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arcadejohn127-9 · 3 years

Note

Okay so I have a personal head cannon that demon hunters are a thing in the Obey Me World. So I wondering if you could do the brother and undatables finding out that a bunch on demon hunters kidnapped MC while they were in human world because they found out of MCs packs. Your writing is so good, honestly this is one of my favorite Obry Me accounts.

Thank you! It gives me pride for being one your favourites!

I love expanding the world of obey me and idea of hunters is one that seems realistic in a world of demons and angels and just in general, really interesting. Before I joined writing on Tumblr I was actually a Wattpad author and one my books was about a monster hunter who got in a love square with Frankenstein's monster, Dr Jekyll and Mr hyde

Never finished it but it was fun concept so any type of supernatural hunter already just wins in my department

Do I have a thing for making the demons violent and showing off a more aggressive and bloody side to them? Yes, I really do

Warning: kidnapping, gore-ish, violence, religious themes, angst, guns, mentions of torture, long

Your breathing grew heavier as the crushing feeling on your chest continued to grow, your heart slamming against your ribcage. Begging to be released from its suffocating prison. If it weren't for the lump in your throat you were sure your heart would of leapt out of it.

your feet pounded against the street beneath you; you were running faster than you’ve ever ran before. How did it get to this situation? well, you didn't have time to reminisce but to make a long story short - a group of demon hunters revealed themselves to you and are now chasing you down as you refused to cooperate. they wanted to use you for your pact and you didn’t want to be involved, especially seeing as they were literal demon hunters! they were going to kill your friends!

but sadly, fate was not on your side. your ankle twisted to the side, pain shooting up from your ankle all the way to your knee. rope surrounded you, you thrashed against the net as your body slammed to the floor. The last thing you saw was the hunter tower above you, the butt of their gun coming down on your head.

when you finally woke up you already had a gun back in your face, you tried to escape but you were forced backwards. chains rattling behind you. you looked behind you to see you were chained to a cross, both your wrists and ankles were bound.

Your situation only grew worse when the hunter Infront of you snarled down at you. Demanding you used your pacts, spitting on your face. You thrusted forward, matching their snarl as you bared your teeth at them. Demon mannerisms have rubbed off on you but it wasn't doing you any good. The gun clicked, unlocking off safety mode.

Your heart sunk immediately.

"Use your pact or else."

You could only hear the blood rushing through your ears. Trembling as their finger slowly pressed on the trigger. You knew they were going to kill the brother's if you did but you were terrified that were going kill you. You shook your head, letting it hang low as fat tears rolled down your cheeks.

You kept refusing to use your pact and summon the seven demons. Every time you refused they'd hurt you; kicking you, slamming the guns butt down on your head, throwing your head back on the cross. You could barely hear what they said, they just kept screaming at you. Calling you filth and a traitor to mankind.

Despite all the pain you were grateful they weren't killing you. You just had to keep pushing your luck. You couldn't summon them no matter how scared you were. You refused. You couldn't do it.

But fortunately, Magic doesn't always act the way you want it to. Your soul - your entire being BEGGED to be saved. You wanted to save yourself, you desperately tried to spark at the chains and remember any spells but your mind was at a blur. nothing was processing.

You cried out when you saw the large magic circle appear on the floor. You tried desperately to close the summoning circle, cursing to yourself. You demanded your magic to listen to you but it wouldn't work. The brothers symbols appearing in each part and soon enough, they appeared in full demon form.

"FIRE-!"

Lucifer:

his wings blocked at the rapid bullets going their way

His whip quick to come out and wrap around a hunters wrists, he twisted his hand around it and pulled the poor hunter towards him

"This isn't very welcoming, now is it? How bold."

the hunter went flying, the brothers dodging in time

Mammon:

He smirked, a bullet between his teeth and more between his fingers

Steam was drifting off them but he just crushed the metal bullets with no other thought

"How nice of ya to give me a gift~! You really know how to make a demon happy."

He spat out the last bullet and it went flying, hitting a hunters eye

Levithan:

The ground shook beneath you, many hunters missing their shot at his brothers

A crab like beast bursted out of the ground, sewer sludge splattering on the floor

It swiped and grabbed at the hunters, screams filling the space, bodies snipped in half in seconds

"You're all worse than Normies! You took the wrong human from the wrong demons!"

he back hand slapped a hunter that approached him, growling

Satan:

He leapt off the crab, grabbing the nearest hunter to him by the head

Their neck snapped to an odd angle and they immediately dropped

"This isn't how I expected to spend my evening but you took my reading partner....you won't receive my mercy."

He shoved his clawed hands through their chests and spines, ripping out the first organ or bone he could grab

He didn't lie, he didn't show an ounce of mercy

Asmodeus:

His wings flapped behind him, he dragged his claws along the backs of the hunters he flew past

Giggling as they screamed in pain

"Aww I'm just flirting, was it really that bad?"

He pouted before swiping at their faces

Shoving another hunter towards his more violent brother

Whilst he had no issue letting himself get wild, he saw how scared you looked

He didn't want to get too dirty or else how could he comfort you?

Beezlebub:

Beel could be ruthless if TRUELY provoked

And hearing your whimpers when he arrived stirred furious anger within him

When he finally saw your beaten state it made him snap

Hungry for blood

Hunters head being crushing with ikr hand

"You don't even look appealing to eat, you're worst than Solomon's cooking."

He took a chunk out of one hunter when they aimed at one of his brother's

Refusing to let his family get hurt

Belphegor:

We all know he's cold blooded

So it was no surprise blood was gushing everywhere

His dream dust filling his area and nightmares surrounded the hunters

"They're mine....and yet you stole them and hurt them, you're disgusting."

hunters would disappear into the mist and not come back out alive

Bodies littering the floor as he swooped through

As soon as things got gory your eyes were sealed shut, trying to shut out the sound of flesh tearing and screams of agony. Whimpering as you thought about the brothers smiling faces, how gentle and soft they usually were. Chanting in your head that they were here to save you, you were safe, they're still them.

You screamed as your body was lifted off the platform you were on, the cross rising. You were now fully crucified; feet slipping as you struggled against the cross. The chains were barely supporting your weight so you just dangled, fear rising in you.

Mammon charged towards you, his brothers continuing to fight against the hunters. He ripped the chains out of the cross, you fell right into his arms, your heart thumping against your chest.

"look at what they did to you....I shouldn't of protected ya, I hope you'll learn to forgive me - they busted you up real bad."

He caressed your cheek; eyes glaring at your busted lip and the many bruises forming on your face. You winced when his hand touched the side of your head, he recoiled feeling something warm on his palm. It was blood. YOUR blood.

He almost broke down right there and then, looking at how hurt you were - he couldn't handle it.

"thanks...that makes me feel so much better." You let out a pained laugh, hoping to make him feel better.

He only frowned more, softly rubbing his thumb on your cheek. It was obvious he was struggling to keep himself calm. You held his hand, showing off your best smile.

"i don't blame any of you, the hunters did this, okay? You didn't do anything wrong."

Your sweet moment was ruined when the 6 brothers backed all bumped into the two of you. Forming a protective ring as the hunters surrounded them; it seemed like there was no end.

You raised your shaky hands, magic swirling around your wrists and to your fingertips. You barely had enough strength to put on a little light show but you weren't going to just let the demons defend you without even trying to help.

It your lucky day as suddenly, the hunters hideout doors bursted open. You could barely make out the outside but there was blood coating every wall, steam coming off dead bodies. Soon enough four figures emerged and your heart almost leapt out of your throat.

Lucifer growled as he strangled a hunter, turning his attention to the new comers.

"I'm surprised you came so late, espically with the company with you, my lord."

Diavolo laughed, his hands coming together as his magic flared brightly. Barbatos had his arms behind his back, smiling to all of you.

"Forgive our tardy timing, these hunters are determined."

"don't forget us, though I may of caused us to take our time, it's been so long since I've fought this many people."

Solomon adjusted his sleeves, his many pacts glowing against his skin. Simeon, unlike the others, looked completely untouched by the chaos. Smiling as he kept his hands together.

"I beg for your forgiveness (Y/N), It appears we've angered Lucifer more than the hunters have."

UNDATEABLES↓

Diavolo:

Time slowed down within the room, only the hunters going still

Their movements frustratingly slow

"I think it's best to clean up this situation whilst you take (Y/N) back, they've seen enough."

He looked at Lucifer, both men nodding

The prince moved freely through the frozen room, eyeing the amount of hunters

Barbatos:

He bowed to the brothers, offering you a comforting smile

"I must agree with my lord, things will get rather unpleasant."

He slowly slipped off his gloves

He approached you, gently handing you his gloves and patted your shaky hands

A silent request to keep them safe for him

Solomon:

The wizard blew the steam off his wand

Smirking as he pointed it towards the magic still present around your wrists

"Isn't it good I came along? You're going to fall sleep if you keep using your powers, little apprentice, let me open a portal for you."

Just as he finished talking he summoned a portal to the devildom

He gave you a small salute

Simeon:

He hastily rushed towards you all

Checking on each brother for any serious harm, thankful they were okay

He turned his attention to you, doing the same

"all is going to be okay, I promise, I'll bring over some desserts when we get back - tell Luke I won't be long, I know he's anxious about your safety."

He walked you to the portal, caressing your hands

You got a gentle push towards the portal

Once you were all through the portal, you completely shattered. Crumbling to the floor as you broke down sobbing. The brothers tried to approach you again but your nostrils flared, face scrunching up in disgust. They reeked of blood and guts.

Beels mouth was covered in blood, flesh between his fangs. Levithans hands trembling from adrenaline red and stained with blood. Belphegor was showered in the red liquid, a feral look still in his eye. Mammon was the most clean out of all of them but he had blood dripping down him. Asmodeus had flesh on his nails and blood on his cheek. Satan looked just as drenched as belphegor, his shoulders shaking with anger. And finally, Lucifer was the second cleanist but he still was no better than the others.

"i need time to- time to calm down....just.... please just wash."

They all accepted your wishes, hesitant but they understood your predicament.

You laid on the floor, chains still on your wrists and ankles. They felt so tight on your limbs, you whimpered as they scratched at your skin. It took one small burst of magic to make them drop; you were finally free.

You continued to just lay on the floor, shakily grabbing a nearby pillow. Inhaling the sweet comforting scent, letting it fill your scenes. Everytime you even smelled a faint swift of the gore-ish scene from before you just took in another deep inhale.

You laid there for what felt like hours. Silently crying as you hugged the pillow.

You grounding yourself. Reminding yourself you were safe and back in your room. The brothers were safe and they weren't mindless beasts.

You rolled on your side, something poking your hip. It was your phone. You pulled it out from your pocket and began to type, messaging Luke that Simeon was okay aswell as you, apologizing for not seeing him in person. You sent him a quick selfie of you smuggled into your pillow and tried to look somewhat happy. Hoping it'll comfort him.

It wasn't a moment later until you heard a knock at your door. You questioned who it was.

"we're all clean now, meet us in the living room if you want....I made your favourite drink~" Asmo's voice was soft, gentle on your ringing ears.

A small smile appeared on your face. Shuffling out of your room still hugging your pillow, trailing after the lustful demon. Soon enough, you were both entering the living room.

The room was dim, the fireplace being it's only lighting and warming the room up nicely. There must of been something with the wood as it smelled so comforting. The brothers all sat along the sofa, Some on the floor. Everyone had their own drink, blankets and pillows surrounding them.

You curled up in the middle of the sofa, letting yourself be engulfed in multiple hugs. Everyone touching you in some way and you all just sat there. In peaceful silence as you just hugged.

You really needed this....

"thank you for saving me."

"We'll always save you"

"you can always count on us-!"

"I won't let this happen to you again, I promise to protect you better."

"no one is allowed to touch you like that, I won't let them."

"You don't need to thank us, darling."

"I will always make sure you're safe, no Matter what."

"I won't fail you again."

you all hugged each other even tighter, embracing each others comfort and warmth. Tears falling and soothing words shared, each brother did their best to be strong. But even they couldn't stop themselves from shedding tears when the adrenaline died.

They almost lost you. You were kidnapped and hurt because of your connection to them. They were never going to let you get harmed again, no matter the cost.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #gamingclubpresident #aracadejohn217 9 #obey me mammon #obey me mc #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me leviathan #obey me luficer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me imagine #obey me headcanon #obey me x reader #angst

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deltas-writing-corner · 3 years

Text

No regrets

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing: Sukuna x reader (reader is referred to with gender neutral pronouns, but there are slight implications of them being AFAB)

Author note: At a whooping 11.5k words, it’s finally here! Thank you all for your patience as well as those who gave feedback during the initial interest check! I hope the wait was worth it and you enjoy this long piece! A bit of forewarning, this piece is rather dark, so please read the content warnings carefully and only proceed if you are comfortable doing so.

Revisions made on 3/30/2021

Minors do not read/interact with this post!

Heian era

It was only a matter of time before the king of curses came to your village and slaughtered you all. It was inevitable, but the village elders were determined to hand over every last scrap of fabric and goods if it satiated the cursed being for a short while, knowing the all powerful curse was an indulgent one. Your village was a well known trading settlement, so gathering and setting aside the best of the best on the market was rather easy with all the merchants coming in and out of the town nearly every day.

Your family specialized in sword crafting, often forging or repairing swords for soldiers or aristocratic families who merely collected them as works of art. Your father taught you a bit of the craft and a few seasoned samurai humoured you and taught you some forms while they awaited repairs, but you mostly spent time helping your mother around your quaint home. Your days with them were peaceful, even with the ever looming and expected arrival of Ryomen Sukuna blanketing your people with constant fear.

The day finally came, yet all the preparations you and your people took to secure a better chance of survival still didn’t feel like it was enough as the four-armed monster of a man easily destroyed several houses with a mere flick of his hand and cut down several innocent individuals who fled last minute due to their anxiety getting the better of them. He was at least willing to see all that was being offered to him when it was made clear your people were not going down without trying their luck, but that sadistic smile of his was all the proof everyone needed to know that their careful efforts meant nothing.

Your village elders remained determined, and to the shock of you and your parents, they grabbed you and offered you up as one final offering. You were young, the youngest in the village in fact, and unmarried too. A perfect candidate for Sukuna’s harem and they knew this when they turned and grabbed you without a second thought. You still remember the way your mother began to smack your elders with her shoe when they yanked you away from her and your father’s side. Bless her heart.

Perhaps a part of you knew that your status as the youngest would be taken advantage of if things weren’t working out. Sukuna’s harem was only a rumor, scary gossip whispered amongst the housewives. Yet the idea of a monster like him having a harem didn’t seem so farfetched. You knew better than to question the validity of the lucky few who got away and were displaced because of Sukuna’s village razing and massacring.

Whether he accepted the last second addition to the offer pile or killed every single one of you right then and there, you accepted that your life would never return to how it once was before he came. You didn’t make so much as a peep of discomfort when the brute began to manhandle you, pulling back parts of your clothes away from your body to inspect you in front of the entire village, in front of your distraught parents. You didn’t wince in pain when he roughly grabbed your cheek between two of his meaty fingers and examined your face like you were merely a piece of art, an object. You just went completely numb.

Everyone, including yourself, was shocked when he agreed to take you along with all the goods your village offered, but not without ordering them to prepare another pile for his followers to collect every following month from now on. He made it clear that if they held back a single grain of rice or gave him anything else but the best, he’d send your body back to them in a bloody sack before reuniting them with you in the afterlife shortly after.

As the king of curses hauled you away like a sack of potatoes, your emotions came flooding back in. You kicked, scream, cried and begged like a moody toddler for your mom and dad to help you, to not let this monster take you away and do know who knows what to you. The last you see of them before you’re forcefully knocked out is your mother suddenly collapsing on the ground like all the energy she had just left her body instantaneously. Your brawny father seemed equally at a loss as well.

When you were brought back to Sukuna’s temple, you were hauled away by servants after he unceremoniously dropped you on the ground and retreated to his chambers. You were thoroughly bathed, skin rubbed raw of outside filth and dressed into a fresh new robe before being whisked away to Sukuna’s quarters by his demand.

That first week under his roof was meant to break you, but for some reason you kept fighting back because of something a bit stupid. You wanted to keep your old clothes the maids forced you out of and you wouldn’t shut up or keep still under him no matter how much he harmed or degraded you. You don’t know why you kept pushing back against him over something so meager. The fabric wasn’t anything that fancy. The color was faded and you were even beginning to outgrow them. It’s the only memento you have of your home, so maybe that’s why your mind zeroed in on it and refused to yield to his torturous ministrations until you made certain it wouldn’t be taken away from you.

