#she is unsettling.. reflective eyes.. too sharp teeth

[comnder-a]

please remember: prosperina the predator, not prey.

[yanderejustforyou]

Say "AH"

Satoru Gojo x reader X Suguru Geto

Vampire satosugu

Sick and Twisted playlist - Teeth (5 sec of summer)

Blurb - if they were vampires ughhhh idk i my also have a thing for being tied up lol

any who lets begin ------------------------------------------------------

You don’t realize what they are at first.

Just that something is… off.

But then -

The realization is a cold, drenching thing. It doesn't come with a flash of light; it comes with the absence of it.

It starts with Gojo.

Of course it does.

He’s loud. Flashy. Too beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel natural like someone sculpted him instead of him being born.

He leans too close when he talks to you.

Smiles too wide.

Watches your mouth when you speak.

“You’re staring,” you say once, frowning.

He grins. “Can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes.

You should’ve walked away then.

You look at Gojo, and you see the way the overhead lights don't reflect in those blue eyes hey get swallowed by them.

Geto is different.

Quieter.

He doesn’t hover like Gojo does, doesn’t crowd your space or tease you.

But when he looks at you—

It lingers.

Heavy.

You look at Geto, and you realize his shadow is a fraction too long, a fraction too heavy. They aren't just beautiful, powerful men. They are apex predators who have been playing with their food for weeks, watching you circle their trap with a curiosity that they mistake for consent.

It takes weeks before you notice the pattern.

They’re never around during the day.

Not really.

They show up late.

Always late.

And they always leave together.

“They’re weird,” your friend whispers once, watching them from across the room.

You hum in agreement, but your eyes stay on them.

On the way Gojo leans into Geto’s space like it’s instinct.

On the way Geto doesn’t react, but doesn’t move away either.

Like it’s normal.

Like they’ve done this forever.

It should feel unsettling.

Instead—

It pulls you in.

“You’re curious.”

The voice comes from behind you.

You turn.

Geto.

Closer than you expected.

Always closer than you expect.

“I’m not,” you say automatically.

A lie.

He tilts his head slightly.

“You are.”

A pause.

“About us.”

Your chest tightens.

The air in the room suddenly feels like lead in your lungs. You try to step back, but your legs feel like they belong to someone else.

“Don’t scare her off,” he says lightly, though there’s something sharp underneath.

Geto’s gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“If she scares that easily,” he replies, “she wouldn’t still be here.”

When you finally find the strength to bolt, it’s clumsy, a desperate, frantic lunge toward the door. You don't even make it three steps. The space between you and the exit seems to stretch, the hallway elongating like a fever dream. Before you can scream, Gojo is there.

He doesn’t run; he simply exists in your path. You slam into his chest, and it’s like hitting a marble pillar. His arms wrap around you instantly, a cage of heat and muscle that pins your elbows to your ribs, lifting you off the floor until your toes are dangling, useless and weak.

"Where are you going, little bird?" Gojo whispers, his voice dropping into a register that vibrates through your very teeth. It’s not a question; it’s a taunt.

“Don't you trust us?” Gojo asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard.

“No.”

Too fast.

Too honest.

You thrash, a blind, panicked struggle that only makes Geto move. He doesn't rush. He never has to. He approaches with the measured gait of a man who has already won. From the darkness of the corner, he produces a coil of heavy, shimmering black silk rope. The sight of it makes your heart hammer a frantic, jagged rhythm against your ribs. Before you can process the threat, Geto has your wrists. His grip is absolute calloused fingers like iron bands that force your hands behind your back.

Geto smiles.

Small.

Slow.

“Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“We’d be more concerned if you did,” he says.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if your terror has a scent he’s been craving. "The door is so far away, and we’re right here. Don't you like the attention?"

"Be still," Geto commands, and the authority in his voice is a physical weight. "You’ve spent weeks inviting us in with those lingering glances. It's a bit late to start playing the victim, don't you think?"

He works with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. The silk is cold against your flushed skin, biting into your wrists as he binds them together. He doesn't stop there. He loops the cord around your waist and then up, crossing it over your chest in a way that forces your shoulders back and your throat open. Every movement is a violation of your autonomy, a silent declaration that you no longer belong to yourself.

Gojo eases you down onto your knees, his hands never leaving your shoulders, keeping you grounded. He kneels in front of you, his face inches from yours. Without the blindfold, his eyes are terrifying infinite, swirling voids of celestial blue that seem to be peeling back the layers of your skin to see the panic underneath. Geto settles behind you, his chest pressing against your bound back, his hands sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re forced to look up at Gojo.

"You like it," Gojo murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the frantic puff of your breath. "You want to know what it feels like when we finally stop biting our tongues and start using our teeth."

Geto’s lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice a low, dark promise. "We aren't going to let you go, I hope you realized." He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your pulse point, not breaking the skin, but letting you feel the sharp, lethal edge of what’s coming. "Now, tell me... was the wait worth it?"

[enbplvr]

THE KILLER'S PAUSE

Pairing: fem!reader x sunwon

Summary- When two ghostface killers, Sunoo and Jungwon, kill for fun but get distracted by one of their victims.

Mentions: violence, bullying, death, psychotic, rough!sex, knifeplay, blood, psychological horror, threesome, hairpulling, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, blowjob, fear play, dark manipulation, toxic behavior, talking through orgasm, sadism, passing out, slapping, nipple play, eating cum, choking , terrifying ending, mean!sunwon.

Author's note- Hi! This is my very first time writing a fanfic, so please show a lot of love.♡Please ignore any grammatical mistakes, as English is not my first language.This fanfic is inspired by the movie Scream, though the Ghostface elements are less prominent.If you don’t enjoy this type of fanfic, please kindly back off.Hate comments will be deleted!

Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect reality. The characters depicted here are fictional versions and do not represent their real-life personalities or actions. Please don't take this too seriously—it's all for fun and delulu purposes

For better experience play this playlist♡

___________________________________________

Sunoo's expression twisted with frustration, the knife glinting in his hand as he leaned closer to the girl. "For fuck sake, stop moving. You're only making it harder on yourself, It’s only going to make things worse for you." he hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing.

Jungwon, standing just a step away, glanced over at Sunoo before looking back at the girl with a detached expression. " i don't know why we are still playing with her?" Just end it already. I’m getting bored. She's all broken now"

The girl's breathing quickened, her throat tight with fear. She strained against the grip on her leg, desperation fueling her every movement. "Please..." she choked out, her voice shaking, "I'm begging you... don't do this...

The air in the room grew heavier, as if the very walls were closing in. The girl, trembling on the cold floor, tried to shuffle away, but sunoo grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back toward him with an unsettling ease. He hovered over her, his expression unreadable, and slowly traced the edge of the knife near her collarbone, letting the sharp tip graze her skin without making contact.

His voice was low, almost a whisper,

"You should have stayed still. Now you're just... a target."

