first appeared to one another, him once a renowned SOLDIER, you, the pretty local girl, someone who Cloud had actually fallen for, but who Sephiroth truly desired. 

It had taken quite some time to reach the stage where he might actually be able to finally have you. But every step had been worth it in his eyes. And now, all the distractions, all the objects which might stand in his way, were laying dead around you.

“...I…I don’t want to be yours…” you gasped, and felt a slight gust against your skin, before his hand came down sharply and snatched around your tender neck, yanking you up from the floor until you were dangling helplessly above the stone.

With a slight squeeze, he stopped you from talking. He didn’t want to hear you say things like that. Enough of it.

“Whose will you be then? Cloud’s?” Sephiroth gestured over to the body a few meters away, the fluffy quaff of blonde hair a giveaway, a dead one, who it was. You felt sick just looking, and tried to turn your head away, shut your eyes, something. Instead, he let your feet back down to the ground, but only so he could flip you around and position you with your back to his tall chest.

He pinned you tight against his body, slipping his hand up beneath your chin and using his hold to grip and keep your face turned straight forward, looking right at the boy who had once protected you with all he had, but ultimately failed in the end.

Sephiroth used his free hand to cup some strands away from your ear, brushing them back and leaning down to whisper into it in a low and menacing tone, his breath feeling sharp and cold against your skin, drawing up the tiniest little hairs in response.

“I don’t think that will be possible anymore…”

Your trembling hands reached up to clutch his wrists, wishing you had the strength to pull him away from you. If you were going to die here anyway, then at least, you wanted to die without his hands all over you.

He only laughed at your efforts, softly, mockingly, finding it cute that you were even trying. 

“M-my shoulder…” you moaned with pain from being pressed against him like this.

“I’ll treat it.” Sephiroth’s lips brushed chastely against your cheek, in something close to a kiss, “I’ll spare you. I’ll care for you…and you’ll never want for anything again. I’ll ensure it.”

Tears began to well and flow from your desperate eyes.

“You’ll kill me…if I refuse?”

The eerie silence that followed was all the answer you needed. 

Swallowing thickly and nervously, you shook your head with a gentle whimper. As much as it hurt, and as scared as you were to die, how could you surrender yourself to him while the carcasses of your friends, and the ruins of all they fought for, surrounded you? You’d never be able to forgive yourself.

In response, despite still smiling slightly and smugly, Sephiroth showed his anger. His hold on your shoulder tightened considerably, and you squeaked as the pressure drew forth a fresh flow of blood, running down the length of your arm. It felt like he was practically digging his fingers into the wound, the pain amped up to 1000% again.

“AAHH!!”

You shrieked and squirmed against him, as he refused to let you go, and only spoke in a warning tone:

“You misunderstand, [Y/N]. Killing you is an absolute last resort. If you refuse me…I have ways of making you concede…”

The way his hand moved down your side was, again, answer enough. His gloved touch traced gradually, slowly, agonizingly along your skin, gracing it bare through the tears and shreds in your outfit. It was both electrifying and terrifying, in equal parts. Choking out a sob, you practically curled into him as he slipped his hand closer to your most sensitive spot.

It was easy for him to push his hand down past your belt, and wrap it around your mound, one taunting finger at a time. A simple squeeze and you weakened.

I have no choice…

I’m sorry…

Because what he would do to you if you refused was worse…

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[silverflqmes]

Do you have any hcs for yandere Sephiroth? 👀

໒⦂ ‘𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄’ 𝐇𝐂𝐒.

notes. hi hi so uh i don’t do yandere stuff, it’s not a topic i’m super comfortable with writing ( as mentioned in my rules ) but i will provide a more subtle, toned down version if that’s okay instead :’)

genre. angst + suggestive

tw. possessive behavior, implied manipulation, jealousy

disclaimer. there is a visible flip in the headcanons from pre nibleheim sephiroth to post — which takes on a darker approach. if it’s not something you are comfortable with reading, then don’t.

sephiroth x gn!reader.

⌗ as a person who dealt with the loss of those he allowed into his life, having brought his walls down for them.. i do think sephiroth might have developed a bit of overprotective behavior — which honestly, is expected..

⌗ he doesn’t want to lose you or for any harm to come your way. whether losing you refers to death.. or to someone else — he doesn’t want any of that to come to fruition.

⌗ everything in life he cherished has been taken from him and you are not about to be one of them..

⌗ normally he’s as cool as a pickle if you’re talking to someone else, but there’s this aura emitting from him.. one look at sephiroth and the innocent bystander is practically shaking in their boots.

⌗ you of course — would be confused as hell on this.. i mean when sephiroth pulls you closer, you just assume he wants proximity..

⌗ until you go home, that is, and he’s just holding you without any means of letting go.. it’s silly, watching that subtle, yet visible pout of his and the furrow to his brows and all is understood

⌗ piece of you by shawn mendes tbh that is where my brain is rn

⌗ sometimes it’s a little more than an inescapable hug and turns into a storm of kisses — perhaps even a mark or few would be left in his wake.. but nothing that makes you uncomfortable cuz he doesn’t want to hurt or force you into anything. consent!!

⌗ while he has selfish desires and would prefer to have you all to himself, he values boundaries and freedom — it’s something he wasn’t given and he isn’t about to take that away from you, too.

⌗ but if you were trying to get a reaction out of him by PURPOSELY trying to make him jealous.. good LUCK walking in the morning are the only words i have for you LMAO

⌗ there is after care tho trust and it’s all part of the plan because he gets to have you stay over and spend time with him<3 which — despite your grumbles — you are more than happy to do<3

⌗ now uh, post nibelheim sephiroth.. he is a different case cuz he’s under the influence of jenova cells — which are obviously making him do some wild stuff..

⌗ following the concept that you would have said cells opens up the opportunity to mess with you a bit, as a means of getting you to execute his whims. kinda like he does with cloud..

⌗ he’s aware you’re trying to take him back and save him from what he’s become, and uses that to his advantage. you would do anything for him, wouldn’t you?

⌗ slowly, he would isolate you from your companions — they want him gone, anyway, but you don’t. you couldn’t sit with the idea of your lover being gone, even in spite of all he had done.

⌗ you told yourself it wasn’t him, and it was true, it wasn’t. for that.. you wished to continue your attempts at saving him, even if it was a descent into madness..

⌗ gradually, you are succumbing to his words, allowing them to reshape the view you had made for yourself.

⌗ he was right, anyway. the humans who blindly believed in shinra- were the ones that gave the company the power and means of further destroying the planet for their glory. sephiroth was right in almost every way to execute the goals he made for himself.

⌗ he only ever appeared briefly to you, his caresses leaving enough of a linger to leave you touch starved — yearning for contact.

⌗ the one winged angel only whispered soon in that velvety tone of his, a reassurance of the reunion that would be upon you both in time.

⌗ but at times, you pressed, pleading for just another second — minute or few of his time.. and with that desperation in your voice, the expression that crosses your features, how could he refuse you?

⌗ he would spare his precious time and entertain you a moment longer, indulging just a bit in you, and himself, of course. but once more leaving you lingering, longing for more.

notes. not one for writing yandere oriented content, so i hope this was okay and fulfilling enough since i watered it down quite a bit :’) just not super comfy associating him with the qualities of a yandere..

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[vampi3rbl00dlol]

Fandoms I write for:

Note: I mostly like to do one shots or short story’s

Also please add detail to your request and not put in something like “Sora x autistic reader” I just need personality. I can make up the setting though but a name would be nice too (not needed I just hat using y/n if not in first person).

(requests rn)

Dandadan:

Okarun(ken), Momo, and Jiji

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Loz:

link/linked universe, urbosa, Zelda, basically all the sages minus the minor, fierce deity, dark link, Gannon, and Ravio

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

FF7:

Cloud, Sephiroth, Vincent, and Yuffie (I might add more soon)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Kingdom hearts:

Sora, Riku, Kairi, Xemnas, Young Xehanort, Axel (Lea), Roxas, Saïx, Xion, Zexion, Vanitas, and Marluxia  (so far)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Twewy:

Neku, Shiki, Beat, and Sho 

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Persona:

Ren, Shinjiro, Junpei, Makoto, Aigis, Akechi, Futaba, Ann, Yusuke, and Wonder (persona X) (I haven’t played or watched persona 4 yet😅)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Creepy pastas:

Ben drowned, glitchy red, strangled red (Steven), blue tears, insomnia silver, lost silver, puppeteer, candy pop, (basically all the ogs), and x virus 

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Sonic:

Sonic, Shadow, Silver, Blaze, Metal sonic, Espio, infinite, mephiles, rouge, and Whisper

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

SSbu: 

All characters OTHER THEN Captain Falcon, Banjo and Kazooie, Hero, R.O.B, Mr. Game and watch, Ice Climbers, Ness, Villager, Kazuya, Lill Mac, Simon, Ryu, Ken, Richard Diddy kong, Terry, Wolf, and Min Min (bec I don’t know anything about these characters)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Pokémon: 

silver, gold, ash, goh, Clemont, Nate, Cress, Iris, Cynthia, James (team rocket), Caitlin, Grimsley(all the gym leaders basically) Garry, Arlo (team rocket go), (All sun and moon, Sword and shield characters)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Homiciper:

Everyone besides the goat girl and Ms. Nuse

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Soul eater:

Death the kid, Black star, and Crona

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Might add Homestuck, Genshin Impact, and Honkai: Star Rail

                    ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Yes’s:

child reader (only fluff or platonic tho)

Some nsfw (there’s a good chance I might ignore the request depending how I feel)

idc if minors interact or not ( just don’t blame me if u get in trouble 🤷🏾‍♀️)

Some kinks idk tho 

Disorders and disability’s 

All genders (including trans, non bi, gender-fluid, ect)

Lbgtq relationships (this includes some poly relations) 

kuudere, dandere, and Tsundere readers 

Au’s (so like things like Vampier or Apocalypse au or something like that)

Some ships so like Shiki x Neku or Ren x Akechi)

i can do oc now I just realized it’s easier for me to write them

Nope not happening:

yandere

really weird kinks 

Heavy nsfw

Weird ships like Pit x Dark Pit or Xemnas x Sora

Minor x adult is a big no 

Don’t make me do anything I don’t want to 

I don’t have a lot of time on my hands so don’t rush stories or anything 

un detailed requests

[halaxia]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。 request rules !

please refer to these before requesting anything as if the request doesn’t abide by these rules then i won’t be writing it, thank you!!!

please specify the gender pronouns you would like for me to use and if you would like nsfw to be afab reader or not—otherwise, i will write requests for a gender-neutral reader :)

not what you were looking for?

