#( i’ll swallow my blood before i swallow my pride. ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

0bticeo · 15 days

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lurk | feyd rautha

part 3 of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 4.)

summary:

the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

wc: 4k.

tw: blood, gore, possessive feyd rautha, bene gesserit shenanigans, determinism but make it sexy, bit of knife play, blood play, wound fucking, fingering, oral (fem recieving), somewhat sub feyd, breeding, inkpie, brief mention of cockwarming.

you’re kneeling. or rather, two guards are forcing you down on your knees, fingers digging in the meat of your shoulder until they reach the bone. you hold back a wince.

you fail.

your breath is heavy, stuttering little gasps leaving your lips with droplets of blood. your left side is on fire, each inhale pure, agonizing torture. use the voice and they’ll kill you.

you’re kneeling before baron vladimir harkonnen in his personal chambers, in a tattered robe. it’s filthy, the way he looks at you like you’re prized meat.

you bare your teeth.

“such defiance, atreides.” from the murky depths of his bath, he tilts his head. volutes of smoke escape his parted lips, slithering towards you. “tell me, why should i let you live?”

careful.

plans within plans within plans. you can’t let your feeble control over the situation escape you. inhale. choke on your scream - like hell you’ll show him your pain.

“if i weren’t useful to your plans, i would be dead.”

an image flashes in your mind’s eye. a spider woven out of human flesh, the mangled bodies of harkonnen prisoners frankensteined together. barely alive. an eternity of torment.

the baron laughs, a deep, cavernous rumbling. it fills the penumbra, fills you with dread. your shoulders tense - nervous impulse. you’re not in control.

“fair enough.” he inches forward, the gigantic mass of him rippling through filthy waters. “where is your brother?”

pain. it ripples through you, sinks its claws in your chest and freezes there, a sinking weight. you can’t breathe. you push through.

“he’s already given his last breath to the sands of arrakis.”

“how would you know?”

“dreams.”

the answer escapes your gritted teeth with frightening rapidity. good. let him think pain clouds your judgment. let him see you as weaker than you really are.

one of the guards tightens his hold, forces you to stand straight. blood drips down your lip. you will not scream.

“dreams?”

the subtle narrowing of his eyes. a quirk of his lip. disbelief. intrigue.

“i’ve followed my mother’s footsteps.”

“ah, lady jessica.”

keep her name out of your mouth.

he leans back in the bathtub. silence settles. stretches. stretches. he’s pensive, the baron. his lips wrap at the end of the pipe, mouth like a maw swallowing it, releasing acrid smoke that burns you. spice.

(visions. shai hulud deemed your brother worthy. on they go. march south or die. maybe the sands haven’t consumed him yet.)

nervous exhaustion settles in. they haven’t treated your wounds. it takes every ounce of energy to remain conscious, every inch of pride to will your muscles to stop trembling. your vision blurs at the edges.

“i’ll ask again, atreides. why should i let you live?”

bastard. you’re on your last legs. he has you cornered.

“because you’d have to kill your heir if you don’t.”

now that catches his attention.

“go on.”

careful. there’s a thin line between usefulness and danger. do not step on the wrong side.

“he’s recognized me in the arena."

the ghost of his touch against the wicked scar of your forearm. the flash of a grin, black teeth like a promise inked at the back of your skull.

you fought well, atreides.

behind your back, your nails dig into your palms.

“he’ll ruin you.”

“is that so?”

skepticism. amusement.

“do you think it wise to try and find out, baron?”

silence. fate looms over you. spins its web in the calculated gaze of the baron, gaze like cold steel cutting through you.

your life is in his hands and he relishes in it. in having you, half bare before him, chest heaving with each stuttering breath, red darkening the black of your dress.

you watch him lick his lips and shiver with disgust.

“do you think it wise to threaten me when i have wiped your house from the surface of the known galaxy?”

oh, right on a silver platter.

your mouth drips shadows as you bare your teeth in a grin.

“only because you were backed up by the imperium and its sardaukar.” you cough. blood drips on the ground. “you were a pawn, and that scum of an emperor could deem you a threat, too.”

a beat.

he’s smiling.

“you’ll be of use, atreides.”

a wave of his hand.

the guards move. drag you up until you’re standing on faltering legs. defiant, still. breath ragged, panting, blood pooling at your feet. you feel soiled, with the way the baron looks at you, eyes dragging down to your womb.

there’s a commotion behind you. you still. in your state, you’ve neglected to analyze your surroundings, only focusing on the biggest threat in the room. you didn’t take into account the harkonnen court behind you. atreides. the baron practically signed your death.

shit.

your vision is darkening in the corners.

“i ought to drown you in that tub.”

feyd-rautha, voice a low growl borne out of primal fury. feyd-rautha, in dark robes, shadow among shadows. you catch the slow twitch of his pale hand, the instinctual gesture of nerves calling for a familiar blade. to kill or protect, you do not know.

the guards freeze. you’re left there, struggling to stand, sweat dripping down your back with the effort of staying upright. how utterly humiliating.

“do not be hasty, my dear nephew.”

a ripple. the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

one step, two, until he’s facing you.

he snarls at the guards. they let go of you. you collapse, only stopped from slamming upon the marble floors by two strong arms.

he’s pulling you in his chest, arm wrapping around your waist. you shudder, nerves alight with the instinctual need to get away from this place, from the baron’s lecherous’ stare, from the court’s bloodlust.

i must not fear. fear is the mind killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my fear-

you don’t realize you’ve been shaking until a hand settles at the back of your head. warm. comforting. rubbing small circles in your scalp until you relax, if only by a fraction. he won’t let them harm you - you know it, deep in your soul.

“yes, her.” dismissive. “and a bigger one. arrakis.”

you feel it, the way the na-baron’s body tenses, the ripple of the hard planes of his chest under the soft silk of his clothes. anticipation. unease. you press your cheek to his heart, listen to the erratic pulse of it.

“what about rabban?”

“he has failed to protect the spice production.”

paul. your fingers clench in your palm, piercing the skin.

“tame arrakis feyd. free the spice, and i’ll make you emperor.”

you still. he who controls the spice has ultimate power over the known galaxy. power is power. knowledge is power.

“how?”

“use me.”

they still. rapt attention falls upon you. your fingers dig into the na-baron’s forearm like a vice to remain upright.

“if the great houses were to learn that the emperor ordered an entire house to be wiped out, they would question his authority. rebel. wage war until one comes on top.” you swallow blood. “you’ll have me as a living witness and weapon.”

“a weapon, huh?”

feyd-rautha looks down at you. there’s something awfully calculating in the way he assesses you, in the way his fingers curl over your hip - possessive. protective.

the baron rises by a fraction, mephistopheles bargaining.

“will you side with us, atreides?”

you let out a shaky breath. laughter. you’re laughing at him, at the absurdity of the situation - you, last of your house, striking a deal with the devil for revenge.

“i will. i only ask for one thing in return - the emperor’s head.”

the baron’s gaze is riveted to you. he nods. bargain sealed.

“this must not leave this room.”

feyd-rautha springs into action, blades drawn out of their sheaths before the baron finishes his sentence.

bodies fall.

carnifex. the butcher. oh, he’s gorgeous, feyd-rautha, twin blades slicing through gaping throats, droplets of blood landing on his pale cheek.

the baron immerses himself in that wretched bath, until it’s only you and the apex predator that is him.

you take a step forward. two. three. until you’re facing him, slowly raising your hand. the motion alone has you gasping for breath. still, you persist, until your fingers settle on his cheek, thumb wiping away at the gore sprayed there.

he leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded, nuzzling in your palm. his own hand cradles yours, warm, smearing blood on your skin. his lips press against your palm, against the many half-moons your nails have left in their wake.

“come, my little atreides,” he mutters. “you need medical attention.”

his eyes sink into yours, magnetic, all consuming. they dart to your parted lips, to the blood coating them. he leans in, breath like fire upon your soul, upon your awaiting mouth.

your breath stutters.

oh.

“catch me, feyd.”

you fall.

fall until you stand in the desert of arrakis. paul has his back turned to you, silhouette burning bright in your retina. corpses. they’re burning, all of them, and with the stench of sun-charred flesh rises a litany. lisan al gaib.

lead them to paradise.

you want to scream. you want to reach out for cruel fate and rip her asunder with your bare hands until that twisted future is no more.

you do not know whether your brother is the kwisatz haderach. you do not know if there is a kwisatz haderach, what’s with the missionaria protectiva’s wretched tale.

warmth seeps in your womb, the gentle press of a lover’s hand. you do not know if the child you’ll bear will be the one.

desert sands slips from your fingers.

you just want your family back.

feyd doesn’t expect it, the moment you collapse in his arms with a whispered plea. still, he catches you. slides his arms under the back of your knees and pulls you close, where he knows no harm would come to you.

who would possibly dare to cross him?

warmth spreads across his hand. blood, he realizes. your wound, that vicious strike of his hasn’t been treated. fury washes over him, gaping maw sinking in his heart. it is vicious, too, that fury.

it tells him of blood and death and destruction. death to the baron. death and misery upon those who’ve wronged you - doesn’t matter if he has to face the sardaukar, for he is legion.

the hallways are empty. servants have long deserted the baron’s quarters, knowing not to disturb him. good. no one must know of your presence here.

he looks down at you, at your wan face, at the blood dripping down your chin, spreading, spreading down your throat.

he cannot let you die.

he cannot compromise himself more than he already has by threatening the doctors to kill them should you die in their hands. he leaves you in their care and strides back to his own chambers. they’ll notify him of your condition.

you, last atreides left standing. you, with your sharp wit, sharp blade and sharper smile. you, feral, snarling at him in the arena. you, hands dipped in ink darker than black, spreading it over his back.

he had felt your warmth, back then. felt the softness of your skin on his, shivered as you ran over his deltoids, down to the rib - lower. each and every one of his nerves, raw, exposed, yearning for your touch.

there had been a beat, a split second of hesitation on your part. blood calls for blood, and his house has spilled so much of your blood. it would have been easy for you to take a hold of his blade and sink it in his exposed back.

he almost wanted you to do it.

(he had tilted his head, back then, a low growl leaving his lips at the mere thought of it. he could almost taste it, your sheer want.)

he, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen, lets his guard down, as if waiting for you to strike. why is that?

his steps do not lead him to a place of honor. too much blood has been spilled in this palace - a tribute to harkonnen nature, really. verses upon verses of hymns interwoven with gore and the acrid scent of enemies torn asunder by their blades. hellish epics to those who died bloody.

retribution is second nature - and he expects it from you.

then why is he so soft around you?

you’re still an atreides. your only worth to his uncle as of now resides in this precise fact - that you remain a witness to your house’s demise. a hidden blade, ready to be sunk in the emperor’s back.

his steps slow.

there’s something.

you, standing in the arena, raising your head, voice distorted and hoarse, thousands of your foremothers screaming in righteous fury.

you will not perceive me as i am.

he hadn’t, not until his fingers met the jagged ends of your scar.

a bene gesserit trick.

“are you lost, my lord na-baron?”

a silhouette in the shadows, shrouded in veils. he can only make out a smile - sweet, charming. not enough to conceal the sharpness beneath. witch.

he remains silent.

“what will you do with lady atreides?”

his resolve weakens. here, in the dead silence of the hall, he speaks:

“she will be mine.” a beat. the nervous twitch of his fingers, aching for a blade. “is it not what you intended, witch?”

he knows she is smiling, the bene gesserit facing him.

plans within plans within plans. atreides, harkonnen, corrino, dozens of great houses and they’re none the wiser.

“it was.”

none of it is real, it is all an illusion - your touch is wrong, your judgment unjust, faltering. dreams have meaning, this must be one. you can still taste the sands of arrakis, hear the screams of the billions of people starving, begging-

you rise in your bed - information flashes.

a bed. bandages wrapped tightly around your side. harsh, cold walls. antiseptic. blood - a medical wing.

feyd rautha.

you startle. he’s watching you, head slightly tilted to the side. assesses you still, gaze raking over the thin fabric of the covers.

his gaze is free to roam the expanse of your bare throat, to trail down to the dips of your collarbones, to the swell of your naked breasts. you shiver.

“is the sight to your liking, my lord na-baron?”

a chuckle like a rattlesnake. he steps closer, until he’s all but hovering above you, hand lightly pressing down on the mattress below.

“will you have me, my wife?”

you blink.

“we’re not-”

his fingers run up your wrist, press against the long scar marring your forearm.

“does it truly matter? you were made to be mine.” slowly, he sinks to his knees, glacier eyes smoldering in the penumbra. “and i was made to be yours.”

generations of prefect planning for this - you, last atreides left standing, and him, feyd rautha harkonnen, alone in the same room, bred for one another, for the kwisatz haderach to be conceived.

you raise your hand, cradling his cheek.

“have me, feyd-rautha.”

he presses a kiss to your palm, your inner wrist. he grins, black teeth like a gaping maw ready to sink into the marrow of you. your pulse jumps at that, rabbit-quick against the thin skin of your wrist. he feels it, with the way his thumb presses down on the delicate flesh.

his hand slithers under the covers, drags them down, until your side is completely exposed. he presses a kiss there, too, on the stitched up wound at your side. it’ll scar. a living, breathing reminder of him, of the kiss of his blade on your skin. the weapon is in his hand before you know it, slicing through bandages.

you feel his breath before you feel the press of his lips on your side. you gasp, fingers reaching for him, digging in his nape.

his tongue meets raw flesh, teeth worrying at the stitches until they snap. his nail rakes the cut, spreads its edges apart until liquid warmth blossoms at your side, trickling down your ribs.

you scream.

his lips slam against your own. warm. scorching. bruising. he presses himself to you like he wants to sink in the marrow of you and taste.

your hand raises to his chest, a meek press against his heart, fingers weaving with the velvet shadows of his jacket.

closer.

he growls. low, primal, needy. pushes his fingers in the gaping wound at your side - white hot pain surges through you. your mind grows blank. agony never felt so sweet.

your lips part in a cry - he swallows it down with greedy laughter.

you feel him smile against your lips, tongue reaching out for yours. heavy. you bring him closer. his hand twists, index curling up. you think he wants to reach your heart and never let go.

“feyd-”

he stills. nips at your lip one last time, backing away. a spider-web string of saliva links you both. he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you with a low hum. desire curls inside your lower belly.

“more,” you beg.