“Again with those rags you call a kimono?” he clicked his tongue with annoyance. “You want to keep them so badly? Fine, but don’t think I’ll be so accommodating next time.”

Living in a merchant town, you know how to tell when someone is trying to swindle you. As much as you hate the man who has been violating your body for literal days now, you can tell that he means what he has stated.

When you finally relax your body, he lets out a disgustingly child-like cackle, but before you can express any sort of rage that bubbled up within yourself, your mind goes numb once more if only to alleviate the pain you’re in just a bit.

There are two types of fates for those in Sukuna’s harem. There are the favoured concubines, who live relatively better than the disfavoured, who are made into servants. Of course, this is all a meticulous set up by the king of curses himself. Those he shows higher favoritism towards are desperate to remain in his good graces if only to make their way of living that bit easier to bear. Those he turns into lowly servants and brushes aside are desperate to rise above their rank and gain the privilege and spoils he grants to the selected few. It’s all an elaborate plan to instill discord between members of his harem so he can sit back and watch them tear each other apart without lifting a finger.

Your fighting back was what earned you an automatic spot amongst his favoured. He thought he had broken you, but just as soon as you yielded to him you flared up and began to fight back once more. It was invigorating, seeing the rage and desperation in your eyes when you were quiet and had a distant, blank look just moments before. How long had it been since a human raised their fist against him? Far too long for him to remember.

You were an outlier. Where all would refuse to meet his gaze whenever he passed through, you would always meet and hold his gaze without fail or hesitation. You talked back, cursing him a thousand ways into the next phase of the moon. You never bowed when others did. Never.

Your disobedience gave him plenty of reasons to drag you to his chambers and attempt to break you once more, only for you to shut your mind down as soon as you were thrown into his bed. Perhaps it's a defense mechanism? A way of trying to disassociate from all the rough treatment you endure under him? A part of him is grateful you aren’t like the others, that you’ve come up with a way of protecting yourself while the others around you, who give into the despair and hopelessness he brings them or lie to themselves that he holds some sort of affection towards them, if only to find some sort of hope through this hell even if it means lying to yourself. Both of which bore him immensely as well as annoy him greatly.

It’s sudden and neither of you can recall when it began, but after he was done having his way with you and you regained your sense of reality and would devolve into the usual episode of flailing rage and crying, he began to hold you against him and whisper soothing phrases like “good job” or “It’s over, you did well”. He kept his many arms wrapped around your shaking figure, waiting for you to eventually exhaust yourself and pass out before doing so himself. When the sun rises you are always gone from his chambers. How you manage to escape right from under him is a mystery, but he doesn’t have much of a desire to ask you about it. He likes waking up surprised. Hardly anything surprises him anymore.

It becomes clear to everyone that Sukuna acts differently towards you, treats you differently than the rest of his concubines. There are even periods of time where the rest of his harem is given little to no attention because he’s completely focused on you. The time he spends with you isn’t anything kind or relieving. He purposely says things that offend you and have you screaming at him. Should anyone else say what you say to him in return, he’d rip their tongues out and swallow it before their very eyes without any remorse. But you? He’s smiling down at you, as if you were an actor entertaining him with an elaborate and well-rehearsed performance.

“Damn you! Damn this temple! Damn your ancestors for existing and bringing you into this world!”

“Yes, that’s the spirit!” he gives you a toothy grin, his sharp canines glinting under the light of the sun. “Damn me and damn the rest of the world for that matter!”

His encouragement only infuriates you more. Without a second thought you began to throw whatever it is you can get your hands on at him. Your comb, your shoes, your untouched makeup products, anything in sight is hauled at the deranged man who dodges everything with ease. Just as you throw a jar of ink at his head and it shatters against the way, bathing the wood with dark ink, he grabs you and you both tumble back into your unmade futon.

As usual, you thrash and voice your disdain as he presses his lips against your neck and aggressively undresses you. He’s high off the adrenaline from earlier, making his ministrations much more excruciating than they normally are.

To him, it feels like a passionate session of lovemaking and he’s left light headed when he finishes.

For you, it’s just another day under his reign and body, your mind going numb as soon as he puts you on your hands and knees.

Just as quickly as he gave you most of his attention, he turned away and left you in the dust.

You have been his concubine for over a year when it happens. Your village continues to uphold their end of their deal and provide him with all the luxurious goods they can get their hands on each month. You’re not sure if he’s trying to torture you more or genuinely thinks he’s bringing you some sense of comfort and calm, but he personally brings you a small bunch of fabrics and trinkets that your father specifically went out of his way to get for you, hoping you would receive them somehow as a reminder that he still thinks of you. It’s during these small moments of Sukuna passing on these items that you learn that your mother passed after you were taken.

You didn’t shed even one tear when this information was given to you, as a part of you knew that was the case after you saw her collapse. Sukuna expected you to fly into another fit of rage. That was the only reason he told you if he’s being honest. He’s caught between feeling disappointed or worried when you just hummed in acknowledgement as you rolled up the soft, intricate rolls of fabric and stored them away. You never did anything with them, so they were sure to collect a layer of dust like the rest in due time

No one, not even Sukuna or even yourself, expected your village to take up arms and fight back against the followers he sent out to collect his offerings. When word came back of what transpired, Sukuna was tempted to take you with him and force you to watch as he slaughtered your village in retaliation for breaking the accord. He didn’t, nor did he send back your disfigured corpse like he promised he would back then. He simply went out, killed them, and then came right back to wash off all their spilled blood. All within the same day.

After he killed all the villagers, he attempted to locate your father amongst the scattered corpses, but they were too mutilated and disfigured to discern who was who. Even if they weren’t, it’s not like he remembered what your father looked like. Did you even bear any resemblance to him? He overheard you speaking with one of the other concubines that your father was an armorer and was tempted to grab one of the expertly crafted swords the villagers were carrying and bring it back to you, blood and all staining the scabbard. He decided against it.

He’s demoted many concubines, all with the purpose of watching them try to regain the meager luxury and privilege they grew accustomed to. He did the same for you, eager to see you break character and come crawling back to him with pitiful desperation.

A part of him knew that it wouldn’t take much effort on your part to have him changing his mind. He’d easily forgive you for the betrayal of your village. All you had to do was put on a show and give him the entertainment he wanted from you. You can kick and scream and deny him all you want, but he’s broken many people like you before. He’s had you under his spell since day one.

Except, you didn’t do anything. When he sent you to live within the overcrowded servants chambers near the far end of his temple, you never put up any sort of fight or caused a scene. Not even when he gave away all the fabrics your father sent you to the other favoured concubines, going as far as to force them to wear the garments whenever and wherever your presence is at. He waited with giddy for someone to inform him of how you lashed out at another girl and attempted to rip the cloth off of her body because they were wearing the fabrics meant for you. But there was nothing from you.

When he dragged you to his quarter and began to violate you like normal, he forced himself to brag and even fabricate details of the day he slaughtered the people from your village. He even lied about how your father asked about you before he was killed, falsely stating that the man had a smile on his face when Sukuna told him that you received all the goods he selected just for you.

Like always, your mind went blank until he finished. There were no twisted words of comfort afterwards like before. He simply ordered you out once he was done, one final attempt to invoke something out of you. You merely redressed and left in silence. He nearly got up and dragged you back, but once again, he decided against it.

One day he ordered a few men to build a crude looking home out back, detached from the main temple, and have you moved in it upon completion. If his normal efforts won’t elicit the usual reaction out of you, then he’ll take a different approach. He’ll deprive you of everything, social interaction, decent and consistent meals, and a stable shelter. He’ll have you isolated for a short while, after which he will visit you out of pity and revel in the sight of you crawling back into his arms. If the time he forces you alone is not enough to break you, he’ll simply extend your stay until you either give him what he wants or die because of your own stubbornness.

It hasn’t even been a day since you’ve been moved from the servant's chamber to your new quarters, and already he’s come to visit you. Within the same breath that tells you that your only other option besides begging for his forgiveness is to rot away in this poorly made shack, he gives you one final chance to change his mind, to beg him to take you back into his good graces.

The tatami is poorly crafted and discolored. The rafters used to construct the frame of the house already show signs of rotting and water damage. Before he allowed himself in, the tiles on the roof appeared to be hastily made and were not properly laid out. It was lightly raining outside, yet you already have a wooden bucket set up to collect leaking water.

“Can I help you?” you ask without glancing over your shoulder. He smirks at the thought of you knowing who he is by presence alone.

“No,” he smugly answers. “But maybe I can help you?”

You look back over to him with a mean glare. “You’re the one that put me here in the first place.”

“No, I didn’t,” he shakes his head to further cement his point. “You’re in here because your people thought they stood a chance against me and broke our agreement. Killing you would be an act of mercy to them. So long as I keep you alive and slowly torture you in both mind and body, they will never know peace.”

“You’re lying,” you say with certainty, with no fear. “I’ve never lied to you once. I would appreciate it if I can at least be given the same courtesy in return.”

He hates when people demand things from. Most importantly, he hates that you’re right. Your neck is always so small within his grasp, his fingers able to meet and fold over one another without strain. He keeps you suspended in the air just enough to where you can balance yourself on the balls of your feet. Whether you were tall or short, it mattered not. He always towered over you like the predator that he is.

“You want to know why you’re in this shitty home?” he sneers down. “You’re in here because you’ve begun to bore me. You amused me so much before, but the moment you started depriving me of my source of entertainment on purpose is the moment I decide to deprive you of your basic needs in return. I take what I want, when I want it, in whichever quantity I desire.

“You want out of here?” He makes a sweeping gesture around the room. “Then you better press your forehead all the way to the floor and beg for me to take you back. I’ll even tell you the exact words you need to say. ‘Please Sukuna-sama. Please allow me the privilege of sleeping under the same roof as you. Please let me breathe the same air as you.’”

He lets you go and grins when you prostrate after regaining your breathe.

“Please Sukuna-sama,” you beg.

“Please what?” he mocks. “Use your words.”

He feels a vein pop out on his forehead when you dare to look up and look at him with yet another angry grin. Without an ounce of hesitation, you say, “Please get out and leave me be.”

He nearly breaks the door from how hard he slams it shut. He abruptly turns around when he hears a roof tile fall over and splat into the muddy dirt. Those followers of his really built you a shitty home, exactly like he ordered them to do.

He feels the urge to gather them and wring their necks one by one, but he doesn’t know why.

Sukuna can’t sleep during those weeks apart. Not because of you, but because right as he drifts off into slumber he’s abruptly woken up by an intense source of cursed energy flaring up out of nowhere. But just as quickly as he feels it and wakes with a startle, it vanishes without a trace. He’ll go out onto his balcony and try to locate where the energy is coming from, but for some reason he can never pinpoint it despite his superior senses. He tries to suppress his own energy in the hopes of tricking the source into thinking he’s asleep and unsuspecting, but it would seem that they’re smart enough not to fall for the bait.

He doesn’t need sleep in the first place, so he’s tempted to just stay up and catch whoever is trying to scare him red handed and be done with them. The idea of someone getting the upper hand at him and forcing him into a position of defensiveness doesn’t sit well with him, so he decides to just let the unknown person have their fun for now and continue this little back and forth with them. Eventually they’ll grow cocky and slip up and he’ll confront them when it happens.

Because your little shack is located near the back of the temple, completely out of sight from Sukuna’s view from his balcony, Neither he nor the others notice the plumes of smoke that rise during the dead of night. No one also takes notice of the bits of metal that go missing throughout the temple.

The rise of the next full moon indicates the end of the month. Sukuna sends for someone to go retrieve you, but they never return and he’s left waiting long enough for the moon to reach its highest peak in the sky. When he orders someone else into his quarters he’s met with more silence that only further enrages him.

Just as he’s about to call for Uraume to figure out what the hell was wrong with his servants, he feels it. The cursed energy that he’s been trying to catch off guard the last few weeks. It’s willingly making itself known, practically begging him to follow its trail and meet with him. Just as quickly as he is able to identify and figure out which direction it’s originating, he notices that it strangely leads him in the direction of your poorly built home.

It’s impossible that it’s you. Cursed energy is born from negative emotions. He’s sure you still have an abundance of negative feelings towards him. Yet never did he feel even a speck of cursed energy resonate off of you. His mind immediately wonders if the individual knows of his strange obsession over you and is using you as bait. It’s foolish on their part, thinking the king of curses would yield for a mere human.

His pace quickens despite his internal dismissal, failing to notice that everyone is hiding and waiting in anticipation.

When he discovers that the cursed energy is indeed from you, he can’t help but to laugh like a crazed hyena. The sword by your side further amuses him and he’s genuinely curious as to how you got the proper materials to craft it.

“It took a bit of convincing,” you willingly answer his question. “I made everyone believe I could stand a chance against you and they gave me all the materials and tools I needed and looked the other way. I guess watching all those traveling merchants try to hype up their goods came in handy after all,” you look out in the distance as you briefly reminisce on the bygone days of your former life.

He begins to slowly clap with one pair of hands, the other crossed over his chest in amusement. “This is by far the most entertaining performance I’ve ever witnessed. Bravo. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

“I’d gladly accept the compliment, except this isn’t a show,” you stand to your full height and get a better grip of the hilt of your sword. “It’s the real deal.”

He erupts into yet another cacophony of wild laughter. “Do you seriously think you can kill me?”

“No,” you answer, truly throwing him off guard by the way he goes still so suddenly. “But that’s alright. I’m fine with never being strong enough to put a permanent end to you. Only one of us will be walking away from this fight, and I assure you that it’s going to be me.”

You draw your blade out and get into a low, defensive stance. Even under the lackluster light of the moon, he can see how well crafted your weapon is. He’s reminded of the craftsmanship the weapons your people carried when he slaughtered them, no better than a bunch of wooden sticks against him either way. Immediately, he regrets not bringing back one of their weapons and forcing you to expose to him your knowledge of swordsmanship and blacksmithing. Perhaps then he could have had you brandishing your blade under his command rather than against him.

Oh well, it’s better this way. It’s just as exhilarating and head swirling as those instances where you damned him with all of your being and threw things at his head. No, it’s more than exhilarating. It’s downright intoxicating seeing you readying yourself for his first move. How sweet of you to allow him the honor to make the first strike.

“You truly are something else entirely, beloved,” he dreamily sighs. “Did you honestly think you’d have the upperhand against me just because I gave you a little bit more of my attention?”

“Never,” you reply. You press your eyelids shut for a moment, and the moment you open them up the layer of dissociative numbness vanishes into a look of total focus and emotions he cannot discern. “But whether I live or die, I have no regrets about tonight.”

You really didn’t have enough strength to kill him. However, you did have enough to dismember all twenty of his fingers and seal him away. For the first time in years, the sun rises and bestows its warmth to a world in which two-faced Sukuna does not instill fear upon humanity or stain the earth in their blood. You and those who were under his servitude walk out of his temple as free people, hopeful people. As an act of gratitude for becoming their savior, nineteen others take one of Sukuna’s fingers each and swear to scatter them as far as they can so he cannot be brought back into the world.

As for yourself, you set out to rebuild your destroyed village and take up your father’s legacy as a maker of swords. Eventually you meet and settle down with a loving partner and raise children together. You pass on the family trade, your self developed cursed technique, as well as the memories of your time as Sukuna’s concubine. Those who come after you continue to carry on your will, to ensure that Sukuna can never be reborn into the world. Your sword and the old robes you kept after you were taken away are passed down as family heirlooms, but they are never used by any of your descendants.

That is until the year 2018, when Sukuna is resurrected within a compatible vessel.

Modern era

You bear not only a striking resemblance to your ancestor, but many of their memories as well. The family sword that was used against the king of curses is bestowed upon you, now dubbed the next in line to claim the title of clan leader, their preserved kimono now fashioned into a sageo that wraps around the scabbard.

Your family stays out of most affairs within the jujutsu world, but your birth and the strong connection to your ancestor eventually reaches the ears of many prominent figures within this hidden society. They think your birth a bad omen, a sign that the king of curses may return to the world one day. Most are scared, but your family pays them no attention. Even if the damnable curse did find a way to revive into the world, you and most of your family members who have inherited your ancestor’s technique will oppose him just as they did a thousand years ago.

“You don’t look too concerned,” Gojo makes his observation known to you as soon as the two of you settle in the small private room you ushered him to when he came to your family estate. He wanted to confirm the news of Sukuna’s resurrection to you himself. “None of you do, actually.”