— what i won’t write :

- rape, noncon, etc.

- smut (i’m bad at it)

- incest

- male!reader

- any kinks including intense physical/mental harm

- eating disorders

- pregnancy/miscarriage

- yandere

— what i will write :

- pretty much anything else lol

- suggestive content

- fem!reader, gn!reader, afab!reader

- suicidal themes (not overly graphic)

- fluff, angst, dark content (as long as it abides by the rules above)

- alternate universes

thank you for reading :)

— who i write for :

this list is changing often—if you don’t see a character here you would like to request, shoot me and ask and i’ll let you know if i’ll write them or not :) (bolded characters are who i enjoy writing the most)

attack on titan

╰┈➤ eren yeager, levi ackerman, jean kirschtein, connie springer, armin arlert, bertholdt hoover, reiner braun, porco galliard.

bleach

╰┈➤ kurosaki ichigo, abarai renji, kuchki byakuya, hisagi shuhei, urahara keisuke, uryu ishida, shihoin yoruichi, aizen sosuke, ayasegawa yumichika, ichimaru gin, ukitake jushiro, hirako shinji, kira izuru, ulquiorra cifer, grimmjow jaegerjaquez.

bungo stray dogs

╰┈➤ dazai osamu, akutagawa ryunosuke, fukuzawa yukichi, nakajima atsushi, edogawa ranpo, nakahara chuuya.

chainsaw man

╰┈➤ hayakawa aki, denji, power, hirofumi yoshida.

demon slayer

╰┈➤ kamado tanjiro, uzui tengen, rengoku kyojuro, tomioka giyuu, iguru obanai.

final fantasy vii

╰┈➤ cloud strife, sephiroth

jojo’s bizarre adventure

╰┈➤ joseph joestar, caesar zepelli, kujo jotaro, kakyoin noriyaki, higashikata josuke, kishibe rohan, jolyne kujo.

jujutsu kaisen

╰┈➤ geto suguru, gojo satoru, fushiguro megumi, fushiguro toji, itadori yuji, inumaki toge, okkotsu yuta, nanami kento, mahito, kamo choso, higuruma hiromi, shiu kong.

my hero academia

╰┈➤ dabi, shigaraki tomura, hawks, shoto aizawa, todoroki shoto.

obey me!

╰┈➤ lucifer, mammon, asmodeus, leviathan, beelzebub, belphegor, satan, barbatos, simeon, soloman.

one piece live action

╰┈➤ roronoa zoro, sanji, shanks, luffy

spy x family

╰┈➤ loid forger.

the disastrous life of saiki k

╰┈➤ saiki kusuo, kaido shun, kuboyasu aren.

tokyo ghoul

╰┈➤ kaneki ken, nagachika hideyoshi, nishio nishiki.

vinland saga

╰┈➤ thorfinn, canute.

[11queensupreme11]

I love your stories, I can't wait for the next update!

Please don't push yourself to hard and take good care of your health.

Though my choices of literature can be... Questionable? I truly do enjoy the way you write your characters and how you slowly build them.

The theme of "yandere" has always been a difficult one for me.

Is it simply commiting immoral acts for the sake of love? Or is it something deeper than that?

Most yandere stories I stumbled upon has a swift narrative, one chapter the mc meets soon to be Yan character and then next their a yandere that has already fallen to the point of no return.

So, if you don't mind, can you recommend some for me to read?

since you didn't clarify which fandom or if you want original or not, i just put down my favs that i can remember!!

click here for a list of some pjo, alice in borderland, diabolik lovers, and baldur's gate 3 fics

click here for jjk and record of ragnarok fics

pandaemonium (chrollo x oc)

when the desert weeps, my soul cries out to you (sakura x gaara & sasori)

in which many things gang angly (sakura x gaara & sasori)

mother's song (sakura x gaara)

tamed (original)

breaking you (leon kennedy x reader)

insatiable (leon kennedy x reader)

fake it until you make it (sephiroth x reader)

the forest yearns (zenos yae galvus x oc)

the red string of fate (emet-selch x reader)

always mine (noctis x reader; need ao3 login!)

(wish i could find more, but i got too lazy to keep searching 💀)

[crisiscutie]

the reunion...is nothing to fear.

Pairing: Pregnant Darling/"Fluffy" Sephiroth

Word Count: 680

Content Warning: Psychological/Emotional Abuse.

The grandfather clock ticked away as Sephiroth traced the stretch marks of your swollen belly. He used his other hand to work the tension out of your back as you kept your focus on the clock. Judging by the time, your triplet boys aren't done with school yet. Few more hours. If only you could turn time faster. But it doesn't matter. The man you were trying to escape from has now invaded your new, lovely home, humming his favorite lullaby as you sat on his lap. Your new, lovely home, now corrupted by his presence. Maybe that's why your unborn child is kicking so much now; for you to get away from him.

Yet there was something peculiar about the way his hold on you felt. It's gentle and loving, but also constricting and possessive. You're almost like a poor fly caught in a spider's web. The spider is just waiting for the right moment to feast.

Despite the effort and hard work you put into escaping with your triplet boys, it amounted to nothing. Signs of Sephiroth's presence were always around you; Your precious boys kept asking about those strange dark feathers around your new home, their school, and even in other places, like your favorite grocery store. They wanted to know when their father would stop playing games. But you simply brushed it off, telling them that their father wouldn't be joining you all soon. They were confused, sad even, but they understood the hint to drop the subject. You hated saying that to them yourself, but it was necessary.

The dark feathers you saw were some of the many invitations to the reunion that you ignored. And now, this is fate. Your precious, innocent boys will become like their father. You still loved Sephiroth, but you could never love the path he took. His relentless slaughter of innocents and confining you all in his so-called "tower of love". That's why you had to get away from him. You tried your best, but this is where your "best" landed you.

Your baby's movements grew more forceful as he stopped tracing your stretch marks. He whispered into your ear with that same charming, velvety voice, but you knew it wasn't his old self. He still had that dark look around his slit eyes and a dangerous edge to his voice. You knew that his heart still beats for his family, but it's forever enshrouded in darkness.

"I wonder," he asked, "what name have you chosen for her?" Your dull eyes darted to your covered patio door, watching the rays of the beautiful sunlight slightly retract. You should have opened more windows when you returned from grocery shopping. You're amazed that you could still see in this gloomy and dark setting. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing your voice. But his question weighed heavily on your mind. It's true, you hadn't considered a name for your unborn child, let alone knew that it was going to be a girl. Your unexpected pregnancy with this little one almost deterred you from making your getaway with the triplets, but you pressed on. In the coming weeks, you were so focused on getting away from Sephiroth, you've neglected almost everything else. You didn't even have to turn around to see that his lips curled into a smirk, almost like he knew what you were thinking. His lips pressed against your ear, speaking in a lower, ominous voice.

"...JENOVA... A fine name for her."

Your eyes had widened at both his voice and his declaration. Naming your child after a dead family member wasn't unusual, but something about it had made your heart race. Your baby had ceased her kicking as his hold on you had grown slightly more constricting. Gazing weakly at the grandfather clock, you had realized that not much time had passed. He had begun his delusional ramblings, a dark chuckle echoing in your mind, as a lone tear had trailed down your cheek.

"The reunion at hand may bring joy, it may bring fear, but let us embrace whatever it brings."

This fic is based on one of my favorite prompts I've done so far on this blog. Context: The darling fled with her children to find a better life after Fluffy Sephiroth's corruption in this alternative path of the Domestic AU.

Yandere Domestic AU chronology: Christmas Kids | The Reunion is Nothing to Fear | Wait for me | Homecoming | The Crowning Moment

[leeus-writing]

Open

Hello, my requests are currently Open

Below is my master list for you to look at the link will be updated when I have time.

My 

Master Lists 2020 -2022

Master list 2023

I do have rules that need to be followed when requesting. I do have a no under 18s rule. I am quite strict with this as its a safe guarding thing. This is for your benefit AND mine.

(Dividers by @cafekitsune​)

FF7 Characters I’ll write for are:

·       Sephiroth

·       Zack Fair

·       Cloud Strife

·       Rufus Shinra

·       Reno

·       Vincent

Should you wish to join my tag list for any of these characters just send me a message.

Rules:

I will automatically write the reader as Female both sex and Gender, if you want me to write another gender/sex please let me know.

Please ensure you write in detail what you want. if you want to talk out an Idea just give me a shout!

If I don’t feel comfortable with a request, I won’t do it so please make sure you read my list of wont writes.

Request subjects I won’t write:

·       character x character

·       Abuse

·       poly relationships

·       yandere

·       Anything involving non-consensual encounters

·       Anything involving nsfw themes with underage characters 

·       Fetishes

I am also currently writing random Drabble cross overs from the fandoms of Brandon Sandersons Cosmere, FF7.

This is for my entertainment and for ma brain.

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

Just a random collection of thoughts. all of these are Pre-Nibelhiem. Yandereish? Was hoping maybe writing some of it down would help curb the Sephiroth obsession, don’t think I can reverse 20+ years of obsession though. And Genesis is a little menace, especially to Sephiroth this is facts. I guess slight nsfw? I dunno how to tag these things. Never thought I’d post anything.

*************************************************

“Oh you love me, I know you do y/n.”

Glancing at the clock on your stove then back to the drunk silver hair man at your kitchen table, you realize you’re in for a very long night.

———————————————————————

Today’s lecture entails your lack of responsibility, fantastic right? It’s been an hour and you’ve already accepted defeat and agreed to the fact that you were wrong for not answering the phone. However, he’s still complaining. It’s sweet sure, sometimes a bit much. You just can’t stay that mad when he’s worried about you. However it’s almost a bit weird, it’s like he’s tracking your every move.