“where?”

you take his hand, bring it between your thighs, face heating up. he’s laughing, feyd rautha, the tip of his blood-soaked fingers brushing your cunt.

you gasp at that, at the way he spreads you apart, sinks into you with shameless abandon. you whine as you feel his fingers curl oh so sweetly.

he’s watching you. leaning closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your inner thigh, until-

until his lips press against your heat, tongue lapping at you. you mewl, hand pressing him closer, nails sinking into his nape. you feel him growl against you, a low, needy sound as he tastes you, consumes you, tongue flicking against your clit.

something’s building in you, agonizingly warm, blistering fire spreading over your skin. a low vibration.

he’s purring, you realize, eyes closed in bliss as he laps at you, tongue delving into you, your essence running down his chin. you bite your lip until you taste blood.

it’s all too much.

the way his fingers have you keening his name like holy prayer. the way his tongue burns a path of desire over your slit, skilled little licks having you thrash in his grip, the low vibration of his purr having you squirming in his grasp. his free hand tightens around your thigh, pulls you closer.

his gaze flits to yours, glacier eyes melting under the weight of his desire.

you cum with a whine of his name, a plea for him to stop, to give you more, to please please please, keep touching you.

his eyes roll in the back of his skull at that. at the sight of you, lips parted in sinful euphoria, head thrown back under a tidal wave of pleasure. more. he needs more.

he grasps your hand, presses it against the length of his clothed cock, hard, throbbing, yearning for your touch.

“will you have me?”

“yes.”

as it was meant to be. him and you, bodies pressed so close nothing could come between the two of you, your nails digging in his back as he eases himself into you with a low hiss of pleasure.

him, pressing his lips in the crook of your neck, teeth nibbling at the tender flesh as his hips slowly rock into you.

“mine,” he growls, forehead against yours, picking up his pace until you’re gasping for breath. “mine.”

you close your fingers around his. press a kiss to his lips - you’re so full, so delectably full, your legs crossing over his lower back, driving him closer still.

his teeth break your skin, your lips painted over in blood. the sight has him moaning, reaching out between your legs to rub at your clit until you’re keening his name.

his release follows yours - he groans your name in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering madly against yours.

your breaths mingle - two pieces of the same puzzle slotting against one another. complete. you’re whole, pressed against the broad expanse of his chest, his cock settled snugly in your pussy.

you can almost feel it, the satisfied smile of the reverend mother. an heir has been secured, deep in the confines of your womb, growing, second after second. a boy - the kwisatz haderach.

that wretched eons long plan doesn’t matter. not now, not when you run your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jaw, marveling at him.

“mine,” you mutter.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#feyd rautha x y/n #obticeo writes #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune #dune x you #dune x reader #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #bald freak supremacy

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worldofmuses · 2 years

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James Potter - Tag Dump

gotta do my tag dumps again dont mind me

MUSE

Himself - {James Potter} i would rather die of passion than of boredom

FAMILY

Mother - {JamesxMum} thank you to someone who always saw the best in me

Father - {JamesxDad} fairytale childhood

Harry Potter - {JamesxHarry} of all the things my hands have held you are the best

Children - {JamesxChildren} of all the things my hands have held you are the best

FRIENDS

Marauders - {JamesxMarauders} as long as we don’t die this is going to be one hell of a story

Sirius Black - {JamesxSirius} extensions of each other

Remus Lupin - {JamesxRemus} i know you’re strong but you don’t have to be alone

Peter Pettigrew - {JamesxPeter} you look at me with this heady mixture of awe and love and bottomless trust

Marlene McKinnon - {JamesxMarlene} piggeyback rides & inside jokes

Mary MacDonald - {JamesxMary} remember you can’t save everyone

Glenda Chittock - {JamesxGlenda} you’re so weird (don’t change)

SHIPS

Lily Evans - {JamesxLily} and i’d choose you ; in a hundred lifetimes, worlds, any version of reality

Amelia Bones - {JamesxAmelia} naturally, i had fallen in love with you before i knew it

OTHER

Severus Snape - {JamesxSeverus} i’ll swallow my blood before i swallow my pride

#{James Potter} i would rather die of passion than of boredom #{JamesxLily} and i’d choose you ; in a hundred lifetimes worlds any version of reality #{JamesxSirius} extensions of each other #{JamesxMarauders} as long as we don’t die this is going to be one hell of a story #{JamesxChildren} of all the things my hands have held you are the best #{JamesxAmelia} naturally i had fallen in love with you before i knew it #{JamesxMum} thank you to someone who always saw the best in me #{JamesxDad} fairytale childhood #{JamesxHarry} of all the things my hands have held you are the best #{JamesxRemus} i know you’re strong but you don’t have to be alone #{JamesxPeter} you look at me with this heady mixture of awe and love and bottomless trust #{JamesxMarlene} piggeyback rides & inside jokes #{JamesxMary} remember you can’t save everyone #{JamesxGlenda} you’re so weird (don’t change)#{JamesxSeverus} i’ll swallow my blood before i swallow my pride

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shirefantasies · 4 months

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Can I ask for a request?

For the fellowship men? So they get wounded and their crush have to nurse them? And she is total calm with that like "Hun your leg is bleeding you have to take off your pants so I can treat the wound" and she's total obvious and didn't get the longing looks she get oder when he ist flustered and shiver because she touch his skin. ("Sry for the cold hands")

I’ll do my best! Tried to vary up the scenarios a bit 😉 thank you so much for requesting 😌 Warnings: some blood & injury mentions, minor language, some suggestive jokes!

The Fellowship When Their Crush Cares For Their Wound

Aragorn

"Won't you please sit down?"

The tender urgency of your words finally ran a shock through Aragorn, who complied. Perhaps it truly was no good to continue pressing on at the detriment of the group.

"Very well. We rest!"

"That was not so hard, was it?" You asked him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, if you please." Pantomiming removing your shirt, you nodded his way.

Aragorn's brows furrowed, blue eyes fixing you with concern, questioning, as he sat and tightened his bootstraps.

"I saw that slash you took," you breathed, "let yourself be cared for."

Inhaling, he nodded, unlacing and shrugging down his tunic. Never had you made such a request before, but giving as you were, it made sense. Such nature was what inevitably drew Aragorn to you. Your touch was soft as you reached out to caress the skin above where he had been injured. Cleaned it just as gently.

"What?" You suddenly broke the silence, tilting your head and fixing Aragorn with an innocent bat of your eyes. You truly had no idea.

He shook his head, a smile playing upon his lips to swallow the wince of pain as you began wrapping his cut flesh in bandages. "Nothing. Only gratitude at the care of your heart and the ease of your hands."

You smiled back, sending Aragorn's chest leaping somewhere far deeper than the pain could reach.

Legolas

"You're bleeding."

"It is nothing, really," the elven prince tried to brush you off, but shaking your head, you stepped in front of him.

"Keep not your pride so tight about you," you chastised, hands upon your hips and a teasing look upon your face, "the dwarf can't see you. Come. Let me at least wrap it up for you."

Legolas's expression softened at your words, and with a slight nod, he followed. Wordlessly he removed his layers when you reached a spot off to the side, dark eyes never leaving you as he revealed the entirety of the wound, a slash near his collarbone. Unthinkingly, your hands went right to the area around it.

"Oh, Legolas, it's worse than I..." You paused, feeling him shiver. "I'm sorry, are my hands cold?"

"A bit," he replied with a bit of a smile, resting both of his hands over yours.

Flushing, you shake your head. "I am supposed to be caring for you."

Legolas just smiled at you. "Can we not have both? This is the least I can do."

"True," you teased, "I suppose it benefits us both, does it not?"

"Indeed," he nodded, "but mostly yet I know no other way to show my heart's gratitude."

Boromir

"I can hardly believe you!"

"Believe what? We are safe again," Boromir replied, a hand tightly clasping your shoulder.

"You are well aware what, you hero of a man," you shot back, waving a hand up and down his form, "now go and lie down for me already!"

"Oh?" His brows shot up at your words. "Is that how you like it?"

"No matter me, you've been wounded! Being surrounded upon all sides and grazed with arrows does that to a man. I saw the one that caught your side and while I'd like to hold you up as much as you need, first we'd best patch you up."

"Oh," Boromir said again, this time a bit dumbly as he lowered to the ground with a nod. His teasing tone quickly returned, however, "Yes, indeed, whatever you say. I forget what a great healer you are."

"Well, I certainly may not be the best, but there is no reason to burden oneself with wounds already inflicted. Not to mention it mostly got your back."

The moment Boromir exposed himself, he glanced back at you, catching the trace of your eyes over his skin. Your hands soon fell upon it, working quickly to clean and wrap up the bloody graze nice and tight. What surprised him, though, was the work of your hands after this, your fingers kneading the skin around it. Pleasure and pain rolled in equal waves through him as you did so.

"My apologies, does this hurt too much? I felt you start a bit just now. My brother just told me that we heal better if we're relaxed."

"And I believe that wholeheartedly," Boromir agreed with a smile, "please continue. I must confess I have never received such fine treatment before."

Giggling at his comment and eliciting a chuckle from him in return, you continued with a smile of your own.

Gimli

“Sit still!”

“I can still fight!”

“Like hell you will,” you shot back, stopping Gimli again with a hand across his chest, “I don’t care what you think you can do, you just could have been killed! Now stay there, please. I’m worried about you.”

Spoken considerably softer, those last four words were what halted Gimli’s protest the most, a glow of warmth and hope ringing out in his chest. His lips parted a bit in surprise. “Oh. Alright, then, do what you need.” For all his bravado, it had been a nasty case, his body slammed down so hard and his now-pounding head taking the brunt of the force.

“Thank you.” Reaching your hands up, you slid his helmet off first, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could feel the way he tensed up at your actions as you pulled one hand away to fetch your cloth. "Sorry, did that sting?"

He had to get out his head- all you were doing was taking care of him. "Not at all. Please-please continue." Perhaps his words sounded desperate, but Gimli barely cared when your hands were on him like that.

Speaking of which... You took firmer hold, tilting him by the chin to get a better angle with which to dab the warm fabric over the wound.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

Frodo

"Would you not like to do something about this?"

Frodo simply peered up into your eyes with his glistening blue stare, tilting his head inquisitively and tugging at his sleeves, which you then took a hold of.

"No, no, take this all off is what I meant."

"Take- take it all...?"

Hand crossing over your shoulders, you drew lines down in an impression of the chain Frodo wore, the impossibly heavy burden he bore burning into his skin at all times. "Surely you feel it. You must. Keep it on, I won't touch it, but please let me ease the pain."

Blinking, Frodo inhaled, nodded. "Very well. What will you do, then?"

"Just put some salve up there around where the chain is. Here, just take your shirt off a bit," you told him, fussing with his jacket but allowing Frodo himself to undo the top buttons of his shirt.

He glanced up, followed your gaze and saw it lie not upon the ring, but upon his, and visibly relaxed, a smile finally working its way to his soft lips. Nodding again, he sat back as your hand pushed the metal chain up from its place, spreading your healing concoction upon the opened skin. When your hand got lower, you could feel how rapid his heartbeat was thumping beneath skin and bone.

"Don't worry, really. All I care about is you." Did it pick up again?

"I am at ease, the first of such I've felt in some time. I cannot thank you enough," he replies with a shake of his head and a kiss to the hand you weren't using.

Sam

"Alright, Sam, open up your shirt."

"I beg your pardon?"

Shaking your head, you chuckled at his wide eyes. "I heard you got a nasty scrape, and if so, I've got just the thing for it."

Shock still swam in his green eyes, his fingers hovering over the buttons hesitantly as he glanced between them and you.

Flushing, you spoke once more, much more hastily as you held up the jar of medicine in question. "Oh! Er, well, if you'd rather someone else take a look, I can give this to Aragorn and he can-"

"No!" Sam cut you off, shaking his head. "No, no let's not trouble Strider, you're all right. Here we go."

Glancing back and forth, he sat down upon a rock and undid the top three buttons of his shirt, wiggling the fabric loose to reveal the wound you'd been told of. Your eyes wandered a bit before guiltily returning to Sam's; he smiled faintly as you dipped your fingers into the cool contents of the jar and reached back up to smear some on. Sam, surprisingly, did not flinch but he did shiver a bit.

"Oh, my apologies, I should have warmed it up a bit better first, shouldn't I?"

He sat up a bit straighter at your words. "Not at all, I can take it. Just...just startled me a bit is all. Don't worry your pretty head."

Merry

"Trousers off. Let's see it."

"Right now?" Merry loudly whispered, eyes going round.

"Yes, right now," you fussed, "or else you'll bleed out! Come on."

"Oh. Oh, the wound, yes. Bit of a close one there, wasn't it?"

You put a hand on your hip as Merry lowered into a seated position and undid his belt. "Had Boromir not been there with his shield, you could have lost your leg. What were you thinking?"

"Well, if you really must know," Merry shot back, shimmying his outer garments down to reveal a glistening red gash upon his right leg, "thought charging in might impress you."

He shuddered under the cleansing water you pressed against it, likely due to the cold. Your brow furrowed equally at the wound as it was at him, your eyes darting up to search his. "Impress me?" You replied incredulously.

"Yes," he agreed with a crooked, devious smile, "and with that first line of yours, I thought it'd worked."

Pippin

“Alright, take off your trousers.”

Pippin’s eyebrows shot up as his hands slid to his belt. “Is that what we’re doing? Well, all right then…”

Head tilted and brows furrowed in confusion, you fixed him with a look. “Of course we are, you got a huge gash above the knee. Lucky for you Aragorn harvested us a whole lot of poultice herbs the other day.” Your gaze slid between Pippin and your work of crushing the leaves as he sheepishly loosened his garments.

“Right, right, I knew that, yes. So the leaves are going to go down first, then?”

“Indeed,” you nodded, dabbing at the remaining dribble of blood before you began gently dabbing the poultice on.

Your eyes traveled back up to meet his, their deep green sheen bringing a shy smile to your face. Beneath your hand, he shuddered faintly.

“Sorry, does that sting?” You asked him, glancing again between your work and him.

Puffing out his chest a bit, Pippin shook his head. “Not at all. Not when I have the best nurse in all of Middle Earth to take care of me. Feels a bit good, in fact.”

Flushing, you gave a full smile at his words as you tied off his bandage. “Well, having the best patient helps, too.” Feeling a bit bold, you reached up and patted his cheek. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

A wide grin spread across Pippin’s face. “Oh, I can think of something."

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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 25 days

Text

Can't Leave Me

Pairing: Dark Hawks x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female Reader

SUMMARY: Seeing a darker side of Keigo has you rethinking your entire relationship. But it’s not like Keigo is planning on letting you go.

WARNINGS: Murder; Kidnapping.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

–

His hand rubs comforting circles over the expanse of your back, innumerous apologies being mumbled as he kisses the crown of your head.

“I should’ve eased you into it. I‘m so sorry, baby.” his tone is apologetic, almost regretful, but you can’t be bothered by that.

Not after what you witnessed.

The queasiness in your stomach increases, and you swallow hard, closing your eyes in a poor attempt to control both yourself and the wave of nausea that threatens to rise.

“Next time, I promise I’ll let you know beforehand, ‘kay? No more nasty surprises, I promise.” his cooing has you pushing your palms against the edge of the marble kitchen island, and you take a few stumbling steps backwards.