Jungwon clicked his tongue, stepping closer and circling her like a predator. "It's almost sad, you know?" he said, his voice calm and methodical. "You were so pretty when we brought you here. But now you're just a mess. Dirty and Worthless."

Jungwon's gaze piercing through the girl. He seemed bored, waiting for something to happen. "I'm just done with her, Sunoo. Do it already."

Sunoo glanced at Jungwon, who had been watching in silence, waiting for the moment to end. "You want to take care of it, Jungwon?" Sunoo asked with a smirk, enjoying the sick game.

Jungwon shrugged nonchalantly, his expression unwavering. "Nah, I'm good. Let's just finish it. It's taking too long."

The girl’s breathing quickened as she realized the depth of their cold indifference. She flinched when Sunoo’s knife brushed dangerously close to her skin. She could hear his quiet chuckle as he dragged the blade lower, almost playfully, while Jungwon leaned in with a sinister calmness, watching her every move.

Sunoo stabbed her several times, each blow weakening her until she could no longer move. Her body went limp, and her breath slowed to nothing. Sunoo stepped back, staring down at her, his face cold and expressionless for a moment. Then, a small, unsettling smile crept across his lips.

She was dead now. The pain had stopped, the struggle had ended, and there was nothing left but silence. Her body lay still, no more painfull moans or gasps for breath, no more attempts to fight back. Her body, now still and unrecognizable from the person she had been moments before, lay lifeless on the ground.

She wasn’t much fun," sunoo said, his voice dripping with indifference. "Kept moving, making it harder to enjoy the whole thing. I didn’t even get one clean stab."

Sunoo shrugged, unfazed. "No big deal. We’ll find someone else. Clean up the mess and get rid of her. I’m going to find someone more... entertaining."

Jungwon nodded, his expression neutral. "Yup, I’ll take care of it."

sunoo wandered through the forest, looking for the next victim to play with. His eyes scanning the shadows, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, he spotted her—a girl, lost and disoriented, stumbling through the trees. She looked like an easy target, and he saw an opportunity.

Y/N, her voice trembling, called out into the darkness, "Hey! Do you know where the road goes? I’ve been wandering through this creepy forest for more than an hour. I came with my friends for camping, but I got separated, and now it’s late... Can you help me?"

Sunoo stepped closer, his voice calm, almost too sweet. “Of course, I can help. It’s dangerous out here at night.” He took a deliberate step forward, his eyes dark with an unsettling gleam. "It’s too late to be out here alone. Why don’t you come to my place? You can rest, get warm, and in the morning, we can figure out how to get you back to your friends."

Y/N hesitated, her heart racing as her instincts screamed at her to be cautious. She was alone, lost in the dark, but something in his words felt almost... soothing.

Sunoo, sensing her hesitation, stepped even closer, his smile widening. “Come on, just for one night. It’s dark, and you don’t know what could happen to you out here. I could help... you just have to trust me.”

Y/N felt the tension in the air, her mind battling between fear and need for safety. She wasn’t sure, but the temptation of warmth and shelter was too strong. “O-okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sunoo chuckled softly, his eyes flickering with something darker now. "Good choice. Trust me, you'll be safer with me."

Sunoo walked alongside her through the forest, his voice sweet but his words carrying an unsettling weight. “It’s good that you trusted me, you know. A lot of people wouldn’t have, but you did. Smart choice.”

Y/N glanced at him, a shiver creeping up her spine, but she tried to brush it off. “I don’t know... I was just worried about being lost out here alone.”

Sunoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, his smile never fading. “You should be. The woods aren’t safe at night. Especially with things like... him, lurking around.”

Y/N frowned, her steps slowing. “Who? What do you mean by ‘things like him’?”

Sunoo leaned in closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “There’s a killer roaming around. He wears a ghost face mask—completely black clothing, and he’s always carrying a sharp knife. There’s no telling when he might strike.”

Y/N laughed nervously, but a knot formed in her stomach. “A killer? Are you serious? That sounds like something out of a horror movie. You’re messing with me, right?”

Sunoo’s face remained serious, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. “I’m serious. People go missing around here. It’s better to be cautious.”

Y/N stopped walking for a moment, a chill running through her veins. “Are you... are you saying that killer could be around here right now?”

Sunoo grinned slightly, his voice almost playful. “Maybe. You never know, do you?”

Y/N tried to laugh it off, but her heartbeat quickened, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. She glanced around the dark trees, a sense of paranoia settling in. “So... are you telling me that killer is nearby?” she said jokingly.

Sunoo’s smile widened, his eyes glinting “Maybe. It could be me also. After all, I’ve got the mask, the knife... I could be the one you’ve been running from all along.”

Y/N felt a wave of unease wash over her. “I think you’re joking, but it’s not funny anymore.”

Sunoo stopped walking, turning to face her fully. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not joking. And you should really be careful. Who knows? Maybe you’re walking right into it.”

The air grew colder, and Y/N’s footsteps faltered as she turned around, suddenly feeling like she was being watched. Was it just her imagination, or was something moving in the shadows? Her heart pounded louder in her chest.

She spun around quickly, sunoo was gone. A sickening sense of fear gripped her as she stood frozen. The sound of her racing heartbeat filled her ears. She didn’t know what was real anymore. Was he messing with her? Or was it something more?

Then, from behind her, Sunoo’s voice called out, almost as if from a distance. “I’m coming for you!” With a knife in his hand and with the ghost face costume exactly like how sunoo told y/n about.

Desperately, she turned and began running. Her breath came in sharp gasps, and the darkness around her seemed to close in as the trees blurred by. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The thought of being out there, alone in the woods with... whatever that was, was too terrifying.

The chase was on as she heard Sunoo's psychotic laughter echoing through the dark forest, sending chills down her spine.

Y/N’s breath came in ragged gasps as her legs burned with exhaustion. Her pace had slowed, no matter how much she willed herself to keep running. Sunoo was right behind her now, his presence suffocating.

Before she could take another step, a sharp yank on her hair sent her crashing to the ground. A sharp cry escaped her lips as her body hit the dirty ground.

"Aww, poor thing" Sunoo mocked. He leaned down, his voice dripping with amusement. "I have to admit, watching you struggle was entertaining.'"

As Y/N struggled to regain her strength, she suddenly pushed herself up and bolted, her legs moving faster than she thought possible. The sudden burst of energy caught Sunoo off guard, his smirk faltering for a split second as he watched her slip from his grasp.

She ran, the adrenaline pushing her forward until she saw it—a house in the distance with lights on. She made a beeline for it, her feet pounding against the earth, until she reached the front door and banged desperately on it.

Sunoo whispered to himself, "Ah... now this is where the real fun begins." He let out a dark chuckle, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You just made this easier for me... No more games now.

The door creaked open, revealing Jungwon, looking startled but confused. “Who are you? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Y/N, panting heavily, barely able to get the words out, stammered, “Someone... someone chased me! They were wearing a ghost face mask, He tried to kill me!”

Jungwon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “A ghost face mask? Are you sure?”

Y/N nodded frantically, her hands shaking. “Yes! It’s real! He was right behind me!”