“I didn’t know you had so much time for me, just imagined you’d be busier than this.” You say trying to contain your smile. “We both have the same, well similar, job. So you know overtime is mandatory.”

“Your schedule said-“ he started but you interrupted.

“My schedule said what? You know my schedule? I’m a Turk not a SOLDIER, how would you know?” Firing questions at him, you look genuinely confused. You know Tseng wouldn’t disclose such information, surely Rufus wouldn’t even entertain the thought.

“I keep track of what’s mine.”

———————————————————————

The arguing has been going on since they arrived. Well one couldn’t call it arguing really, Sephiroth was whining. Closing Loveless and setting it on the counter he’s sitting on, Genesis starts to speak, “He’s embarrassing himself in there, I think y/n loves it.”

A notion that Angeal has agreed with numerous times. Sephiroth isn’t going to beg for your forgiveness and affections publicly, but these two feel like they’ve just about seen it all. It’s not that you get a slight kick out of being a little mean to him, he’s just been so damn bad all week. Someone has to hold Sephiroth accountable and he hates that you’re more than willing to do that.

—————————————————————

Kicking his feet up on your coffee table, Genesis rests his arms along the back of the couch. Conveniently one of those arms ended up behind you. Is this necessarily a problem? Maybe not. But why the fuck does he act like he owns the place?

Staring at his boots on your table you huff, “Someone’s a bit comfortable huh?”

Sephiroth, who immediately perked up when Genesis’ arm went behind you, couldn’t have been faster to agree. “A little too comfortable in my girlfriend’s home if you ask me.”

Oh. There was that tone of voice again, it’s time to make your escape. Excusing yourself to help Angeal in the kitchen you faintly hear Genesis reply to Sephiroth and you know it was nothing to calm him down.

Leaning against the counter you give a light chuckle. “Should be safer in here with you right? Do you think he’ll ever get over-“ you pause trying to find the proper wording “-that?” There are no proper words, the two of you know what you’re asking.

“We can only hope.” Angeal sighs as Genesis’ laughter rings out.

———————————————————————

He fucked up, he knows he fucked up. He also knows you can’t stay mad at him, not that he’ll let you. This is how you ended up in bed with him, getting fucked for hours. He really just wants to make it up to you. He doesn’t mean to upset you he just doesn’t know how to act because you drive him crazy.

Between the sessions of Sephiroth’s balls slapping against your ass and his cum dripping out of you, he pulls you against him. Hands still roaming all over you as he tells you how much he loves you and that he just can’t let you go.

You’re still not sure how he even got in your apartment, he was already there when you got home. Gifts in hand, apology played out in his mind over and over again to make sure it comes out just right, puppy eyes prepared to make you give into his begging. What he didn’t expect was for you to not forgive him, at first at least.

“No…no no no. You can’t do that y/n please.” Shaking his head he stares at you with a mix of confusion and hurt. Don’t make that baby cry, if you keep denying him he just might. But now you see that if he starts crying, he gets violent. You better tell him that everything is okay soon ‘cause fuck you’re not getting that security deposit back. Eventually you calm Sephiroth down, holding his head against your chest, playing with his hair and whispering sweet nothings to him.

He’s going to clean up the mess he’s created, but before that he has to fuck you to sleep right? You’ll talk to him in the morning about seeking help, maybe you’ll do the same.

[icycoldninja]

Rockstar!reader or something kinda like that doesn't need to be anything smutty just a lil story!! So I'm asking because I might be getting a guitar soon and well I saw a drawing of Sephiroth in an outfit (I don't know how to word it but here is the drawing credits to @valentimmy !!) And if you still do Yandere stuff could you make it like that? Kinda based on Kim Dracula ver of Paparazzi by the way! Anyway enough of my ranting also make sure you're taking care of yourself ninja take breaks if needed too! 🫶🫶

thanks, man, you take care of yourself too.

My superstar (Yandere!Sephiroth x Rockstar!Reader)

You had been driving crowds wild for several years now, and had a pretty large, enthusiastic fanbase cheering you on wherever you went, and have had done several meet-and-greets, much to their delight. However, you had yet to meet your biggest fan of all, the one who followed you closely throughout the night, stalking you on the streets, evading your tight security and managing to get close enough to your home to be able to press his palms against the glass of your bedroom window.

It was he who admired you the most; he who made the most purchases regarding your merchandise, it was he who always showed up at every one of your shows without fail, regardless of where they were being held. It was he who spam liked your every post with multiple accounts, all so you could feel more famous.

It was he who idolized you above all else; him, Sephiroth.

He loved you so much he even changed his fashion sense for you, choosing to go for studded belts and lots of sleeveless shirts with tons of leather, all so he could be more like you. You were his obsession, and thanks to his inhuman abilities, he could follow you to the ends of the earth until the ends of time.

Even now, as he hovers above your slightly ajar window, he quietly muses to himself how lovely you look when you sleep, how comforting it must feel to be wrapped snugly in your arms, to hear your breathing in his ear, to savor the peace of falling asleep together. One day, he would know such joys, he assured himself, pushing the window open a little more to ensure the kiss he blew you reached you.

"Some day, my dearest, some day you will be mine," He whispered, barely even audible over the lightly blowing night breeze. "But for now, remain oblivious. I will be watching you from the shadows, my little superstar."

With a low, rumbly chuckle easily mistaken for the creaking of an old house, Sephiroth vanished, though he was still watching you. He's always watching.

[after-witch]

Quicksilver Girl [Yandere FF7!Remnant Trio x Reader]

Title: Quicksilver Girl [Remnant Trio x Reader]

Synopsis: You help a silver-haired man and his silver-haired brothers find their way in the city–didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers? 

Word count: 11,000ish

Notes: yandere, threats of violence, stalking, mommy issues

It was a solid testament to the bittersweetness of the world’s regrowth that the simple sight of an ice cream truck in the city made you want to cry. But for all the destruction that had rained on the city, that had rained on the world; for the terror that was Sephiroth and the near-destruction of the planet, it was these simple sights that healed (and hurt) the most.

It didn’t help that you had especially tender soft spots for children. Oh, soft spots for anyone, really–and your neighbors, the people you worked with, what was left of your family would attest to that. 

When someone said they were hungry, you did your best to feed them. When you overheard someone weeping over a debt, you would lend a coin or an ear or a pen and paper to plot out a way to dig out of a deficit. 

People’s troubles troubled you, and it made you feel better to take care of those around you. Friend and stranger alike. 

“Soft hearts have no place in this world,” you’d overheard your father tell your mother one night, mumbling, half-drunk.

Maybe he was right. Maybe in a world like this, your soft heart would get you into trouble one day. Or it would be hardened out of you like water grooving its way into a rock, with time and troubles. An inevitable weathering. 

But maybe you would be content to be the type of person who smiled and wiped away the edges of tears at the sight of a gaggle of children eagerly buying frozen treats, each running away with a smile–and often, already-melting ice cream–on their lips.

And it wasn’t just the children who wanted to reap the frozen fruits of the ice cream truck’s welcome arrival, you notice–a man, clad in what must be an entirely too-hot black leather outfit, awkwardly making his way to the front of the truck. 

He runs his hands through his cropped silver hair–it almost glitters, in the sun–and looks up and down at the time-worn stickers plastered to the front of the truck. One of the children behind him huffs a little and stands on her toes, bending sideways to peer around him.

The truck driver says something, and the man frowns. He points to one of the stickers and waits, expectantly.

You can’t help but overhear the exchange that follows. 

“If you don’t have any money, move out of the way. There’s kids that are ready to pay.”

The little girl shoves her hands in her pockets, fingers no doubt touching the precious gil she was able to borrow for the treat. 

The man makes a noise, something in between a growl and a whine, as he looks behind him at the growing line of kids–and in front of him, at the unimpressed driver. 

“No fair. It doesn’t say anything about money here!” The young man jabs a finger on the truck and–did the truck rock just a bit? No, of course not–and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s almost like a kid himself, you think, and a familiar tugging sensation in your chest creeps in.

You’re already hustling your way up to the truck, fingers digging into your purse for a few coins, when one of the kids in line lets out a barking, sneering laugh. 

“Everyone knows ice cream costs money! What’re you, stupid?”

Perhaps if you had been a moment later, it all would have gone wrong here. That kid would have been pulverized by an impulsive, angry punch and any bystanders would have fled screaming and you would’ve known to stay far, far away from this man and his silver hair and anyone else who showed up alongside him.

But you were a moment sooner, and nothing went wrong.

Instead, just as the young man turned towards the sneering kid, a scowl on his face, you were primly handing the truck driver enough coins for an ice cream bar.

“Please, let me,” you say, voice soft but firm–a I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone, and the tension from the interaction melts as easily as the ice cream inside the truck under the hot sun. The truck driver shrugs and dips away from his window for a moment, before coming back and holding out a fresh chocolate ice cream bar.

The young man stares at it for a moment, then slowly reaches out to take it. The girl behind him doesn’t wait for him to move, bumping past him to get to the front of the line. And if you hadn’t just enabled him to get the creamy frozen treat he’d clearly wanted, maybe it would have bothered him. 

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He simply stares at you, brows furrowed, gaze looking all sorts of ways. Surprised. Pleased. Annoyed. It’s an expression you’re a bit familiar with; the sort of mixed-emotions that come with favors you didn’t quite ask for, but wanted, anyway.

You don’t take it to heart. You smile and step back from the truck, and he follows–sticking the ice cream into his mouth before abruptly yanking it out, mouth half-opened, a bit of chocolate dribbling on his chin.

“It’s cold,” he says, shock at the edge of his voice. But the heat of the day and his outfit and the richness of the chocolate must overpower the initial trepidation, because he slowly sticks it back in his mouth, savoring it. 

“Have you… never had ice cream?” You ask. You shouldn’t; you should just go, good deed done for the day.

But.

It’s hard not to be curious about him. His outfit is unusual; more like something you’d see in the old days. A roaming thug hired by Shinra, maybe. But they wouldn’t be out in the day, at least not anymore. 

But it’s the rest of him that really stands out. Silver hair that, even cropped short, has a shimmery look in the fun. And his eyes are, well. Unusual to say the least. A vibrant sort of green, like a living light.