“I really thought you’d like to see my patriotic work.”

“You…” his golden eyes squint for a second when you dodge his hand from touching your arm, “That man-”

“He’s no one. Just some fucking dirtbag I caught the other day on patrol. No one even cares that he’s gone, if that makes you feel better.”

You look at him in bewilderment, unable to believe his words. Was Keigo - always so sweet and gentleman - trying to convince you that killing people was fine? That it was okay for his basement to have pools of blood and pieces of human limbs?

The pungent smell of fresh blood is still haunting your nose and you scrunch it, remembering the nasty scene your boyfriend presented you.

When Keigo asked you to come to his house, telling you he had a surprise stored in his basement for you, your mind wandered to the idea of receiving a sweet gift.

Maybe a painting or a bracelet, anything with a romantic meaning. A normal thing.

But when Keigo took you to his basement, chest inflated with pride at what he called “city scum cleaning” it wasn’t at all what you expected.

“You’re worrying too much.” he sighs, his wings ruffling behind him. “I’m cleaning the city from the filthy scum, nothing else.”

“They’re human beings, Keigo. You can’t take justice into your own hands, that’s not your job.”

Keigo only shrugs his shoulders, disinterested at your attempt to bring some conscience to him.

“I know this upsetted you, baby, so why don’t we change the subject? How about we start making dinner and then watch a movie? I know you’re excited to see that new action movie, right?”

His proposition makes you feel sick to your stomach for more reasons than one, but the realization that your boyfriend is trying to distract you from the fact that he’s a serial killer is too much.

You need to leave. Immediately.

But you’re scared. Terrified of becoming Keigo’s new addition to his basement, if he realizes that you’re not on his side. You’re not sure if he loves enough to spare you from such destiny.

You’re not sure of anything anymore.

You shift the weight from one foot to the other, eyes drifting to the kitchen door.

“I think…” your voice shakes, and you attempt to clear your throat, “Maybe I should go, Keigo. I’m not…feeling great.”

His expression drops for a moment, cold anger being replaced with feigned sympathy so quickly that you almost believe you imagined it.

“Sweet cheeks, if you’re not feeling well, then you can just sleep over.” he takes a minuscule step in your direction, his wings stretching behind him for a moment. Demonstrating their enormous size before he pulls them back.

A not very subtle threat.

“I can prepare a warm bath for you, and then get you in bed with some painkillers. How about that?”

You shake your head, feeling helpless.

“No, Keigo, it’s fine, really. I can just go home and-”

“Nonsense. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you all alone in your apartment, especially if you’re feeling sick.” he brushes you off, “I can’t have you puking or passing out when you’re on your own. What kind of boyfriend would that make me, am I right?”

A few of his feathers gracefully fly in your direction, gently but effectively pushing you forward.

The conflict inside your mind only fires up, but you’re hardly able to bitterly swallow down all the shabby excuses and useless begging that would only result in angering Keigo.

Your body bumps against his and Keigo instantly wraps his arm around your waist, replacing the feathers that rejoin his wings.

He kisses your cheek with an arm tightly gripping your waist, as if he’s waiting for you to bolt and run away. You’d be lying if you say the idea doesn’t seem awfully tempting.

Maybe if he looks away or gets distracted…maybe then you could take the chance.

“C’mon, let’s get you a bath, ‘kay? You’re really not looking too good.”

The melancholic moonlight hits you in the face, seeping through the locked window. Your eyes are wide open, despite the ungodly time of the night. It’s quiet now, aside from the light cricket’s sounds and the occasional car speeding up through the street.

You barely move your head as you glance towards the fluorescent numbers of the digital clock on the bedside table next to you, careful enough to shift as little as you can.

The arm draped across your waist feels like a rope, keeping you bound to Keigo.

But it’s better than the red wing that lays wide open in all of its immense size, acting as a second blanket to your body, caging you to the bed with its oppressive weight.

Despite your objections of becoming too hot during the night, Keigo still insisted on covering your body with it, shutting you down with a gentle kiss.

He sleeps soundly, his chest a few inches away from your chest, his deep calm breathing hitting your ear and neck.

You can’t sleep. Your mind is too bothered, too upset to even consider something as futile as sleeping when there are more urgent necessities. Such as escaping this house.

Keigo fell into a deep slumber a few hours ago while you remained awake, thinking about your next steps. You have to leave the bed, leave the house, leave him.

But even the last step seems complicated when you can’t even pull yourself out of the bed - out of Keigo’s suffocating embrace.

You’re frozen with fear, you begrudgingly admit. Scared of accidentally waking Keigo up and in the process, to wake a side of him that you don’t want to see.

You have to do this.

The first step is to test the waters.

You take a deep breath, slowly shifting your body, your hand gently pushing his arm down and away from you. Nothing happens.

Your heartbeat speeds up as you embrace yourself for the final step.

Looking down at the impending problem of escaping the red wing, you take the decision to slide underneath it.

It’s awkward and embarrassing when you weirdly dive underneath the wing, squishing yourself against the bed as you try to touch the feathers as little as you can. They don’t pulse or move, remaining completely still as you make your escape.

A relieved sigh gets caught in your throat when your feet touch the floor. Just a little more, you think, bending your body to slide down the curve of the bed.

Premature hope makes your breathe faster. Maybe you can actually get away.

Oh god, you’re actually going to get away.

Your whole body freezes for a scary moment when Keigo mumbles a few incoherent words, shifting and turning in bed, but thankfully he remains asleep. You can breathe again.

It’s a bit hard to walk in the darkness, only the dim light of the moon helping you guide yourself, as your feet take baby steps and you prod the walls with your hands until you finally find the closet room.

The door creaks slightly as you slowly close it, and you hold your breath for a moment. Nothing happens.

You open the light, hoping it doesn’t infiltrate through the door’s crack and search the place with your eyes, looking for your clothes. Keigo kept them there before handing you one of his shirts earlier in the night, saying that it would be more comfortable for you to sleep in his clothes than in your outer clothes.

It’s easy to find your shirt and pants, both of them tucked away in a corner of the room, the evident contrast between Keigo’s expensive clothing and your cheap casual outfit standing out.

You quickly put them on, looking around for your purse before remembering that you had left it in the kitchen. Fuck.

You close the light, and silently leave the closet.

“Babe.”

Your blood runs cold at the sight of Keigo casually standing in front of you, arms crossed in his chest. There’s no anger in his face - nor sleepiness, you notice - but there are hints of annoyance. Did he really expect you not to try and run?

“I’m kinda disappointed, I gotta say.” he shakes his head with a tired sigh. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t do anything stupid tonight. Guess I was wrong.”

“I wasn’t-” your words lose strength, and for a moment, the idea of dashing for the door with all of your speed seems incredibly enticing, “It’s not what you think.”

“Yeah? Pfft, c’mon, you seriously think you’re gonna fool me into believing any crappy excuse? Like I didn’t just catch you trying to sneak off on me?” he clicks his tongue, messy strands of blonde hair falling onto his forehead, “But you know what?”

It’s now. The moment he switches the flip on you and beats you and-

“Let’s continue this tomorrow, alright? It’s late, so how about we sleep on this and in the morning, we’ll talk.”

You look at him, surprised. Isn’t he gonna drag you by the hair to his basement and beat you?

Keigo directs you back to the closet, watching as you hesitate to change back into his shirt.

“That was never gonna work, you know that, right?” he says. “It’s not like you could outrun me. I’m too fast for you, with or without quirk.”

When you get back on the bed, his wing covers you once again and his arm pulls you flush against his chest, suffocating you with his presence.

He kisses the nape of your neck.

“Sleep tight.”

You wake up startled, mind buzzing with a chilling nightmare. Red blood and sticky viscera follow you even though you rise away from the realm of dreams.

You breathe in. It was just a dream.

Distant sounds coming from another room catch your attention and you remain quiet, catching the tiny rays of sunlight that come through the curtains, basking on pacific solitude.

What are you supposed to do now? Relent and pretend that everything is peachy, to act as if the basement isn’t torture chamber and that your boyfriend isn’t some cold-hearted killer?

You roll to the side, yelping when your leg gets caught on.

A chain.

A soft leather wrapped tightly around your ankle, connecting it to the links of metal that keep you in a short leash. There’s barely any length to it, meaning you won’t even be able to reach the bathroom if you need to.

This can’t be real.

You persistently rub your eyes, shaking your head as fear threatens to spill in the shape of a panic attack.

Keigo wouldn’t do this. He can’t do this. He just can’t.

Much to your consternation, you don’t wake up. This isn’t some wicked dream, after all.

“No, no, please, no.” you cry, pulling and tugging on the solid chain with both of your hands. It doesn’t work, despite all the clicking it does. Doesn’t so much as move away from your ankle.

But it does make a shrilling noise and soon Keigo rushes into the room, a worried expression on his face before he understands what you’re doing.

He plops next to you, firm hands pulling your shaky ones away from the chain, despite you not giving up and you yelp when he uses his strength to expertly twist your wrist, forcing you to let go of the chain.

“Keigo, please, don’t…don’t do this. I promise I won’t run away, I swear!” you plead, snot and tears pathetically dripping down your face as Keigo pulls you into his lap, a large hand securing both of your wrists.

“Keigo…”

“Shh, it’s okay. Everything is fine, it’s all okay.”

It only makes you cry harder. One of his hands rubs your back while the other holds the back of your neck, pushing your face to his chest.

“C’mon, don’t cry. You know how awful that makes me feel.” he presses a gentle kiss to your head, rocking your bodies back and forth, comforting you as if you were a child throwing a tantrum.

“You left me no choice. You were gonna leave me, abandon me like I never meant anything to you.” his voice is almost quiet and you know that if you looked up, his face would resemble a kicked puppy.

It almost makes you feel bad until the stupid chain in your ankle clinks, reminding you that Keigo isn’t a good man.

“But it’s okay now. I know you’re not happy with… our current situation, but you’ll soon see it my way. I’m doing this for you - for us.”

His arms tightened around your wriggling body, keeping you close to him.

“I’m not letting anything get between us. Not even you.”

#@mrsdarkandyandere7 #yandere bnha #yandere mnha #dark bnha #yandere my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #yandere x reader #hawks x reader #yandere hawks #yandere hawks x reader #yandere!hawks x reader #dark hawks x reader #yandere keigo takami #yandere keigo takami x reader #yandere keigo x reader #tw: yandere #tw: kidnapping

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jean0farc · 6 months

Text

★༉‧₊˚✧ — 𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑶 𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑬𝑨𝑲.

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: Dark fantasy, yandere, a bit of fluff.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Alucard X You (the reader)

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘: Just a little one-shot scenario between you and affectionate, but yandere Alucard snuggled up in bed. The time takes place after sex. After refusing to cuddle with him, he spirals into a feeling of bloodlust as he gets himself ready to mark you as his.

𝖈𝖜: Blood drinking, if that counts. A bit of dubcon even though there isn’t really smut for this fic, and slight degradation (he calls you his pet).

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: Hello again, readers. So I’m back with a new fic and despite not uploading for a couple of weeks due to mental health reasons and school, I’m going to post this new fic I made which is a part of a series!

YANDERE PROMPT LIST BY: @writeformesinpie

PROMPT: “I can never get enough of you. I’ll drink you down to the last sip.”

“A-Alucard….Just five more minutes…please….”

It was about nine o’ clock in the morning when all curtains were closed to prevent sunlight from penetrating through the glass windows.

….And there you were in bed, bare naked with the touch-starved vampire himself, your body shivering at the cold touch of your respective “lover.” Alucard was trying to cuddle you, to which you tried avoiding.

“You’ll take whatever’s been given to you, dear. You must lie with the beast before you who has been craving your touch for as long as a thousand years.”

“There you go again with your silly monologues, Alucard. Just let me be as I sleep, alright? I’m tired. You might as well kill some peasants outside or do your necessary duties for the day….just leave me be-”

A loud sound was heard as Alucard flipped you over.

You couldn’t believe your eyes as Alucard landed on top of you, pinning you down to the king-sized bed as his eyes glowed a bright shade of red. The look on his face intimidated you like a hungry wolf cornering its prey, his lips forming a smug smirk. You wanted to….no, you needed to run to a safe place where you could feel a bit of comfort. The look he’s been giving you was unlike his previous deed of cuddling your smaller figure.

Alucard let out a small chuckle.

“Cat got your tongue, darling? Judging by your current state, there won’t be another time where you’ll refuse my orders.”

“But, Alucard, we’re-” you attempted to protest.

“We’re not what?” Alucard asked, tilting his head. “Not together?” He laughed in retaliation to your bewildered facial expression. Leaning closer to your ear, you felt chills run down your spine as he whispered intimately. “Very well, let me clue you in. Your blood is mine, in fact, your entire being is mine by the time I’ll have myself inside you. Sir Integra has chosen you to become my one and only pet whom I shall swear to protect with my very own life. You are far too fragile to let go. Let this moment consume your soul. Give yourself to me, and don’t look back.”

“Alucard…..please…” you whimpered. “I only agreed to sleep with you because….because…..!!!”

“Such a precious, sensitive little thing.”

His mouth opened wide and bit down aggressively on your neck, drawing blood. You moaned loudly in return, trying to push away Alucard’s huge figure off of you. Your efforts to let yourself free were pointless, as he took advantage of your arms by grabbing your wrists and keeping them in place.

Alucard started to suck the blood out of your neck, leaving bruises and hickeys around it. He surely was doing all this for his own pleasure, so as to leave you aching for more. And boy, were you feeling real good.

“A-Alucard!!! I….I thought…you just wanted…a hug…..”

“Hm? I've changed my mind. From now on, what I want from you is something more sinister, something animalistic and disgusting to the untrained eye. I can never get enough of you, I’ll drink you down to the last sip. I have fallen for you, pet. Show a little gratitude for someone as powerful as I have swallowed their pride just to love and protect you dearly with all my strength.”

“I appreciate it, but….”

“Has your pride gotten the best of you, dear? After we got our freak on the previous night? I bet it didn’t. Just admit how you developed feelings for me.”

“Oh, no! That’s not the case! I-” you stammered.

“Ah, so you still refuse to admit your feelings, hm? Very well, I’ll show you how desperate of a mess you’ll be once I bend you over.”

It was too late. You and Alucard were about to spend the whole morning going at it until night, leaving you with no choice but to spend time with the creature who has lusted for you since Integra has chosen you as his pet.

There was no turning back.

It was about to be a long day.

#alucard x reader #alucard x you #alucard imagine #hellsing alucard #hellsing ultimate #alucard hellsing #hellsing #alucard hellsing x reader #x reader #yandere prompts #yandere x reader

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bidisastersanji · 5 months

Text

Just published chapter 3 for the "Zoro learns french" story on AO3 if anyone's interested! Or you can read it right here (part 1, part 2, part 4) and under the cut:

“Sanjiiiiii,” the little doctor wails as he goes through the familiar motions of treating Sanji’s blood loss. “Who did this to you??” He sniffles loudly. “There are no mermaids here! I thought you were over this!”