Jungwon stepped back slightly, his face becoming unreadable. “Hold on. Calm down for a second.” He looked at her carefully before turning toward the inside of the house. “Are you sure it was a ghost mask? "Because... if it looked like this... we’ve got a problem.”

He stepped aside, revealing the very same ghost face mask she had described. Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes went wide. “No... no, this can’t be happening. Not here. Not now.”

Jungwon stepped forward, his voice calm yet chilling. "It's real. You're not safe here."

Before she could say another word, the door creaked open wider, and another figure stepped inside—the very same ghost face mask, only this time it was Sunoo. Her blood ran cold.

No... no... no!” she gasped, backing away, her vision blurring with panic. She turned and rushed toward the door, desperate to escape, but before she could grab the handle, Jungwon grabbed her by the arm, yanking her back roughly

Just as she tried to turn, a sudden pain shot through her head. Jungwon had yanked her hair harshly, slammed her to the floor, the sharp tug caused her vision to swim. She could barely keep her balance as her head spun from the pain. The world around her felt distant, as if she were drifting in and out of reality.

The world around her spun out of control, and with a final, breathless gasp, she fainted, her body going limp in Jungwon’s arms.

___________________________________________

Y/N's head throbbed as she regained consciousness, blinking her eyes open. The dimly lit room sent a chill down her spine. Her arms and legs were bound tightly, the ropes biting into her skin with every attempt to wriggle free. Panic set in, her heart pounding as she remembered running for her life in the woods.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence, and the door creaked open. Sunoo strolled in, wearing an infuriatingly playful smirk, followed by Jungwon, whose calm, almost nonchalant demeanor was unnerving.

"look who's awake! I was starting to get bored waiting for you to wake up" sunoo teased, He tilted his head, studying her struggles. "Hmmm... I know the ropes are tight, but bear with it, okay? If you behave like a good girl, I might loosen them for you."

"You!" Y/N hissed, glaring at him. "I thought you'd help me, but you're nothing but a traitor!"

"Traitor?" Sunoo gasped mockingly, placing a hand on his chest. "That's such a mean word. I prefer... Ghostface killer.

Her breath hitched as she stared at him in disbelief.

"No... you can't be... you're the Ghostface killer?"

"Bingo!" Sunoo said cheerfully, his smirk growing wider.

Sunoo tilted his head with a small, satisfied smile, nodding as if he were proud of her realization.

"Yes, yes, it's me!"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"The person you begged for help and The one who chased you in the woods? That was me"

"No way!" she yelled, her voice trembling.

"You bastard! Let me go! Don't you see this is wrong?"

Jungwon, who had been silently watching from the side, took a step forward. His movements were slow and calculated, his presence suddenly feeling much heavier in the room.

"What's wrong, huh?" he asked, crouching in front of her. His hand shot out, grabbing her jaw harshly and forcing her to look at him. "We're just going to have some fun. That's all.

Her voice shook as she demanded, "Fun? What kind of fun? Aren't you two going to kill me?"

"You?" Jungwon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Kill you? Oh no, not yet. You're far too pretty to die so early."

"You're insane!" she whispered, trying to move her face out of his grip. "Psychotic!"

"Psychotic?" Sunoo raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "That's not very nice. We're giving you so much of our time and attention. Shouldn't you be a little more grateful?"

At least we're not killing you right away. That's something to be thankful for, isn't it?" Jungwon said.

"Thankful?" she snapped, her voice growing louder. "You're delusional! You both are sinners filthy, disgusting bastards!

"Ouch! that hurts" Jungwon said mockingly, pretending to be hurt. He looked at Sunoo, his smirk widening.

"Did you hear that? She said we're disgusting bastards. Who talks like that?

Sunoo crossed his arms, nodding as if deeply offended.

"I know, right? We go out of our way to make this fun for her, and this is the thanks we get? Unbelievable."

She glared at them both, her breathing heavy.

"And how could I forget you? You're also the Ghostface killer, aren't you?" Y/N said while glaring at Jungwon

His eyes lit up in amusement as he crouched closer, his smirk widening.

"Aww, you remembered me. How cute."

He tilted her chin up, his grip rough but calculated.

"And here I thought you'd only focus on Sunoo. I guess I made quite the impression, huh?"

"You're both insane!" she yelled, struggling even harder against the ropes. "This is wrong! My freinds will come looking for me, you won't get away with this!"

"Won't get away with it?" Jungwon repeated, chuckling softly. "Oh, we've already gotten away with so much. What makes you think this time will be any different?"

"She's so noisy, never stops talking. Jungwon. It's like she can't keep quiet for a second. Don’t you think?" Sunoo said, being frustrated.

"I know, But don’t worry, I have plans for that pretty mouth of hers. Trust me She won’t be talking much longer, not when we put it to better use." Jungwon said with a smirk.

I can’t help but wonder how she’ll react when we take control. Sunoo said

"Oh, she'll react, alright. But not in the way she expects. We’ll make her completely at our mercy, we will make her surrender to us. She'll have no choice but to give in to our demands, and all she can do is wait for what comes next." Jungwon said

"This is going to be fun"

Sunoo smirked, his gaze sharp yet teasing.

"Now, now, don't make us regret setting you free," sunoo purred, leaning closer to y/n's face, while untieing her hands."You wouldn't want to disappoint us, would you?" Sunoo asked her.

Jungwon's voice was softer, almost mockingly gentle as he stepped forward, tilting your chin up with his fingers. "We’ve been so kind, haven’t we? All we ask is for you to behave." His lips curled into a sly grin. "Be a good girl, and take what we give you, right,?"

“Answer us,” Jungwon demanded, his tone dropping to something that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned back slightly, studying you like a predator gauging its prey. “Will you behave… or do we need to remind you how we handle disobedience?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but you managed to nod slightly. “I’ll behave…”

“Words, i need words,” Sunoo said with a soft laugh, his hand moving to cup your face. His touch was firm but not harsh, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “We need to hear you say it. Loud and clear.”

“I’ll behave,” you finally said, your voice steady but your cheeks burning under their gazes.

Jungwon smirked, clearly satisfied. “Good,” he said simply.

Sunoo’s laugh was soft but full of mischief as he leaned even closer. “And trust me,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, “you’re going to love every second of it.”

Your heart raced as the intensity of their stares sent shivers down your spine. Jungwon chuckled darkly, the sound dripping with amusement. "Looks like she understands," Jungwon said, his voice low but filled with mischief. "I wanna see how obedient you are". Jungwon said.

"Now Get the fuck on your knees! Unbuckle my fucking belt like the good little whore you are. You better know what's fucking coming next - my massive cock so far down your throat and you're gagging." Jungwon said mockingly

"Please, no, please don't make me do this!" Y/n sobbed, her face contorted in anguish. "My friends, they'll be worried for me. They're probably searching for me right now. Please, I'm begging you, let me go!" Y/n begged

"Rolling his eyes dismissively, Jungwon snapped, "Calm yourself, would you? Your incessant whining is giving me a migraine. Behave, and perhaps I'll consider letting you skulk off to your little friends. But mark my words, one more outburst and you'll regret it.'"