His eyes glance towards you, then towards the ground. Shame, maybe.

“Of course I have,” he lies, and your heart pangs just a bit. He wouldn’t be the first person in this world to grow up deprived. The soft, stretchy bit your hard pulls towards him, and you look around for anyone that might know him. Might have come here with him, before he got sidetracked with a sidequest for ice cream. 

But there’s no one that you can see who might call this strangely dressed young man “theirs.” So you worry at your lip with your teeth, weighing the options, before finally asking–softly, kindly. 

“Are you alone?” 

“No.” He looks up at you with something like indignity. “I’m with my brothers.”

There’s a bit of good news. You smile. “Oh! I’m sorry…” But when you look around, there’s no sign of anyone that looks like a brother. The silver hair would be a giveaway, wouldn’t it? 

He looks around, too, and after a moment, meets your gaze with a lost expression that you can’t help but compare to the kids around you.

“They were supposed to meet me here… at… at…” He huffs out a sigh, and pulls out a cell phone. The sight is surprising–they can be pricey, although they are getting a bit more common. He flips open the top and presses a few buttons with his thumb, before holding it up in your face. “Here.”

Oh. He’s in entirely the wrong spot. And if he’s not from the area, there’s no way he’ll find it alone. That soft, squishy part of you squeezes your chest hard and despite hearing your father’s mumbling disapprovals through the metaphorical wall of your mind, you offer another smile.

“That’s on the opposite side of town. It’s a bit of a confusing way… I could walk you?”

A few emotions cross his face. Surprise. Annoyance. And finally, a sort of mild distrust. Again, so much like the children around you. Children who grew up on or off the streets but in a world where the next day was never a guarantee. It hurts a little to see this expression on a grown man, however young he might be. 

“Fine,” he tells you, half-mumbling. “If you want.”

“Well, I do want,” you answer cheerfully, and the surprise on his face doesn’t seem to quite go away even as he begins to follow you, frowning, shoving the rest of his ice cream bar in his mouth. 

The stares you get as you escort this strange young man through the city are worth the feeling of accomplishment you get–warm and fuzzy and light–from helping someone out. Especially someone who seems so lost, in more ways than one.

As for the strange young man himself, he’s not much of a conversationalist–but you’ve never minded doing most of the talking. He seems content to listen, mumbling yeses and no’s, or occasionally asking you questions about buildings you pass. 

He even tells you his name, after a while: “I’m Loz.” 

And if you tell him your name, and he repeats it a bit gruffly, chocolate ice cream on his lips, is it wrong to find it a bit cute?

After all–

It feels good to help someone in need, doesn’t it? 

–

There’s no mistaking it: the two men standing in front of an abandoned city hall (ruined, more like; no one had enough money to fix it, so the city hall was now in a repurposed hotel) must be his brothers. The silver hair with the same sort of sheen, and nearly matching black leather outfits. Part of you wonders if you ought to have gotten ice cream for them, but it would have melted anyway.

Neither of them look particularly excited to see you. Well, you can’t blame them. You are a stranger. There’s surprise tinged with a wariness and a not-so-thinly veiled irritation, at least on part of what looks to be his younger brother. Silver hair cut short and slightly uneven, like he hacked it off himself. The other brother looks older, with long silky hair that must,  you decide, take forever to comb. 

It’s Loz who breaks the tension, stepping forward, running a hand through his short hair. There’s still some chocolate ice cream left on his mouth. 

“She uh, showed me the way. I got lost.” The brothers’ gaze roams over you. Loz holds up his ice cream stick. “And she bought me this.” When his brothers merely blink at it, he shoves it closer to them. “There was ice cream on it!” 

It is the brother with longer hair who speaks first. Smooth and calm, and you get the image of one of those upper-crust salesmen, the kind who could convince someone to buy a motorbike they couldn’t afford in a thousand years.

“I see.” His gaze turns to you and there’s something in those eyes–the same as Loz, but vaguely different. Whereas Loz felt like a lost dog with a–haha–bone to pick, his gaze feels a bit more intent. Like it could pin you to the floor, if it wanted. “Thank you for assisting our brother,” he says, voice as silky as his hair. 

The younger brother scoffs at that. Scowls. Won’t even look at you. 

Well–you were never one to outstay your welcome. Clearly they have business here, and it certainly doesn't involve you. So you smile at the brother with the long hair and then turn to Loz, half-grin on your face.

“Well, I’ve got to get going. I’m glad you found your brothers! Bye! Be safe, okay?” 

You raise your hand and wave and Loz–to his brothers’ surprise, it’s written on both their faces–waves back. 

“Uh… bye.” 

As you walk away, you can’t shake the feeling of three pairs of eyes on your back. 

–

You never expected to see Loz again. Or his brothers. Yet it is exactly these three people that suddenly walk through the doors of the diner you waitress at, and how could you not notice? The diner itself seemed to freeze as soon as the door swung open, and a trio of young men with matching silver hair and leather outfits walked through.

While everyone else was keen to stare, you were quick to welcome them. It was hard, being the odd one out; well, in this case, the odd trio out. 

“Good morning,” you chirp, menus already cradled in your arm by force of habit.  “I’m glad to see you!” And you were, a little, in the way you were always happy to see anyone you’d helped again. 

Predictably, Loz is the only one who smiles at you. It’s a shy sort of grin that almost seems out of place on his muscular frame.

“Hey,” he says. “Someone said you worked here, so we… uh…”

In hindsight, this was perhaps the only chance you had to sidestep the horror to come; the only chance to realize you were being sought, and that to be sought by three young men with strange clothing and stranger hair was no simple thing.

But hindsight is never there when we want it to be, and instead of taking the phrase for the warning it ought to have been, you let it wash over you.

“Yep! I’ve been working here for a few years now. Why don’t you sit down?” 

They follow–the youngest first, you realize, and the other two fall in line as you lead them to a corner booth out of the way. Less stares, you think. But what a very strange family dynamic, indeed. From the friends you knew with siblings, it was the oldest who called the shots. But then, the world wasn’t exactly rightside up anymore, was it? Things changed all the time. Even sibling pecking orders.

You dole out the menus as easily as you dole your smiles. Each brother picks up a menu in turn. The youngest looking at it with something like scorn, Loz furrowing his eyebrows, and the brother with long hair and a smooth voice quickly taking in the fare.

“Do you need any help deciding? We’ve got a bit of everything.” 

The brother with the long hair sets down his menu. “May we have three waters?”

You don’t need to jot it down–lots of practice, and all that–so you nod. “Of course! And what can I get you to eat? I’m pretty partial to the sandwiches here myself, but–”

His smile is smoother than his voice, and it’s almost unnerving, almost enough to make you take a step back, when Loz interrupts, mouth pouting, eyes downcast–

“But I’m hungry!” As if on cue, his stomach growls. And not for the first time, you’re struck by how new he seems, despite his appearance and demeanor. And clearly, despite these what-should-be expensive leather outfits, this trio of siblings has fallen on hard times.

Oh, your damned soft heart would get you fired one of these days.

“You know!” Your voice is a bit too high, a bit too chipper. “We actually just had a table return some dishes because I got the order wrong… I was going to have to just throw it out and eat the loss but, if you guys wouldn’t mind taking them?” You smile, a bit crooked. “It would really help me out.”

Loz grins.

The brother with the long hair’s eyes widen, just a fraction, before they return to their serene-like stance. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

The youngest frowns, his lips curling into a bit of a sneer. His brothers look to him, and you’re struck again by the topsy-turvy pecking order you see in them.

Finally, he sighs.

“Fine.”

–

The brother with the long hair, you finally learn, is called Yazoo. And the youngest–his name cannot be pried out of his own mouth, and it is Yazoo that tells you–is Kadaj. 

They don’t say much about why they’re in town, and you don’t pry. It must be hard enough with everyone staring at them, whispers slinking over from the other tables. Well. With their silver-shimmer hair and leather outfits, it would be hard not to notice them.

Still. You do your best to put them at ease.

Maybe that’s why, when their meals are finished, Yazoo asks you:

“Do you know of a place to stay in the area? Somewhere… affordable, please.” 

Your heart–soft, stupid thing–pangs. There isn’t much in the way of affordability anywhere, but you suspect they already know that. But you know a few people, can pull in some favors. 

“There’s lodgings above the cafe,” you say, pointing to the staircase in the far corner. “It’s where I live, actually! I’ll tell them you’re looking for a place to stay, and we can work something out.” You don’t tell them that “work something out” usually means you picking up extra shifts for free in exchange for someone else getting a discount, because then they might decline your offer, and who knows where they’d end up? 

“That is… much appreciated,” Yazoo replies, weighing his words carefully. Loz looks between his brothers and decides on a nod.

It is the words of Kadaj–his first words properly directed to you without a grimace or huff–that surprise you the most.

“Yeah,” he says, and both his brothers look to him with something akin to surprise of their own as he looks up at you, his own mako-green eyes catching your gaze. “Thanks.” 

–

It is not quite a surprise that you see the brothers every day. Neither does it shock you that Loz, in particular, seems taken with you; he follows you around the cafe, and you even wrangle him into collecting used dishes when the normal busboy decides to skip out on his shifts. 

He doesn’t like the customers–none of the brothers seem to–but he always beams when you thank him for his hard work. It makes your heart pang, just a bit; where were these three before all this, that simple praise makes him look so happy?

It is, perhaps, Kadaj’s turn that genuinely surprises you. For within the days, the weeks, he goes from sneering at you to quietly popping up by your side when you least expect it. 

When you’re out for a morning errand, he asks to come along, sometimes not saying a word the entire time–sometimes asking questions about everything he sees, which you happily (if a bit sleepily) answer. 

When you’re sitting in the cafe on a rare free hour, reading a book, he (with or without his brothers) slides into the booth and wants to know what you’re reading, and why you’re reading it, and how long you’ve read it for–

When you’re in the back on an overnight shift, doing dishes, he shows himself in the doorway and asks why you’re spending your free time scrubbing other people’s messes.

“It’s not my free time,” you tell him, once. “I’m working.”

He scoffed. “Do you always work all day, then all night?”