“We all knew this day would come,” you calmly tell him as you poured him a cup of tea. “This is the risk our ancestor took when they developed their technique. In exchange for the strength and ability to seal Sukuna away, they willingly gave up the ability to deliver him a fatal and final blow against him.”

“I’m not well-versed when it comes to binding vows and heavenly restrictions,” he takes a moment of pause to sip his now cooled tea, visibly showing his disdain over it’s bitterness. “But is giving up the satisfaction of killing him really a fair exchange for a specific technique and a bit of cursed energy?”

Your lips pressed together in a grimace. “You have no idea what it was like living underneath that monster’s reign. Even if the binding vow had odd conditions skewed against their favor, every bit of what was given up was worth it if it meant regaining their freedom.”

Gojo isn’t moved or even impressed by your admittance. He simply shrugs before taking another sip of his tea, face contorting in displeasure once again as he forces himself to swallow the green liquid. You’re tempted to ask him why he keeps sipping if he hates the flavor, but he begins speaking again before you can voice your thoughts.

“So, about the vessel,” he leans against his closed fist, propped up by the low table underneath him. “The higher ups are willing to postpone the kid’s execution in favor of the opportunity to kill Sukuna, but they want someone from your family, preferably you, to be his second shadow so to speak. You’re the failsafe in case the plan doesn’t play out like I promised and the curse needs to be sealed again.”

“Sukuna’s vessel...is a child?” you ask incredulously.

“He’s about your age,” Gojo admits with a displaced smile, but it soon falls once you suddenly erupt into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“That’s priceless!” you say while wiping away a stray tear. “The king of curses, Ryomen Sukuna, stuck inside some teenager’s body? I bet he’s pissed off and swearing up a storm inside the kid!”

You’re not sure who exactly is getting the most amusement at the turn of events, you or your ancestor from beyond the grave. After your laughing fit subsides and you straighten yourself out, you turn back to Gojo to ask him the burning question.

“So when do I get to meet him?”

Itadori Yuuji is the polar opposite of Sukuna. While Sukuna had a smile that both angered and scared your ancestor and those around him, Yuuji’s was like a literal ray of sunshine. He’s nice, energetic, strong willed and even humorous. You’re honestly surprised he can act so hopeful despite all that’s happened to him and has been forced upon his shoulders.

You’re not going to lie, but you honestly expected a timid and somewhat gloomy kid. Someone easy to manipulate to put it bluntly. Yuuji’s friendly personality is welcomed in your book. Though you admit that now that you’ve exchanged a few words with him, you feel bad and pitiful that he’s been marked for death and likely has to deal with Sukuna on a somewhat regular basis.

As Yuuji rambles to you about some childhood incident, the slits underneath his eyes open up and a familiar pair of red eyes meets your gaze. “It’s you,” the manifested mouth on the side of his cheek morphs into a deranged, toothy grin that is so painstakingly recognizable.

Your heartbeat picks up and your palms are coated with an instantaneous layer of nervous sweat. You contemplate saying something or simply ignoring the curse, not wanting to give him any satisfaction of hearing the voice of your ancestor acknowledge him in any way. Before you can come to any consensus, you’re amazed at how Yuuji easily slaps his hand over his cheek and tells the curse to buzz off.

Itadori further cements that he is Sukuna’s antithesis as he goes out of his way to apologize to you for the inconvenience the curse caused you (How could he tell you became nervous when Sukuna spoke only two words at you?) He even brings you a can of soda as a sort of peace offering/token of forgiveness! You’re grateful for the gesture, but you feel bad for letting him think that he’s at fault for something that wasn’t even that big of a deal to begin with.

“Still, I made you upset,” he looks down to his empty can and pouts. “If you don’t want to be around me-”

“Yuuji,” you interrupt him. “I’m fine, really. My ancestor stood their ground against him once. Surely I can do it again a millennium later.”

“Gojo-sensei was telling me about that!” his eyes sparkle with recollection. “That’s so cool! You’re basically his arch nemesis!”

You awkwardly laugh at his enthusiasm. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“So, Senpai,” he looks at your with a hopeful gaze. “Gojo-sensei seems pretty certain this plan of his will work, but what do you think?”

“Well,” you take a quick sip of your drink before continuing. “Before I tell you what I think about this whole debacle, I need to make a few things thing clear regarding the two of us.”

He obediently nods, face now serious, though it takes you a considerable amount of effort not to laugh from how innocent he still looks. It’s hard to believe he’s housing the king of curses within himself.

“First and foremost, don’t call me Senpai! ” you firmly say. Don’t call me by my family name either. We’re about the same age, so just call me by my first name from now on. Understood?”

“First name, got it!”

“Second,” you put up two fingers. “This is the most important point, so pay attention,” you look at him to make sure he’s ready to commit your words into memory. “Whether the plan works out or not, you must never forget one important fact of the matter. You are not Sukuna.”

He flinches, clearly not expecting such words to be directed towards him.

“I’m sure Gojo whipped up some epic tale about my ancestor’s grudge against that two-faced monster. I not only inherited their technique, but also many of their memories during their initial life. In a way, I suppose I hate Sukuna as well, and based on my reaction from earlier when he popped out, I’m not exactly going to handle moments where he gains control with as much poise as I should.

But remember Yuuji. My discomfort will never be towards you, but the curse you are now bound to,” you reach out and pat his head in assurance. “As the saying goes ‘the enemy of my enemy is a friend.’ Which brings me to my final point!” You excitedly profess. “I want us to be friends!”

“Wait, really?” he sounds almost unsure over your insistence. “I mean, I don’t mind, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to put up with me for my sake.”

“I’m not saying we have to be the best of friends” you explain. “Since we’re going to be around each other so often, I at least want us to be on friendly terms. I want your time left in this world to be as enjoyable and carefree as possible.”

“I guess we can be friends,” he crosses his arms and stares off in deep thought. “I’m just trying to think of a good starting point to get to know you.”

“You can always keep it simple and ask me what I like,” you say, laughing at the way he suddenly has an “ah hah!’ moment and looks at you like an excited puppy.

“Do you like Jennifer Lawrence?”

Yuuji is almost offended that you didn’t know who Jennifer Lawrence is. He was utterly flabbergasted that you haven’t watched any of her movies either (“I don’t even know who she is Yuuji how the hell am I supposed to know she was in movies?”). He went on and on about every single film, but if you’re being honest his 2 minute summaries (infodumping, really) of the plots didn’t really do them justice. Out of nowhere he proposes that you and him have a movie night so he can show you exactly what you’re missing! Of course, it’ll have to be after the two of you settle into your dorm rooms.

It’s true that you were offered immediate admission into Tokyo Technical college due to your lineage, but no one but you and your family knew about this. Gojo also knew. He was the one that brought up the idea in the first place…

Oh, Gojo told him. Well now you just feel stupid.

That’s how you found yourself in the dormitory’s common area with Yuuji and your other classmates, Nobara and Megumi. Meeting them wasn’t that bad. Just kidding, it was terrifying! Megumi looks exactly the way your family often describes members of the Zen’in clan to look like, blank and unnerving. You honestly thought Nobara would beat you up just from the way she was looking at you with such an observing glare, completely forgetting the fact that you’re a descendant of the person who single handedly sealed Sukuna away.

Oh yeah, Yuuji told them that! Was he not supposed to?

“Hah?” Nobara scowls at Yuuji, who puts his hands up in defense. “You mean their old ass grandparent turned that ugly ass curse into bite sized pieces?”

“I did,” you answer, but you quickly catch your mistake and correct yourself. “They did. Along with the sword they used to cut Sukuna down I also inherited most of their memories which is...It’s not as pleasant as you would think.”

Her expression softens up a bit and she steps in front of you. She holds out her palm and makes a beckoning gesture. “The sword,” she clarifies when you look at her with confusion. “Let me hold it.”

You make a quick trip back to your room to retrieve it. She nearly doubles over into you once you pass it over to her.

“Damn! How much does this thing weigh?!” she looks at you with disbelief

“It weighs next to nothing whenever I hold it,” you explain, taking it into your hold and tossing it in the air and twirling it around to further drive your point.

“Bullshit! It’s like 50 pounds!”

“It can’t be that bad,” Megumi comments.

“Oh yeah? Here!” Nobara grabs and tosses it at him, much to your dismay. “See?” she shrills when he nearly doubles over himself. “It’s heavy!”

“Yeah, ok. This is definitely the sword that took down Sukuna,” Megumi gasps.

“My turn! My turn!” Yuuji makes grabby hands, but you push yourself between him and Megumi who’s still holding onto it before he can get too close.

“It’s probably best if you don’t touch it. Y’know?” you point back and forth between him and you.

“Oh, right,” he sheepishly remembers. “Crap, the popcorns gonna get cold!”

You sigh in relief when his attention goes elsewhere before quickly heading back to your room to put the weapon away. When you reenter the lounge, Yuuji greets you with a cheery smile before patting the empty space next to him. He wants you to sit beside him, but Nobara seems to have other plans as she sits right in your intended spot and tells you to sit next to her instead. You were honestly scared and a bit reluctant, but your fears subside once you sat down and she locked her arm with yours and leaned her head on your shoulder for the rest of the night.

She and Megumi eventually retreated back to their rooms before they could fall asleep on the couch after the second movie concludes.

“Do you want to keep going?” Yuuji asked, hands fidgeting with the next DVD case he had at the ready.

“Sure,” you nod, not tired in the slightest just yet.

“Sweet!” he gave you a toothy smile before standing up to head towards the dvd player. However, the moment he stood to his full height he went deathly still. His body contorts before swiftly relaxing. He rolls his neck a few times and lets out a relieved sigh. Before you can ask him what’s wrong, that’s when you feel that disgusting familiar aura and your heart starts beating like you just did a triathlon in a few short minutes.

“Finally, some fresh air,” he sighs in relief as he arches his back and his spine lets out a few crisp pops. His voice hasn’t changed in a thousand years and neither has your fear and disdain for it. When he turns and looks at you with those familiar blood colored irises, you involuntarily reach out to grab your weapon, but you only grab at empty air.

“Hey,” you flinch when he addresses you. No, it’s not you he’s talking to. Given your identical appearance and even your cursed energy that you manifested out of habit, in his mind he must think of you as your ancestor themself, not a distant descendant. “It’s been a while.”

“What do you want?” you somehow manage to stutter out.

“Nothing,” he admits. “’Just want a good look at you.”

If your ancestor or even your family were to see you now, you’re certain they’d be disappointed in you for going still before your greatest enemy. All those years of hating and experiencing all those horrible memories feel like a complete waste when you can’t even muster the strength to bat his hand away when it takes hold of your chin and turns your head over for him to thoroughly inspect you.

“Did you miss me?” he strangely inquires.

Finally. You feel some control over your body come back and answer with an affirmative, “No.”

“That’s too bad,” he clicks his tongue with mocking dissatisfaction. “Because I missed you.”

His face begins to lean into you, lips slightly parted, and you know that he’s going in to press them against yours. Just as you’re about to gather all the strength you can muster and push him away, his body seizes once more and the black markings cross his face and wrists begin to fade and crumble away. An in-control-again Yuuji blinks a few times before checking his surroundings to regain his bearings.

“What happened?” he looks down at you and asks, not registering the fact that he was kneeling over you and firmly pushing you back against the couch with a painful grip.

A part of you wanted to punch Yuuji and run back to your room so you can wait out the slight panic attack that overcame you once Sukuna vanished, but you had to remind yourself that you would be hurting Yuuji if you went through with your action. In all honesty, that second point you told him of remembering to never think of himself as Sukuna was more for you than for him. While your ancestor would willingingly strike down any and all who have the slightest bit of affiliation with their tormentor, you are not them. Therefore, you will not stoop down to their discriminating level, no matter how justified it may be.

The night ended on an expected awkward note. Yuuji, bless his heart, went out of his way again to make it up to you. How? He bought a bunch of snacks from a convenience store in the city and gave them to you in a pretty, gift wrapped box. Nobara and Megumi, who helped him put together the forgiveness present, thought the gift itself was dumb and lackluster, but he reasons with them by stating how you also come from a countryside town as well and how you’d definitely like to try some of the Tokyo-exclusive goodies.

Well, the way towards another’s forgiveness is through the stomach, or something like that. The exact quote is a bit lost to you since you’re too busy savoring all the odd flavored chips and candies you’ve never had the chance to taste back home. Nobara and Megumi feel the immense urge to punch you in the back of your head over how easy you are to win over, but you look so happy eating your second bag of potato chips and Yuuji looks very relieved that he’s earned your forgiveness-

Oh wow you’re offering to share your snacks with them? Don't mind if they do!

While all of you try each and every snack Yuuji gifted to you and rate them like you’re all a bunch of snack experts all of a sudden, Sukuna is brewing in his own satisfaction as he watches you through the eyes of his vessel. Nevermind the fact that you sealed him away all those years ago. He’s back now by a stroke of luck that only seemed to strike again when he saw your familiar figure through Yuuji’s vision. The cursed energy that radiated off of you, the sword you carried by your side, even your face, there was no doubt in his mind that it was the work of fate that you and him were reunited in this new era.

He made the mistake of letting you out of his sight back then, and he isn’t going to let it happen again. He wants to take control over his vessel's body each and every time he’s anywhere within your vicinity, but not only does the brat have the convenient ability to suppress him, you’re a rather cautious one. Just when he thinks Yuuji to be alone and susceptible, you appear out of thin air and keep him at a standstill from within. It’s annoying, but at the same time impressive as well.

While you may be oblivious to his vessel’s budding feelings towards you, he sees this growing fondness Yuuji is beginning to garner towards you as an opportunity, a weakness he can exploit to force a small rematch between you and him. He won’t kill you. He just wants to know if your technique that surprised and caught him off guard back then still elicits the same thrill it did then.

You are his favorite source of entertainment after all, and it’s been far too long since he’s been amused.

Sloppy and desperate. Those are the best descriptors of your cursed energy the first time he detected it. Your sword still remains as beautiful and deadly as it was, cutting through rows of trees with ease with just the slightest bit of cursed energy embedded into your attack. It makes the phantom sensation of his vessel’s freshly ripped out heart, beat faster and his grin widens to the point of his cheeks hurting from the uncontrollable strain.

Precise and brutal. That is how he would describe your energy now. He easily feels the hatred and sudden rage that began to fuel and flare up your aura oozing out of you that only further accentuates its new characteristics. Normally, you would be swearing at him with a mouth so foul that it would make the average curse blush in embarrassment. He can’t say he likes the way you silently assault him. Where is that crude vocabulary of yours?

“Senpai!” Megumi shouts for your attention as he tries to keep up with your fast paced exchange with Sukuna. “You need to call down-”

“Megumi, don’t call me your damn Senpai!” You shout in response, eyes never daring to look away from Sukuna even as you address your classmate.

“That’s more like it!” he cheers with satisfaction. “Oh, how I’ve missed your damning words beloved.”

“Don’t call me that!” you shout as you swing your right arm and impulsively punch him. He easily blocks your melee, though you send him skidding back a few feet.

With the much needed space set between the two of you, you correct your stance to a more defensive one. Your innate technique has been actively running ever since Sukuna took over Yuuji’s body and activated his domain expansion. Your sudden bout of rage overwhelmed you after witnessing Sukuna rip Yuuji’s heart out, nearly forgetting that you’ve been barred from the ability to inflict any lasting damage against him in your frenzied state.

Your inherited technique allows you to perfectly parry his ‘Dismantle’ and ‘Cleave’, but no damage will be inflicted if you purposely strike with the intention of dealing a lethal blow as you have been for the past few minutes. Your sword is blunt upon contact, evident by the lack of any lacerations upon his skin.

He may have offered the chance to heal Yuuji if you agreed to spar with him, but you know better than anyone that it’s all a bunch of lies coming out of his stolen lips. Yuuji was lost the moment Sukuna came out and set his sight on you, or rather, who he believes you to be. You’d easily blame yourself for being the cause of his demise, but you also know that Yuuji wouldn’t like it if you blame yourself over this from the afterlife.

The least you can do to make it up to him is bring his body back so it can be properly cremated. He at least deserves a proper funeral.

“All tuckered out already?” Sukuna mockingly coos at you. “I suppose that’s to be expected. How long has it been since our last battle? I doubt there was any curse who could live up to my strength this past millennium.” He cackles when you don’t reply. He’s right. He knows he is.

You finally break your silence with an odd comment. “You really think I’m them, do you?”

Though obviously rhetoric, Sukuna gives you a questioning look. “Elaborate,” he commands.

“I’m not who you think I am,” you simply state. “I have the same technique as them, but I am not the one who sealed you away that fateful night. That person is my predecessor, while I am their descendant.”