With choked sobs, Yn silently obeyed Jungwon. She bit her lip to stifle any further noise, her small frame trembling with silent sobs.

Yn slowly pushed his pants down, exposing a thick, stone-hard cock that stood proudly upright. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in its impressive length, her eyes tracing every vein that popped along its surface. Jungwon's smirk deepened as he noticed her terrified awe.

His tip was already glistening with pre-cum

"'Think you can handle it?' Jungwon growled, his hips bucking slightly, making his massive length jump. Yn's eyes snapped down to watch the monster between his legs. She swallowed hard, 'It's too big, it won't fit", she whimpered.

"I will make it fit, Now Stop fuckin' around and suck my dick already,' Jungwon snarled, grabbing a fistful of Yn's hair and shoving her face towards his towering erection. "Open wide, slut or I'll shove it down your pretty throat. I'm gonna wreck your throat with this big fuckin' cock. That slutty mouth of yours needs a purpose".

"And If you even fuckin' dare to graze my dick with those goddamn teeth," Jungwon snarled, "I swear to God, I'll snap your neck and use this knife to carve your pretty face up. Suck it like a good little whore."

"'I'll try,' Yn stammered, her voice shaking with fear as she parted her lips. Jungwon yanked her head forward, forcing his massive cock past her trembling lips. Yn's eyes watered as she struggled to accommodate his girth, her throat constricting around the imposing length.

"Jesus, look at those pretty fucking eyes watering," Jungwon groaned, holding her head still as he hilted himself deep in her throat. "Tryin' to fit this whole monster cock, aren't ya? Fuck, your lips look good wrapped around my dick."

His massive hands fisted in Yn's hair, Jungwon viciously shoved his entire length down her throat, stretching her jaw wide. She gagged and choked around his thick meat, her eyes bulging as he brutally face-fucked her.

"Fuck..." he moaned, tilting his head back in ecstasy. "Your mouth... Jesus Christ, this is the best fuckin' blowjob ever."

"Damn," Sunoo muttered under his breath, watching Jungwon pound into the girl's mouth. "She looks like she's taking it so deep,"

His grip on her hair tightened as he controlled her movements, slamming his cock deeper into her throat with each thrust.

You patted his thighs softly to stop, but he was too consumed by pleasure. "I'm gonna...cum" "Fuckin' Christ..." he grunted, pulling out sharply. A sticky thread of saliva stretched between your lips and his leaking cock. "Look at that nasty fucking spit rope, you filthy little whore," he spat, watching his cum drip from your mouth.

Sunoo unconsciously adjusted himself. "I wonder what she tastes like..." He murmured, his own arousal growing.

"Fuck! Let me have her now." Sunoo excitedly

"I've been hardcore fucking SALIVATING over this girl's pussy. I wanna shove my face between her thighs and tongue-fuck her until she soaks my whole fucking face. I wanna taste every drop of her fucking pussy juice!" sunoo said.

"N-no,! P-please, don't! I-I'm begging you, let me go!" The girl struggles and pleads, her face flushed with humiliation and fear.

Sunoo glares up at the girl, his grip tightening on her thighs. "Fuck me, you're really fucking it up here. Just shut your damn mouth, bitch, and lemme eat your cunt already." He leans in closer, his voice dripping with vulgar menace.

"Open those fucking legs wider! Sunoo can't get his tongue deep enough in that tight cunt of yours." Jungwon snaps, giving the girl's inner thighs a harsh slap. "Spread 'em, whore."

With a snarl, Sunoo buries his face between the girl's thighs, his tongue forcing its way into her soaked pussy. He licks and sucks at her cunt aggressively, ignoring her struggles and screams. "Fuck yeah".

Sunoo's face is a mess as he devours the girl's pussy, his tongue fucking her cunt rough and dirty. He slurps and gags on her juices, his nose buried in her soaked folds. "Mmmph, fucking hell, you're a damn cunt dumpster, ain't ya?"

Sunoo pulls back, his face coated in the girl's juices, and forces a rough, open-mouthed kiss onto her lips. He shoves his tongue into her mouth, making her taste herself. "Mmph, fuck, taste that pussy.

As Y/N tries to avoid him, but eventually fails.

"The fuck you avoiding for? taste your fuckin' cunt juice, forcefully pushes tongue into her mouth while mashing their faces together "Spit it out, bitch. That's your fuckin' pussy taste right there. runs tongue along her teeth.

As Sunoo continues to force his rough, open-mouthed kiss onto the girl, she suddenly feels two fingers suddenly shoved deep inside her pussy by Jungwon. She tries to moan, but her pain-filled cries are all muffled by Suno's mouth, her screams swallowed by him.

Jungwon's fingers curl inside her, hitting that spot that makes her want to double over in pain. He spits in his palm before rubbing it onto her swollen folds, making her whimper into Sunoo's mouth. "Damn, she's so tiny,"

He adds another finger, the sudden stretch burning as he forcefully pumps them in and out, fucking her with his hand while Sunoo holds her mouth open, his tongue swirling around hers, collecting her spit and juices.

"Fuck, look at that tiny cunt, it's barely big enough for one of our dicks, Sunoo chuckles, leaning back to look at the girl's struggling form. "I'm wondering how she's even gonna survive getting stretched open by our fucking massive cocks." Sunoo said while laughing.

"You know what the worst part is?" Jungwon laughs darkly, pushing his fingers deeper inside her, making her yelp. "She probably can't even take a dick without splitting open. I bet she's one of those tight little whores who screams 'It's too big!"

Sunoo bursts into laughter, leaning in close to whisper in the girl's ear. "Better hope you can take it, slut, 'cause if not, it's gonna fuckin' ruin you. Imagine how stupid you'd look, crying and begging while we rape your tiny pussy raw anyway."

As Jungwon's fingers viciously worked inside her, Sunoo's face was now buried between her small, perky breasts, drool dripping down his chin as he sucked and bit, his fingers digging painfully into the other. The girl mewled softly, trying to snap her legs shut, but Jungwon slapped her inner thighs, biting them roughly to keep her spread open.

"I think she's prepared now to take our dicks, I can't fucking wait anymore," Jungwon growls, his patience wearing thin. "Let's just shove our fucking massive cocks inside her and see if she can even handle it."

They both try to fit inside her at once, one into her from the front while the other brutalizes her tiny pussy from behind." She gags and moans, her body stretched painfully around their massive sizes. "ahhh" Y/N Moaned painfully.

"Calm down, will you?" Jungwon said through gritted teeth as the both of them attempted to slide their dicks into her tight, holes. "Fuck, she's so damn small," Jungwon hissed, pushing harder against the resistance.

As they both start moving she feels something wet between her legs, she realizes with horror that it's blood, her tiny holes unable to withstand the brutal assault of the two monstrous cocks pounding her simultaneously. "Shit, I think we're tearing the bitch up," sunoo said mockingly.