You smiled, perhaps a bit of a grimace, given the hot water and occasional wad of tobacco you had to crape off a plate.  “Oh, It’s just–I’ve got some extra bills to pay, so I pick up late shifts sometimes.”

And something in his gaze then–did he know about your deal with the owner? Picking up extra shifts when your bleeding heart got the better of you?--made you want to look away. 

“You shouldn’t work at all,” he muttered, as he pushed himself from the doorframe and left. 

Well.

It was a nice sentiment, but not a realistic one.

–

One day, Kadaj is not downstairs with his brothers in the cafe when you come down in the morning, apron freshly tied. It is only Loz, sitting in the booth, turning an ashtray over and over in his hands with an almost fittingly ashen expression on his face.

“Loz?”

His head jerks up at the sound of your voice, and you swear–it couldn’t be a trick of the light–that there are tears in his eyes. 

Instantly, you swoop down into the booth, reaching across–fingers grazing the ashtray and taking it from his fingers. He clenches them, keeping them hovering into the air, until you (bold thing) grip his hands in your own.

He stares down at your hand like it’s a foreign object. 

“What’s the matter? Where are your brothers?”

His gaze pulls away from your hands and there’s no mistaking the watery lashline this close up–he has been crying. A pang in your chest makes you squeeze his fingers. Poor dear. Poor Loz.

“Kadaj is–there’s something wrong with him.” His lips pout, and up close, you can see them quiver. 

“What’s wrong with him?” You keep your voice soft and slow; like how your teacher used to talk to you, when you fell on the playground and couldn’t articulate what happened through your blubbering lips.

“He’s…” Loz frowns, squeezes his eyes shut. “His head is really warm. And he’s coughing!” He says the next part too loudly, and a few early-morning heads turn towards the booth. “I think he might be…” The word dying does not come out, but it’s there, written in his worry-stricken face.

You fight against the urge for an indulgent smile. Instead, you squeeze Loz’s hands, and he makes the softest noise of surprise. “It sounds like it’s a cold.”

Loz frowns deeper. “A… cold?” 

You do smile, now. Not out of pity but that sense of warm upcoming accomplishment: if there’s any type of crisis you’re completely capable of handling, it’s a simple cold. “Yes. Let me get some things together, and we’ll go take care of him, okay?”

Loz pulls one of his hands from your grip, slow and reluctant; but only so that he can wipe away his tears with the back of his hand. 

How endearing–if strange–these brothers have come to be in your eyes, you think, as you begin to create a mental list of supplies to bring up to their room.

–

For once, Yazoo does not look perfectly serene and put-together. He looks–well. Frazzled. Hairs out of place, a dull darkness lining underneath his eyes, and you sense a sort of soft fracture in his expression that widens when you step through the open doorway, Loz just behind you.

There are a million things that enter your mind when you enter their rented room–how sparse it looks with so few personal items, for one; how uncomfortable it must be for them to squeeze into the small space, for two–but foremost on your mind is that Kadaj is never going to get better like this. 

Curled up on a bed wearing his full leather outfit, shivering, sweat plastered to his forehead. You can see the remnants of where Yazoo has attempted to tend to him, but in all the wrong ways–not that you can blame him, considering how inexperienced and naive these strange silver brothers can be.

Kadaj is so out of it that he doesn’t realize you’re in the room for a few long moments. When he does turn his head, his gaze narrows.

“Who said you could come?” He murmurs, bitterly. “Go away. I’m not well.” 

Your lips press down and your hands find themselves moving to your hips. You feel like your mother, in more ways than one.

“That’s why I’m here.” You glance at Loz, at Yazoo, then back at Kadaj. “You’re not well, and we’re going to get you better.” You take a glance around the room–at blankets strewn about, none of them on Kadaj to keep him warm; at half-empty glasses of murky liquid that may or may not have once been milk from downstairs; at trash, bits and bobs, things that make the place cluttered–and your thoughts click into place.

“Loz, Yazoo,” you say, gentle, but firm, as you set your bag down on a thankfully clear side table. “The first thing is to get this place clean. People heal better in clean spaces.” You nod towards the cups, the blankets, everything else strewn about the room. “You two clean that up while I get to work on your brother, okay?”

There’s a brief moment where the two brothers glance at each other, then at Kadaj, sick and sweaty on the bed. He huffs out through his nose and turns away, which must mean something to the two of them, because they both get to work on clearing up the room. 

It’s cute, in a way.

It would be cuter if it didn’t leave you with a sense of pity in your stomach; just how did these three grow up, if this is how they lived? 

But there would be time to think about that later, when Kadaj was better. 

You’ll start with his choice of sick outfit.

“Kadaj,” you say, lowering your voice, taking a step forward. “You need to change into something more comfortable. A loose shirt and trousers.” 

He doesn’t look at you, not yet. Instead, he curls in further, and says, low but clear: “No.”

Ah, there’s that stubbornness from when you first met rising forward. Pride, too, you think. Well–what man wanted to be sick and weak in front of someone else? Especially someone he followed around like some sort of strange puppy with increasing frequency.

Your hands go to your hips. A well-practiced gesture your mother used to give you when you were equally stubborn. “Kadaj,” you insist. “You are going to change into something more comfortable. No ifs, ands, or buts.” 

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. Loz and Yazoo pause, each of them halfway to picking up something strewn about the room, looking to Kadaj. Kadaj, for his part, seems to scrunch. His expression, his body–before he looks to you with an expression almost as unreadable as the ones he gives you in the kitchen on certain evenings.

Mixed in with the urge to roll your eyes–men could be so dramatic–is a sprinkle of uneasiness in your stomach. 

“Fine,” Kadaj mumbles, finally, unfurling on the bed and sitting up. You pluck up a discarded sleep shirt and what appears to be sweatpants and hold them out. When Kadaj takes them, you just manage to resist the urge to smile–you don’t want to poke his wounded pride, after all. 

As he leaves to get dressed, you finally attend to your supplies. Inside of your bag is a hefty container of freshly made warm soup–your mother’s recipe, of course–and a batch of cold medicine. The sight of it makes you want to hum; it’s nostalgic, these trinkets from the days of being-cared-for. 

When you turn, all three brothers are standing in front of the bed. It’s a bit like something out of a story. There’s the brief thought of being a governess to abandoned children, but it is brief; these aren’t children, and you are just helping out three young men who seem ill-equipped to deal with life on their own.

“Let’s get you tucked into bed,” you say, and you watch as Kadaj slowly climbs onto the bed, his face turned to watch you–like an animal, you think, afraid to turn around. All the while Loz and Yazoo stand to the side, looking anxious. For his health? Or waiting to see if he’ll huff about being told what to do? Perhaps, you think, a little bit of both.

And you haven’t even made him take the medicine yet. It’ll be the worst part, you know from experience. The taste is–well. It tastes like medicine. But better the taste of medicine than to be sick. That’s what your mother used to say.

It’s what you say, when you hand Kadaj the spoon, he takes it into his mouth, and promptly chucks it towards the wall. 

“Perhaps there’s another medicine we could use,” Yazoo offers. Calm, like always, with a hint of something else underneath. It’s probably not the first time his younger brother has expressed… displeasure at doing something he doesn’t want to do.

“Nope,” you say, cheerfully, retrieving the spoon and doling out another dosage. “This is the best medicine in town.” You sit down on the end of the mattress, and hold the spoon to his mouth. “Here, we’ll do it the way my mom used to.” 

You don’t miss the way Kadaj tenses; the way Yazoo and Loz tense too, the creak of their leather a telltale giveaway. 

“One spoonful of medicine,” you murmur. “Then you can have as much soup as you want. Okay?” Kadaj eyes you warily, and you can’t help but smile, indulgent, soft. Like baked bread out of the oven. “I promise, the soup tastes much better than the medicine.”

There are a few almost ridiculously tense moments–you’re tempted to shove the spoon into his mouth, for goodness’ sake–before Kadaj opens his lips. You slide the spoon in and tilt it, and he swallows it down, grimacing all the while.

“There,” you say, beaming. “That wasn’t so hard! You’ll just need a dose of this every 2 hours–”

“What?” 

Sometimes you can forget how young he seems–no, not young exactly. Green. Like he sprung fully formed out of the ground, all green shoots, and nothing substantial underneath. 

“Every two hours,” you continue, ignoring his outburst. “And drink some soup afterwards. It’ll help with the taste and help you feel better.” The mattress creaks when you stand up and retrieve the container of soup, along with a second, medicineless spoon. 

“I have to go in for my shift. If it’s too hard to eat, let your brothers feed you, okay?” You glance towards Loz and Yazoo and it’s briefly startling, the way they look at you. Like you’ve done some sort of wondrous thing by simply getting Kadaj to take medicine, by handing him a container of homemade soup. 

“Thank you,” Yazoo says, almost slowly.

Loz cracks a smile–and cracks his thanks. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course,” you don’t hesitate. You never have, when it comes to helping others. Especially, no–increasingly, these three–despite the sometimes off-putting greenness to them. Strange, you suppose, how they’ve begun to be woven into your life. “It’s nothing,” you finish, giving a wave as you leave.

But from the way you feel three pairs of eyes on your back–one staring longer, much longer, much harder–you get the distinct feeling that they don’t see it as nothing much at all.

–

You are doting and warm; inviting, like a blazening hearth stumbled on in the middle of some frigid night. A welcome, after being stuck in the dark for oh-so-long.

It’s a strange, blurry emotion. One he had never truly experienced until he met you. He tried to ignore it, at first. This strange sensation–this tug, this pull. 

Loz did not try at all, he thinks. Yazoo held his own, but not for long. But for Kadaj, the idea of viewing you as anything but yet another human in the way of him and Mother was abhorrent. Unnatural. Obscene.

At least, it was like that. Until inch by inch, you peeled back the hardened shell, like a knife slicing away an apple. Like the potatoes he sometimes helps you peel in the kitchen. You don’t even know what that gesture is, how significant you should find it. 

He likes it, in some ways. That naive core.

But right now, he can’t think about the things he finds appealing in you. He can only see ugly green, a nasty tinge that spreads through his veins, as you smile and dote and coo over a gaggle of children.