Next to him, Luffy absentmindedly picks his nose- seemingly amused by the situation- as the handful of straw hats gathered in the med bay whisper conspiratorially amongst themselves. What could have possibly caused the cook to pass out from a nosebleed?

Arms crossed under his chest, Zoro’s eye flits nervously to Robin’s and is unsurprisingly met with her ever impassive and mysterious smile, which he notes reach her eyes. She most likely heard everything, Zoro figures. Probably even popped one of her ears near them to hear better. Fuck, this was such a mess. He swallows hard, his mind still racing with the explicit thoughts Sanji had drunkenly admitted to. Not to mention the long-awaited confirmation that he has indeed been sleeping with men at various ports. So maybe learning French had come in handy. He’d never tell Mihawk though.

“Et puis si tu savais ce que je te laisserais me faire- ” Sanji’s sultry words echo in his mind and Zoro’s ears feel dangerously warm at the memory. He really shouldn’t let himself imagine just what the cook would ‘let him do to him’. Fighting the unconscious impulse to screw his eye shut and shake this off, he follows Chopper’s movements in an attempt to distract himself from the lewd images he’s conjuring. He’s honestly surprised at the self-control he displayed earlier. He was so close to just yanking him by his stupid necktie, kissing him silly, locking his sinfully strong thighs around his hips and carrying him back to bed right then and there, the others be damned.

He can still feel a tightness in his shoulder muscles from the restraint it took to just sit there and listen to the man’s rant. Before he can dwell any more on his struggle, he’s thankfully interrupted by the sound of Chopper speaking up cheerfully, seemingly satisfied with his work.

“Sanji will be ok- he actually didn’t lose that much blood. Relatively. I think his training-” a snort from Usopp is quickly silenced by the doctor’s stern look. “must’ve kicked in. He should be fine by tomorrow morning; I've treated him with something that should help with his blood production.”

The crew, happy to learn their cook will recover just fine, file out of the room to rejoin the festivities, and Zoro does his best to linger just a little longer to peek at the blonde’s soft curls and endearing sleeping face. And if a little bit of pride swells in his chest from knowing he’s the cause of this nosebleed, well...no one will know.

He’s barely out of the room when he finds himself cornered by Nami. Damnit.

“I know Sanji was with you when this happened.” the redhead gives him a serious, pointed look.

Zoro scowls. ‘Yeah, and?”

“And???” her hands fly, up, exasperated. “What happened?”

“None of your business, witch.”

“Oh? And I suppose your debt is none of my business too, you big brute? You wouldn’t mind me adding to it for insubordination, would you?”

At the mention of his ever-growing debt to the navigator, Zoro’s left gaping down at her, mouth silently forming words in anger.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get me back for this, I’m the worst, blah blah blah.” Her eyes roll and her hands gesture him to move along. “Now tell me what happened. What could’ve possibly triggered Sanji’s nosebleed?” her eyes momentarily flit down to his chest and her lips curl to the side in a little smirk.

“Unless... no, your tits are always out. Just tell me what happened, and I’ll take 0.5% off your debt.”

Zoro sighs and relents. “I didn’t do much, he’s the one who came up to me and started screaming at me in French.”

Nami stares him down with an unimpressed look. “And then...?”

“And then I just answered him, and he passed out.” he grumbles out petulantly.

“That’s so weird- wait. What do you mean you ‘answered him’?” brown eyes narrow at him. “In French?”

“...yeah.”

“...you speak French?”

“Oui.”

Pain flares on his head from the navigator’s swift punch. She has no sense of humour, damn.

“Stop fucking around. Why would you of all people know how to speak French?”

“You don’t believe me?!” he tries to keep his indignant scream as low as he can.

“No- I’m saying that you wouldn’t go through the trouble of learning a language unless there was something in it for you- so there’s gotta be someth-” Nami comes to a realisation, and her eyebrows raise in shock, giving Zoro an appraising look.

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up.”

“You-”

“Shut up.”

By some stroke of luck, Nami leaves the elephant in the room alone, and returns to the matter at hand. “Ok, ok, so you speak French. I can only imagine what you must’ve said to get that kind of reaction from him, though.” She runs her hand across her face, tired.

---

Sanji wakes up and is immediately blinded by the sun shining through the window. Ugh. He groans at the dull, pounding feeling behind his eyes and turns to his side to hide from the offending light. He’d definitely had too much to drink last night.

He snorts into the pillow. He’d drunk so much he’d either dreamed or hallucinated that Zoro could speak French. Wow. His unfiltered imagination really went wild, didn’t it. He can almost hear the seductive words dripping like sex from dream Zoro’s lips, the rough timber of his voice causing a shiver to shoot up his spine and-

A distinctive, sterile smell cuts through his train of thought.

Wait.

Is this the infirmary?

He cracks open an eye, confirming his theory. This is the med bay all right. He groggily sits up, blanket falling from his torso, and catches a stain on his usually pristine white shirt from the corner of his eye. His chin drops to get a better look. Is that... blood?

His blood. He’s had this happen enough times to recognise the results of a nosebleed. Grumbling, he throws his legs over the bed to stand up, annoyed at the prospect of having to scrub the stain out of his good shirt, when it finally hits him. The moment his feet touch the floor, the evening and his current predicament suddenly click together and bring his thoughts of hydrogen peroxide and baking powder to a screeching halt.

A beat passes.

Like a rubber band stretched tight, a myriad of thoughts is catapulted to the forefront of his mind, jumbling together in a mess of realisations. Zoro speaks French. Zoro sounds unfairly sexy when he does. How long has he spoken French. Where did he even learn it. Zoro probably overheard his conversation with Robin. Zoro understood the filthy things he told him. To his face. Zoro flirted with him.

His face burns even brighter at the memory of that last one. Oh god. He even called his dick “big” right to his face.

Well-versed in burying his feelings deep deep down (years of practice), Sanji staggers through his usual morning routine. Once back in the comfort of his kitchen, his hands go into autopilot mode as he preps for a big healthy brunch to revive his nakama from a long night of festivities.

It takes him a second longer than usual to notice the creak of the door as someone walks into the kitchen, and he doesn’t bother turning around to see who it is, too busy trying to catch up on his cooking schedule from his late rise. Luffy will be up soon, and he needs to satiate the black hole that is his captain’s stomach.

“Oi. Tu cuisines quoi.”

(Oi, what’re you cooking.)

“J’prépare un brunch bien gras. Je suis sûr que ça soulagera la gueule de bois collective.” Sanji absentmindedly answers the annoying swordsman. Tch. Always up in his business.

(I'm cooking a greasy brunch. I'm sure it will help relieve the collective hangover.)

“Ça sent bon. Je peux goûter?” (It smells good. Can I taste?)

The mosshead’s gorilla arm comes into view from over his shoulder as he reaches to dip his hand into the batter Sanji’s whipping up, and the cook slaps his hand away and heavily crushes his foot without even breaking his rhythm.

“Non. Bas les pattes.”

(No. Paws off.)

Zoro makes a disgruntled noise and properly steps up next to him, leaning his back against the counter. From his peripheral vision, Sanji notes him standing there, head turned towards him, looking at him cooking. Just looking. Odd behaviour for a marimo.

Minutes pass before the swordsman’s voice interrupts the rhythmic sound of Sanji’s cooking, saving him from the panicked screaming in his mind: They’re speaking French. Zoro’s clumsy pronunciation is the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Why are they acting like this is normal. Why is he standing so close. And are they ever going to address what happened last night? All this stops at the sound of:

“Et toi, je peux te goûter?” (And you, can I taste you?)

Sanji’s breath hitches and he feels a warmth creep up his spine, to his neck, his ears, and all the way to the top of his head. He’s going to implode.

Where did he learn to say that. He hears himself squeak out that very question, eyes looking down at the bowl of batter, pointedly ignoring the other man’s heated gaze.

Zoro's deep voice rumbles in a low chuckle. “Ça ne répond pas à ma question. Ni à celle de hier soir.”

(That doesn’t answer my question. Nor last night’s question.)

Callused fingers suddenly grip his chin, and now he’s face to face with Zoro, who to Sanji’s surprise is sporting a dangerously tender expression, his hand moving up to cup his cheek. His voice is softer, this time.

“Dis moi.” (Tell me)

His chest aches. “Tell you what?”

Sanji doesn’t like the vulnerability voicing his feelings in French makes him feel. It’s so much easier to revert to his usual abrasiveness. Safer. “I already told you how you drive me up the wall. What, do you want me to embarrass myself further by telling you how badly I’ve wanted you?”

An expectant eye stares back at him. Patient. Silent.

The blonde huffs and raises his flour-dusted hand to the one Zoro is gently cupping his face with. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met. Do you have any idea the self-control it takes to not just -“ he feels a tightness in his throat - he didn’t think it would be so hard to actually say it- “de ne pas te dire tous les jours combien je t’aime?”

(-to not tell you every day how much I love you?)

He blinks and Zoro’s lips are on his, soft and delicately pressing against his own like he could break at any moment. And boy does he feel like he could. He immediately starts pushing back, angling his head just so to deepen the kiss, melting from the sheer tenderness, his fingers still gripping Zoro’s hand where it lays, rough calluses against his soft skin.

They briefly part for air but Zoro immediately dives back in like a man starved, tugging the cook by his hips to stand between his legs, and the blonde has to bite back a moan at the manhandling. Sanji’s arms loop around his neck and find purchase in his ridiculous green hair.

Zoro will never get enough of kissing this man. It’s simply too intoxicating, and perfect, and everything he’s ever wanted. Which is why it’s with great reluctance that he retreats from this slice of heaven, if only to make sure his own intentions are clear. He can’t believe the bastard beat him to it. He’d walked in here with a plan to test the waters and flirt back- get a little revenge on the blonde from the way he made his brain short circuit the previous night. Maybe test out a few phrases he’d learned in those Harlequin books the pervy cook loves so much. What happened instead was so much better.

He’s glad to be propped up against the counter because his knees feel weak at the raw, exposed emotion on Sanji’s face when he tells him–

“Je t’aime.”

A radiant smile. A wet laugh through misty eyes.

“Imbécile.” (Idiot)

The man buries his face in his neck and presses him close in an intimate embrace, holding tight at the back of his shirt. Zoro’s chest swells with love and he holds him back just at tightly, rubbing soothing circles on his lower back.

“Ton imbécile.” (Your idiot.)

#zoro x sanji #zosan fic #zoro learns french story #zoro learns french #one piece zosan #zosan #hope you guys like emotions #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #with a dash of my favourite thing #nosebleed sanji

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s0fter-sin · 5 months

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it takes far too long for soap to realise ghost won’t touch him anymore

he doesn’t avoid him, which he considers no small a miracle given how he usually treats his emotions, and he’s too busy being thankful to notice. thankful he didn’t run from him, thankful his simon has returned to him, no matter how changed he is from the man he knew. ghost doesn’t shy away from his touch so long as he knows it’s coming and he spends long nights just tracing the scars on his newly bared face; following half-remembered tracks and memorising new ones

but ghost never reaches back. he’ll press into his hands like a starved man, melt beneath the smallest of touches but he never initiates. and now, his regular touches have disappeared; no longer does he clap him on the back after a job well done, doesn’t cheekily nudge him after making a recruit shit themself just by giving them a look and soap hadn’t realised how much he’s come to rely on them until they stopped. how much he’s grown to care for ghost the way he used to care for simon

he can’t confront him about it; ghost’s fight or flight always firmly tuned to flight when it came to matters about himself. soap would’ve if it meant fight; if ghost would just put his hands on him again, he’d take his violence with the passion of a lover, wear the marks he left behind with grateful pride. but he remembers the look on ghost’s face when he’d ripped his balaclava off, when he’d stripped his barrier and his protection and spat, “i ruined you the moment i touched you!”

so soap waits. he waits for ghost to crawl into his bunk, to take off his mask and surrender himself to his touch; a touch that seems to burn as much as it freed. and instead of taking his face in his hands and worshiping it the way he has every other night ghost’s come to him, soap takes his gloved hand in his own

ghost flinches, the preemptive bliss fading from his eyes as reluctant fear takes its place. soap brings it up so it hovers between them and already feels him edge backwards. he doesn’t let it stop him and gently tugs his fingers free of the glove one at a time until his hand is bare to him; visibly shaking in the dark. soap brings it towards his face, holding firm when ghost tries to yank it back and presses into it; his breath hitching as he finally gets the touch he’s missed for years

“stop, john,” ghost whispers and it hurts to hear the pain in his voice; closer to begging for the soft touch to end than he’s ever been under torture

“no,” he refuses, pressing a kiss to the centre of his palm

his eyes shine in the dark, arm twitching as he fights himself; pulling back against his grip and leaning into him in turn. (how can he stand to put his mouth on him; can’t he taste it? the dirt and decay that lives under his skin? the maggots that swim in the slow beat of his blood; the rot he’s been trying so hard not to spread to him but he’s weak.) “you don’t know how broken i am. i’ll ruin you, john.”

soap kisses him again; thick, phantom blood coating his lips. “i’m not letting you slip through my fingers again,” he promises, swallowing it down. “i’ve missed you too much to be afraid of getting cut, simon.”

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boingdeguayava · 9 months

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♡ 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐨. veintiocho años. él / suyo. nacido en daegu, corea del sur. estudiante de veterinaria. bisexual. reside en seúl, corea del sur. personaje abierto. / * TABLERO DE PINTEREST EN CONSTRUCCIÓN.

#꒰ ✦ ; 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐨 — i’ll swallow my blood before i swallow my pride. ꒱#* vaqueritos.

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messers-moony · 2 years

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Safe | F.H

Pairing: Five Hargreeves X Wife!Reader

Summary: He didn't care because she was safe and in his arms

He’s trembling. She’s shaking. They’re both nervous, but they’re both smiling. The tears in his green eyes are hard to miss. The smile that plays on her lips is a sight that’d make any man fall to his knees. She was his Achilles heel. His kryptonite. His entire world was standing before him.

His hands were covered in the red sticky liquid that gently transferred from his hands to her cheeks. The handprints of red are prominent, but neither of them care. She’s safe and in his arms. He takes her left hand in his, carefully kissing her knuckles.

She chuckles, slightly out of relief, somewhat out of happiness. He smiles after hearing her melodic laughter. Five Hargreeves has never been so smitten over a girl– a woman. His heart races at her smile. His cheeks light aflame at her laughter. He turns to mush at her touch.

Years of being the cause of bloodbaths. Years of murdering people who messed up the timeline. Yet here they were. After swearing that they wouldn’t ever kill again, they both just killed twelve men for just existing. They know that soon they’ll have to face their siblings.