"Please, no more ahhhh! it hurts, Jungwon grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Is that how you beg, you little slut?" He sneered. "Try again!"

Her screams turn to gurgles both dicks in blood and as both cocks explodes her pussy, sending bloody chunks of her shredded insides out with each brutal thrust. They keep fucking her, their cocks coated in her blood and gore.

Sunoo, who was fucking her from behind, brings his hand down to rub her overstimulated clit vigorously, she screams in agony. He then brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting her sweet cum and blood, his fingers fully coated in the messy mixture. "Fuck, even her blood is delicious". His mouth is full of her cum and blood.

Jungwon grabbed her roughly by the hair, forcing a brutal, dominating kiss upon her lips as both men's cocks continued to relentlessly pound into her battered holes. "Goddamn," Jungwon growled against her mouth, squeezing her cheeks painfully.

After few thrusts they both were on the verge of Cumming.

"Ahhh fuck, I'm cumming! I think" Sunoo groaned loudly, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Me too!" Jungwon grunted, slamming into her one last time. They pushed deep and held themselves inside her as they both exploded together. "Shit, yeah!"

"She looks damn good with our cum leaking down our legs from destroying that tiny cunt," Jungwon remarked with a satisfied smirk, admiring the sight of their mixed loads slowly dripping from her abused holes.

She wept uncontrollably, feeling as though sharp claws were tearing her insides apart. As Sunoo noticed her tears, he dramatically licked them away, drawling, "Hey, hey, stop crying already.'"

"Look at you, sprawled out like a fucking souless body. At least we hadn't killed you yet. You should be kissing our feet for keeping you alive, you piece of shit.'" Jungwon mocked.

"She's completely fucked now. What are we gonna do with her?" Sunoo asked Jungwon.

"Hmph... I'm bored. Might as well kill her. Even her pretty face is not pretty anymore now as before" Jungwon said.

As Sunoo pulled out the knife from his pocket and donned his ghostface mask, he towered over her. She couldn't muster the strength to fight back, completely broken and used up. He positioned the knife directly over her heart, ready to end her life in an instant.

He sneered beneath his mask, voice dripping with cruel amusement." Last words, bitch? Or should I just shut that stupid mouth of yours permanently?" Sunoo's grip tightened on the knife, the blade glinting menacingly under the dim light as he hovered mere inches from her fragile heart.

She stared up at him, eyes wide with terror but also a flicker of defiance. Her voice came out as a weak, raspy whisper, "Fuck you..."

Sunoo let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "Fuck you too, whore." With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged the knife deep into her heart. Blood spurted out, painting his mask and hands red as she let out a final, gurgled scream.

He twisted the knife, savoring the feeling of her heart giving out. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp beneath him. Sunoo pulled the blade out, wiping it clean on her tattered clothes. He looked up at Jungwon, a grim smile on his masked face " Done". Sunoo smiled darkly

He traced her blood across his face, a twisted smile curling on his lips.

As Sunoo removed his mask and wiped his face, he only managed to smear more blood across his features. He smirked psychotically, his eyes gleaming with a deranged light as he stood over the lifeless body, his hands and face stained with her blood.

"If she didn't beg for help, she might've gotten away... But whatever.' takes a drag " Jungwon said.

'Hmm... still, she was pretty entertaining while struggling though...' sunoo smirks creepily, staring at Y/n's lifeless body.

"Take care of the body" sunoo said to Jungwon.

"Should I burn it? Bury it? Chop it up?" Jungwon smirks darker.

"Just dispose of it properly, fuck. Don't get any ideas" sunoo said.

"Cruel, isn’t it? We used you like a worthless fuck toy, nothing more than a plaything for desperate, horny killes. And just like the rest, you begged, you cried—pathetic. But in the end? You were nothing but another nameless, broken victim, discarded like trash." Jungwon spoke with a sadistic gleam in his eyes.

As the twisted cycle of killing and madness continued, each new victim became just another piece of trash.

___________________________________________

Few months later

"According to disturbing reports surface of numerous bodies found in the forest, the majority being young girls. Among the victims, one in particular stands out - Yn her body bearing the most brutal signs of assault".

"Investigations revealed that the Ghostface murders were committed by two individuals, not one. Both wore black clothes and ghostface masks.' 2. 'Forensic evidence pointed to two killers behind the Ghostface crimes. They were always seen dressed alike in black and wearing ghostface masks".

"One is named Sunoo, the other Jungwon. Their backgrounds reveal a troubling history, having escaped from a mental hospital where they were being treated for severe mental health issues. Reports indicate they suffered from mind problems, essentially making them psychopaths".

"The investigation into the Ghostface murders continues, with authorities working tirelessly. As the search for these two dangerous psychopaths persists, the public is urged to stay safe".

"This is Mia, your reporter, signing off until the next update!"

TAGS♡

[mriachka]

For the flower ask, maybe chesnut, primrose and hydrangea for jade? If that's ok haha

tw. yandere. obsession, stalking, impersonation. allusions to potential cannibalism and sex.

chestnut—would this yandere care about their darling’s past romantic relationships? if not, then why is that?

you wouldn’t think so, would you? it doesn’t make sense. that you have crossed paths at all is a miracle: a swish of the butterfly’s wings stirring the wind, coaxing the stream into picking you up high to the milky way, before spilling you down, stars reflected in the frigid waters. if there is a plethora of worlds, in most of them she doesn’t know you. a different walk home or a different drink choice on that one day, and you might not have met her at all.

so, thinking logically (as you are sure she must—in octavinelle, is she not the voice of reason? the leash upon her sister’s neck?), there is no reason for jealousy.

nonetheless, when a teatime conversation touches upon the topic of lovers past, despite the warmth of the glass between your palms, you go cold. sheepishly, you admit to having dated a bit, hoping quietly that it’s enough to have her back off.

it’s not. having sniffed a drop of blood, she must go for the bite—her mild smile grows sharp, pointy teeth peeking out between thin lips: how curious. why, she didn’t take you for an experienced lady. would you kindly share some of your expertise? you see, she’s quite the novice in the study of landfolk customs. it would be of big help to her. of course, she is willing to compensate you. another cup, yes?

you walk away feeling that it was very stupid of you to have a private conversation with something like her. you can’t recall the rest of your friendly little chat. all you know is that you have definitely said much, much more than you’d have liked to, and that some of the private details were too unpleasant to recall, much less to share. overall, you are glad to forget.

forget she does not. you start noticing familiar sights. a shirt, just the color your ex used to wear, and a beautiful pair of shoes—previously relegated to the dusty corner of your memory. you can’t prove it, but you think she smells differently, too. more than once, you’d turn sharply, unsettled by a scent from the past, only to look into sparkling eyes of a courteously concerned miss leech. are you feeling faint? worry not, she’ll offer you a hand. leaning into her embrace, you note that her nails, previously practically short and clean, are coated in nail polish. when you ask, she laughs: yes, indeed, she’s been feeling adventurous lately. do you like it?