“Why is she wasting her time with them?”  He murmurs, almost spitting. 

They followed you here when you didn’t show up for your morning shift. It was easy enough to track you, all they had to do was find someone who withered easily under a well-placed scowl from Loz, and your destination was revealed.

An orphanage. 

It’s sickening, the way you smile at these children. Like they matter to you. Like you would barge into their rooms and make them rest and drink medicine. Things you should reserve for him–and his brothers–alone.

“Perhaps,” Yazoo says, ever practical, “she’s getting paid. Perhaps she needed another job.”

Kadaj doesn’t resist the urge to scoff. “No chance. She wouldn’t accept money for this.” 

Behind him, he hears Loz whimper. If he turned, there would be tears in his brother’s eyes, no doubt. The tears are irritating–he can be such a crybaby–but Kadaj would not deny that they were understandable at this exact moment.

It’s a betrayal, a wound. Every smile you give these damned children is stabbing it further in. It’s enough to make him want to dash forward, reveal himself, slash a silver path through the crowd of orphans and demand an explanation from your blood-spattered face.

“Brother,” Loz says, interrupting this fantasy and sounding as weak as the children you’re currently fawning over. “Do… you think she likes them more than us?” 

Oh, you are maddening. Loz was perhaps the softest when it came to you. You, who gave him ice cream, who walked him across town like a lost child. You, who are currently making him cry.  

It is Yazoo, as usual, who comes to his rescue.

“Of course not, Loz.” He can hear the reassuring smile in Yazoo’s voice, the way he talks Loz down from cries that go beyond sniffling. “She spends far more time with us, does she not?”

Loz hums in affirmation, as you say something–energetic, grin wide–to the children and usher them inside the orphanage. 

All three stare at the empty doorway where you used to stand. The emptiness is palpable, creating an endless series of questions that lead to only one answer: you’re giving someone else what you should be giving them. 

“Kadaj?” Yazoo doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t need to. Kadaj knows what he’s going to ask before he asks it. “Do we need to teach her a lesson?”

And oh, that thought is tempting. An apple dangling from a tree, half-rotting, desperately wanting to be picked before the last of its flesh went sour. 

How easy it would be, to grab that apple. How easy, to teach you this lesson now, he thinks; to keep you from straying from the path you ought to be on. 

But Kadaj is nothing, if not someone born to think about the bigger picture. And something in him, something he recognizes ought not to be there at all, is inclined to give you an ounce of mercy. If you behave. 

So–

“Not yet,” is what he says, leather gloves creaking while his fists clench, imagining all the sweet things you’re saying to the children inside. Reassurances and treats. “We’ll give her one more chance.”

–

You are a naive thing who is not aware that you have one last pitiful chance, and you squander it just two weeks later. 

To you, it is a casual announcement that you’ll be leaving for 2 weeks because you’re housesitting for someone in the sticks. A friend. The one that introduced you to the director of the orphanage. 

“And who knows,” you say, a smile on your face, “maybe I’ll even hear back about that assistant director position soon.”

The nail in your coffin, not that you know it.

At least you are smart enough to pick up on the shift in mood, when the three of them look at you like you’ve just admitted you killed their childhood pet. Not that you can imagine any of them having something as mundane as an old barn cat. 

“I’ll be back soon?” you try, offering the words slowly, something soothing held out on a platter. “It’s only for a little bit. My friend needs my help–” But you don’t even finish the sentence, because you get the distinct impression that it’s not helping in the slightest. 

Yazoo–the most restrained of the three, you know, the most practical–moves forward, his shoulder angling towards you.

“You shouldn’t go. It won’t be safe. It’s better to stay here with us.”

Loz looks at him hopefully–it almost makes you feel bad, but Loz often does–and Kadaj simply stares ahead at you, like he’s been doing since you said you were leaving. There’s something petulant in his stare, but it’s glossy. Like it’s covering something else up. Something you don’t want to peel back and see.

Something that makes a soft thought that’s been there all along, too quiet to hear and easily resisted before, get just a bit louder.

Maybe, just maybe, when you get back–you should think about distancing yourselves from these three. It would be inevitable, anyway, if you get the new job. 

But it can wait until you return. Some time away will do you good, anyway. You’ll be able to think more clearly at your friend’s house, out in the sticks, with nothing to worry about except insects getting in through a rip in the window screen at night.

For once, when you leave, you don’t feel their eyes on you.

They’re only looking at each other.

–

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere. In a small house surrounded by dense forest, all signs of civilization reduced to the dirt road that was cut through the area years ago, connecting the sparsely placed houses with the rest of the world with chunks of dusty gravel.

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors in sight or sound. Peace and quiet, is what she said, remarking that you’ll have a chance for some actual alone time. Something you’d never get in the city, that’s for sure. 

Your friend lives in the middle of nowhere, and it’s dark outside. There is no sound by the natural buzz of the world, insects, chirping, the hum of the night. 

You are alone, in the middle of the woods, with no one around. And yet–

And yet someone is knocking on the door.

A firm knock. Intentional. One that makes your body jerk like a puppet.

Your first thought–some kids playing a prank, knowing your friend wasn’t home–is quickly washed away. She didn’t have neighbors even remotely close nearby, and this was not the haphazard, giddy knock of some teenager being dragged away by friends, lest you catch them in the act.

So who…? 

The knocking comes again. Louder. Slower. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Then a more reasonable thought: someone is lost. Their car broke down on this shitty dirt road and this house was the first one within miles. 

That thought gets you out of your seat, a cushioned recliner with a worn out cover, and you set down your book to attend to the stranger in need. How funny, that even when you’re meant to be taking a break, you’re bound to help someone out. 

But when you open the door, nothing greets you but the night, lit only by the moon ahead and the dim yellow light hanging above your friend’s front door. Insects dash against the glass bulb, hitting it with a desperate ferocity. 

Strange–you swore you heard a knocking. But as you go back inside, leaving the breeze and darkness and insects behind, it’s easy enough to wave it away. You’re alone, in a new place, it’s only natural to hear strange sounds. 

The house settling. An animal in the woods. Some nocturnal bird, maybe, pecking at the window frame.

By the time you sit down again with your book and a quickly cooling cup of tea, you’ve already put the sound out of your mind, wiped away all traces of who-what-could-be-at-the-door. 

It’s easy to get lost in your book now, without life pulling away your mind every few moments. Without the cafe, without the customers, without the familiar faces. Without–and it’s a guilty acknowledgement–three brothers trailing behind. 

It is when you have just crossed that threshold of being immersed in your book that–

There is another knock at the door.

Louder, this time.

And oh, how unmistakable in its human origin. 

Knock-knock-knock. 

Not the wind or some wayward bird, but someone with knuckles, curling them up and rapping them against the door. 

It takes you longer to get up from the chair this time. Something tight and low settles in your stomach–dread, taking root as you force yourself up and over to the door.

This time, you don’t open it right away. This time, you lean closer, pressing your eye against the peep hole, to see… nothing. Literally, nothing. Complete darkness, without even the light of the bulb above the door to give you a glimpse of the few feet in front of the house

Something has been taped over the peep hole. And it wasn’t there when you opened the door the first time.

That low dread in your guts begins to strum faster, tingling up and down your arms. You stare at the useless, black peep hole for far too long as you try to decide what to do–what to think.

Someone playing a stupid prank? Maybe. Kids who live out in the boonies and maybe heard from an aunt-uncle-cousin-brother that someone would be housesitting out here, and made the trek for some fun. 

Someone trying to rob the place? More likely, you think. Just as easy for a robber to hear from an aunt-uncle-cousin-brother that the normal inhabitant would be gone, replaced by a stupid city girl.

Those options are the only two that really stick in your mind as you peel yourself away from the door and make a pitstop at the kitchen. Your friend was no gourmet cook, but she did have a large, sharp kitchen knife. 

Perfect for slicing through hard vegetables. Perfect for–what? Defending yourself? If it was kids playing a prank, well, you wouldn’t dream of it. But on the chance that it was someone with less-than-good intentions… it might be necessary to defend yourself.

It might be necessary to have a weapon. 

It just might.

–

A few minutes turn into an hour, and there are no more knocks on the door. No more unusual sounds. Nothing but the breeze and the insects, and your occasional hum as you read your book. Though your mind never gets fully engrossed in it; you’re on the surface of the world, ready to step out at a moment’s notice, if necessary.

But you no longer feel like your guts are ice and the idea that this was either some silly prank or game–”I dare you to knock on the door and run off!”--becomes stronger and stronger. Heck, maybe there wasn’t anything taped to the peep hole after all. Maybe it was just hard to see out of it in the dark. Maybe the light bulb went out.

Who knows. Not you, that’s for certain.

But that lack of knowledge becomes less frightening and more a simple, accepted fact. Someone knocked on the door, or someone didn’t. It was dark, and hard to see. You were overreacting, that’s all. 

And as soon as that simpler–sweeter–accepted fact coats over the dread in your guts, you decide you’d like nothing more than to get dressed for bed. The book and tea and lamp light will seem all the cozier when you’re wearing your softest pajama set, certainly.

The knife is left next to the book while you head for the bedroom. It’s a cozy little room, with a warm bed and a quilted blanket that you think, if you remembered correctly, had been passed down in your friend’s family for at least two generations. 

Or was that the plaid curtains, currently pulled over the half-open window, billowing ever-so-slightly with the mild night breeze? A nice breeze, inviting enough that you’re debating keeping it open all night, even now, as you slip out of your trousers and stand there in your underwear. Your pajamas are resting right on top of that maybe-antique quilt, and you pick up the soft pajama shirt and pull it over your head. They’re soft, light blue, one of the few things you’d decided to splurge on buying new. 

Hmm. Actually… new curtains might be nice in your little room, wouldn’t they? Something to freshen it up, change it a little. Life had begun to feel more stale lately, more suffocating. You can’t quite pinpoint when, but–

A loud engine revs from the other side of the house.

Your entire body jerks and you instinctively jerk back so hard that you slam your elbow against the wall, pain radiating up your arm. The pain takes a backseat to the sudden numbness of the unexpected sound, the way your heart feels like it jumps out of your chest.