You state your family name, then your first name, and wait. He willingly takes in this information, cupping his chin and looking up at the sky as he mulls it over before coming to his own conclusion. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t seem to accept it as the truth, evident by the way he slips his hands back in his pockets and cocks his head at you with a playful attitude.

“Whatever the punchline was, I’m afraid it fell flat,” he lets out a sympathetic laugh. “You mean to tell me that after I was sealed away, you found yourself a spouse willing to take you, a washed up whore, into their bosom and bear children with you?”

The way he shakes his head and clicks his tongue in a dismissive manner pisses you off more than watching him crush Yuuji’s heart in his bare hand. Most of the memories of your ancestor revolve around their time as one of Sukuna’s concubines. The memories you have of their life afterwards are foggy at best, but you do remember the feeling of peace as well an overwhelming amount of bliss and mutual love their spouse gave them despite their history. It was one of the happiest moments of their life and it never once faltered even after they retold their darkest memories to their children and handed down their initial will, to always oppose the king of curses, no matter the era.

People may think it cruel, selfish even, that they did not strive to develop a better technique and pass down such a heavy responsibility to their children and their children’s children. But if there’s anything those hazy memories taught you, is that they do not regret the efforts that they did make to set themselves, and the others under his servitude, free from his tyranny. Had they submitted and gave into his whims, they would have never been blessed with their children and loving spouse.

Had they not done what they did, acted the way they did, you would not be here, opposing the king of curses within this new era of curses.

“I have never lied to you,” you repeat those now ancient words. “The least you can do is give me the benefit of the doubt before dubbing me a liar.”

It happened so fast that you question if it even happened or not. His eyebrows furrowed, the exact same manner when your ancestor severed the first of his twenty fingers on that fateful night.

When he began to approach you, you sheath your blade and returned to a neutral stance, feeling safe to do so as the previous hostile energy he exuded calms. Megumi stumbles in just in time to see Sukuna and you standing nearly chest to chest. He presses his palms together in preparation to summon one of his shikigami to provide support, but he stops his incantation when he notices that neither of you are exchanging blows anymore, though the two of you do exchange unfaltering glares towards each other that puts Megumi on edge even though he is merely a spectator in this situation.

“I am not them,” you firmly state. “This is the truth.”

Sukuna hums, dissatisfaction clear as you repeat your claim from earlier.

“It seems you weren’t lying,” he finally concedes. “Such a shame.”

With one final shrug, the black markings all over Yuuji’s chest and limbs begin to crumble until there's nothing but his unblemished skin. The sharper features his face takes on when Sukuna takes control and taints with his sigils turn back into those belonging to the typically boisterous boy.

“Hey,” his slightly raspy and confused voice greets you so genuinely.

“Hey,” you greet him back with a relieved, yet sad smile. His eyes follow yours that seemed focused on his chest and that’s when he finally notices the gaping hole as well as the lack of a beating heart and blood trail.

The grey clouds that have been gathering before you all were dropped off at the school finally begin to shed droplets of cold rain down on you. A drop lands perfectly on his face that looks indistinguishable to a shed tear. You instinctively reach out and wipe it away.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” he pouts.

“It’s alright,” you withdraw your hand away from his cold and sickeningly pale cheek. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from him.”

He took a deep breath as if he was about to say something else, but his eyes finally go blank and his upright body gives out and falls forward. You catch him with ease and carefully set him down on the damp soil. He’s officially gone to you, yet you take extra care to cup the back of his head and gently set him down with shaking hands. As you kneel beside his stiff body, another drop falls on his face and trickles down.

You’re not sure if it’s another raindrop or the first of many teardrops that begin to spill from your tear ducts once your brain finally registers that your best friend is lying dead before you.

A week later

Yuuji is dead, yet it is as clear as the large hole in his chest that Sukuna is still living on within the body, if only barely. Ieiri, Gojo and Ijichi can’t tell, but you can. Call it yet another inherited skill or instinct, but no amount of pitiful words or comforting pats on your back from either of them are going to make you second guess yourself on this matter.

Sukuna is alive, yet for some reason he isn’t staking his claim on the body. You know he can at any moment, but it seems he’s not entirely stupid and is trying to play his cards right.

Perhaps he’s waiting for something? Maybe a certain someone instead? It wouldn’t surprise you if he has allies that are still alive and are well aware of his resurrection. It wouldn’t surprise you either if they were gathering his other fingers in his stead. Those damn things are blinking beacons for other curses, so gathering them shouldn’t be hard even for the most mediocre of cursed beings. Even when he’s made into a bunch of inanimate objects, he can still cause some amount of chaos and grief.

Damn him.

Your claim that Sukuna still lives goes from outlandish and desperate to undoubtedly true when a faint pulse of his energy brings everyone’s attention to Yuuji’s corpse and puts you all on the defensive. It was a signal, specifically for you. He wants you to come to him, within his own playing field and without the prying eyes of your superiors or the chance for any outside interference from your teacher.

Speaking of Gojo, he’s been trying to pull you away from Yuuji’s corpse and usher you out of the room for your own protection.

“He wants to talk to me,” you state the obvious to him.

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he says with finality. It’s almost adorable how he’s trying to play the role of the stern authority figure when he’s normally such an eccentric man 99% of the time. “C’mon, you need to leave.”

“Gojo-sensei,” you reach up to your shoulder that he’s tightly gripping and gently pry his hand off. “I mean no disrespect to you, or anyone at this school for that matter. But when it comes to matters regarding Ryomen Sukuna, you and the higher ups don’t know a damn thing about that monster.”

Your hand hastily reaches out and your fingertips merely graze against Yuuji’s cold and rigid skin. Just that slight contact is enough to have your surroundings shift from a stagnant and grey autopsy room to a dark and brooding domain. You blink away the dizziness from your sudden shift of reality and the first thing you notice is the pile of ox skulls. You also notice the endless rows of ribs high up in the air that further add towards the domain’s ominousness.

“I’m here!” you cup your hands around your mouth as you yell out. “The hell do you want from me you two-faced bastard?!”

“Quit screaming,” his annoyed yet strangely soft voice startles you. You abruptly turn around to meet him face to face.

“Where’s Yuuji?” you ask with command behind your infliction.

“There’s no one else but us,” he says in a poor attempt to make you drop your defensive body posture. When he notices that you aren’t relaxing, he points behind you with an annoyed glare. You turn to see nothing but the collection of dirtied animal skulls, but at the last second you see an unconscious Yuuji planted face down into the ankle deep water (blood?) at the bottom of the mountainous pile. Upon seeing the familiar tuft of pink hair, you sprint towards his unmoving body. You flip him upwards once he’s in reach, fearing he was drowning or at the very least injured in some way.

As you try to gently coax or check for any sign of life within your friend, you ignore or even fail to notice the way Sukuna observes you from behind. The boy is unconscious only due to Sukuna easily decapitating him earlier as they fought over the conditions of the binding vow he was enforcing in exchange for healing his vessel’s body and bringing him back to life. Just as he was about to uphold his end of the vow, he felt as you entered the room his vessel’s lifeless body was most definitely being stored to be later cremated.

His reaching out to you was an impulsive action on his part. He now knows that the one who stands before him is truly not you. Your energy and your descendants are near indistinguishable, so his sudden call of you was a mere force of habit and his prevailing desire to chase after you. It’s not his brightest moment, but you tend to make him act beyond what is usually his typical behavior.

As he watches your descendant talk to a half awake and delirious Yuuji, he can’t help but to examine them with a bit of awe. The one before him is your descendant of a thousand years, perhaps even more. They are your flesh and blood, and yet they retain not only your image, but even some of your memories as well. He doesn’t know what to think of this revelation, truly he doesn’t.

The only thing that’s rubbing him the wrong way is the fact that they are not a product between you and him. It’s not that he has or had any sort of unfulfilled paternal desire locked deep within him. Even if he did contemplate producing a few offspring before his temporary demise, he only wanted children for the same reason he wanted a harem, as a source of amusement that he can freely manipulate however he sees fit. Perhaps he did consider impregnating a few dozen of his concubines to see if any could birth him an heir worthy of his legacy, but the entire process was too much of a hassle that he wasn’t willing to deal with at the time. He had no pure intentions when it comes to spreading his seed into the world.

So why is he angry that you went ahead and did so without him?

“Your ancestor’s spouse,” he idly mentions in an attempt to garner their careful attention. From the way they stiffen up and look at him with that familiar glare of yours, he has it. “What were they like?”

“As if I’d tell you,” they say.

“I see you inherited their stubbornness,” he huffs with annoyance, but deep down in the deepest and most hidden parts of his mind, he feels somewhat glad that your stubbornness continues to live on in the world. “Tell me, and I’ll let you return with Yuuji-”

“Their spouse was just as stubborn as they were,” they cut him off with an immediate answer. “No matter how many times they tried to ignore or downplay their advances, they continued to chase after my predecessor until it was as obvious as the sun that they truly wanted to be together with them and make them happy.”

As he expected, their recollection of your life after him is too disgustingly domestic and romanticized for his liking. What does come at a surprise is that they completely went against their earlier proclamation of remaining silent and divulged him on the information he initially asked of you rather readily. Something must have switched in their mind. Are they trying to get back at him on your behalf by proudly stating that you lived a happy life without him?

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” they say with a smug voice. “They hated you beyond comprehension, and even if they are long gone from this world, I assure you that their hatred remains just as intense as it was when they lived.”

“Don’t be mistaken, you pathetic human,” he growls, much more angrily than normal. “I could care less who they fornicated with and how many children they produced.”

“For the self proclaimed king of curses, you sure are a terrible liar,” they say, almost pitifully. “You regret the way you treated them, don’t you? Deny it all you want, I know I’m right.”

Your last comment is the final straw. With the flick of his wrist he casts you and Yuuji out of his inner domain and back into the living world. He heals Yuuji to maintain his side of the binding vow before settling back atop his rigid throne of horned skulls. He watches through Yuuji’s eyes how the two of you squeeze each other into a firm embrace after he reawakens. When Gojo makes a comment about how Yuuji is stark naked on the metal table, he feels the immense urge to grab one of the skulls and crush it into a fine dust in his bare fist as the two of you devolve into a fit of awkward but good natured laughter at the realization.

He can’t remember a time when you ever laughed or smiled like your descendant is doing now.

Does he regret never once seeing or hearing you in such a way? Maybe.

But you’re gone, so there is no point lingering on it too much.

There’s no point in having regrets now.

Bonus

Sukuna knew it was only a matter of time before you and Yuuji solidified your relationship as a romantic one. Back in his prime, he behaved no differently than Yuuji did after he brought him back to life, straightforward and without a second thought. Ever since he stole you away from your family and home, every chance you took at defying him and damning his name into the fiery pits of hell invoked something within him. Something no other man or woman can or ever will be able to. And yet, each time he reached out to indulge himself further of you, you retreated into yourself and tried to cast him out of every corner of your mind while he tried to engrave your everything into his very being. Your behavior to his advances differ greatly from your descendant, who accepts Yuuji’s advances with an honest and willing smile.

He watches the relationship through the unsuspecting eyes of his vessel. Sometimes, he gags at how sickeningly affectionate Yuuji can be. Yet despite his behavior, your descendant drinks it all up and returns the hugs and the kisses tenfold. Nobara and Megumi often roll their eyes on the sidelines and comment on how they were practically made for each other. Sukuna can't help but silently roll his eyes as well as agree with their annoyed comments, even if it makes him incredibly irritated.

Will he ever admit to the latter? Never.

He does not regret the way things turned out between you and him. He cannot regret for the sake of his sanity. Instead, he often ponders about the possibilities. Had he not taken you from your home, could there have been a chance you and him could have been friends despite his reputation at the time? If he courted you properly instead of forcing you into his collection of common whores, could you look at him the same way your descendant looks at Yuuji, with so much love and tenderness that it makes his stomach twist into knots and the back of his throat burn? Despite being a curse who sustains himself on his pure carnal desires, could he have been selfless and put forth the efforts to make you happy?

During nights when they share a bed together, he sneaks control over the body and traces what was once your face with his black painted claws. Could you ever look so peaceful as your descendant does now if you laid beside him? Would you remain in his bed until the sun rises instead of fleeing? Would your body feel just as warm, fit just as perfectly in his embrace as your descendant does?

Sukuna does not regret the path he took. He cannot, for the sake of his sanity. He does wonder about the possibilities.

He wonders, could this descendant of yours have been his as well?

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katehuntington · 4 years

Text

Title: Changes - part ten Word count: ±3300 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work together. Summary part ten: Zoë wakes up in the dark, under ground and finds the victims she was looking for, but will they be able to get out of the grim situation. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: I super excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish and @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Slowly, Zoë regains consciousness and opens her eyes. Not that it makes much of a difference, she still can’t see a damn thing. A disturbing smell fills her nostrils, a mixture of rotten remains and sewer waste causing her to gag. She wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what is actually causing the stench. She rubs her face and groans, then pulls her hand back. Her fingers feel sticky, she recognizes the substance just by feeling it. The huntress blinks a couple of times in an attempt to drive the splitting headache away, licking her lips and tasting the metallic taste of blood on them. Where the hell is she and what the fuck happened? Tentatively, she explores her surroundings by touch, feeling three walls and eventually prison bars; she’s trapped. Then she hears soft wailing in the distance. “Anyone there?” she calls out. “Y-yes.” Zoë curses internally; shit. Her question is answered by a child. “Are you okay?” Zoë asks, friendly. “No,” she sniffles. “What’s your name, sweety?” “I’m Lizzy--” “-who are you?” A female voice, much older than the young girl she was just talking to, bounces off the concrete walls. “I’m Zoë,” the huntress answers, leaving her false names out this time. “Are you Michelle?” “Yeah.”

Zoë closes her eyes and sighs. It’s Terry Cliffer’s wife, and she’s assuming Lizzy is short for Lisbeth, their daughter. Wild guess her little brother, who she remembers to be three years old from the records, is stuck here as well. The fear and hopelessness is evident in their voices. Who knows how long they have been down here. Damnit, this is even worse than she expected. They are trapped God knows where and if she herself doesn’t even know where she is, the police surely aren't gonna find them either. For a moment, she regrets sending Sam and Dean away. She hates to admit it, but she could use their help right now.

“Are we the only ones in here?” Zoë asks the family. “No.” The huntress peers into the dark, trying to distinguish where the male voice came from. “As far as we know, there are seven of us down here, including the children. But some haven’t responded in a while.” Zoë grinds her teeth, swallowing thickly. Some haven’t responded? She knows what that means. Fuck, she’s too late, isn’t she? “Let me guess; you’re Neil O’Brien?” She folds her fingers around the iron bars and opens her eyes wide, hoping to be able to see some shapes in the pitch dark place. “And the others, Nadia Milton and Cole Richards?” “How do you know that?” Zoë chuckles, finding what she’s about to say rather ironic. “I was looking for you.” “No offence, but good job,” the guy comments. “People are looking for us?!” Zoë hasn’t heard the female voice before, but she knows it’s Nadia. “No, just me,” Zoë corrects, honestly. “Not much hope for us then,” Neil concludes, depressed. “I’ll get us out of here.”

Zoë gets up determined. Her eyes are getting used to the dark, but she still can’t make out faces in the other cells. She takes a bobby pin from her hair, folds it into a lock pick, then begins to work on her escape. “Did you see it?” It’s Neil who asks. The fact that he uses the word ‘it’ indicates that he already realizes that their kidnapper is not human. Zoë decides to tell them the truth. “I fought the bastard,” she corrects, continuing to work concentrated. “You know what it is then?” “Yeah, I know what it is.”

The final pin lines up inside the lock and it springs free. Zoë kicks the iron door open and stumbles out, the slight dizziness catching her by surprise. Thin, fragile beams of moonlight fall through small holes in the ceiling; it looks like the lid of a manhole. Now that her eyes are adjusted to her dark surroundings, she can make out shadows. She’s standing in a small space, cages on either side. She searches the walls, but she can’t see anything that might indicate a staircase or another way out. While she examines the place she woke up in, she answers his question.

“It’s a shapeshifter. A creature that is able to mimic and change into other people, looking exactly like them,” she explains. Nadia whimpers. “This is insane.” “You saw it yourself,” Neil snaps. “Hey, fighting won’t help.” Zoë breaks up the argument before it can even kick off, as she kneels down by the cell across from hers. With the makeshift lockpick, the huntress tries to open the cage which holds the Cliffer family. Lizzy, a girl with messy curls, clamps her tiny hands around the bars while she watches Zoë work. Tears glisten in her eyes, the faint light from above barely catching them. “Are you going to save us?” she whispers. “I’m gonna try my very best, honey,” Zoë returns, smiling softly.