it’s not limited to looks, either: the scenes from the past resurface, painful remarks thrown in your face during a breakup fight quoted lightly while you are getting lunch, humiliating complexes pointed out with seemingly little to no malice behind the comment. rather than arguing with you directly, she plays around with the roles of everyone you’ve loved before, putting on a variety of masks and estimating your reaction to them. are you upset? do you admit to being upset? or do you cower, uncertain of how to address the strange situation?

in the end, you aren’t sure what to make of it. prying for more details is the opposite of what you’d expect from somebody burdened with affection: surely, the less you know, the better? and yet jade delights in exploring every side of you, including the ones usually tactfully avoided. and, although she won’t call it jealousy, you don’t know if any other word fits. “jealousy” seems as close as it gets. it’s what you think she must be feeling, features devoid of her signature smile as she leans in closer, the touch of the present forcibly rewriting that of the past.

primrose—in the yandere’s ideal world, what would their relationship with their darling be like?

she wants to have fun with you. though slightly less fickle than her twin, she gets bored easily, phases pursued and discarded on a whim. inescapable one moment, impossible to catch the next. so far, you’ve proven interesting: an underwater lair, lungs begging for air, hands clinging desperately to your murderess-to-be as she ponders—to kiss or not to kiss, lifesaving potion swirling in her mouth; torturously cold gusts of the wind rattling your tent, sending a shiver down your spine, while she thumbs through the moss encyclopedia, relaxed in her sleeping bag, arms open in a welcome should you change your mind (which you do. after a night so biting you were sure you be dead come dawn, the blood-burning bites of your lover seem preferable; when she buries her face in the crook of your neck, you can sense the shape of her smile, warm breath keeping you up all the same); at dinner, eyes feasting on the colorful spread, fingers fumbling with the fork—there is a surprise element, you see, so take a guess on whether the flesh between your lips belongs to an animal you’d eat or an animal you’d date.

you go hungry, sweet thing that you are, and you do not enjoy the reveal that your beer was brewed with human cartilage. well, she never did say it was in the solids, did she? oh, don’t be mad; she could tell the difference. it seems that your taste buds need some refining still. now, how about sanguinaccio dolce for a dessert?

yes, interesting you are, indeed. though she explores you restlessly, there is no shortage of tricks up your sleeves, a dance of adorable tears and painful punches. she wouldn’t be having this much fun without you. caging you up, then letting you loose; cutting you up, then mending the wound. those are the things she is looking forward to the most, the source of her joy. thus, she thinks you might be the one. it’s just a gut feeling, of course—but her gut has never let her down before.

she keeps a romantic list in her journal, all the interesting places for you two to experience next. decided, steady hand adds in another bullet point: an eternity float sounds good, does it not? you’ll look splendid in pearls; even better—water-splashed and shaking for your life, floyd’s tail wrapped around the prow. worry not. however intense the trials of love, she’ll save you. she always does.

hydrangea—how would this yandere react if their darling gave them affection? what is their internal thought process like?

she is so corny. to piss you off, yes, but also just because. vomit-inducing couple t-shirts, matching bag charms, gaudy eel-themed accessories. “dear, your a-moray is home” and “sweetums, could you stop with the stabbing? i’m getting a tummy ache”. maybe it’s her way of mocking the overly affectionate lovebirds, or maybe she’s really into the extreme and the unapologetic, maximalist tendencies excavated from under the surface. whatever it may be, she loves it when you play along. join the dark force—make everyone in the room uncomfortable!

she loves being doted on, too. her sister’s the wild child; she’s the restrained one. that’s the familial dynamic, and, while it’s what she’s chosen for herself, there is a refreshing charm to having somebody be endeared by her, drawn by a desire to smother her with adoration. whether it’s an awkward attempt at soothing her, flush with fever and sick to death, or an embarrassed peck on her cheek in the middle of the day, an imprint of your lips adorning her skin, she eats it up.

it doesn’t matter why you are doing any of it: are you forcing yourself, hoping for her to grow less vigilant as the fire of her love is stoked with your reciprocity? or have you finally gotten so lost in the morass of your relationship that you are willing to find solace in the one you blame for your fate? either way, she gets to observe more of you, soaking up attention like a sponge. she wins.

…or so she thinks. arrogantly, she forgets that the symbiosis goes both ways: as much as you’ve become reliant on her, she’s become reliant on you. it’s not facultative anymore—it’s obligate. though she anticipates a petty revenge, an endless cycle of tear and repair, she doesn’t expect you to truly betray her. she thought she’d figured you out by now. in retrospect, she had grown carelessly besotted. relishing in your violence while believing herself in control of its scope—could this have been more predictable?

it stings. although she’d prefer to make light of it, brushing off the unpleasant sensation, she finds herself more vicious than ever, face frozen, aglow neither with glee nor mirth. she has to extract the payment—it’s only fair. you knew what you were playing with, didn’t you? don’t come crying once the paycheck rolls in.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.

The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.

Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.

The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.

The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.

Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.

And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.

There is something about those children’s eyes.

There is something about those children.

[queerfanfiction]

a touch like a sharp and glorious thorn

Chapter 3

Lilith x GreendaleTeacher! Reader word count: 3,706

AO3 link

The coin did not warm in your palm.

That was the first thing you noticed after Mary… or whoever… left you standing alone in her office like some idiot in the aftermath of a haunting. You had expected it to eventually take on your body heat, to become ordinary once enough time had passed. Metal did that. Objects did that. They yielded to the temperature of the hand that held them.

This one didn’t.

It stayed cold, biting into the creases of your palm with a kind of patient cruelty. Even after you forced yourself to move, to gather your bag, to straighten the book on Mary’s desk as if restoring her office to its prior order could somehow undo the fact that you had trespassed and been caught and then—worse—rewarded for it.

A door, she’d called it. Not a key. Not a warning. A door.

Because apparently Greendale was the kind of town where metaphors were allowed to have teeth.

You stood there for another moment, staring at the place where she had been. The door remained open, the hallway beyond it dim and empty. Her perfume lingered in the air like an accusation.

Rich. Warm. Something floral underneath the spice.

You hated that you noticed. You hated that you kept breathing deeper because of it.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, though your voice came out weak enough to embarrass you.

The room did not answer. Which, considering how the rest of your day had gone, you counted as a mercy.

You locked her office on your way out because she had told you to, and because the thought of disobeying that soft, amused command made something in your stomach tighten in a way you refused to name.

We wouldn’t want anyone to misunderstand. Unless you’d like them to.

Heat rose in your face again, delayed and humiliating. You shoved the coin into the pocket of your coat and walked quickly down the hall, your steps echoing too loudly in the empty school. Every glass-fronted classroom seemed darker than usual. Every trophy case reflected your own face back at you, pale and unsettled, eyes too wide.