Your socked feet pad hard against the floor as you run, almost slipping, back to the front of the house. Your fingers shake as you yank back the curtains of the kitchen window, just in time to see a shape–someone on a motorcycle, the brightness of its headlight breaking through the darkness–riding away.

Instinctively, your eyes dart to the front door. It’s locked–good. That doesn’t make your heart feel any less jumpy. Maybe you should call someone. You can’t afford a cell phone, but your friend had a house phone. But who would come out here in the middle of the night? 

Especially over what might be–could be, still could be–some stupid prank. Bored teens on motorcycles who have nothing better to do than scare the shit out of you.

Well. Let them scare you. Your heart begins to thud instead of pitter-pattering like some terrified rabbit, and you breathe in-and-out through your nose to bring down the panic. You’re okay. You’re an adult. And you have a knife, anyway. Should you need to scare someone off.

The house seems less cozy and more achingly empty as you creep back into the bedroom and finish getting dressed, slipping on soft pajama pants that feel less comfortable than they did yesterday. 

Habit makes you force yourself to see the bright side. You’ll have a story to tell your friend when she gets back. And a story to banter about with customers at the diner, when you need to make that connection and get extra tips.

What a laugh–you finally get some alone time and someone decides to ruin it by being an asshole, and all you can think about is how to use the story to make more money.

It’s kind of funny, actually. What is less funny is the realization that hits when you go back into the living room and–

The knife is gone. 

The knife is gone–it was right on top of your book. You remember setting it down carefully. You remember it cutting through the title of the book. You remember seeing it before you went back into the bedroom–

Well. Wait. Do you remember all that? Had you actually set it down before you went to get changed? Maybe you set it down somewhere and just thought you put it down on the book. Maybe you left it in the bedroom, or–you whirl, looking towards the open-floor kitchen–you set it back on the counter.

Or maybe, you whirl around, you put it by the front door.

Which is open.

Just a crack.

No.

You locked it. Didn’t you? Yes, you checked it, you must have locked it. You’re not aware that your body is trembling until you take those few steps forward towards the door, heart thumping again, listening intently for the sound of someone outside.

Kids. Pranksters. Robbers. Murderers. Whoever, whatever.

But when your sweaty palm grips the door handle and turns it, there is nobody there. Again. Just the night, just the insects. One dives for your face and you gasp, jumping back in the house and locking the door–surely, double checking–with a thunk of the lock.

The mind makes wonderful leaps and bounds when it wants to rationalize something. And that is what your mind does now. You put the knife somewhere else–you’ll find it in a moment; you were mistaken when you thought you locked the door the first time. Even though you looked at it after you heard the motorcycle outside.

A trick of the eye, a trick of the brain. That’s all it was. Some bored teens playing a joke and you’re out here alone, turning it into something much bigger than it needs to be. Your friend did tell you that it’s easy to get paranoid when you’re out here, in the dark, all by yourself. 

The house creaks, she told you. Settles in the night, groans when the wind blows. Thoughts mush together, and there’s a brief thought that you ought to call someone, before you hear it. 

A motorcycle. Again.  This time, it comes from behind the house and you’re aware enough to immediately dash for the back door. There’s a window–shut–and you push aside the curtains. It’s harder to see in the back, with no porch light at all. But you do see wisps of engine smoke, the red lights of the motorcycle dash.

Stupid kids. Stupid, bored, mean kids. A brief flicker of sympathy–they must get lonely out here–is stamped out when the engine revs again and you jerk in surprise.

Well. Better to be bold than let them keep bothering you. With a swift motion, you undo the lock and peel the door back, just enough to take a step out onto the small pad of concrete outside the door. 

Your mother always told you to pretend that your father was coming home, should you be caught alone by someone who ought not to be there. So the thought on what to say comes quickly, a half-remembered lesson taught to you on your mother’s knee. 

“Hey! You’d better get out of here! My boyfriend is coming back any minute, and he doesn’t mess around!” 

The words echo into the night, bouncing off the crickets of insects. The figure on the motorcycle doesn’t move. 

“Liar,” someone whispers next to your ear. 

You have just enough mental coordination to stagger backwards into the house as you choke on your surprised gasp, pushing the door shut out of pure primal instinct rather than anything resembling a cognitive choice. Likewise, your fingers twist the lock shut, and it’s only after you hear the steady thud of the lock that consciousness returns to you.

There’s someone out there. No. Two people. One on the bike, and the person who spoke. You didn’t see them, didn’t even feel them next to you. Like they were some sort of ghost, only you know it’s not a ghost, because ghosts did not ride motorcycles.

Probably.

But now is not the time for debating the ins-and-outs of supernatural entities, as you head right to the house phone hanging on the wall and dial your work. The numbers twirl with each twist of the round dialer, leading you closer and closer to someone on the other end. The restaurant is open late; whoever took your shift should still be up and about, taking care of the stragglers, scrubbing everything up for the night. 

It rings once, twice, and it’s a certainty that you’ll soon hear the blissful sound of someone picking up–when it cuts out.

Fuck, seriously? You hang up the phone and pick it up again. But there’s no dial tone. There’s nothing at all. You try again, pushing every button a dozen times. It’s clear, however, that the phone isn’t working.

The receiver hurts underneath your tightening palm. The phone ought to be working. The phone ought to be able to call for help. But it’s not, and you can’t.

And someone is knocking on the door.

Again.

A polite, firm knock that does not at all match the frantic beating of your heart. It doesn’t stop when you don’t answer, standing frozen by the phone. It just keeps going.

“Go away!” You all but shriek. The knocking pauses–they must hear you through the door–before it resumes. Just as politely. Just as firm. 

They aren’t going to go away. The phone is dead. You need–something. Protection. Leaden feet take you into the kitchen, where the big kitchen knife may no longer be, but there’s a smaller one stuck in the knife block that should do in a pinch. 

If you had to defend yourself–could you? The most you’d ever done before was kneeing some creep in the balls when you were a teenager, just the way your mom had taught you, way back when. But kneeing a creepy jerk who cornered you in an alleyway is different than dealing with two strangers in the dark, in the night, in the middle of the forest.

When you reach the door, knife gripped in your hand, the knocking stops. Your breath comes out in loud, nasal spurts as you lean in towards the peep hole. Which is stupid, you realize, because it’s covered and–

Only it’s not covered anymore. You can see outside now, the dimly lit front of the house all tinged yellow from the bulb. And it seems impossible, but that’s all you see. The dull grass, the forest ahead, shrouded in darkness. Insects bopping to and fro, heading up towards the light.

There’s no one standing in front of the door. No one could have been standing there, knocking, fist curled and firm. You would have seen them running away, or seen the edge of them; a leg, an arm, as they darted away.

“This is bullshit,” you mutter, and with a brazen sort of bravery rushing through you, you decide to tell these pranksters off once and for all. It’s the only thing you can do, with the phone not working. The door unlocks with a twist of your fingers and you step out into the night air, the hum of insects louder now.

“Hey!” Your voice seems to echo into the trees, where whatever nocturnal animals rest in the branches must flinch at the disturbance. “I mean it! Leave now and we won’t call the police! My boyfriend is–”

But you don’t get a chance to puff up the qualities of your imaginary boyfriend, because something loud and close and awful suddenly comes to life in front of you. 

A motorcycle.

Revving its engine at the edge of the clearing where the dirt road connects this quiet little house to the forest trail. The headlight bursts through the darkness, unnaturally white, and with the help of the faded yellow bulb behind you can just make out the figure.

A young man with long silver hair.

It’s Yazoo. Yazoo, sitting on the motorcycle, revving the engine.

There is a brief rush of relief. A brief whirling thought of–Yazoo is here, and so his brothers must be here, and they can help you scare away these robbers or teens or whoever has been messing with you. 

It’s a stupid rush, a stupid relief. It fits you well, you think. That the first thing you thought to do was smile and think your worries were over, because the trio of brothers you’d been helping decided to check up on you. 

And then common sense hits you in the back of the head, and that relief is gone, replaced only with an ugly dread. 

It is Kadaj and his brothers who knocked at the door. Kadaj and his brothers who revved their engines. Who whispered in your ear. Who are scaring you. 

But–why? 

“What do you want?” You mean to scream it, to put some kind of force behind the question; but the words come out all tangled and choked. Like a pitiful whine.

And then the world goes dark. The headlight turns off at the same time as the porch light shatters, and your body reacts with a jerk that nearly sends you to the ground. You can hardly see, just the dimmest bit thanks to the light bleeding in from the opening door, and you hear the sounds of sets of feet moving in the darkness–

They’re coming for you.

By pure luck, you fumble your way back into the house, slamming the door shut with silver glinting in your line of sight. The sound of the lock is melodic and you take a few steps back, as if they might just walk right through the closed door. Like ghosts in a folk story.

But they don’t.

And then you wonder if you locked the back door after all, and your socked feet slide on the wooden floor as you pound towards the back of the house.

It’s locked–yes, yes, yes–and you think about trying the phone again when you hear it.

A window rattling.

You locked the doors, but what about the windows? They let in the night breeze, pretty curtains billowing. And they might just let in so much more.

It’s a mystery how your fingers manage to work, with so much fear coursing through your body, as you rush from window to window, double checking the latches. Locked, locked, all locked, thank goodness. Your friend must have locked them before she left, and you’re glad for it.

But the sound doesn’t stop, and now you hear the sound of a window shifting and–

The bedroom.

You make it to the bedroom just in time to see a figure clad in black leather, silver hair shimmering like a curtain in front of his face, climbing through the open window. Limbs all tangled, like some creature hauling itself out of a dirty well in the woods.

One of them–it’s Yazoo, you realize, his hair skirting well past his shoulders–is in the house. There’s no time to run, you’ve got to hide. Then find a way to get out of the house and get help. The practical details–how are you going to find help in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, with no shoes on?--don’t matter now.

All that matters is that Yazoo doesn’t see you. So you jerk away from the bedroom, forcing yourself to slide along in your socks, and open the hallway closet as softly as you can. But you don’t shut it–you need to see.

And you do see. You see Yazoo emerging from the bedroom door like he belonged there, and didn’t just crawl in through a window. 