Perhaps that can wait a minute. Since landing in Dallas, they haven’t spent a minute alone together. He hasn’t gotten a chance to really admire his wife. She hasn’t gotten a chance to see how much determination is in her husband's eyes. So ambitious, so determined to save his family.

She pushes the sleeve of her shirt over her palm, trying to wipe some of the blood that stains his cheek. Five admires the way she concentrates. Her efforts are fruitless; all it does is stain the sleeve of her shirt. He takes her hand in a tight but gentle grip, interlacing their fingers.

“ It’s not gonna come off. “ Five mutters, looking at her confused face, “ I’ll take a shower at Elliot’s. “

She smiles, “ What’re your siblings going to say? “

“ I won’t tell them. They don’t need to be involved with our affairs. Not any more than required. “ Five stated, “ They don’t need to know what we’ve done. I don’t want them to see me like that. “

“ See you like what? “ She asked, “ A monster. “ He answers.

Her heart softens at the words. He can see her eyes slightly soften. The e/c color of her eyes turn glassy once she swallows the words he just spoke. Y/n is a soft soul. So kind and so sweet. Comparable to dove. She moves with grace and simplicity. Her heart is the purest imperial gold.

“ You’re not a monster. “ Y/n’s words came out hushed as she moved the overgrown bangs out of his eyes, “ You’re Five Hargreeves. “

Five opened his mouth to interject, “ My husband. “ She finished.

“ The man I married is kind, soft, and sensitive. He’s ambitious and prideful. And maybe sometimes arrogant. “ Y/n laughed at her own words making a smile creep on Five’s face, “ But despite that, he’s a protector. He doesn’t stop until everyone he loves is safe. “

“ His mind constantly runs like a broken record. Sometimes he starts to believe the voices in his head, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “ She informs, “ My husband is not a monster. My husband is Five Hargreeves. A protector. “

Gently he pulled her in for a kiss. His hands cup her cheeks with such delicacy. Her hands rest in his brunet hair that’s tousled and matted from the blood that resides. It gives his hair more of a darker look than usual. Blood can trace from his hand to in between her fingers. It doesn’t matter.

Because she’s safe and in his arms.

He spatial jumped himself and her back to Elliot’s apartment only to find the latter dead. Despite the hospitality, they don’t have time to grieve. Diego and Luther are in the kitchen talking about the Swedish letters written in blood on the floor.

They thought the words were English and not in another language. Leaving Five to correct their mistake and Diego to hang up the phone after threatening an innocent. He can’t help but feel embarrassed. Five took off his blazer and tie.

Five began to walk past his two brothers, “ Uh, you two have some blood on you. “ Luther commented, “ A lot of blood, actually. “ Diego added.

“ What did you two do? “ Luther queried, “ We had some things to take care of. “ Y/n answered calmly as Five went into the bathroom.

Eventually, Diego and Luther gave up the questioning. She searched for a washcloth and began wiping the blood off her with water from the sink. Y/n watched as the water turned a pastel pink, and she sighed. Despite everything that had ever happened.

She couldn’t believe she was in this spot. Her younger self would’ve been ashamed. She twisted the ring on her finger. Maybe her future didn’t go exactly to plan. Perhaps the fates never wanted her future to go how she wanted. But that didn’t matter. Two arms wrapped around her waist. His scent enclosed around her. His hair was still wet from the shower as he kissed her neck gently.

The former plan of her future didn’t matter because she was safe and in his arms.

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lanitalay · 5 months

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Before I Say Goodnight Chapter 12

a/n: I love pining, i really do

Warnings: depictions of a toxic relationship, canon typical mentions of violence/injuries.

Word count: 2.5k

Other chapters

“Why do you say things like that?”

It was ridiculous. In the darkness of the dungeons it was almost impossible to tell when she was awake or asleep. The only grip to reality and the waking world would be when Eris would come to bring her food and water or when his father would visit. Beron never stayed for long, at first he would interrogate her, quickly get irritated when she wouldn’t say anything and then knock her out. The ways he knocked her out got more creative as the days blurred. The first time it was a straight punch to her right eye. The second, he brought a thick book to deliver a firm blow to the back of her head. The third she couldn’t remember. Recently, he’s resorted to putting a soaked cloth over her nose and mouth and waiting until she inhales the putrid substance. It usually takes a few seconds for her to be out cold. He doesn’t ask questions anymore. When she wakes up the wound on her arm is fresh.

Since Beron has altered his methods, the dreams seem to slip into the darkness of the dungeon. Sometimes they are based on the recent horrors she has come to experience. It's silly really, but the dreams that hurt the most are those that remind her of the past.

“Sweetheart, I’m just being honest” he always prided himself in being sincere.

“You’re being mean” he knew it, too. But that was the darkness Mathew carried. The sword he wielded and sharpened with her. His laughter made her skin crawl, he enjoyed the fighting. “Don’t be an idiot, I’m just saying that that dress doesn’t look good on you anymore”. How do I respond to that? “And you think telling me that five minutes before we leave is helpful?” He shrugs “it gives you five minutes to change”. She ground her teeth and walked back into the bedroom.

She must look and smell like hell. Her hands can’t run through her hair anymore. The strands are stuck together with a mixture of sweat and blood. She knows she’s pale because she hasn’t seen the sun in days or maybe weeks at this point. But her skin is covered in bruises, scrapes, dried blood and dirt.

“You know I love you” she cringes at the memory of those words followed by cold dominating touches down her back. He would always remind her. After every fight and every insult those words would be loaded like bullets on a shotgun. She sighed with relief when a familiar glow appeared from the stairs.

Eris had been having trouble keeping up appearances and doing his usual tasks as heir in between plotting to get y/n out and far away from Beron’s grasp. It took every bit of restraint that he possessed to not slice his father’s head clean off. Each day she was more pale, she had new bruises and a fresh layer of blood would be coating her never healing arm. He had managed to convince his father to let her out so she could bathe and be fitted for a dress for the ball. “If you want to be convincing I can’t have a walking corpse as my escort” Eris had told him. He made a point to let his disgust show. “And leave her face alone, it is already difficult enough to stand being near her” that last line had been a risk. But as far as he could tell, her face had been left untouched. She had told him they were drugging her now. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Hi” her soft voice brought him out of his thoughts. “Hello” he said back and kneeled down at the grates with a bowl of soup. She crawled over and sat in front of him. “How do you feel today?” It was a dumb question, but he always asked. She swallowed a few spoonfuls before answering “the same, I feel extra gross today”. He nodded “tomorrow someone will come get you to take a bath and get fitted for a dress”. She didn’t say anything until she had finished the bowl. “I don’t know if I can even walk let alone dance at a ball” he held her hand through the grate. “I’ll have a healer come by during your fitting, the ball is three days away. Just three days, y/n, and you’re out”. She was so cold. The once lilac coat she wore was a brownish grayish color now, but it remained intact. “Why are you so cold? Does that coat not work?” She shook her head “the coat is fine, but I don’t know. I feel the cold in my bones” he sighs and motions for her to get closer. He opens his palms in front of her and lights two small fires “try to warm up”. With more light he can see the dark circles under her eyes and how dry and chapped her lips are. Usually she’s a thing of beauty and radiance. But down here she’s a poor soul trying to stay alive.

“It's very convenient you can wield fire” she says, her face has regained the slightest bit of color and her posture is more relaxed. “I almost forgot” he pulls out a piece of chocolate cake he had taken from the kitchens and hands it to her “dessert”. She lights up when she sees the slice. “This looks delicious” he smiles, for a second, “dig in” and hands her a fork. He had to leave after an hour. It got harder with every visit.

Azriel could count on one hand the number of hours he had slept since he found out she was being held hostage. The only thing keeping him somewhat sane was the knowledge that she was alive. But he knew where she was and who was in charge of her and that made him sick. “I say we wait until the ball is in full swing and sneak her out through one of the back rooms. Winnow her back to Velaris” Rhysand suggested. But Azriel stepped in “they’ll take precautions so she isn’t left alone”. They had been debating how to get her out without declaring war on Autumn for hours and had not come to one single agreement.

She flinched when she was met with the bright lights of the main level of the Forest House. They had dragged her up the stairs, through the servants quarters and hidden passages and into a luxurious bedroom where they had dropped her like a heap on the floor. She hadn’t walked properly in days now. With hands placed on the floor and knees braced to hold her weight, she pushes herself up slowly and manages to stay balanced for a few steps until she reaches an armchair. Letting herself melt into the soft cushions she moans at the feeling. This room reminded her of the one she used to have in the House of Wind. That seems so far away now. The bed is huge and perfectly made. There is a large window across from where she’s sitting and she can see that Autumn remains intact. She wonders how Muriel is doing since she's been gone. Gone. The word felt like a punch to the gut. Mindlessly she brings her hand to her stomach and winces. Beron had stopped hitting her face but he would kick her sometimes. There was a desk, littered with mountains of papers. Why would they bring me here? This is clearly someone’s room. She tenses when the door to the room opens. Eris walks in. He sighs with relief and scans her from head to toe. “Good, you made it” she was gaping “are you crazy?” He helps her get up from the chair “this is better than buckets”.

Eris walked her to the bathing room and filled the tub. “Take your time” he says and motions to where the towels and a fresh set of clothes are. Taking her clothes off took so much effort she was out of breath. Getting in the tub was tedious but she made it and groaned as the perfectly warm water enveloped her.

She scrubbed every inch of her body and hoped the dark marks would wash away. But realized that she is trying to scrub away bruises. Sighing, she inspects her arm. A thin scab had formed along the gash. It was around this time each day that Beron would visit her and slice it open again. She washed her hair at least five times. Hands pruned by the time she got out.

When she stepped out of the bathing room Eris was waiting for her with an older lady. “You look better,” he said. She hadn’t been brave enough to look in the mirror. “At least I’m clean” he helps her back to the chair. “This is Sylvia, she’s a healer. You can trust her. I need to leave for a while but I’ll be back soon” he leaves the room.

Sylvia tells her she is dehydrated, anemic and sleep deprived. She rubs a salve all over her bruises and a different one on her forearm. Then, makes her lay down on the bed, tucks her in, under the thick earth toned covers and tells her to sleep.

The feeling of slightly sinking wakes her. Eris is sitting at the end of the bed, hands covering his face. “What’s wrong?” He looks at her and tenses, “nothing, did you get some sleep?” She nods “like a baby”. “Your fitting is soon” right, the ball. “Tell me again how you are planning to sneak me out during a very public event?” Eris helps her get out of the bed “it’s better if you don’t know” she hums “that is not reassuring” he sighs “it’s the best I can do”.

“The High Lord wants you in Autumn Court colors” the seamstress says as she inspects y/n. Her hands are perched on her hips as she circles the girl. “Orange would wash you out, maybe a deep cool tone green will do” she says and brings out swatches of fabrics. She pulls out measuring tape and jots down your measurements as she takes them.

After the fitting, the same guards from the morning took her back to the dungeons. Two more days. Two more days and I’m out.

She shivered as cold claws pierced her abdomen. Her scream was muffled by something slimy. The claws scraped down her skin, leaving three jagged lines in their wake. She struggled, as much as she could, but she was pinned against a tree. Presented like a meal. She could see the stones in front of her, behind the creature that suckled at her wounds. The sickening sound of its slurping made bile rise in her throat. Just kill me. But the thing was taking its time, playing with its food.

When the guards came to get her she was catatonic.

When Eris saw her he thought she had been broken.

“Leave us” he ordered. Stepping closer he could tell that the bruises that had been visible were mostly healed. Her arm still raw. “Hey, are you there?” She didn’t look at him directly but nodded. “You’re getting out today, after the ball, everything is worked out” his voice a gentle whisper. Her bottom lip quivered and he rushed forward as her knees gave out “I can’t do it, I can’t” she hadn’t cried in so long. Fat salty tears poured down her cheeks “you can” Eris held her up, and brought her to his chest. She was shaking “this is a nightmare. I can’t do it anymore” he rubs her back, trying to warm her up. “It will be over soon,” she continued to weep. Not believing him.

Azriel had never wanted to kill someone more than when he saw Beron enter the throne room in the Court of Nightmares. He and his wife walked in first, not looking at each other. They were followed by their middle sons. All dressed elegantly and carrying themselves as the royalty they were. Eris and y/n were the last to enter.

Azriel hated the way she clung to him like a lifeline. How her eyes didn’t meet his. How she had gone pale, her skin translucent. They had dressed her in a long sleeved dark green gown that matched Eris’ suit perfectly. Her hair was in loose waves and a golden tiara was placed on her head. Her neck was adorned with a gold necklace that, in his opinion, resembled a collar and there was an emerald ring on her left hand. There was no denying she looked stunning, but her eyes were gaunt and her lips were set in a thin line, a borderline frown. Her head hung low.

The dancing began. Eris was keeping her upright and leading her through dances that she did not know. It had been so long since she had heard music. A few times during the night she let her eyes close and moved with the rhythm of her own accord.

Azriel hated how he could smell her and hear her voice whisper in Eris’ ears but could not touch her. He could not rip his hands off her. How he could not take her back to her room, which remained untouched since she had left. He hated how he could not be certain that she would remain unharmed.

She couldn’t say she was having fun, not really. Her mind constantly going to the Shadowsinger lurking by the dias. She could feel his eyes on her and she fought against every fiber of instinct to not look at him. Eris had warned her of his father’s intentions. Which is why she tensed as the High Lord of Autumn called everyone’s attention.

“I believe this is the perfect opportunity to make an announcement very pertinent to the future of Autumn, if you’ll allow me Rhysand” he practically sneers. The crowd murmurs. She swallows, knowing what is about to come. Rhysand waves his hand in disinterest but not objection.

“There is to be a wedding, between my son and the newest resident of the Forest House. Join me in congratulations to Eris and Y/n” Beron lifts his glass of sparkling wine, as does the crowd. Y/n and Eris remain quiet and unmoving, no hint of elation at the announcement of their nuptials.

Eris found the scheme to be laughable. Pretending to marry his heir to a human girl with no land or gold or title was absurd. But Beron played dirty, and he’d do anything to further his agenda.

Azriel’s siphons flared, reacting to his growing fury. He needed to calm down. There was a plan in place to get her out.