By the time you reached the parking lot, the sun had fully dropped behind the trees, leaving the sky bruised purple and gray. Greendale’s evenings always seemed to arrive with theatrical intent, never simply darkening but descending. The woods beyond Baxter High were a black mass against the horizon, branches hooked toward the sky like fingers mid-curl.

You paused beside your car, keys in hand.

For one irrational second, you thought you saw someone standing at the edge of the tree line.

Tall. Still. Watching. You blinked hard. Nothing.

Just trees. Just shadow. Just the ordinary creep of a town that had no business feeling this alive.

You exhaled shakily, got in your car, and drove home with the coin burning cold against your thigh.

—

Your apartment had never felt particularly safe.

That wasn’t Greendale’s fault, not entirely. You had moved here with the vague optimism of someone pretending they were not running from anything, only toward a job, toward stability, toward the rare opportunity to teach history in a town so aggressively saturated with it. The apartment was small, drafty, and old enough that the floorboards complained about your existence. It had radiators that hissed like annoyed cats and windows that never fully sealed no matter how many times you wedged folded paper into the frame.

But it was yours. Usually, that was enough.

Tonight, when you stepped inside and locked the door behind you, the apartment felt staged. Like Mary’s office had. Like someone had come in while you were gone and shifted everything two inches to the left, not enough to prove anything, only enough to make your skin understand before your mind could.

You dropped your bag near the couch and immediately regretted the noise it made.

The coin was still in your pocket. You took it out slowly.

Under the warm yellow light of your living room lamp, it looked even stranger. Older, somehow. Not ancient in a museum display kind of way, but old like something buried under floorboards and found by accident. The symbol pressed into its surface seemed to change depending on how you angled it—sometimes a circle, sometimes a mouth, sometimes the suggestion of horns if you stared too long and let your imagination misbehave.

You set it on your coffee table.

Nothing happened. You felt ridiculous for being disappointed. Then you felt worse for being relieved.

“Okay,” you said aloud, because apparently you had reached the stage of panic where narrating your own behavior felt helpful. “It’s a coin. A weird coin. A very cold, very old, very possibly cursed coin given to you by your maybe-possessed colleague after she caught you breaking into her office.”

You stared at it.

“Great.”

The coin did not defend itself.

You went to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water. Then, after a moment, you poured it down the sink and made tea instead, because some habits were stronger than fear. While the kettle heated, you caught yourself thinking of Mary’s tea ritual—the careful way she used to steep her leaves, the exact tilt of her wrist, the small, pleased smile she wore when you correctly identified something floral or herbal in the blend.

The old Mary. The real Mary.

You gripped the edge of the counter.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You were not simply attracted to whatever had taken her shape. You cared about the woman who had occupied that body before. The one who had smiled at your archival tangents and offered you books with handwritten notes tucked into the pages. The one who had been kind in a town that treated kindness like a suspiciously soft thing.

The woman in the burgundy dress had Mary’s face. Mary’s hands. Mary’s voice, if Mary’s voice had been dipped in wine and sharpened on glass.

But she didn’t have Mary’s hesitation. Her gentleness. Her nervous little laugh when she worried she’d gone on too long about an obscure passage.

Your stomach twisted.

You were not allowed to forget that. No matter how she looked at you. No matter how your body reacted when she stepped too close.

The kettle shrieked, sudden and violent. You flinched hard enough to knock your hip against the counter.

“Christ,” you muttered, turning the burner off.

Behind you, from the living room, came a soft metallic scrape.

You froze. The apartment went silent except for the dying hiss of the kettle.

Slowly, you turned.

The coin was no longer in the center of the coffee table. It had moved to the edge.

Your breath stopped.

You knew what you had seen. You knew where you had put it. You also knew that an old apartment could tilt, that tables could be uneven, that coins could roll. Logic began constructing its little scaffolding immediately, frantic and badly made.

Then the coin rocked once. Not rolled. Rocked.

As if something underneath the table had breathed.

Your pulse hammered so hard it felt almost embarrassing, as if fear itself had found a way to be theatrical. You took one step toward the living room, then another, your tea forgotten on the counter.

The coin lay still.

You stood over it, staring down, every nerve in your body insisting that you not touch it. Naturally, because you were apparently a complete idiot, you reached for it anyway.

The moment your fingers closed around the coin, the room changed.

Not visually. Not at first.

The lamp still glowed. The couch still sagged. Your books still leaned precariously on the overstuffed shelf near the window.

But the air deepened.

That was the only way you could describe it. The apartment seemed to stretch around you, growing taller and darker, as if the walls had inhaled and chosen not to exhale. The warmth from the radiator vanished. The tea kettle’s metal body gave a soft ticking sound as it cooled, distant and irrelevant.

Then you heard a woman laugh.

Not Mary. Not exactly.

Low. Delighted. Familiar enough to make your knees weaken.

You turned sharply. No one was there.

“Mary?” you called, and hated yourself for choosing that name first.

Silence.

Then, very softly, from somewhere behind you… “Still clinging to that, are we?”

You spun around so quickly your shoulder clipped the bookshelf. A few papers slid loose and fluttered to the floor. Your breath came fast, shallow, ugly in the quiet.

The voice was gone.

But the coin had warmed. Only slightly. Enough to feel alive.

—

You did not sleep so much as lose consciousness in increments.

At some point, you left the coin in a ceramic bowl on your kitchen counter and covered it with an overturned mug, which felt both childish and insufficient. Then you locked your bedroom door, despite living alone, and got into bed fully clothed because it seemed important to be prepared for an emergency.

Prepared for what, exactly, you did not know. A demon with Mary Wardwell’s cheekbones? A supernatural coin with attachment issues? Your own humiliating lack of self-preservation?

All reasonable threats, apparently.

You slept badly. You dreamed in fragments. A hallway at Baxter High, impossibly long. A door at the end of it, painted black. Mary standing in front of it, not in burgundy now, but in something darker. Older. Her hair was looser, her smile slower. She lifted one hand and pressed her palm flat against the door.

“Open it,” she said.

You shook your head.

Her smile widened. “Liar.”

The hallway tilted. The lockers stretched upward like church windows. Somewhere, far away, thirteen women began singing—not beautifully, not horribly, but in the flat, steady cadence of people who had been waiting a long time to be heard.

You looked down and saw the coin in your hand. Blood seeped between your fingers.

When you looked back up, Mary was closer. Too close.

Her eyes moved over your face with that same terrible patience, and in the dream you understood with sickening clarity that she could have touched you at any moment.

She didn’t, and that was worse.

“You want answers,” she murmured. “But you don’t want what answers cost.”

You tried to speak, but your throat closed around the words.

Mary leaned in, her mouth near your ear. “Come find me when you’re ready to stop pretending.”

You woke with a gasp, sitting upright in bed, your shirt damp against your back and your heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

Morning light pressed weakly through the curtains. For one fragile second, you felt almost relieved. Then you looked at your bedside table.

The coin sat there. Uncovered. Waiting.

—

You were late to work.