She continues with the task at hand, unlocks the door and moves on to the next cell. While adjusting the bobby pin slightly before testing the spring-loaded pens, it dawns on her what Neil said earlier. “You mentioned there are seven people down here. Who’s the seventh?” “We don’t know. A big guy. He arrived just before you did,” he says.

Flakes of memory fall through the creaks in the roof that is her mind, finally forming a picture of what exactly happened in the hours prior to waking up. She remembers Sam, right before he struck her down. Not the real Sam, of course, but if the shifter took his disguise, then where is the younger Winchester brother? The lock clicks, the barred door opening and freeing the remaining victims from their cages. She turns to Neil. “Where is he?” Zoë asks, sternly. The young guy covered in filth, nods to the side. “In the cell next to yours.”

Without replying, she quickly moves to the cage that accommodates the hunter. Frantically she works the lock. When it busts, Zoë hastens inside and finds Sam on his back, unconscious. She checks his vitals, relieved to feel a steady pulse drum against her index and middle finger. His chest rises under her palm; he’s breathing. When she wipes his hair out of his face, she feels broken skin above his temple; seems like she wasn’t the only one who received a blow in the head. “Sam, can you hear me? Wake up, Sasquatch,” she tries, frustrated. Careful not to shake him or worsen his injuries otherwise, she sits with him, hoping her voice will get through. It takes a while, but eventually he starts to show signs of coming to. “Zoë?” he mumbles, voice raspy. She creates distance by sitting back on her heels. “Yeah, it’s me.” “Did you just call me ‘Sasquatch’?” “Well, you are ridiculously tall,” she scoffs. “Glad I didn’t have to drag your ass out of this place. Could’ve broken a nail.”

The hunter pushes himself up, chuckling at her wit. “Damn, I’m glad to see you.” “Well, don’t be. I’m just as trapped as you are,” she sighs. “You two know each other?” Neil asks from his cell. “Yeah, we’re sort of… colleagues, I guess,” Sam declares, still drowsy. They get on their feet, but the younger Winchester brother has trouble keeping his balance and leans against the steel bars, the huntress stepping in to support him. “Easy. You alright?” Zoë checks. “Yeah, just a headache,” he grunts, trying to chase the black spots from his vision.

“When did that slithering bastard capture you?” she wonders, trying to make sense of the timeline. “I was at Beetle's Bar to back you up, but I guess I got made. It overpowered me right after I parked the car a few blocks away. That's all I remember,” Sam explains. For a second she considers yelling at him for meddling with her case again, but what’s the use? It’s not Sam’s fault he got snatched, the shifter figured it out even before either of them showed up at the bar. She huffs. “Damn, that lizard is sneaky. Where’s Dean?” “At our motel,” Sam admits. “Okay, good. He’s still in town. You’re missing, so he will come and look for you in - what - a few hours, right?” she assumes, hopeful.

Sam steps out into the moonlight. Zoë can see the blood has found a way down the side of his face and turned the collar of his shirt red. She also notices the guilty expression on his face. “Not likely,” he admits. Zoë frowns at the confusing answer, already annoyed. “Why not?” “I was gonna stay out because he had a girl over for the night,” Sam admits. Stunned she stares at him. A girl? She feels the anger building in her chest and takes a moment to collect herself, instead of unleashing her wrath. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” she hisses, keeping her voice down for the sake of the children. “You’re telling me that Dean is fucking some chick while we’re stuck in this dungeon?” Sam looks up at the lid and frowns. “Actually, this doesn’t seem to be a dungeon. I think we’re in the septic tank,” Sam corrects. Zoë throws him a death glare, stepping closer intimidatingly. Now might not be the best time for the brains of the Winchester operation to better her terminology. “Let me rephrase that. You’re telling me that Dean is fucking some chick while we’re stuck in this shithole!?" “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Sam admits, smiling awkwardly. “Wonderful.”

She walks back and forth between Sam and the bars, trying to come up with a way to get out, until the soggy and squishy sounds under her feet cause her to halt. Disgusted, Zoë looks down at her boots, realizing all this time she has been standing, sitting and laying in-- “- shit.” She retches and coughs; it does explain the smell. “This is disgusting,” she mutters, needing to get out of the cage when she starts to feel sick. “It gets worse,” Sam adds. “When the shifter attacked me, it looked like you. Good chance that thing used the same disguise to ambush Dean.” Zoë turns her head slowly and stares at Sam, her jaw agape and her eyes wide in shock. “Well, there goes my reputation of a good civilian,” she deadpans.

As their problems pile up, the Cliffer family emerges from their cage, afraid like hunted deer. Lizzy, probably not even six years old, steps into the dim light. The poor little girl looks like she’s about to burst into tears, her dress dirty, her big eyes shimmering. Zoë helps out Michelle, who’s weakened by the days of malnutrition. She has a younger boy by her hand, who is crying silently. Concerned, Zoë exchanges a look with Sam. There's empathy in her eyes, her need to care for the victims evident in them; something Sam hasn’t seen before. He understands, though; they need to get these people out fast, they’ve been through way too much. Sam searches his pockets for his phone. “You won’t find it, he took mine as well as everything else I was carrying,” she discourages.

“Zo, the shifter took my form first, then yours, so it copied our memories. It knows Dean and I were staying at the Deep Purple Inn, room number 301, everything,” he recalls. “If that thing went after my brother, disguised as you...” Sam breathes in slowly and exhales; there’s no need to finish the sentence. Good chances are that Dean is in as much trouble as they are.

While crossing her arms in front of her chest, she brainstorms. They need to get in touch with Dean, or with anyone else in the outside world, but how? There is nothing here that can be used to draw attention and increase their chances of being found. Screams will only carry so far in these backlands. The situation is grim. If the shifter manages to trap or kill Dean, it's a possibility no one will access this property in months, maybe even years. A slow death by starvation might be the only fate that lays ahead. She swallows apprehensively; this is not how she planned to go out.

She looks back at the younger Winchester brother, noticing how something inside one of the cells has caught his attention. “What is it?” He nods at the cage and she peers through the bars, her eyes landing on another victim, collapsed against the wall with his eyes closed. Without hesitation Zoë opens the door, rushes inside and kneels down next to the seemingly lifeless body. The doctor she’s supposed to be surfaces, as she checks for vital signs.

“Pulse is low and he's cold to the touch; he's hypothermic.” She turns to Sam. “Give me your jacket.” He quickly takes it off and hands it over, then watches worriedly how she covers his torso with the only warmth they can offer. The victim moans weakly, but doesn’t exactly come to. Sam looks back at the others. “Who’s this guy?” “It’s Cole, he got here first,” Nadia answers. “When was that?” he asks. “I guess about ten days ago, I got here second, two days later,” she tells him, leaning against the doorframe. “Did it feed you or anything?” Sam wonders. “Not exactly, but the place floods when it rains. It’s all we have,” she explains.

Sam shakes his head slowly, not believing what he’s hearing, and looks over at his colleague who is still by Cole’s side. This situation is heading from bad to worse. Cole needs help and he needs it fast, he doesn’t have much time. “Is this Dean you talked about going to save us?” Michelle wonders. Zoë looks over her shoulder at the mother of two, then up to Sam. The huntress can tell he’s conflicted; he wants to stay positive, but he wouldn’t be telling the truth if he promised that his brother will be here soon. So Zoë decides to respond for him. “I’m not gonna lie to you, I don’t think so,” Zoë admits. “So what, we’re stuck here? What if that shapeshifter thing comes back?” Neil exclaims. “We’re all together in this,” Sam states, remaining calm. “We will figure something out.” “Can’t we just knock him down when he shows up? Two men like us can handle him, right?” the clueless man proposes.

Zoë scoffs as she gets to her feet. Not amused and feeling excluded, she’s ready to prove to him that women can fight just fine. Sam moves his arm in front of her and answers before she snaps. “No, you’d need a silver bullet to kill him. He doesn’t show pain for anything else,” he explains. “Plus, he is much stronger than us humans. It would be impossible to overpower him.” “We can’t just wait and see what happens! I don’t wanna die!” Neil freaks out. “Could you keep it down? You’re scaring my children.” Michelle pulls Lizzy close, the little girl clinging to her mother’s leg. “No, I can’t keep it down! I’ve been down here for week and I’m starving, and I—” “Hey!” Zoë grabs his collar, stopping his rant. “Shut up!” “Don’t tell me to--” he bites back, but she shushes him and tilts her head to hear better.

Now that it’s quiet in the tank, they can all hear a low rumble of a running engine. It’s origin is still distant, but seems to be steadily approaching. “I know that sound,” Sam comments. Zoë recognizes it, too. She could pick it out of a line up of a thousand motorcycles. “It’s my Dave.” The hunters exchange a look, considering the options in silent communication. The fact that the Harley Davidson just entered the property, doesn’t necessarily mean they are out of the woods. For all they know, the shapeshifter could have shed again, assumingly having copied Dean’s body. “Everyone back in their cell!” Sam orders. “That son of a bitch is riding my bike,” Zoë mutters, receiving a glare from the younger Winchester, since it definitely isn’t the most important matter right now. All close the doors and hide in their cage. The engine above ground is killed, total silence all that is left. Quietly, they listen to the footsteps above them, Sam and Zoë concerned and ready for combat, the rest full of fear. “Sammy?!” It’s Dean. It sounds like Dean, at least. “Sam! Zoë!?” his voice echoes over the terrain. Zoë glances at the young hunter, tensing up. Then she nods. “Dean! We’re down here!” Sam yells at the top of his lungs. Moonlight coming through the small holes above them is blocked from entering the tank. The cover shifts with a screeching sound and Dean’s silhouet appears through the round hole in the ceiling. “I noticed the ‘D’ projected on the beautiful clear sky this evening, thought you might need some help,” he jokes. “You’re not Batman, Dean. Get us out,” Sam responds. “How many of you are down there?” he asks. “Eight.” “Alright, let me get the rope and a flashlight from the trunk. I saw the car parked up front, be right back.” The figure that has such a resemblance to Dean disappears again, leaving a heavy silence. “Follow my lead,” Zoë whispers to Sam. It doesn’t take long for their rescuer - or kidnapper - to return, because a minute later a rope falls down through the sewer drain. He aims a flashlight down the tank and focuses on Zoë’s face for a moment. “Good to see you, too. Awkward, but good,” he admits, that trademark smirk on his lips. “Do I wanna know?” Zoë comments. “Get your ass down and free us already.” He shines the light on the others down the tank. “Don’t worry, people. You’ll be out in no time,” he assures, then lowers himself down into the septic tank.

His feet haven’t even reached the ground yet, before he feels Zoë’s tight headlock around his neck. She pulls him off the rope and throws him on his back, overpowering him in a blink of an eye and landing on top. Sam quickly picks up the torch and shines the bright light in his brother’s eyes. They don’t flash white; Zoë still stares down the pair of emerald green irises, holding his wrists over his head with one hand, pinning him down. It's not enough proof for her yet, because she jerks Dean's pocket knife from his belt and carves the unexposed skin on his forearm until blood becomes visible. He flinches and lets out a gasp. "Ow! You bitch!” he curses, eying her furiously as he pulls his arms free. In response she punches his chest, warningly, an ‘umph!’ escaping Dean’s throat. “I told you not to call me that. I had to be sure,” Zoë counters, not even bothering to apologize.

Stunned, he eyes her while catching his breath, which proves to be difficult, since the huntress has a powerful grip on him with her thighs. “You get a real kick out of torturing me, don't you?” “Don't be such a baby. You're definitely Dean, though,” she huffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest while judging him. “Oh, shut up,” Dean returns, already done with her smart talk, before he redirects his gaze to his brother. “You okay, Sammy?” Sam smiles, deciding not to correct his brother on the nickname for once. “I’m okay. Good to see you made it in one piece.” “Likewise. Now you--” Dean returns his glare to Zoë, who’s still sitting on his stomach, and shoos her. “- get off me. I already had you all over me tonight.” Zoë furrows her brow puzzled, wondering what he means by that, but stands up and allows him to do the same. “You have a phone?” Sam asks. “Yeah, I already called 911,” he informs and turns to the others. “Now, let's get you people out.”

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

Read part eleven here

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keeroo92 · 4 years

Text

Be My Nightmare Ch15

Run

The usual blood/gore warnings apply, plus mentions of alcoholism and *gasp* sex.

Word Count - 5,950

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~~~~Reader~~~~

Ugh… why is it so hot in here?

You blinked your eyes and groaned, licking your dry lips as a pounding headache announced its presence. The familiar weight of blankets pressed upon your body, but something wasn’t right. The texture was off, like a layer was missing…

What happened to my shirt?

For that matter, why did your mouth taste like salt?

Oh shit.

The memories of the night prior flooded your mind, hazy and confused but clear enough to explain the flavor on your lips. Dinner, whiskey and drinking games, and…

Oh SHIT.

Bedding rustled as you rolled over with a grimace, expecting to find a certain murderous artist by your side. Instead, you found only empty space; the other side of the bed didn’t appear to have been disturbed all night. Was that a good sign, or a bad one?

It didn’t matter. First order of business was getting coffee and some ibuprofen. Everything else would have to wait.

You took your time clambering out of bed, muttering expletives with each motion. The neutral walls and unobtrusive decor did little to ease the urge to vomit, but it was the stairs that made you pause, remembering how you struggled with them last night.

Just take it slow. One step at a time.

By the time you reached the last step, your hands were screaming to release the railing. Even so, you waited a moment to regain your balance before acquiescing.

Your tired eyes scanned the familiar shapes of your apartment, searching for a head of tousled ebony locks. He couldn’t have left, could he? Where would he go? Was he out killing someone right this very moment?

You couldn’t discount the possibility as you found no trace of the man.

Goddamnit, V! After everything I’ve done to cover your ass…

How could he be so stupid?! If anyone saw him and recognized him, he’d end up right back in police custody! It didn’t make any sense to take the risk, what the hell was he thinking?

You pulled out your phone and opened your email, tapping at the painfully bright screen until you found what you were looking for. It was a long shot, but you were desperate. It might already be too late, you might just make everything worse, but at this point you were screwed anyway.

You pursed your lips and waited, eyes locked on the screen as if you could make him answer through sheer force of will. Every second he failed to respond heightened your anxiety, innumerable disastrous scenarios playing like a sick film in your imagination. Not since junior high had you been so anxious to hear from someone. Damn him!

Releasing a huff of annoyance, you forced yourself to set the phone down and make coffee. The pounding of your headache wasn’t going to fade unless you took action, and you needed to be able to focus and think clearly. Getting emotional helped nobody.

As you readied the coffee machine, ears perked in case your phone alerted you to a response, you noticed something odd. The dishes from last night’s dinner were clean, sitting on the drying rack as if you’d scrubbed them in your sleep.

The madman had cleaned up.

But something was missing.

He stole my sharpest knife. Fuck.

Your head swam and sweat dotted your palms. He might have taken it just as a precaution, but more likely he was out making another art piece. What message was he crafting? No doubt you’d find out sooner or later; the police would probably be in touch once the scene was discovered. At least he did his work in private areas, that lessened the chance he’d be caught in the act.

But still.

You sighed, hoping against hope that he was safe as you poured a cup of dark roast and took a sip. Bitter and strong, just how you liked it. A dose of ibuprofen accompanied the next gulp.

I’m not an idiot teenager. Sitting here and waiting won’t make a difference.

Even so, a moment later you checked your phone. Still no response. Damn him!

Part of you wanted to scream and throw the slim device against the wall. Another part wished for nothing more than a good cry. A whirlwind of emotions, swirling like a tempest at sea, leaving you to battle the waves or drown beneath them.

What if he has another episode? There’s no one there to help him and make sure he’s okay.

Going catatonic at the wrong time may lead to his death. Crossing the street, driving a car, even stalking his prey could leave him exposed and at risk. Heaven forbid it happened in the middle of his creative process; his victim would have the perfect chance to turn the tables and kill him.

But what could you do to prevent it? How could you keep him safe?

Not to mention the fact that maybe he wouldn’t welcome your aid. It was possible he left with no intention of returning, abandoning you like all the rest. All you’d have to remind you of his presence would be the sketches from his sessions and the absence of your knife. It’d be like he never existed at all, the puzzle of his mind left unsolved.