Hiding inside the closet, it’s suddenly so easy to see why your boss thought you’d lost your mind when you started connecting with them. He’s–wrong, isn’t he? All three of them are wrong. The way he looks, the way he moves. Like some sort of sinewy animal, mako eyes almost flashing in the lamplight of the house.

He says your name, softly, in the darkness. It makes your stomach clench. 

“Where did you get to?” He asks you. You don’t dare answer. Instead, you watch as he dips in and out of view, checking the rooms, the corners, the crannies. 

Please don’t check here, you beg the world.

The world must be listening, because instead, he looks towards the back area of the house. The back door. 

“Perhaps you went back outside?” He murmurs, and the sound of his feet approaching the back door, the door itself creaking open, gives you the precious moment you need to flee. 

There’s no time for plans and proper thoughts. As soon as you realize Yazoo doesn’t step right back into the house, you throw open the closet door and dash for the front of the house. Fumbling fingers manage to undo the lock, and you fling open the front door–

To find Loz standing there, a half-grin on his face, an arm reaching out for you. You slam it shut and it bounces off his hand, catching it in the door as it slowly swings back open from the momentum.

Your brain registers his reaction–”Hey! Ow!”--as nothing but background noise as your own awful, incomprehensible noise of terror rushes from your pounding chest straight out your mouth.

There’s nowhere to run but the back door and you flinch sideways when you see Yazoo standing in the threshold, arms crossed. Instinct takes you to the only room with a lockable door, the bedroom, and you slam it shut behind you, locking it with a swift turn of your wrist. 

The window–the breeze is still wafting in, those pretty curtains that did nothing to protect you billowing. The window slams shut with ease and you turn the latch, blocking the only other entrance to the room.

You just–you just have to wait them out. That’s all. The thought is stupid and pathetic and you sit down on the maybe-antique quilt with it, running it through your head until it dissipates into nothingness.

They’re going to get in. They’re going to get in, and then–then what? What do they want? To kill you, surely. Maybe something more. Above all, above even the terror, you just feel incomprehensibly stupid for trusting them. Not just trusting them. Liking them, even. Fuck–

Something slams against the door.

There’s another sound–a huff, a complaint. Loz?

Then that something-what-is-it slams against the door again. And again. And again. And you hear the wood splinter before you see it caving in, see the edge of someone’s shoulder splintering the wood.

Then a leather clad hand busts through the hole, reaching for the lock that did little to keep them at a bay, after all. 

You’re lifting the window and pushing yourself through before they can even open the door, and if you had the breath (you don’t) you would surely let out a noise of triumph. They didn’t get you, they won’t. You’ll run–run until your feet bleed, until your lungs pop out–and get help. Someone on the road or someone else out there, cozying up in some middle of nowhere house.

The darkened vision of trees whip by as you dash into the woods, barely able to see in front of you in the darkness. You don’t know how far you run before you finally trip, a wayward limb or stump taking you out. The ground connects hard with your knees and your breath gets knocked out of your chest.

Get up, stupid, you think, just as someone’s gloved hand latches around your ankle.

You scream all the way to the house, digging your nails into the ground as you go; into the grass, at first, then the dirt of the backyard, and then scratching along the wooden floor as you try to claw your way to freedom.

The world goes topsy-turvy as you’re hoisted into the air–it’s Loz holding you, bigger and wider–and set down unceremoniously on one of your friend’s kitchen chairs. There’s a padded cushion on it. It’s red, with a dainty illustration of a flower embroidered in the middle.

The rope wrapped around you, pinning you to the chair, is not so dainty. It’s harsh and unyielding, digging into your skin as you struggle. All struggling does is make your breath come out even more ragged, until you find you can barely breathe at all.

Is this how you die? Tied to a chair, suffocating on your own fear? You can hear the wheeze of your own breath, feel the way your eyes hurt, wide and buggy. 

Someone taps your cheek with their gloved fingers. Enough to startle you with a faint sting. Your tear-filled vision makes out Yazoo in front of you, crouched, a look of awful concern on his face. 

“Calm down,” he says, in a way you might have admired before. He was always the one to calm down Kadaj, when he was being something of a brat. “Breathe in, through your mouth.” You do. “Now out through your nose.” You do, and he smiles. “Good. Now do it again.”

And you do, and you can breathe, and you don’t feel like you’re going to die choking on air; it doesn’t lessen the knowledge that they’re going to kill you some other way, now. But at least you won’t suffocate to death.

It’s a poor comfort, as your pathetic struggles fade to nothing, and you slump against the rope. You look up towards the three brothers you’ve come to know, each of them staring down at you with expressions you can’t quite measure up. 

They’re going to hurt you, before they kill you. That seems like a certainty.

It’s Loz who steps forward first. You expect him to take a swing, to use those muscles of his to break something. Your jaw, maybe. A few fingers.

Instead, he sniffles. 

“You don’t really have a boyfriend, do you?” The frown on his face makes you wonder if this is actually a dream. But it’s not. The rope, the pain in your sore feet, the sweat on your neck. Too real for a dream.

Yazoo looks towards you as he speaks, voice soft, edged with a warning. “Of course not, Loz.” 

When his gaze deepens, you shake your head. 

“I-I don’t. I was just… trying to scare you away.” How stupid that seems, now. A fake boyfriend to scare away these three, who could probably snap your neck with a gesture. 

Loz smiles through the beginnings of his tears, and rubs at them with the back of his hand as he nearly chuckles out a response. “I knew it.”

It’s this that does you in–Loz smiling and wiping away his tears like any other day, like you’d told him they were out of strawberry ice cream then found a pint in the back of the freezer. How can they act so casual, with everything they did? With you tied up on the damn kitchen chair in front of them? 

You burst out with the plea, tears prickling your eyes again, voice strained and terrified. 

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

Yazoo leans down, ghosting your tears with leather fingers. His expression is calm as ever. It would be soothing, in any other circumstance. 

“We aren’t letting you go. There’s no use in getting upset.” It’s spoken so softly, almost sweetly. Bile rises in your throat. 

“But what do you want? Why are you doing this?” 

Your breath comes out faster again, no matter how much you try to slow it down. They aren’t letting you go; they’re going to hurt you; they’re going to kill you. The thoughts come out on an awful loop until the vision of Yazoo in front of you blurs away, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping.

It’s Kadaj, sitting on another kitchen chair, his arms wrapped around the back. He rests his chin against his hand and it’s like he’s looking at you for the first time. Mako eyes burn into your own and you wonder how they didn’t strike you as so wrong before. Before, you’d thought them pretty. Now you feel them pinning you, looking through you. 

Kadaj–was he even human? 

“You were going to leave,” Kadaj says finally, voice low and icy. You don’t know what he means, and it must show in your ragged, tear-stained face, because he scoffs. “You were going to leave us. For those orphans.”

Abandonment drips from his voice and your mother would slap you for the way something like pity still sparks inside your chest. Faint and buried down underneath the ropes, harsh and scratching, but still there. 

They didn’t want you to leave them. Would they kill you, if you did? If they thought you would? 

Words fail you, until they don’t. Until you’re promising stupid things, anything, to make them let you go. To make them not hurt you. To live through this night and then get home and gather anything sentimental and disappear into the world. You’d helped others do it, and you could do it, too. 

“I won’t leave,” you offer, voice choking. “I promise. I won’t take the job. They–they didn’t even offer it to me, they probably won’t, I’m awful, I have no experience, they wouldn’t–” Your voice hitches and your lips wobble as you make your promises. 

Kadaj stares at your mouth like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, even as you end your pitiful diatribe with the words on loop. “I’ll stay, I promise, I promise, I’ll stay, I promise, I promise, I promise–” 

Kadaj pushes the chair back and he and his brothers exchange a look between them. A secret language you’ll never be privy to, these looks; these wordless glances that say more than anything.

Maybe they’ll let you go. Maybe they’ll have their fun–the way Kadaj looked at your mouth did not escape you–and let you go. Or kill you. If they kill you, let it be quick. At least let it be quick.

Kadaj is smiling when he turns back to you. 

“You are going to stay with us.” It’s a matter of fact that sits low in your gut as the three of them approach the chair. These three men, now strangers to you, all smiling down in a way that makes you feel sick.

You look at their hands for weapons–the kitchen knife, lost to the wilderness–but see nothing but the leather as Kadaj brings his hand up to your neck and gives it an awful squeeze.

The ocean rushes in your ears as the world goes spotty, then black–

And when you wake up, surrounded by three silver-haired brothers, you’ll be nowhere near this cabin or even the city. You never will be again. 

Soft hearts weren’t made for this world, after all.

[kitsunefox1108]

I really like your remnants of Sephiroth. can you do all three of them being yan self aware with one player/reader.

you mean all three are obsessed with the same reader? sorry if i misunderstood _________________________________________________

in fact, if all three are obsessed with you, you can put an end to yourself personally.

they like the fact that you are able to look at them. Often during a fight, they make everything more elegant and beautiful so that you enjoy watching.

They are interested in the fact that you potentially know more about them than anyone else they have seen, so they are interested in your personal encounter with the remnants of Sephiroth.

They will hunt you like hungry wolves, find a way to transport you to the final fantasy world, and be by your side whenever they find you.

They don't lose sight of finding Jenova, but they also make it a priority to keep you around.

You are like a soft plush toy that cannot be shared. One minute Yazoo hugs and caresses you, another moment Loz is crying on your shoulder, the third Kadaj makes you praise him and admit your weakness. they are interested in listening to your stories about how you lived in your world. But they always emphasize that you are better off with them.

Yazoo is most gentle with you. I have already said that he is charismatic and charming, so he will be more tender than everyone with you. Why not Loz? well… Loz isn't much softer than Kadaj and Yazoo, and uses you to cry on your shoulder if he's upset about something. Either likes to show you his fistfighting skills. if you do not listen to them, their instructions and so on, they do not stand on ceremony in teaching a lesson if they really want to scare you. ________________________________________________

speaking of the NSFW part, they really like to tease you about it. They try to be gentle so that you get the maximum pleasure, although it would seem that you do not like spending time with them so much, but the way you moan in agony while all three drive you to extreme exhaustion, you really enjoy it. as well as their characters, they also manifest themselves in terms of sex.