He needed to be patient and play his part.

taglist: @luvmoo @leeknows-wife

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xxsabitoxx · 2 years

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Characters featured: Yuji, Megumi, Toge, Yuta, Gojo, Nanami

Warnings: explicit language, mentions of blood, first aid

A/N: I’m in a JJK mood right now, hence the flood of JJK content. With that being said, if you’d like to see a demon slayer version of this, feel free to let me know! Enjoy :)

Itadori Yuji

“Why would you hide this?“ The pink haired man stared down at you disapprovingly. He didn’t mean to look so mad but he was genuinely upset that you had tried to hide your injuries from him. Finding out that you were in the infirmary through Gojo rather than waking up to you in his bed wasn’t a great way to start his morning. “Yuji… i’m fine really, it was nothing you needed to concern yourself with or get worked up over.” Bold words coming from someone who had a bandage over their left eye. An eye you nearly lost due to the curse catching you off guard. “Nothing I needed to be concerned with? do you think you mean nothing at all to me? Why wouldn’t I be concerned about your well-being. Dammit y/n! You could’ve lost your damn eye! Then what would you have done?” His lip was trembling as he stared at you, fists clenching and un-clenching in an effort to keep his tears at bay. “Yuji…” you realized the moment his eyes glossed over that you were being extremely selfish. “Yuji… I’m sorry.” You swallowed your pride it wasn’t worth being stubborn if it meant he was hurting the process. “Don’t do that again, please?” He fell into the chair beside your bed, taking your hand in his. “I promise.”

Fushiguro Megumi

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” there was a vein protruding from his forehead as his voice to raise to levels he never heard before, at least not directed at you. You groaned, head throbbing as you tried to sit up in the infirmary bed. “Megumi, could you lower your voice? I have a pounding headache.” You flinched as the bandages on your stomach tightened. “I’m not gonna lower my voice until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you. Why did you do that?” despite what he had said his voice had lowered significantly. “Megumi… it happens, we all make mistakes I’ll be fine.” You took an assignment meant for partners and did it solo, which in turn landed you in the infirmary. A harsh slash to the stomach that nearly cost you your life, Megumi didn’t need to know that fact though. “We don’t make mistakes that cost us our lives! Stop treating this so causally like you didn’t nearly die! Shoko told me you would’ve been a goner if Gojo didn’t figure out what you did.” You seemed to shrink, head falling as you knew there was really no escaping the wrath of the man before you. ”I’m sorry, Megumi.” Your words were so soft he barely heard them. “Stop treating your life as if it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Inumaki Toge

He was by your bedside when you woke up, brows furrowed in worry as he stared at his hands. “T-Toge?” You couldn’t quite remember where you were or how you ended up there. As you try to sit up, a sharp pain shot through your whole body forcing you to lay back as Toge jumped up. He calmed you down, memories of how you ended up in the infirmary rushed back to you as he stared down at you. Once he could tell that you were able to focus he began signing to you. ”what were you thinking you could’ve died!” You groaned, you had hoped he would never find out about your stupid mistake. Taking a mission for a sorcerer level just one above yours? You must have thought too highly of your technique. The last thing you remembered was getting hit in the head with some thing, blood pooling around you from your injuries. Now you were here. “i’m sorry… I was in over my head.” The white haired boy didn’t seemed pleased, going as far as to pull down his face mask to show you his frown. “you definitely were in over your head. You scared the shit out of me, y/n!” your eyes closed as you not it suddenly feeling tired again. “can we talk about this more later? I’m not feeling too good.” worry creased his face as he nodded, kneeling down by your bedside to soothe you. As you began fading back into sleep, you heard him whisper. “Don’t scare me like this again.”

Okkotsu Yuta

He should be upset with you for doing something so reckless, instead he was upset with himself for not being there to protect you. Luckily your injuries weren’t that severe but it still landed you a night with Shoko. Yuta found out the following morning, rushing to the infirmary when he didn’t wake up with you in his bed. “Y/N!” His voice is a little louder than he intended panic flooding his veins as he needed to make sure you were okay. You can you gave him a weak smile, sitting up in an infirmary bed. “Yuta.” Your voice is hoarse, pain making your body ache while waiting for the meds to kick in. “what the hell happened? Are you all right? Why didn’t you call me?” his flood of questions overwhelmed you, that realization had him pulling a chair to your bedside. “i’m fine, it’s no big deal I’ll be all right.” You didn’t want to tell him the extent of your mistakes, it was embarrassing to you. Especially since you were dating the sorcerer known to be second to Gojo. He deserved someone who was just as strong, not someone making careless mistakes. “You don’t look all right. What happened?” nothing but genuine worry filled his tone, not one ounce of anger. ”I’m sorry for being weak.” You mumbled, lip wobbling as tears filled your eyes. “Weak? Don’t talk about yourself like that. You aren’t weak, we all have bad moments. Doesn’t make you weak at all.” You we’re thankful you had someone as sweet as him

Gojo Satoru

There was no keeping it a secret from him, he was the one that came to your aid. ”Satoru…” you groaned as he hauled you up bridal style, even under that blindfold you could tell his face was contorted in worry. “I don’t wanna hear it. I told you to not do this on your own.” You blinked, suddenly aware that you were no longer battling the curse, instead you were being carried to Shoko’s office. “You should have let me finish it.” The wound inflicted on your arm was preventing you from even lifting a blade. You were sure there would be blood stained on his clothes when he set you down. “You can’t even lift your arm, like I said y/n, I don’t want to hear it. Shoko!” You were brought in a moment later, the two talking as if you weren’t even there. You didn’t have the energy to complain, blood loss starting to make you dizzy as Shoko prepared to heal you. The silent treatment towards Satoru followed after everything was said and done. You didn’t want to talk to him, despite the worry he had displayed while getting you to her, you couldn’t help but feel belittled by the way he was talking to you. “Y/n.” He started softly, uncharacteristic for Satoru. You turned your head, you’d chosen to spend the night in the infirmary instead of his bed. “Listen… I’m sorry if I made you feel some type of way. I was scared cause you were hurt, it pisses me off to see you in pain.” You groaned, turning to look at him but not saying anything. “Would you at least sleep in my bed tonight?”

Nanami Kento

You needed to pass by his office to get to Shoko’s. You were almost positive you’d be able to slip by unnoticed, maybe you’d even get lucky and he already went home. You glanced at your phone, free hand gripping your stomach where you’d been hit. You could tell by the woozy feeling that there was some sort of poison in it. “Y/n?” You froze, you’d be so distracted seeing if he’d texted you that you nearly stumbled straight into his open door. “Huh? O-oh! Nanami you’re still up.” Real smooth. “You’re hurt.” He was already out of his chair, taking long strides to reach you before you could even come up with an excuse. “Shit you’re bleeding.” You heaved a sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he began examining you. “N-Nanami it’s fine. I’ll just go to shoko and wash up and be good to go.” You tried to pull away, not wanting to soil his suit with your blood. “I’ll take you.” He insisted, tired eyes full of concern. “Nanami please.” You felt embarrassment flood your face, anger pooling in the pit of your stomach. You felt like a burden, one who couldn’t manage to keep themselves out of harms way. “Y/n. You’re loosing a lot of blood, this is no time to argue.” You sigh, letting him pull you along to Shoko. Once the whole ordeal was said and done, it was decided that you’d spend the rest night in the infirmary for monitoring. “Nanami… I’m really sorry.” In just an hour the sun would be rising. “There is nothing for you to apologize for. But I do want you to promise me something.” You nodded, settling back on the small bed as he sat next to you. “Promise me you won’t try and hide the fact that you are injured again.” You nodded, reaching out to hook his pinky with your own. “Promise.”

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #itadori yuji #fushiguro megumi #inumaki toge #gojo satoru #xxSabitoxx’s work!

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roosterbruiser · 10 months

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𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 —— 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟕.𝟐𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

Payback draws the first short straw. His face falters, falls, crumples. His bottom lip trembles and his eyes are wet suddenly. He is just about to take a quivering breath, just about to swallow his pride and beg everyone to let him stay, when Fanboy suddenly squares his jaw.

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go with him.”

Payback doesn't have the strength to say anything at all. But the urge to beg evades him instantaneously. He claps his hand on his best friend’s shoulder and holds it there for a long time.

Fanboy’s heart is hammering in his chest. He knows it’s the right thing to do and he almost always does the right thing--even if it makes his stomach sour.

“Someone should probably go to Paul’s cabin, too--just to…eliminate or whatever,” Phoenix says. She’s trembling. “Maybe he’s still…”

Bradley glances at you--you won’t even look at him anymore. And Jake still won’t look at you. Fuck. Everything’s fucked up right now. This isn’t how this summer was supposed to go.

You nod, sighing.

“Good idea,” you comment softly. You’re staring at your hands. “Someone should go.”

God, there’s so much blood beneath your fingernails. You haven’t been able to wash off at all. Mentally, you’re thinking about everything that needs to be packed in Fanboy and Payback’s packs when they go. But really, you wish you could even just think about washing off. You think even just that would make you feel cleaner.

“I’ll go,” Bradley volunteers. “Don’t need to draw sticks again.”

Coyote glances at Bradley--he’s watching you intently as you pick at your fingers and furrow your brows. Then he glances at Jake, who won’t look up from the ground. It’d do the three of you good to have some distance--maybe he can even talk some sense into Bradley if they’re alone together.

“Me too,” Coyote agrees. “We should get on outta here, though. It’s gonna get dark soon.”

“Right,” Bradley answers. He takes a deep breath. “Let’s boogie.”

So, now you’re here, standing at the edge of camp before Payback and Fanboy. Jake is in the mess hall with all the campers, guarding the front door with the shotgun. Phoenix hasn’t left Bob’s side once. Coyote and Bradley are trekking through the thick trees to get to Paul’s cabin.

Fanboy and Payback have their backpacks on--sleeping bags, bandages, rations, water, flashlights, kitchen knives included. They’re each holding an ax, which was your idea, and Coyote gave each of them walkies with an extra battery.

The sun is beginning to set. Everything is orange and pink as you look at the long and winding path before them, your breath caught in your throat.

“Got everything?” You ask.

They nod identically. Payback fiddles with the switch on the flashlight--he can never stop moving when he’s nervous.

“Got enough food to feed a horse,” Fanboy says.

You smile small--the dry blood on your face cracks.

“Didn’t want you to go hungry,” you say softly.

As if hunger is what’s going to kill them.

The wind kisses the tips of your nose, your ears. It smells overwhelmingly of iris. All three of you look up towards the trees, the sky. It’s going to be dark very soon. They need to start moving.

“You believe in monsters, Gale?” Payback asks, hands on his hips. He didn’t until a few hours ago.

Biting your lip, you nod.

“Have to in my line of work,” you whisper.

“Think they live under the bed?” Fanboy follows.

“Sure,” you say with a shrug. “What do you think?”

Payback pauses, eyes unfocused as he stares past you.

“I think they’re sneakier than that.”

A pregnant pause fills the air. You don’t know quite what to say to these men that you’re sending off into the dark night, all the spirits and ghouls and boogeymen hiding behind trees just waiting for them with watering mouths.

“Two days,” you finally say softly. “Two days and then everything’ll be hunky dory again.”

You don’t even believe yourself when you say it.

Fanboy nods. Beads of sweat are rolling down the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thin. “We’ll be back, okay?”

“With a horde of rescuers,” Payback adds softly. The smile gracing his lips is sad and small. “We’ve probably got a better chance than y’all, huh?”

Nodding, you shift all your weight to one side.

“Probably.”

It doesn’t make any of you feel better to say it.

Payback clenches his fists--they’re sweaty. He doesn’t want to go. And he doesn’t want to stay, either. He wants to go back home to his girlfriend and her awful tiny dog and eat good barbecue and forget all of this ever happened.

But then he glances at Fanboy and Fanboy is looking at him already, squinting under the sun. And he thinks that he is the most friend-looking creature to ever grace this earth. He thinks that he didn’t stutter at all when he volunteered to come with Payback. And then he feels a little bit better about doing this--about leaving and getting help.

“We’ll be heroes, right?” Fanboy asks, a mischievous smile tugging on his lips pathetically.

“Yeah,” Payback answers. Then he glances at you. He knows you feel guilty, but he knows you’re backed in a corner, too. You’re doing what you can--just like him, just like Fanboy. “Hold it down, alright?”

Choked up on all the apologies and all the grief and all the anger of today and yesterday, you can only nod. Alright, you’ll hold it down.

“We’ll check in every half hour,” Fanboy says.

You nod again. You grab his wrist, glance at his watch--it’s a Mickey Mouse watch, one you’re sure was a gag gift given his first name, but that he dons proudly all the same. But then your eyes are watery because you hope you see this watch on this wrist again soon. So, so, so soon.

“It’s eight now,” you tell them. You let go of Fanboy’s wrist.

“And we’ll be out of range…shit, like, a couple miles out, I think. So, if we don’t respond…” Payback says. He doesn’t finish his sentence and neither you nor Fanboy jumps at the opportunity to either.

The three of you just stand there for another moment. It’s getting darker--a lavender light is starting to fall all over camp. Shit. Bradley and Javy still aren’t back from their trek to Paul’s cabin yet. But at least all the campers are back inside the mess hall.

“Don’t die,” you tell them.

They nod solemnly.

“No doy,” Fanboy says. “Ditto.”

And then they turn around, their backpacks bulging, and start to walk away from Camp Arcadia. Just for a moment, as the white rice moon untethers itself from the pink clouds, you wonder if this is the last time you’ll ever see them.

But then you shake your head and look down because the thought is too vicious to bear.

Payback’s heart is racing as they start down the path, the trees tall and the cicadas loud. He’s gripping the handle of his ax hard, hard enough that it’s splintering his skin. And he’s taking deep, deep breaths.

“Hey,” Fanboy says because he can practically hear Payback’s heart hammering out of his chest. “Maybe we got out scott-free.”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” Payback whispers.

“It will when we get to town and have a couple cold ones,” Fanboy says. “Hopefully everyone else is still alive by then.”

Finally, when their figures disappear behind the treeline, you turn around and face camp again. The day is fading very fast now. You’ll only just have time to wash yourself off in the lake.

You don’t bother getting naked--you don’t even bother taking your shoes off. You just walk down the incline of pebbles, the warm water lapping at your ankles and pulling you in until you’re standing on your tip-toes with your chin atop the water.

How could someplace as Camp Arcadia be so beautiful--the towering trees, the deep green leaves, the cotton candy skies, the white stones, the blue-green water--and so horrifying all together in utter tandem?

Trying to move quickly, you dunk your head beneath the surface and begin to scrub your scalp. God, it’s so quiet under here beneath the water. The continuous hum of underwater life, the muffled cicadas and crickets, the soft moss-bottom. It’s the quietest it’s been in your head in hours and hours. You wish you could stay here forever, dunked just below the rippling surface.

Jake watches you go under from the mess hall windows. He’s watching you closely--has been since you escorted Fanboy and Payback to the edge of camp, which looked more like a death march than anything else. Bubbles race to the surface as you exhale and then it all goes still.

“C’mon, Gale,” he whispers to himself, eyes narrowed. He’s waiting for you to bob back up to the surface, to exhale and wipe your eyes now that they’re clean of blood. “C’mon, baby.”

He imagines something is wrong--that the killer somehow found you in the lake, as ridiculous and sleep-deprived a thought that is. He imagines blood and bubbles and flesh and you resurfacing just to scream his name before you’re pulled back under. He’s so tired, so scared just thinking about it, that his palms begin to sweat.