A tight ball of grief twisted your heart, pins pricking at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to swallow the lump in your throat. After all the people who’d turned their back on you, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the artist did the same. What did you have to offer him, anyway? You should’ve expected it, been ready for it. Why did it always hurt so damned much?

I should just turn myself in… what’s the point anymore? I can’t fix myself; I’m going to be broken forever. No one would miss me anyway.

The thought sent a dagger into your chest, the blade twisting and shredding the last remnants of hope you held. What a stupid thing, to hope. It only brought more pain. Better to accept things the way they were than waste time striving for something better.

Sniffling quietly, you stepped away from the kitchen to part the curtains and grimace at the bright street below, just in case you could spot him. The area you lived in wasn’t crowded; the peace and seclusion brought you comfort in the past. Today, it only hammered home how very alone you were.

Another glance at your phone. Still nothing.

He’s gone.

Your shoulders curled inward as a single, strangled sob broke free. Blinking back pointless tears, you swallowed and released a shaky breath, fighting to remain in control. Old habits died hard, and crying wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to indulge in for many years. Even as you were dying inside, you refused to let the agony show.

Stop it, Y/N. Think about something else, pull yourself together.

A dark sedan caught your teary eyes. Unfamiliar and parked a few spaces down from your own old beater of a car, it seemed out of place somehow. Like it didn’t belong; an outlier. You pursed your lips and looked closer, letting the puzzle of its presence distract you from your aching soul. Why did it stand out so much?

It’s too clean.

Indeed, the vehicle shone with its lack of filth. In a city with a grand total of two car washes, a clean car was a rare sight. Whoever drove it must have an interesting list of priorities.

Wait… it couldn’t be.

Your focus narrowed on the license plate. From that distance, it wasn’t easy to tell, but the spacing of the digits left a strange void. Right where the three letters that mark all undercover law enforcement vehicles could be found. XMT.

Exempt.

“You gotta be shitting me,” you murmured, stunned. Cops. Here, at your home.

I’m under police surveillance.

You stumbled back from the window, heart racing. Did they already have V in custody? Had he sold you out? What the hell made the cops think you merited surveillance? You’d been so careful to play along, something must have happened for them to suddenly be paying attention to you.

Not that they were wrong.

You couldn’t help but release a peal of manic laughter. This was your life now, watched by the authorities and worrying about the well-being of a man who left you behind. Pitiful.

I can’t do this, I just can’t.

V was right; you’d been hiding for decades. Concealing your flaws as best you could in the hope that you could one day heal them. Pretending to be all right when you were anything but. You’d grown so accustomed to the mask you didn’t even know what was behind it anymore.

Your body hit the counter, the sturdy structure supporting your spine as you slid to the floor. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around your knees and curled inwards, cocooning yourself as best you could.

With your life in the state it was in, what was the point of it all? Coming back from this disaster would be near impossible. Just thinking about it made your legs feel like lead. An uphill battle to be fought alone was all that awaited you in the weeks to come. Who in their right mind would come to your aid? No; you had no allies. Others couldn’t be trusted, anyway.

V had abandoned you. Kotomi betrayed you, and Malphas… Malphas simply couldn’t be bothered. He hadn’t reached out a single time since your suspension. He obviously didn’t care about you, and he was far too intelligent not to know what really happened on the day of the fire. No, he knew. He just thought Kotomi was more worthy of his protection than you were.

And those were just the people who’d walked away in the last month and a half.

A humorless laugh split your lips. Maybe your dad was right all along.

Once they get what they want, the people I care about will forget I ever existed. Caring only brings pain.

~~~~V~~~~

Elegant fingers clutched a paper bag in a tight grip, green eyes scanning the block for any sign of danger. He didn’t think there was any reason to fear, but one could never be too careful. The knife in his pocket comforted his nerves as he crossed the last intersection and peered into the parking lot or your apartment complex.

Odd. I don’t recall that car.

His errand hadn’t taken long, perhaps twenty minutes if he were being generous. All his friends begged him to stay put, but their warnings fell on deaf ears. You really didn’t stock your kitchen well, and after last night you’d need a solid breakfast.

Beanie pulled tight against his scalp, V longed to tear it off and scratch away the irritation it brought. He’d tucked his locks within it and borrowed a hoodie from your closet to hide his tattoos. So far, it had been enough to disguise him, but this newcomer made him pause.

Tinted windows. Shadowy outlines of two figures in the front. The vehicle was parked in the ideal spot to watch the front door of the building; it would be impossible to enter without being seen. While he couldn’t be sure who occupied the car, it simply wasn’t worth the risk.

The artist withdrew, traversing the sidewalk beside your building and thanking his lucky stars for the shrubbery that hid him from view. An urge to look over his shoulder swept through his mind, but he ignored it. If someone was watching, it would only make him seem more suspicious. Better to appear unconcerned, as if he belonged here.

If one cannot avoid being seen, one can still avoid standing out.

From what he recalled, your apartment was in the south east corner, two floors up. With only one entrance on ground level, he'd need to get creative to find a way back to you.

He smirked. Creativity wasn’t something he struggled with.

Within moments he found salvation; an iron wrought fire escape firmly anchored on the eastern wall. He climbed it quickly. Surely you were awake by now, and hopefully coherent enough to let him in. If not, he could settle in and wait.

Yet through the gauzy curtains covering your window, he spotted you. Curled up on the floor in the kitchen, head bowed. Likely due to the hangover you were sure to be suffering from. Perhaps he should’ve stopped you sooner last night. He tapped the glass with his free hand.

The look on your face as you lifted your head stopped his breath. Vacant eyes, tear tracks on your cheeks on either side of your red and runny nose. It was a look he knew intimately, one of grief and mourning. He’d seen it on his own features for many months after Nero’s passing.

Whatever happened to summon such an expression of sorrow would meet the end of his blade. Quickly.

He tapped the glass again, rewarded when your face shifted to recognition. Those delectable fingers he so adored tasting wiped away tears as you came to let him in.

“Where were you?” you asked the moment he was inside. “Is that my sweater?”

This is a waste of time. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.

The artist clenched his hands and growled. “Stay out of it.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his package on the nearby countertop. “Not you; Vergil was being rude.”

You sniffled, dewy eyed and with fidgeting hands . “Right. S- so, where did you go?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s wrong?”

The blade in his pocket called to him, urging him to wield it against your foes. He would not allow anything to interfere with his plans for you, not when you were making such excellent progress.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” you said dismissively. “What’s in the bag?”

It was obvious you were not fine, but pressing the issue might do more harm than good. Better to distract you and ask again later, when you were calm. “Here, let me show you.”

Your eyes went wide as he unwrapped the chunk of meat. Blood dripped from the tissue he’d used to wrap it and beautifully soaked the counter with his favorite shade of crimson. If only he had a camera handy…

“That’s not… human, is it?”

Griffon’s raucous laughter filled his mind, but V only smirked. “Bovine, actually.”

“Ohthankgod…”

At that, he did chuckle. While the human form made a splendid canvas, it didn’t appeal to him as a meal. He had his limits. “I thought I could make you breakfast.”

As if your strings had been cut, you fell into one of the chairs by the counter and stared at him incredulously. “Breakfast… you risked being seen… to make me breakfast.”

He scoffed and reached for a frying pan, flicking the stovetop on with his free hand. “Indeed, though I wouldn’t call it a risk. I wore a disguise.”

You pursed your lips as he seasoned the meat. “You mean my bright orange volleyball sweater? Yeah, you are the epitome of discretion.”

An undercurrent of irritation spoiled your teasing statement. Shadow growled her displeasure and V clenched his jaw. Here he was trying to do something thoughtful and kind, and you only got upset with him. Vergil would surely tease him about it later. Wonderful.

“Sorry. I just... “ you murmured. “I just didn’t know if you were coming back, and-”

“And you think so little of me that you imagined I’d abandoned you?” he snapped, setting aside the spatula and turning to face you. Breakfast could wait.

You refused to meet his eyes, a stony expression locked in place like a barrier against his annoyance. “Why not? Everyone else has.”

There, she gave you the perfect opening. Leave now and don’t look back.

Yeah, even I say it’s bail time. Gotta draw the line somewhere, pal.

His patience shattered. The artist slammed his palms on the counter with an animalistic snarl, barely noticing how you jumped. “ENOUGH! My decision is made and I will not hear any further protests! Aid me or be silent, all of you!” he roared.

For several seconds, the only sound in your spacious apartment was his panting breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart pounding in preparation to do battle, yet it seemed his friends would abide. For now.

He released a long sigh and tore the accursed beanie from his scalp, ruffling his hair to relieve the itchiness. Your sweater wasn’t far behind. A twitch of his slim wrist and the stove was off, waiting until the mood befitted a meal.

“I must apologize. My friends are quite insistent at times, but in this they cannot sway me,” he began, circling the counter to sit beside you. He peeked through his dark hair to meet your eyes, still wary but warming with each word he spoke. “Forgive my boldness, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffled and offered a subdued smile. “Leave a damned note next time, okay?”

He hummed his agreement and offered his palm. “Deal. Now, come help me with breakfast.”

~~~~Reader~~~~

You spent the next half hour watching V orchestrate a feast. He moved like a dancer through the kitchen, practiced hands flying as he flipped a massive omelet and expertly seared meat. A content smile graced his full lips as he cooked; the man was truly at his happiest when being creative.

The best help you could offer was staying out of his way.

Not to say he let you sit back and idly watch; not at all. He had you chop vegetables and set the table, taking the chance to touch your shoulder or waist when you were close enough. It was peaceful, like an island in the tempest raging around you. If only things could be like this every day.

But you were a realist, and eventually you couldn’t keep from shattering the illusion.

“So I take it you saw the cops outside? That’s why you took the fire escape, right?”

V frowned as he dished up your half of the omelet. “I wasn’t sure they were cops, but caution seemed prudent.”

You sighed and carried the very full plates to the table, silverware and napkins already prepared. The savory scent of steak brought a flood to your mouth as you took your seat. “Yeah, I think I’m under surveillance.”

The sting of it still hurt. Tony and Nico seemed like nice people, but one of them must have suspicions. It was only a matter of time before the house of cards came tumbling down. All it would take was a moment of inattention, V walking by a window at the wrong moment or getting spotted on his way back inside; it was foolish to imagine he wouldn’t go out again.

So. Options.

“I think our best play is for me to leave. Since they’re watching me, they should follow. Then, you can leave and find somewhere else to lay low.”

The artist smirked, taking a bite of fluffy eggs. “I could just dispose of the issue.”

You shook your head and cut off a chunk of meat, moaning quietly at the exquisite flavor. “No, this looks above board. They’d just send more cops and get more suspicious.”

Not to mention all the other reasons murder isn’t the right way to solve your problems...

Before he could reply, a sharp knock on the door stole your attention. Your eyes and V’s went wide in unison, though his hand hovered by his pocket far too quickly for your liking. He still hadn’t returned your knife…

“Squirt, it’s me! I know you’re home, saw your car.”

Ice filled your veins. He wouldn’t leave without getting whatever he came for, he never did. Damnit, of all the times he could've picked to randomly show up! Was he drunk? What the fuck did he want? You sighed.

“It’s my father. Take your plate and go upstairs. I’ll get him to leave as soon as I can.”

The artist’s eyes flashed. “The drinker?”

“Yes, just go! He can’t find out you’re here.”

His nostrils flared, jaw tight. His posture reminded you forcefully that he wasn’t just some guy you had over for breakfast; this was a serial killer with untold amounts of blood on his hands. A man mentally unstable enough to be sent to a psychiatric hospital, with frequent auditory and occasional visual hallucinations. “Unpredictable and dangerous” was putting it mildly.

Though, some problems can be solved with murder.

“Just say the word, you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

Instead of answering him, you stood and headed for the door. Following your instructions at last, V ascended the stairs with a frown. He’d just have to deal with it, it’s not like these were normal circumstances.

With your best false smile in place, you opened the door. “Hi dad. What are you doing here?”

Greasy brown hair covered a growing bald patch on his scalp. A beer gut bulged out from his flannel tee, a stench of Miller radiating from him like cheap drugstore cologne. A few days worth of stubble cast a shadow on his jaw.

At least he’s not covered in vomit.

“Heya, squirt! You gonna invite me in?”

Do I have a choice?

“Yeah, of course. Come in.”

You made it a point to not socialize with him unless he initiated. There was too much bad blood, too many tainted memories and half-hearted apologies. He was beyond forgiveness and you were done trying to build a bridge when he insisted on burning it down. The most you’d grant him was civility, if only to avoid outright conflict.

“Nice place. Kinda too perfect, though.”

Ten seconds in, and already he’d insulted you. Not a new record, but close. “I like it this way. Uh, what… what are you doing here?”

He shot you a lopsided grin, displaying his yellowed teeth. “Can’t a father visit his genius daughter? C’mon, let’s catch up. You got anything to drink?”

Not after last night, no.

But you let him see for himself. He wouldn’t take your word for it if you tried, anyway. Like many alcoholics, he always believed himself to be the victim of persecution. As if it excused his rotten behavior.

“Nothing?” he said at last, closing the final cupboard. “Damn, you’re lame…”

“S- sorry. Maybe we can go out instead?”

It set your teeth on edge to hear yourself stutter. In high school, it’d been the main reason you got picked on, along with your father’s history. It wasn’t easy to escape the blight of sharing blood with the man. Just one night, a mere handful of hours to keep your secrets hidden. You could tolerate him that long, surely.

“Nah, how about you just run to the store and get me something like a good girl?”

Don’t you call me that. Don’t you dare call me that.

You bit your tongue. Emotions were just a chemical reaction; you were in control. He just stimulated the neurons that brought this feeling on, it wasn’t like he had any actual power over you. Not anymore.

“Look, this, uh, this isn’t really a good time for me. Can we catch up later this week?” you replied. A mask of neutrality paralyzed your face, but inside you were screaming.

Get out! Get out of my home, this place is mine and I won’t let you ruin it! Haven’t you done enough damage?

You knew better than to let the words take shape as your father settled into your couch, propping his legs up and sighing happily. “Truth is, I got evicted. Got nowhere else to go, so figured I’d stay with you until I get back on my feet. Hell, you could even help me get going like you used to.”

Never had V’s method of solving problems appealed to you more. It didn’t matter how much you wanted him to leave - you would never agree to be his accomplice again. “What about a hotel? My couch isn’t that comfortable.”

He chuckled, gesturing dismissively as if your words held no weight. “S’fine, I’ll take the bed. Oh, is that steak? Awesome!”

1000… 993… 986…

The sound of his chewing and happy moans barely preceded V’s footsteps.

No, no, nonono! What are you doing?! You idiot!

“Good evening,” the artist began, approaching your father’s meat-stuffed face with his own plate in hand. Though his expression was still, sparks of rage flickered in his green depths and his hand twitched toward his pocket. As if the situation wasn’t bad enough already…

“Uh, hi? Who are you?”

One metaphorically bloodstained hand extended over the table to shake the equally morally questionable hand of your kin. “You can call me V.”

“Heh. V. Weird name. You sleeping with my daughter?”

Someone please just kill me. I’m so fucking done.

It wasn’t embarrassment that made you purse your lips as V sat down. It was the knowledge of what would inevitably come out of your father’s lips and the potentially atomic reaction it would elicit from V.

“More or less,” replied the artist, taking a bite of his own steak.

Your father glanced at you and smirked, as if to say ‘watch this’. A sinkhole opened in your stomach as he licked his lips. This was it, train wreck in five, four, three...

“You sure you want her? She’s kinda… well... “ his voice dropped. “She’s kinda nuts.”

A flash of silver, copper staining the air as fresh blood soaked your table. Maniacal laughter and a twisted sense of relief, that at least you’d never have to hear his voice again, endure his insults or manipulations…

That was what you expected.

You did not expect V to laugh and wave you over, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively the moment you were close enough. You did not expect him to smile at you fondly and never would you have imagined his response.

“I know. That’s why I love her.”

Intricately tattooed fingers brought your hand to the artist’s lips for a kiss. You barely made it to the chair beside him before your legs refused to support you. Love… Is that what he called it? It had to be an act, some scheme to throw off your father.

He can’t be serious.

“You got some fucking shitty taste in women, then, my friend. The last guy she was with wound up dead, the one before that still can’t walk properly.”

Beneath the table, V’s hand clenched yours in a vice-like grip. His wrist kept twitching, closer to his pocket where your knife still resided. It took all your strength to pull him back.

“Dad, knock it off. Let’s get you a hotel room, we can talk tomorrow.”

He took another bite and grinned. “Whasamatter? Don’t want me talking to your newest boy-toy?”

V’s grip tightened. You winced but refused to pull away, lest he lose control. How long had it been since he killed? Most killers had a pattern, a time frame. If he were overdue, restraining it would be even more difficult.

Defuse, deflect, de-escalate.

An obviously fake laugh found its way past your lips. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll always be a daddy’s girl.”

The source for half of your genetic material burped and polished off the last bite of steak, chewing open-jawed as if trying to catch flies. “Good girl,” he said.

That time, it was your hand that twitched closer to the blade.

By all rights, you knew he was toying with you. Playing with your fucked-up head and sending it spinning, like a child’s top or a carousel. It was his standard opening move; destroy any existing emotional framework and get you to revert to being his “good girl”. Burn you to ash so he could rebuild you however he pleased. Remind you of how powerless you were and how easily he could ruin everything you built.

Angry tears prickled at your eyes, a baseball blooming into existence where your vocal cords were supposed to be. If you clenched your teeth any harder, you’d crack a molar. Every ounce of self-control and restraint went into withholding a scream.

~~~~V~~~~

Your father was perhaps the most magnificent canvas he’d ever seen. The sheer volume of ways he wanted to carve the man into pieces outnumbered the entirety of his portfolio. A slice here, a stab there, how delicious would it be to make the man eat his own eyeballs? His steaming entrails spilling onto the floor, his still-beating heart visible through the hole artistically positioned across his ribcage; the ideas refused to slow.

But you’d told him long ago not to harm the bastard.

Not yet...

“Let’s get the dishes started and give your father a moment to settle in, hmm?” V commented.

“Works for me. Where’s the remote, squirt?”

“Coffee table,” you ground out.

The instant the abominable man turned away, he pulled you to your feet and grabbed a dish. How would your father’s spleen look on a plate? Or perhaps his cock? The artist hummed; that was an idea worth revisiting.

The kitchen was barely far enough to be considered out of earshot, but it would have to suffice. He licked his lips and asked the first question that came to mind. “Why do you let him speak to you like that?”

A muscle in your cheek clenched as you released his palm, eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Lithe fingers handed you a plate. “I strongly disagree.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Water spewed from the faucet and you commenced scrubbing, using more force than he imagined was required. He handed you the next plate. A knife was next, but he hesitated. It fit so well in his fingers, like it was calling his name…

Do it. Stab her, kill them both and leave. Enough foolishness.

He dropped the knife.

His words still echoed in his mind. “That’s why I love her.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie, but was it the truth? Why else did the monstrosity in the living room still breathe? Why else would he hesitate to slice the fool’s throat open and dance in the gushing fluid?

Yeesh, look what she’s turned you into, Van Gogh. This is just pathetic.

“Stop it,” he muttered, handing you the dropped knife as quickly as possible. The warmth and comfort it brought moments ago was but a memory. Only cold steel remained, foreign and obscene to his grip.

“Stop what?”

Kill her. She is nothing, a plaything you’ve outgrown. You’re free now, she is unnecessary.

He shook his head. Wide jade eyes searched for something safe to view. A cutting board? Perfect for slicing your thighs open. Kitchen shears? Excellent choice for severing tendons. A wine glass - the perfect container to hold your detached fingers.

Just do it, you’ll feel better. Trust us, have we ever led you wrong?

“V? What’s wrong?”

His skull was splitting, too many voices all at once and why wouldn’t they just shut up? Yours was the one life he wished to preserve, why did his friends want to end it? Far away, he heard your voice calling his name, but it was like you were a ghost calling from beyond the veil.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her…

No!

Dainty hands wrapped around his torso, a warm voice telling him to breathe. He latched on with all he had, desperate to let those arms comfort him and bring him back to himself.

Kill her.

Agony.

Wave after wave of unbearable pain, rolling over him with no end in sight. Like a boulder on a beach, eventually he would wear away into nothingness. He was powerless against the inferno boiling his blood and the spikes digging into his gut.

Kill her.

He lacked the strength to stand and fell to his knees, groaning as he struggled to resist the shining blade glittering in the dishwasher. It would be so easy to end his suffering, all he had to do was take the handle and plunge it into your body. He could do it over and over until nothing remained but holes for him to fuck. To feel you wrapped around him was a persistent fantasy, how divine would it be to create caverns only he would ever enjoy?

“NO!”

The artist lurched to his feet and ran, sprinting to the exit as fast as his long stride would carry him. It didn’t matter that he had no sweater and no beanie, it didn’t matter that the police were right outside, he didn’t care that he would never again taste freedom.

All that mattered was putting distance between himself and you.

~~~~Reader~~~~

You stood in stunned silence as the door swung shut behind V’s departing figure. The sink still sprayed water, ricocheting off a forgotten plate to douse the counter and your stomach but it didn’t matter.

The wanted murderer you’d been giving shelter was gone. Running outside in full view of the police watching you.

Your life was over.

“Fuck…”

Somehow, throughout this whole mess you’d believed you could put your life back together. There was always a path back, always a way to move forward. It wouldn’t be easy, nor quick, but it was still possible.

V had just drenched that chance with gasoline and tossed a lit match on it.

It happened so fast; your hands still hovered where you’d been trying to hold him. Leftover heat from his body warmed the air and his scent lingered in your nostrils like a memory.

“Where’d that loser go? You scare him off?”

Your shell-shocked gaze turned to your father. Everything was fine before he showed up. Did he even know what he’d done? Did he care? “He’s… he’s gone.”

“Good riddance, I say. Now it’s just me and you, like old times.”

Old times…

There was still hope. Maybe the cops were gone, maybe V managed to slip past them. You could still salvage this. You had to at least try.

But… how?

You closed your eyes, mind racing. There were two obstacles you had to deal with; the cops, and your father. Operating on the assumption that all was not lost meant that the cops could be ignored for now. If they were still a factor, it was a moot point.

That left your father.

The man who took less than ten seconds to insult you when he arrived.

The man who coerced you into counting cards as a child.

The man who’d run over a kid in your third grade class.

The man who demanded everything and gave nothing back.

The man who would sell you out as soon as he’d blink.

The old you would have backed down and meekly done as he told you. Gone back to pretending you were okay and that you felt things the same way as everyone else. Accepted his praise and craved more, never imagining there was a different life out there for you.

I can’t- what do I do? What would V do?

You already knew the answer. He’d do what was necessary. The artist would never pretend, he’d tear the mask from his face and scream his defiance to the world. No matter the cost, he would not shy away from it.

No more hiding.

A trembling hand reached into the soapy water and grasped the same blade V stole just hours ago. How fitting, to use it for this.

It’s time to take action.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#fanfiction #fanfic #Be My Nightmare #my writing #DMCV #DMC #devil may cry #reader insert #tw: gore #tw: blood #tw: alcoholism

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arigatouiris · 5 years

Text

daughter of artemis || p.p — [01]

c h a p t e r o n e

Pairing: Peter Parker x Demigod! Reader [Female pronouns]

Warnings: swearing; angst [a lot of it]; greek mythology rewritten [completely my interpretation of it, oops]; slightly based off the games god of war and assassin’s creed odyssey; hurt/comfort; cliche; fluff [on later chapters sometimes]; mentions of sex and gore; slight alternate universe

Follows events after Endgame, but Tony, Natasha, Steve, Loki are alive in this universe.

Author’s Note: Thank you for all the love, guys! It’s going to be a bit slow initially, so bear with me. Also, all the things I’ve written about the Greek gods here is fictional, so I hope that’s clear beforehand.

And if you want to see your name in the taglist, add yourself here!

Word count: 3750

main masterlist || series masterlist

00 - 01 - 02

01 // σκόνη dust

❅

She opened her eyes and gasped loudly, as a car stopped in front of her. Looking around, (y/n) realized she was in the middle of the road, busy traffic, and cars and moving vehicles halted at her abrupt appearance out of nowhere. It was dark, strange because it was not so dark back in Phokis. Clutching her stinging hip, tears filled her eyes with the sudden shock of realizing her uncle had sent her somewhere using some out-of-the-ordinary trick. People were now yelling at her, and just as her vision cleared—(y/n) looked around to see tall buildings surrounding her, with herself in the middle of an ocean of modern civilization.

“Hey, girl! Get out of the way!”

Just as she was about to take a step, she felt herself being lifted off the ground, a gasp exiting her lips just as her eyes shut due to the impact again. She felt something coil around her, preventing her from falling; her senses were right, she was up in the air. Opening her eyes once again, she noticed the city swinging below her, someone was grabbing her, her legs dangling in the air, her chin resting on what felt and looked like a red shoulder. (y/n) struggled right away, kicking the air below her, wanting to get off the grasp of this creature that was taking her away from where she needed to be.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m only trying to help, relax!” Came a voice, from this creature.

A moment later, it placed her on the roof of a building, as tall as the buildings around her. Looking around, she understood that this was definitely America, considering this creature in a costume’s accent, and the height of the buildings. It was nothing like the cities in Greece, here there were more people and more noise. Looking at the creature in front of her, the thirteen year old had to do a double take. He wore a spider costume, his face covered with a funny looking mask, and for some strange reason, his costume smelled like iron.

“What are you?” She asked, scrunching her eyes at him.

The creature almost looked offended by her question. Did it expect her to know who he or it was?

“I’m your friendly neighborhood Spiderman! D-Don’t you—?”

The clueless expression that she gave off prevented this Spiderman from continuing further. Immediately, his head turned to her hip, causing her to try to hide it from him, but to no avail.

“Oh, dude. Dude! You’re hurt. Where are your parents? I’ll take you—”

“I don’t need help from a freak like you.” (y/n) was not interested in having a conversation with a man in a costume.

“No, listen. If you don’t get that checked out, it’ll get infected. Where are your—” He stopped suddenly before observing her.

She looked like she was from another place, especially if she didn’t know who Spiderman was; she was injured, her hair disheveled, her eyes hostile, and her heart was beating rapidly against her chest. It wasn’t as if she was hiding something, it was blatantly clear to him now that she had run away.

“You’re a runaway.”

(y/n)’s eyes narrowed, not surprised that he had figured it out. Turning her back to him, she walked off, not knowing where she was going, but her current agenda was to get away from this Spiderman.

He grabbed her wrist and turned her around.

“Listen, I’m only trying to help. Please, let me—”

In an instant, before he even noticed it, her right leg met his chin. She grabbed his throat using her foot, while using her other foot to topple him over. Putting his head in a headlock, (y/n) squeezed before hearing the costume man gasp. Pressing her right hand to the ground, she bolted away from there, jumping across the rooftop like it was easy. Spiderman didn’t catch up right away, but was dazed with what she had displayed. She was a thirteen year old girl, he could definitely keep up with someone like her!

“P-Please, I’m only trying to help!” Spiderman’s voice chased after her.

Sliding down a pipe, (y/n) made her way to what appeared to be an alleyway. A barred fence was in front of her, which she found no difficulty climbing. Slipping past Spiderman would be easy if he couldn’t see her, therefore, she kept her visibility minimum. She moved in the shadows, using her surroundings to camouflage her movements. What seemed like a couple of minutes later, she had found the perfect place to hide. A trash bin, which was recently emptied. It smelt like the filth of everything American, but it was part of her surroundings now, and she was being hunted.

She listened to the silence around her, nothing but sirens and car horns could be heard; closing her eyes, she pictured Spiderman, she pictured where he could be after judging his movements from following her. There were numerous possibilities as to where he could have gone off, or if he had been successful in following her route.

A moment later, (y/n) breathed out, relaxed. Spiderman had lost her. Getting out of the trashcan, (y/n) looked at herself. She wore her mother’s old jacket—beige in color, but the color seemed to have faded now since it had been such a long time since her mother had even worn it. She wore dark blue jeans, once again, her mother’s, which were faded. Canvas shoes, torn by the sole from all the running. A grey tank top with bandages around it, revealing splotches of blood by her left hip. Her hair was free and disheveled. (y/n) breathed in to calm herself, but failed.

She looked homeless. Lost. Hopeless. And she was once a princess in Olympus.

❅

Walking past what looked like a bakery, (y/n) stepped back and looked at the various assortments of bread and cake within the store. She remembered how she told her mother long ago that she hated sweet things, but secretly liking a couple here and then. Artemis always knew this fact about her daughter, and would surprise her now and then with a small sweet gift after breakfast. Artemis wasn’t like the other gods. She liked human things, she liked to dress as the humans, talk as them, and behave as them—wanting to be one with them.

Perhaps this was why Artemis met with cruel fate. For Gods and men could never stand on the same ground.

“Hey! Get out of here, don’t stare at my shop!” The woman from inside the bakery yelled at her.

Quickly scurrying away, (y/n) felt fresh tears sting her eyes. No one cared, these people were strange and didn’t know her. These people were poison. She was on the footpath, random people walking past her, not giving her a second glance. To them, she was just another person, a child with no home. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream at her uncle for bringing her here without warning. How could she find this Pepper person without any clue? Pepper was the clue, her mind repeated.

Pepper was such a strange name. Who was this Pepper? And how was Pepper related to her father? Was this person even someone worth remembering?

Was Pepper a nickname for her father?

(y/n) shut her eyes before trying to calm herself once more. She remembered her life from earlier, of how simple it used to be when her mother was around. Artemis had made life seem so simple and forgoing, her positivity made (y/n) believe she could tackle anything in the world. Even while she taught (y/n) to hunt, to use the bow, to defend herself as she had against Spiderman, Artemis had always told her to be kind.

On the day of the prophecy, she missed her mother the most. (y/n) had never understood the celebration that Delphi brought along in Olympus; a secret ceremony for the Gods. This time, word got out that Delphi had something far more important to say—a prophecy that would directly impact all Gods in Olympus. Hera wasn’t pleased, as usual, since she loved where she was and how she was revered. Hera seemed like the only person who wasn’t affected with Artemis going missing.

Apollo had stayed away from (y/n) ever since his twin sister was nowhere to be found. The animals ran wild, the woman sunk into a terrible dreaded depressive state, and disease struck every pregnant mother in Greece. Artemis would never forget her duties like this, not this randomly, he knew her better than she knew herself. He turned to spot his niece, several feet ahead of him in the great hallway of Zeus’ castle. Biting his teeth, he turned away before she could spot him.

Ever since (y/n) had been born, Artemis was known as the Goddess that broke her vow. Zeus had lost complete respect for his daughter, and Hera’s jealousy got in the way of everything. Although (y/n) was not loved, she was half-God, and therefore, a princess of Olympus. Artemis made sure (y/n) was treated with respect, if not love. But, Apollo—he could not meet her in the eye. Apollo could never forgive (y/n) for being born, for ruining his sister’s reputation. And he knew, in his heart, that her disappearance was due to (y/n) in some way.

When the prophecy was about to be announced, (y/n) was seated in the far back, so far Apollo could barely see her until he looked around and spotted her. She looked sad; she always looked sad, but there was something about her sadness that day that sent fear into his heart. Turning away, he noticed a frail old woman in the middle of the grand hall, the Oracle, about to give her final prophecy.

“As Artemis sleeps, her daughter will rise, the new moon she will be, with fate and the sun at her side,” Apollo blinked before standing up, Zeus’ ushering him to sit down, and Delphi continued, “And when Clotho stops spinning the thread of fate, Lachesis and Atropos go into a slumber for five years.”

‘The fates go to sleep?’ Apollo couldn’t understand. Turning to his niece, he saw fear had clouded her mind. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest, and he knew it and felt it. He sensed the death in the air, circling around her.

“And once their slumber ends, then shall arise the new moon,” Delphi pointed towards where (y/n) was sitting, whose eyes were wide now. “Who completes her final hunt, ending Zeus’s fate as King. All his henchman made of blood and stone will erode at her hunt, and Olympus will no longer be a land for the Gods.”

When Delphi stopped, (y/n) ran. Apollo let out a breath but not of relief, he knew this was bad. He knew his sister was dead, in his heart he knew, and he was going to witness his niece suffer the same fate. He closed his eyes and felt his father bring forth a storm.

But, Apollo knew where she would go. Phokis, to her mother’s temple. He’d meet her there.

(y/n) ran, but she knew she’d be caught. Within the palace, Zeus had eyes everywhere. He knew where she went and where she could go, there was almost no escape if she was inside. She couldn’t register the prophecy, she couldn’t think about anything but her mother. Did her mother know? Was that why she left?

Was that why the fates declared her dead?

Clutching the dagger her mother had given her, a day before disappearing, (y/n) made it to the exit, that peaked over Mt. Olympus, but screamed when a massive force hit her left hip. There was blood everywhere, and the javelin stopped a few feet ahead of her. Turning to spot one of Zeus’ henchmen, the Boar as he called himself, (y/n) got back up on her feet and ran.