Ignoring all the ruckus of the kids behind him, he stands with his hands firmly on the shotgun. He has half a mind to stomp out there and pull you out of the water, but then you finally come up and oh. You’re fine. Totally and completely fine.

He glances behind him--everyone is settling in. The kids are playing. Phoenix is with Bob. You’re probably the one that needs the most protection right now, anyway, all alone out there. So, he very quietly slinks out the door and starts for the shore.

You can hear him coming--somehow, you just know that it’s Jake. Maybe because he likes to get you when you’re alone or maybe because you just know what his footsteps sound like on the gravel.

But either way, you know he’s there, watching you wash off.

“Can we talk?” He asks softly.

“Yeah,” you answer, not looking at him. You’re picking the blood out from under your fingernails. “Go ahead.”

Jake sighs. He’s thinking about how you yelled at him--how he felt like a kicked dog after. You were right, of course. He needed to calm down, grow up, realize there are bigger things in life than what’s going on between you and Bradley and himself.

“Listen, I…” he trails, scratching the back of his head. But he can’t think of anything to say.

“I don’t want to talk about me and you or me and Bradley, alright? So, if that’s your prerogative, then just march on back to the mess hall,” you say. Your tone is even and quiet.

You turn your face so he can see your profile against the dying sky. He’s already looking at you, shirt crumpled and face soft and hair messy.

“Okay,” he answers. He doesn’t wanna leave you. “Can I sit down?”

If you weren’t so exhausted, you’d tell him he can do whatever he wants on account of it being a free country. But instead, you nod. You just nod.

He sits on the rocks with the shotgun across his lap, sniffing and digging his fingers into the soil.

“Are you pissed?” You ask finally. You aren’t looking at him again, busy scratching blood off your calves.

“About what?” He asks, brows furrowed.

“That I slept with Bradley,” you whisper.

“Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it,” he says quietly.

You shrug, sighing.

“Changed my mind,” you whisper. “I just…I wanna get on the same page, you know? I feel like I’ve been so confused and everything’s just been so--so…muddled. Best to just get it all out there, right?”

What you mean is: above it all, all the shit and the gore and the horror, you don’t want Jake to be mad at you. You don’t want to wreck what you had. And you just don’t know what you’re doing.

“Not pissed,” Jake answers. “Confused, maybe.”

“Why?” You ask.

“‘Cause of our night together,” he answers. “I thought things…changed that night.”

“They did,” you insist, brows furrowed. “I mean, I thought they did.”

“Then why him?”

You turn to him and finally, he can look at you. You aren’t slathered in blood anymore. You’re washed off now--as washed off as the lake water can get you.

“Because you can only look at me when I’m clean.”

Jake swallows hard. He doesn’t want it to be true, but he knows that in your private way, it is. He can’t look at blood and you’ve been covered in it for hours and hours.

“I can’t help it,” he says. He sounds like he’s pleading.

“I know,” you answer. Casting your gaze back on the rippling water, you bite your lip. “I know.”

“Are you…in love with him?” He asks. His heart is in his throat.

“I’m not in anything with anyone,” you tell him. It’s a half-truth, you think. You could be in love with Bradley easily--very easily. But you’re standing on that edge, your toes just barely breaching the murky air. You won’t fall. You won’t let go. “Are you in love with me?”

Jake laughs--it’s short and humorless.

“Baby, look at you. Of course I’m in love with you.”

You nod, a smile tugging on your lips.

“What are we gonna do?”

Jake almost says love each other. Be together. But then he realizes that you mean right now, right here. What are you going to do to stay alive?

“Maybe Bradley and Javy found something,” he says. “Like, a radio or something.”

“Fat chance,” you answer.

And then you wash the last of the blood off your skin and start to wade back towards Jake--the sun is almost entirely set now. Your fingers are numb when you think about so many of your co-counselors being out there in the dark, thick woods.

Jake stands up, leaving the gun on the rocks beside the two of you. You’re soaking wet and the air is getting cooler--he knows your skin must be goosed, he knows your scalp must be prickling.

“Here,” he offers, opening his arms. He watches you, your lips a tint bluer than they were before, eye him carefully with all the skepticism of a mutt eyeing the dogcatcher. Then he rolls his eyes and beckons you closer with a cut nod of his head. “C’mon, you’re freezing.”

You submit then because you are freezing. You’re freezing and you’re exhausted and you’re scared and you feel like nothing in the world is going your way.

Falling into his arms, you bury your cold nose in his chest and inhale him. He smells like he always does, like deodorant and sweat and grass--but mainly sweat and grass. It’s a good smell, one you inhale as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to him. And you remember that just a few days ago, being in his arms was good. Comforting. Warm. Safe. Soft. But now everything is different. Everything is gone. Everyone is gone--or at least, that’s what it feels like.

“Jesus, your nose is an icicle,” Jake says, holding the back of your head and pushing your face further into his chest. “You’re shivering.”

But you’re not shivering just because you’re cold. You’re shivering because you’re suddenly crying so hard that you can hardly breathe. Your shoulders are shaking and your spine is curved and your eyes are wet. You don’t even know when the dam broke, when you started sobbing, but you are. You’re so exhausted that your cries are silent.

He’s stroking your back as the bullfrogs begin singing, his hands warm against your soaked clothing. But then he feels how warm your face is suddenly, how quiet you are. He’s just about to ask if you’re alright when you suck in a deep, quivering breath and sob into his chest.

He’s never seen you cry before. You’re level-headed, cool, calm, collected. It must mean something, Jake decides, that you’re falling apart right here and now in his arms. It must mean something--it has to.

Jake isn’t going to say anything. He doesn’t know what to say right now that would make you feel any better. He just holds you close, holds you tight. You’re fisting his shirt and he’s stroking your hair. And because he’s a weak man, because he’s a weak man who is in love with you, he sinks his face into your hair and breathes you in.

You are hardly clean right now and he’s able to do this. He thinks, if he really tries, if he keeps being in love with you, he’ll be able to stomach anything just to look at you.

“Jake,” you whimper. “Jake, I feel like--I feel like we’re being punished for something awful.”

He tuts softly, stroking your hair gently.

“Whatcha mean, baby?” He asks quietly. “Who’s punishing us? For what?”

“God,” is all you can manage to choke.

You don’t know why you feel like this, why you feel like something bigger than you, than everyone, is punishing you. But it is an ever-present knot in your gut.

“Shh,” he whispers. “You’re just tired, baby. That’s all.”

But now a rock sinks in his belly.

♀

Jake is sitting on the ground by the mess hall doors, the shotgun laying just beside him. It’s late now--so late that there’s not even a speck of light outside. He’s been the one checking in with Payback and Fanboy every half hour, he’s been the one sitting up and watching the doors, he’s been the one peering over his shoulder at the slumbering campers in their sleeping bags. Phoenix is asleep with Bob in the kitchen and you--finally--laid your head down on his lap and fell asleep after he told you to lay down for the eightieth time.

“But they’re not back yet,” you said softly, glancing out the windows into the dusk. “What if something happened?”

Jake swallowed, squaring his shoulders. Your face was still puffy from crying and your hair was still wet.

“I’ll check it out if they aren’t back by midnight, okay?”

You bit your lip, considering your options. You really didn’t think it would take this long for Coyote and Bradley to go to Paul’s cabin and come back. There’s a knot in your belly and a headache behind your eyes just thinking about it. But over everything else, you’re so fucking tired. So tired that you’re delirious.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But you’ll wake me up if you go, right?”

“Of course,” Jake said, face serious as ever before. “C’mon. Get some shut-eye.”

The clock is racing towards midnight--only a few minutes ‘til. Jake doesn’t want to wake you up. Quite frankly, he doesn’t wanna go out there in the dark. But then he thinks of Coyote hurt--Hell, he even thinks of Bradley hurt--and a strange sense of duty tightens his sense of right and wrong.

“Mr. Jake?”

He jumps--cranes his neck to look beside him. Mable is standing there, her hands clasped before her. She’s red in the face and there are tear tracks marking her cheeks.

He’s just about to ask what’s wrong when he sees it instead--her bandage is bright red with blood.

“Oh,” he says softly. His stomach turns, his saliva grows thick. But still, he looks at Mable. “It open again?”

She nods. She had a nightmare about the Devil--the one who wanders the camp, the one who cut her with the Swiss army knife, the one who she is so petrified of. And then she woke up with her cut oozing hot, hot blood.

“Can you--can you help me?” She asks.

She sees you, clear as day, sleeping on Jake’s lap. She would much prefer if you helped her bandage the cut, but she doesn’t want to wake you. And she knows, somehow, that Jake doesn’t wanna wake you either.

“Sure,” Jake says after a few moments of silence. “Like, just…reapply the bandage?”

Mable shrugs. Right. She’s a kid.

So, as carefully as Jake can, he slips out from under you, carefully laying your head on the wool blanket you’re laying on. And then he leaves the shot gun behind, ventures to one of the tables where you set up your nurse’s station. Mable follows behind him, wiping her face.

“So…a bandage, probably. And maybe some cotton, right?” He glances at her. She shrugs again. “Didn’t you watch her bandage you?” Jake asks.

“No,” Mable says quietly. “I was scared.”

Jake nods. He gets it.

“Well, okay. Um…just--why don’t you take off your bandage and put it on the table.”

He’s preparing himself--steeling his gut, straightening his shoulders, taking a few deep breaths when he starts to feel lightheaded.

Mable unwraps her wound--a few deep red drops of blood fall onto the floor. Jake squints, lips wrinkled as he tries his hardest not to start gagging.

“Good,” he says weakly. He presses cotton to the wound and sighs in relief for a moment--at least he can’t see it anymore. But then he can feel it--hot and velvety beneath the pads of his fingers. “Shit--uh, alright. Yeah. You hold it there, okay?”

Mable does as she’s told.

Jake struggles with the bandage for a second, unraveling it before wrapping it around Mable’s thin arm a few times. The cotton bulges beneath it, but at least he can’t see the slice anymore.

He holds the bandage in place then glances at Mable, who’s already looking at him.

“Now what?” He asks quietly.

“The tape,” she whispers, nodding to the roll on the table.

“Right,” he says. He smiles weakly. “I knew that.”

He rips the tape with his teeth, carefully applying it to the jagged end of the bandage while Mable watches carefully.

“There,” he offers quietly. “All better, right?”

She nods, examining the shoddy work. It surely isn’t as good as it is when you do it, but it’ll do. It’ll do.

There’s a pause between the two of them. Jake is proud of himself--he bandaged a bleeding kid all by himself. He almost wants to wake you up just to tell you that he did it. And if he can do that, he’s certain he can do anything else. Mable is chewing on her lip now, too afraid to go back and lay down, but still sleepy.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Mable whispers. “When I said he was coming for you.”

Jake swallows hard, shrugs.

“All in the past,” he sighs.

She struggles for a moment, sniffling.

“But I wasn’t lying,” she tells him. She looks at his face--his furrowed brows, his twisted lips. “He still is.”

Jake isn’t mad exactly. But he’s scared and he’s tired and he wants this to be over and done with.

“Why?” Jake asks because he knows it’s no use arguing. “Why me?”

“Because he wants all of us and you know how to shoot the gun.”

In your restless slumber, you’re standing outside in the middle of the courtyard. You’re by yourself, covered in blood again, feet planted firmly in the gravel. It’s dark and windy and the waves of the lake are crashing against the white stone uncarefully.

There’s a sense of something, like a sheer curtain shielding a sunny day, that you can’t quite put your finger on other than it is the feeling of loss. Everyone is dead and gone. Only you are left, all by yourself, barefoot in the onyx night.

In your hands is the shotgun, but even it is slimy with blood--you can hardly get your grip on it. Rage and terror are fighting inside your cut--so vicious that bile is rising up your throat.

And there, standing before the lake with that wicked curve in its neck, is the entity. It is as dark and fleshy as ever before, looming over you and everything else as it takes deep and rapid breaths. You don’t know how you know, but you know that its face is covered in blood, you know that it is waiting for you to make the first move.

You’re going to fight it. Just you and just it.

The wind is blowing something wicked. You’re scrambling to find the safety. The entity is twitching, snarling, snapping its teeth. It wants to press is mouth to yours, it wants to breath in your scent as it blunges a claw through your throat, it wants to feel the life drain out of you like it felt the life drain out of your friends--

The mess hall door rips open and the sound of clattering footsteps rips you out of your nightmare. And in the dim light, in your haze of upset and in your frenzy of panic, you sit up and reach for the shotgun beside you. Jake is gone--you don’t know where he is--but you know that you have to protect what you have.

“Don’t fucking move!” You scream, cocking the shotgun and pressing the safety off. You’re still blinking yourself awake as you scramble to stand. “Get the fuck--!”

Bradley blinks at you--Coyote’s eyes are wide.

The barrel of the shotgun is aimed directly at them.

“Whoa, whoa!” Jake calls, hurrying over to your rigid form and Bradley and Coyote. “Hey, hotshot, put the gun down!”

Still in shock, you lower the weapon. Your heart is racing. Your mouth is dry.

“I’m sorry,” you say, shaking your head, swallowing hard. “God, fuck--I’m so…I’m so sorry.”

Jake takes the gun from your hands, stroking your hair as you stumble back. Your fingers are numb with panic.

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley gasps, eyes narrowed at you. “Were you gonna fucking shoot us?”

“No!” You answer, shaking your head. “No, I was just--I panicked. I didn’t know it was you coming in.”

“Well, it’s not like you gave us a secret knock,” Bradley hisses.

“I know,” you say, holding your face.

“Christ, we’ve been busting our asses out there, running through the woods with a killer on the loose--and we come back to that?” Bradley cries. “Way to show your gratitude, Gale.”

He isn't calling you Birdie.

“Lay off her, man,” Coyote insists, clapping Bradley’s shoulder. “We have bigger fish to fry.”

Bradley looks at you long and hard--the way you’re holding your face, the way Jake is standing beside you like he belongs there. He’s burning from earlier still--angry at himself and at you and at Jake.

“Here,” Bradley says, throwing a flurry of newspaper articles and papers at you and Jake. “Read ‘em and weep.”

Coyote scoffs, slapping Bradley on the back of the head.

“Don’t be a dick, man,” Coyote insists.

“Fuck off,” Bradley grumbles. “They need to read ‘em.”

“I didn’t know it was you!” You insist. “I never would’ve--Bradley, I wouldn’t--!”

“--I really don’t care right now,” Bradley interrupts, holding a palm up to you. “Read the newspapers.”

With quivering hands and wet eyes, you lean down and grab the newspapers. They’re old--yellowed and stained. The scent of old ink floods your nose as Jake claps Coyote on the shoulder.

“Glad you’re back,” Jake tells him. “I was just about to send out the troops.”