She knew his henchmen were made from his blood, she knew they were neither human nor God, they were his creation just as sand and stone. They had no life, but only motive—the motive was to serve Zeus in anyway they could.

Leaning over a bridge that overlooked the forests, (y/n) fell backwards before the Boar threw another javelin at her. And thus, she would run. To the temple where her mother always took her.

❅

In New York, on that strange night, (y/n) felt absolutely alone. There was not a single soul in the world left who cared if she lived or died. Her uncle had saved her life as a favor to his sister, but that was all. Now, she was on her own, in a strange place filled with strange people. As she walked on the streets towards nowhere but an unfamiliar darkness, (y/n) felt a grief in her heart that resembled fear. Her stomach churned and her wound burned, her mind was clouded with a sorrow only she knew, and she yawned more times than she could count.

A second later, grief turned to a haunting fear, causing her eyes to widen. A clap of thunder could be heard in the skies, New York was getting ready to pour. The rain meant Zeus could find her, the second one drop fell on her skin, Zeus would know where she was. She looked around for shelter and found none; the smell in the air changed, it smelt like it was going to rain.

Please, she prayed to her mother, knowing she was dead and couldn’t hear her. Please, she prayed to her uncle, wondering if he had given up on her. Please, she prayed to no one, letting go of hope.

Hands wrapped around her waist and hoisted her up in the air. Opening her eyes, she looked at Spiderman’s masked face, holding her as he swung in the air.

“Are you a God?” She asked, swearing she knew every God in Midgard, but not having heard of this creature.

Spiderman chuckled before saying, “Nah, Thor and Loki are Gods. I’m just a regular superhero.”

Superhero? She thought before clutching on to him as tightly as she could, not wanting to fall.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let go.” He said, tightening his grasp around her.

“How are you doing this?”

“You have a lot of questions for a little girl.”

(y/n) frowned, “You’re as tall as I am.”

“Am not!” Spiderman fought back, causing her to roll her eyes.

“And you sure can fight.” Spiderman grumbled.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were a freak.” She heard him chuckle.

Dropping her on a building, it hadn’t rained yet. She quickly ran under cover, looking up to the sky in caution.

“You don’t like the rain?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to give him anymore information about herself. She didn’t know who he was, and there was no way she could trust a man with a mask.

“Alright, listen. I know you’ve runaway from someplace. I won’t ask. But, you’re hurt and you need to get that checked. This is a shelter for the homeless, and I know it sounds terrible, it’s run by this amazing person named May Parker, and I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here. They have food and they can keep you away from the rain.” Spiderman told her.

She didn’t want to trust him, but she also looked like she was contemplating on taking his help.

“You can trust me, you don’t know who I am and I don’t know who you are. Sometimes, it’s better this way to trust someone, right?”

(y/n)’s eyes widened. She looked up at Spiderman and found no expression. He was right, he was someone she didn’t know, in this strange place, who was trying to help her out. She nodded once before watching him fist bump the air, and then clearing his throat. (y/n) smiled at him once, before biting her lip and letting him lead her downstairs.

On approaching a middle-aged woman, who was wearing glasses, Spiderman waved at her and pointed to (y/n).

“Hey, May!”

May was a beautiful woman, with a warm smile. Smiling at Spiderman and then turning to (y/n), her eyes widened in fear upon noticing her wound. She immediately called for first aid.

“Goodness, how did this happen?”

(y/n) stupidly looked at Spiderman and scrunched up her eyebrows. Gesturing randomly a couple of times, he blurted out, “Uh, she was mugged. Yeah! She was mugged. It was terrible. She’s fine otherwise, and um, so…” He turned to her, noticed her nod once, and continued, “She’ll need to stay here a couple of days. Is that cool?”

May rolled her eyes. A nurse came to her side in a second and she said, “She can stay here for as long as she likes. But, you’ll need to go back to school once this is all over.”

(y/n) looked at Spiderman and smiled. The man or boy in the mask gave her a thumbs up before walking away. (y/n) sighed, before letting the nurse treat her wound. It seemed alright, for the time being, since she was away from Olympus and Zeus, and everything that was perhaps trying to hunt her down. May led her to a bed after that, and (y/n) took off her jacket and lay down. She wasn’t hungry, but May promised to bring down some food for her after some time.

I miss you, she thought about her mother as she shut her eyes. She didn’t know for sure if this place was completely safe, but for some reason, she wanted to trust Spiderman. He seemed familiar in a way that made her feel at home—you feel familiar with a person you’ve never met before because they’re being kind to you. And Spiderman was being kind to her.

Closing her eyes, as she drifted off to sleep, (y/n) thought of Artemis.

❅

It had been a couple of hours since she had seen her mother. Something was strange—the air smelled different and there was a looming fear in her heart. Birds were flying as if a cyclone was about to hit them, animals were losing their mind. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky, but Zeus was not angry, not that she knew of. She wanted to find her mother, and ask her what was wrong, but Artemis was nowhere to be found.

Ignoring the growing fear in her heart, she made her way to Apollo’s chambers, wanting to ask her uncle where her mother was. She knew her uncle didn’t like her very much, but this was about his sister—someone he definitely loved with all his heart. Apollo had always been cold to her, not wanting to speak to her for more than required, and not wanting any sort of other interaction with her. (y/n) respected his space, but this was important.

Knocking on his door, (y/n) gulped when he opened in a jiffy. Apollo grunted when he saw his niece standing there, but looked at her questioningly.

“Mom…” Apollo was alerted. “She’s…gone. I can’t find her. I can’t reach her either. I don’t know—”

“I thought she was with you.” Apollo whispered, his eyes narrowing.

(y/n)’s heart dropped.

“N-No…” (y/n) was not normally a shy or timid person, but fear does this to children whose parents are missing.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Tell no one I gave you that dagger, her mother had instructed her before she walked into her temple.

“Her temple in Phokis. We were there, but she asked me to come back. I thought she’d come after… after she finished her work there.” (y/n) was lying, and Apollo knew. But he knew that his niece had last seen her in Artemis’ temple.

“I’ll go check the temple. The winds are not good. Stay inside. Try reaching her with your mind. She hears your calls.” Apollo snapped, before moving past her.

Artemis had given (y/n) a dagger with greek inscriptions on it. She had told her daughter that this dagger would be important and useful later, but she didn’t know why.

“I don’t even know how to use it,” (y/n) said, frowning.

“You will.” Artemis said, smiling at her.

Greece loved Artemis and Apollo, the star twins. Apollo was loved and respected as the sun was, music and poetry celebrated all over Greece. And animals adored Artemis, revering in her beauty and grace, women prayed to her for good fortune and health, her presence made things better for them. Slowly, (y/n) understood that their fame made Zeus’ look smaller in the eyes of the people in Greece and invariably in Olympus as well. And Zeus did not like it very much.

Married to Hera, Zeus often found himself jealous of his own children—a fact that brew fear in (y/n)’s heart, each time Artemis or Apollo were openly respected. And that night, when the moon did not show, (y/n) knew. She knew in her heart that she would never see her mother again.

❅

After what felt like an eternity, (y/n) woke up to complete silence. She opened her eyes and saw that it might be midday, she had slept for more than 14 hours. Slowly, she got up and sat on the bed and saw no one around her. All the beds in that large hall were empty, soiled, and eerily quiet.

“Hello?” She said, it sounding almost like a whisper.

Getting up, she moved down the hall and saw more dust, scattered everywhere like something, somewhere had stopped from working.

“Anyone?” She heard shuffling, but she wasn’t sure if it was a person.

On the streets, she saw cars, stopped, unmoving, no person in the road or the cars. The cars had hit each other and were dented in the front and back, the skies were empty and slowly turning dark, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Gasping, she turned around and saw more dust on the roads, and some dust flying in the air.

Dust was present where people once were. And the prophecy rang clearly in her head.

And when Clotho stops spinning the thread of fate, Lachesis and Atropos go into a slumber for five years.

❅

series taglist:

Those I could not tag, I’ve put your urls here!

@maddie-laufeyson, @mscoloneldanvers, @https://dancing-flame.tumblr.com, @daughter-of-stark, @spider-mendes, @nerdyandproudofitsstuff, @someonekeepstakingmyusernames, @alina-margaret, @yourwonderbelle, @viarogers, @https://huangsushii.tumblr.com, @eridanuswave @oliviaisnotlistening @mizpotatobiscuits @editsbyjenny @abbieroseb @justtrynagetthroughlife @secretlittlewonders @shallowshawnshallowshawn.tumblr.com

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glare-gryphon · 4 years

Text

Prompt: Hurt AU

I posted the link to this filled prompt a while back, but I can CROSS-POST. I am all-powerful.

AO3 Link: (Part One)

Prompt: “I know it hurts”, anonymous submission.

Rating: M

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker

Tags: AU - Modern Setting, A/B/O Dynamics, Professor!Obi-Wan, Student!Anakin, AU - Serial Killers, Graphic Descriptions of Violence

In its original form, this AU began as an ABO Negotiation AU that Icsek instigated, which grew into its own concept the more we messed with it.

Part One

The only noise in the bathroom is the dull roar of the tub as it fills, the lazy curls of the steam as it rises from the water a counterpoint to the tension that lingers through Anakin’s body. He stands by the bathroom door, arms folded protectively across his chest despite the way it pulls at the wounds on his back; Ben kneels by the tub, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows to keep them dry while he swirls his hand in the water, testing the temperate. A pointless gesture, Anakin thinks solemnly, his eyes darting from the floor to the once-pristine sleeves that are now dappled with a deep crimson. The same color stains Anakin’s clothes, his hair, his skin. This is nothing unusual, another part of the ritual, but he finds himself staunchly avoiding looking at Ben as he wears it. It turns his stomach, when he does, and he can’t quite figure out why. Perhaps it is the intrusion on his own design, blood and gore and savagery baptizing him anew every time he spills crimson across the floor of some dark, abandoned corner of Coruscant. Or perhaps, he thinks a bit manically, it is the staining of the man himself that brings him such distress, like a holy icon battered by the ravages of war.

Ben Kenobi: the god of Anakin’s own personal church. Not an alpha, but The Alpha. The one Anakin had known he was destined for the moment he set foot in the man’s lecture hall and drank of the scent that lingered in the space around him. Precise and poised and perfect, the way alphas rarely are but are certainly meant to be. He is fantasy come to life, an ideal given breath, and Anakin can barely stand to share the same air with such perfection.

“Aren’t you going to call the police?” He hears himself rasp into the space between them, and curses himself for breaking the spell.

Ben glances over his shoulder from where he monitors the tub’s progress, and quirks his brow as if to ask: should I?

Yes, is certainly the rational answer to such a question. It is generally considered the appropriate action to take upon discovering one man beating another to death in a filthy, disused alleyway. Especially when the one doing the beating is an omega, their victim an alpha, a crime that would certainly leave Anakin tagged and institutionalized in some padded cell for the remainder of his years should the authorities ever find out. Just the thought makes him shiver, despite the almost cloying warmth of the bathroom, but Ben just watches him with the same passively curious kind of expression he’s worn since he coaxed Anakin off the stilling body of his victim and tucked him into the safety of his car. Then he turns away and resumes watching the tub, tipping a bottle of something into the water that bubbles when he stirs it until a thick layer of foam covers the surface. Apparently satisfied, he turns off the tap and reaches for a towel, drying his hands as he rises.

“You may keep your undergarments on, if you wish,” Ben declares, and there is something sharp behind his eyes when he finally looks up at Anakin that has the omega swallowing dryly and fumbling for the hem of his shirt. It isn’t predatory, the way most alpha’s eyes would be when waiting for an omega to undress. Just...expectant. As though he can think of no plausible reason Anakin should question his command.

The alpha does, at least, offer him some semblance of privacy. Ben turns as he undresses, opening the first aid kit resting on the edge of the sink and busying himself with sorting through its contents. Anakin didn’t sustain too many injuries during his fight, but he knows there are a few that will need some medical attention. The ones on his back are the worst, and he can’t help the wince the crosses his face when he pulls his shirt off, fabric peeling away the blood dried to his skin and the edges of his wounds. His pants follow, dropped in a heap on the tile floor, and Anakin pauses with his fingers fiddling with the waistband of his boxers. He considers leaving them on, but the thought of wet fabric clinging to his waist and thighs is enough to add them to the pile of discarded clothing at his feet. Ben has already watched him kill a man tonight—a little nudity is likely the least of his concerns, now.

He has to suppress a hiss when he sinks into the hot water, whatever Ben added to make bubbles stinging in Anakin’s open wounds. He can’t allow the weakness; something primal at his core warns him against allowing an alpha like Ben to discover such a vulnerability. A vulnerable omega is one easily taken advantage of, and though Anakin uses vulnerability to lure his prey to their demise, *true* weakness is unacceptable. True weakness will get him killed. If not by his prey, then certainly by this alpha. There is something lurking beneath Ben’s charming smile that Anakin has yet to bear witness to; he would rather do so as a spectator and not a victim.

Ben returns with a wash rag, dipping into the soapy water and beginning to carefully clean away the filth and grime that cover Anakin’s skin. He does not comment on the omega’s nudity—the implicit trust it represents, though his eyes do spark when Anakin shivers at his touch. No alpha, no matter how impressive their self-control, is completely immune to the fairest sex. Still, Ben sweeps the washrag across his upturned face and bared neck in even, smooth strokes. His hands do not shake, his breathing remains even, even as that fascinating something dances behind the alpha’s eyes.

“You will have to be diligent with these wounds,” he murmurs, wiping away the evidence of Anakin’s misdeeds from his bruised and bloody knuckles. “They’re not terribly deep, but should you neglect them, they could very easily become infected.”

“I’m always careful,” Anakin replies, and Ben hums his quiet approval.

“Turn for me. I need to see your back.”

Anakin stiffens at this, the first real hesitation he’s had since catching sight of Ben in the alleyway. His traitorous heart picks up speed, and he knows the alpha can hear it. Fear, the primal kind—the kind that draws alpha predators like blood in the water draws sharks—makes his breath quicken for a short, terrifying moment before he can wrestle himself back under control. The worst of his wounds are on his his back, the gouges need to be tended to, but showing an alpha his vulnerable back is something any omega knows better than to do.

“I understand this may be an uncomfortable situation for you,” Ben assures. “I know it hurts, but your wounds need to be treated.”

Laying hands on his shoulders, Ben turns him with gentle pressure. Anakin is still not entirely sure it’s a good idea, but he forces himself to try and swallow down the fear and trust in the cool disinterest Ben has maintained through the course of their every prior interaction. This terror does not carry the same thrill as that of the fight; the exposure of his bonding glands to an unmated alpha could carry a much high consequence than a savage death. It is strange to find that his interest in this alpha and his fear of reciprocation are not mutually exclusive concepts.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ben murmurs, as though sensing the direction of thoughts.

“Not anymore,” Anakin answers hollowly, staring into the tainted bathwater and tasting on his tongue the thought that’s lingered at the back of his mind since he was seated in Ben’s passenger seat and watching the city lights pass by.

Thoughts of tarp and rope and a sharp knife. Of the chemical sting of bleach in his sensitive nose and the watering of his eyes. Of a body, neatly tucked in to a well-lined trunk, dumped into a dark corner of the harbor. Of all these things fitting together in his mind like pieces of a familiar puzzle: he was not the only one hunting, this night.

It was no accident that Ben had stumbled upon him.

For a moment, the alpha’s hands go still against his back. Anakin bites down hard enough on his lip to draw fresh blood, waiting for a response. Denial, perhaps, or a quick end to his life. There is a switchblade in Ben’s pocket; he hadn’t seen the alpha remove it, before preparing Anakin’s bath.

He’s surprised, then when one of Ben’s hands squeezes tightly at his shoulder, the other skipping down the ridges of his spine. “No,” the alpha rasps, and Anakin’s breath hitches at the tone. “No, not anymore.”

#gryph fic #obikin #fic: hurt au

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seven-dragons · 4 years

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War Stories: Everybody Has Them (7x100)

@it-is-bugs gave us the topic “war story” and I probably should have just written my costume ball drabble from last week. Was supposed to be 10x100 but I ran out of patience and I want to be in bed before midnight.

Topic warnings for **deep breath** blood, gore, brains, body parts, more blood, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, blood, snakes, guns, decapitation, nightmares, corpses, feces, racism, racial slurs, rape, vomit, suicide, and also blood. I am so serious do not read this if you are in any way squeamish.