Coyote smiles weakly--he’s more afraid now than he was before. Not even just because they finally made their way back to camp, but because of what him and Bradley found.

You’re reading as fast as you can, your brows furrowed, your stomach at your feet.

HORROR AT CAMP ARCADIA. July 19th, 1957.

“What…?” You whisper.

Bradley is watching you with his hands on his hips.

“Paul’s cabin was ransacked. He wasn’t there. God, there was--there was shit everywhere. And a fucking bulletin board full of shit like this.”

“What is it?” Jake asks, brows furrowed.

Phoenix peers out from the kitchen, her eyes heavy with sleep.

“What’s going on?” She whispers.

“What’s going on is that some shit went down in 1957. You know--like it’s going on now. Like, a guy running around fucking killing type shit. Read it.”

Your stomach is in knots.

“‘All seven of the camp counselors and the camp nurse were found brutally slain on camp grounds’,” you read aloud, your voice quivering. You’re lightheaded suddenly, choking on panic. “What the fuck is this?”

“The Great Oaks Gazette,” Coyote answers. “As in…it’s real.”

“What do you mean?” You ask. “This is--Jake, isn’t this the story you told at the bonfire?”

Jake swallows hard, eyes wide.

“I thought it was--Jesus, I thought it was just some spooky story.”

“Well, it’s not,” Bradley answers. “It happened. Like, it happened here thirty fucking years ago.”

“‘The maniac’…” you whisper. Then you have to close your eyes and breathe through a bout of nausea. “Christ…what the fuck is going on?”

“He’s here,” Coyote answers. “Whoever did that--he’s here.”

“Except that he isn’t really ‘cause he was found dead, too,” Bradley says. “So, someone who knew about him is pretending to be him. And they’re trying to pick us off one by one.”

“People got murdered here?” Phoenix asks, clutching another newspaper clipping. “Like--here? Camp Arcadia?”

“Catch up,” Bradley snaps at her. “A whole staff. Just like us. Seven camp counselors and one nurse.”

Coyote nods stiffly.

“Two girls and five boys,” you whisper softly. “Just like us.”

“Yeah,” Bradley confirms. “Just like us.”

Jake’s head is spinning. He grips your shoulder, his eyes wide.

“My God,” he mutters. “I didn’t know…I thought…”

That’s when all the bottled-up rage from today, all the fear and the horror, surfaces in Bradley’s chest in a puddle of red. He turns to Jake, his eyes narrowed.

“How did you hear the story?” Bradley asks him, suddenly turning towards him. “Like, where did you hear about it?”

Jake’s brows furrow.

“I…I don’t remember,” he answers honestly. “I feel like I’ve just--like I’ve just always known about it.”

“Why?” Bradley continues, narrowing his eyes. “None of us knew about it.”

“C’mon,” Phoenix says, glancing between Jake and Bradley. “Cool it.”

You’re too stunned to realize how lethal this argument between Bradley and Jake is going to be. If you were less shocked, less hurt, less tired, you would see in their eyes just how bad things are about to get. You would see it in Bradley’s red chest and Jake’s clenched fists.

“No, no,” Bradley says. “‘Cause while we were out there, trying to get some fucking answers about what’s going on, I kept thinking about it. No one answered me earlier when I asked who would hike all the way out here. Shit, who knows we’re even out here, right?”

“Someone who knows about Gwyar,” Phoenix says. His name tastes bitter on her tongue. “Someone from town. I don’t know.”

“Right. You don’t know,” Bradley says, not ripping his gaze from Jake. “I’ll bet it was someone who knew about Gwyar, too.”

The tips of Jake’s ears are bright red. His face contorts in rage as he scoffs at Bradley.

“The fuck are you saying, man?” Jake asks.

Bradley smiles.

“I’m saying that maybe you’re the one who’s trying to slice and dice us.”

“Fuck off,” you hiss at Bradley, stepping closer to the two of them. “You’re not helping!”

“Oh, I’ve been helping,” Bradley insists. “I put my ass on line to get this information--but Jake already knew it, right? You already knew.”

“It was just a story!” Jake insists.

“Except that it wasn’t,” Bradley says. The toes of his tennis shoes are grazing Jake’s now. The men are eye-level, each of their gazes fiery as they stare at another. “You know, I was thinking on the way back: how could it be him? And then shit started to add up, you know? The stars really aligned.”

Coyote is stunned into silence. Bradley never verbalized any of this on their trek back.

“Fuck off,” you say again. You attempt to get between them when Bradley suddenly juts an arm out and puts it in the middle of your chest. “Hey-!”

“Stay back,” Bradley says. “I think we found our killer.”

“You can’t just say that, man,” Coyote says. “You need to check yourself.”

“Where did you find the ax?” Bradley asks Jake. Jake swallows hard. “Right…your cabin. I remember now. And the Swiss army knife--that was in the bus barn, right? You found it. Didn’t he, Coyote?”

“You’re making something out of nothing,” Coyote spits. “Leave him alone.”

You’re watching the two men with your heart in your throat. This display of aggression, of dominance, is making your throat tight with anger.

Jake’s grip tightens on the gun.

“He can’t stand the sight of blood,” you say. “How’s he gonna chop Bob’s arm off?”

“You know, did anyone ever know that Jake was in his school’s musicals?” Bradley asks. He recalled it during the long walk back through the dark woods--that tiny detail Jake shared a few summers back when he’d had one too many, slurring the lyrics to Suddenly Seymore. “‘Cause I remember that.”

“Mr. Jake isn’t afraid,” Mable pipes up from behind everyone, her heart in her chest. From afar, she thinks that she’s coming to his defense. A sudden loyalty for Jake has sprouted in her chest. She holds her hands on her hips, then juts her arm out towards everyone. “He isn’t afraid of anything. He wrapped my arm back up.”

Fuck.

“Convenient,” Bradley sneers. “You can handle the sight of blood when all of us aren’t looking, huh? What else you doing when we’re not looking?”

“Bradley, you’re way out of line,” Coyote says.

“And didn’t you tell me that you were gonna kill me? Like, a few hours ago?”

“That’s taken way outta context!” Jake demands. “You were fucking--you were--!”

“--I was what? Talking about your girl? And you didn’t like that?”

Bile rises in your throat.

“What are you talking about?” You demand. “Both of you--just--just quit it!”

But they aren’t quitting it. They’re stepping closer to each other, not ripping their gazes from each other.

“Coyote heard it,” Bradley says. “Didn’t you, Coyote?”

Coyote doesn’t answer. He did hear Jake say it--but he knows…or at least, he thinks he knows, that Jake would never hurt anyone. He wasn't being serious. He was just angry.

Jake glances at Coyote, whose face is pulled together in agony.

“C’mon,” Jake says. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You said you were gonna kill Bradley?” You whisper.

“He was talking about you,” Jake insists, incredulous.

You turn your back on the two men, reeling. Your heart is beating out of your chest. What the fuck is going on?

“You fuck,” Phoenix sneers. Her emotions are running high, her heart is ripping apart in her chest every moment she has to watch Bob settle in an agonizing slumber. “Did you fucking hurt Bob?”

“No,” Jake gasps. “Phoenix--you know me. C’mon. We all know each other! I would never hurt Bob!”

“Yeah, but you’d threaten to kill me,” Bradley insists. “You’re a man of your word, right? Maybe you thought Bob was me.”

“We need to calm down,” Coyote says. “Let’s--fuck, let’s put the gun down and just talk this through?”

Jake snaps his head in Coyote’s direction, rage burning the tips of his fingers.

“Put the gun down?” Jake asks, gaping. “You think I’m gonna…you think I’m gonna hurt someone?”

Coyote is sorrowful as he shrugs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know what’s going on!” Coyote cries. “No one does!”

“I do,” Bradley interrupts. “It’s you, isn’t it? You were gonna shoot me earlier today, too. I heard the safety click off.”

“What?” You whisper. You look at Jake, who is looking like he’s about to start scrambling for purchase. “What did you do?”

“No, I didn’t!” He looks at you--all that hurt in your eyes is making his chest ache. “Gale, baby, you’ve gotta believe me! I would never do that! You know me! You know me!”

Bradley steps between the two of you.

“Leave her out of it,” he sneers. “Give me the gun.”

Jake tightens his grip on the gun.

“No,” he says, shaking his head firmly. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Jake,” Phoenix says, sobbing. “Give him the fucking gun!”

“No!” Jake yells, stepping back. “No, I won’t give Bradley the gun.”

“Then give it to me,” you say quietly. Your face is softer now, your brows pulled together in anguish and your face twisted in confusion. “Give it to me, Jake. It’s okay.”

In this tizzy, you’ve hardly thought about what’s real and what isn’t. Everything feels real and nothing feels real. You’re living a waking nightmare, you’re having nightmares when you close your eyes. You’re losing. Everywhere you turn, everywhere you look, there’s blood.

“Gale…” Jake says. He’s crying now, staring at you. “I didn’t do it.”

“Okay,” you whisper, stepping closer to him. “I believe you. Give me the gun.”

Jake’s palms are sweaty.

“Give it to her!” Phoenix sobs. “Jake, give her the fucking gun!”

Jake gives you the gun and you take it slowly, not breaking your gaze from him. And then you swallow hard and look around at everyone. You’re just about to tell everyone to calm down, about to say that you should all calmly talk about what’s going on, when Bradley suddenly jumps on Jake.

“What are you doing?” You scream at the two men. The campers start to russell in their sleeping bags, start to sit up. “What are you fucking doing?!”

Coyote is panicking, holding his hands on top of his head.

“Stop!” Coyote yells.

The two men are a blur. It’s fists and blood and legs and hair until Jake is laid out flat on his belly and Bradley is sitting on top of him.

“Get the fuck off me!” Jake demands. “You stupid son of a bitch! You fuck!”

“We need to talk about this,” you cry. “Stop it! Stop it, Bradley!”

“He’s gonna hurt someone else,” Bradley hisses at you, pressing his knees into Jake’s back. “He can’t be in here with us.”

“What?” You screech. You’re quivering. “We don’t know that he did it! We don’t know what’s happening! He just--Christ, he just heard a story, okay?”

“And he found the weapons. And he said he was gonna kill Bradley,” Phoenix says. She wipes her face, stares down at Jake. “I don’t want him in here.”

You turn to her, flabbergasted. Phoenix, the pillar of maturity and level-headedness, suggesting that Jake be cast out when there’s a slasher on the loose. Your knees nearly buckle.

“Phoenix,” you whisper quietly. Your throat is too choked to say anything else.

“Please don’t do this,” Jake cries, stills struggling beneath Bradley. “Please, please don’t fucking do this!”

“Get off of him,” Coyote snaps, pulling Bradley’s shoulder. “He isn’t hurting anyone!”

“Not right now,” Bradley says. “But he could start again. Any fucking time.”

All the campers are standing now, watching the showdown.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” you snap at Bradley. “Get the fuck off him!”

“Why? So he can kill you? So he can kill me? Not a fucking chance, birdie.”

Panicked, you shove Bradley’s shoulder. It’s enough to rock him but not enough to move him. And before Bradley can shove you away from him, Coyote’s gripping your elbow and pulling you beside him.

“So, what? What do you wanna do now, Bradley? Wanna stick him outside? Fuck you!” Coyote says.

“We’ll lock him in a cabin,” Bradley says. “No harm, no foul.”

“You’re gonna kill me,” Jake screams. “You’re trying to fucking kill me!”

It’s clear as day to you suddenly, reality. Jake wouldn’t hurt anyone. Jake didn’t do this. Jake would never hurt you. He would never hurt Bradley. Jake wouldn’t hurt anyone. It isn’t him. It isn’t him.

“Please get off of him,” you cry. You’re sinking to your knees, still holding the shotgun in your hands.

“Get her outta here, Phoenix,” Bradley says. “She’s hysterical.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter, spitting at him. “I hate you!”

“Yeah, yeah, you hate me so much for keeping you alive! I get it! That’s the thanks I get, baby!” Bradley sneers at you. “Nix--take her.”

Phoenix wraps her arms around you, carefully tugging you up. You are shaking your head, crying, scrambling. But then Coyote is tugging you up, too. He nods towards the kitchen.

You keep fighting, keep trying to get back to Jake and Bradley, when Coyote suddenly holds both of your cheeks in his hands. His nose grazes yours and his eyes are open and honest.

“Bob needs you,” Coyote says very seriously. “Okay? You gotta keep your head. It’s okay. I won’t let anything happen to Jake, alright? I promise.”

You don’t feel any better about it, still choked up on anger and grief, but you allow Phoenix to tug you back towards the kitchen. And just as you’re about to cross the threshold, Jake’s cries still echoing inside of the mess hall, you look at Bradley. For one moment, just a fleeting thing like the flap of a hummingbird’s wing, you see it: he winks at you. Or at least you think you see it.

“C’mon,” Phoenix whispers to you. “Let them do it. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter to her, voice trembling. You break from her grip. “You know it isn’t him! You know it.”

The kitchen door swings shut.

Bob’s feverish body lay crumpled on the floor. Phoenix looks at your face, her own stained with furious tears.

“No, I don’t,” she says quietly. “But I know that my best friend in the whole fucking world is dying. And I want someone to pay. I don’t care if you’re fucking him or not.” Offended, you gape at her. She stares back at you. “Look outside your feelings for him,” she insists, softer now. “Don’t be one of those girls who wears horse-blinders when it comes to men.”

Horse-blinders.

“I’m not,” you spit. “I just know he didn’t do it.”

“How?” She asks, voice hard.

You can’t answer.

“Right,” she answers. “‘Cause your word is lord.”

The room is quiet. You stare at each other, chests heaving.

“I don’t wanna fight,” you tell her, shoulders sloping. “I’m…I’m fucking scared.”

“Me either,” Phoenix says. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you tell her. “But I don’t think he did it.”

She nods.

“Okay. We’ll see.”

Bradley throws Jake into his own cabin, the one he shared with the littles. Jake is bright red, cursing Bradley, shaking his head at him.

“Fuck you,” Jake sneers as Bradley stands in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You’re trying to get me killed, you fuck!”

“Look, man,” Bradley says. “I’m just trying to keep everyone else alive.”

And before Jake can respond, Bradley is slamming the door shut and locking it from the outside. Coyote watches with his head hung, his heart racing. Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Nothing was supposed to be like this.

“Hey, man,” Coyote calls to Jake. “I’ll…I’ll check in on you every thirty, alright?”

“Fuck off,” Jake sneers, pacing the length of the dark cabin. Panic has seized his heart. “I’ll be dead by the fucking morning.”

“Drama, drama,” Bradley says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let him out, okay?”

Coyote nods, not looking up.

Jake sits on the floor, burying his head in his knees. Fuck. Fuck.

“I’m gonna die,” Jake whispers. Coyote still hears him. “You’re fucking killing me, man.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: JAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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