Not catastrophically late. Not enough to warrant disciplinary action or even a concerned email from Principal Hawthorne. But late enough that you had to walk across the courtyard while students were already clustering near classroom doors, laughing and shouting over one another. Late enough that several of them noticed.

“Rough morning?” one of your juniors asked with the cheerful cruelty of teenagers who can smell weakness.

You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder. “I was delayed by the consequences of my own choices.”

He blinked. “That’s dark, teach.”

“That’s adulthood.”

He seemed to consider this, then nodded solemnly as if you had imparted wisdom rather than barely concealed distress.

You made it through first period due to the raw force of muscle memory. Reconstruction, contested memory, the politics of historical narrative—topics you could teach with half your brain missing, which was fortunate, because the other half remained fixated on the coin now zipped into the inner pocket of your bag.

You had considered leaving it at home.

Then you had imagined coming back to find it on your pillow again and decided that whatever horror movie rules currently governed your life, proximity felt marginally less terrifying than abandonment.

By second period, you were almost convincing yourself that exhaustion had made everything worse. The voice. The dream. The coin moving. All of it could be stress... or suggestion. Greendale being Greendale and your own mind proving embarrassingly susceptible to atmosphere.

Then Sabrina Spellman lingered after class.

That alone was not unusual. Sabrina was bright, curious, and far too comfortable questioning authority for someone still technically required to ask permission before using the restroom. You liked her. She had the kind of mind that pressed at locked doors simply because someone had bothered to lock them.

Today, however, she did not approach your desk with her usual quick, confident energy. She moved slowly, glancing once toward the hallway before stopping in front of you.

“Can I ask you something weird?” she said.

You nearly laughed. Instead, you set down the papers you were pretending to organize. “In Greendale, that feels like a category error.”

Her mouth twitched, but the humor didn’t last. Her eyes dropped briefly to your bag.

Your stomach tightened. “What is it?” you asked.

Sabrina hesitated. “Have you noticed anything… off about Ms. Wardwell?”

The room seemed to constrict around her name.

You kept your face as neutral as possible. It was the same expression you used during faculty meetings when someone suggested “less controversial” readings for a unit on civil rights. Calm. Polite. Carefully empty.

“Off how?”

Sabrina watched you, clearly deciding how much to say. “Different.”

A beat passed. You hated how little the word needed.

You leaned back against your desk, arms folding loosely across your chest. “People have different days.”

“Not like this.”

Your eyes met hers.

There it was, then. Confirmation. Not proof, not yet. But something close. Something outside the feverish privacy of your own perception.

“What have you noticed?” you asked carefully.

Sabrina looked down at her hands, then back toward the door again. “She talks differently. Looks differently. Acts differently. And she knew things yesterday that I never told her.”

A chill moved through you.

“What kind of things?”

Sabrina opened her mouth. Then stopped.

Her eyes shifted past you. The hairs on the back of your neck lifted before you turned.

Mary Wardwell stood in the doorway of your classroom.

For one dizzying second, you had the absurd impression that the day brightened around her out of obedience. She wore black today, a fitted dress beneath a deep red coat, elegant enough to be inappropriate for a public high school and somehow all the more devastating for it. Her hair framed her face in dark waves, her lipstick precise, her expression mild.

Too mild.

“Ms. Spellman,” she said warmly. Sabrina went still beside your desk.

Mary stepped into the room with the unhurried confidence of someone entering a space that already belonged to her. Her eyes moved from Sabrina to you, lingering just long enough to make your skin heat beneath your collar.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

You forced your voice to function. “We were just discussing class.”

“How industrious.”

The words were perfectly innocent. The tone was not.

Sabrina’s gaze flicked between you, sharp and assessing. You had the unpleasant feeling that the entire shape of your panic had just become visible to a sixteen-year-old.

Mary smiled at her. “Run along now, Sabrina. I need a word with our newest historian.”

Our.

It should not have landed the way it did. It should not have slid under your skin with such immediate, treacherous warmth.

Sabrina did not move at first.

Mary’s smile did not change, but the room seemed to darken by degrees.

After a moment, Sabrina gathered her books. As she passed you, she gave you one quick look. Warning, maybe. Apology. Recognition.

Then she left. The door clicked shut behind her.

You and Mary were alone. Again.

“Locking doors does seem to be becoming a theme,” she observed.

You looked at the closed classroom door, then back at her. “I didn’t lock it.”

“No,” Mary agreed, walking slowly between the rows of desks. “You’re much too well-behaved for that.”

Your mouth went dry. She knew exactly what she was doing. Worse, she knew that you knew, and she was enjoying every second of your attempt to survive it with dignity.

You moved behind your desk, partly because it gave you something solid between you and her, partly because standing still felt impossible. “What are you doing here?”

Mary’s brows lifted. “In a school where I work?”

“In my classroom,” you corrected.

Her smile deepened. “Is that what this is? Yours?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

She had crossed the room by then, close enough to rest one hand on the edge of your desk. Her nails were immaculate. Her fingers long. You noticed, and then immediately regretted that you had noticed.

Her eyes flicked down to your bag.

Your body went tense.

Mary’s gaze returned to your face, slow and knowing. “You brought it with you.”

You did not ask what she meant. There was no point insulting either of you.

“It appeared on my bedside table this morning,” you said quietly.

For the first time, something like surprise moved across her expression. Not alarm. Not concern. Interest. “How forward of it.”

Your patience, frayed by fear and no sleep, finally snapped a little. “Could you not flirt with the cursed object situation?”

Mary’s mouth parted. Then she laughed.

It was not the quiet, calculated laugh from her office. It was fuller. Genuine enough to startle you, low and delighted and unfairly beautiful. The sound moved through you before you could stop it.

Your anger faltered, which only annoyed you more.

“Oh,” she said, still smiling. “There you are.” The softness of it hit harder than the teasing.

You looked away first.

Mary’s amusement faded into something more intent. “Tell me what happened.”

“No.”

Her eyes sharpened.

You were either brave or very, very tired. Possibly both. “Not until you tell me what it is.”

The silence that followed felt dangerous.

Mary straightened slightly, and the air changed with her. That was the thing about her now. She did not need to raise her voice. She did not need to move dramatically. Her displeasure entered the room before any visible expression of it.

“You’re bargaining,” she said.

“I’m learning.”

Her gaze dragged over your face, searching. “Careful.”

The word was soft enough to be intimate.

You lifted your chin, though your pulse was betraying you loudly. “You gave me a choice.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m choosing not to be led blindfolded.”

Mary’s expression stilled.

For a moment—one suspended, breathless moment—you thought you had miscalculated. That the thing wearing Mary’s face would drop the performance entirely and show you what lived underneath.

Then her lips curved. Not sweetly.

Proudly.

“There may be hope for you yet,” she murmured.

You hated the way relief moved through you. Hated that praise from her, even veiled and dangerous, warmed something low in your chest.

Mary leaned against the front of your desk, crossing one ankle over the other. The pose should have been casual. Instead, it made your classroom feel like a confessional, and you were somehow both penitent and sin.

“The coin is an invitation,” she said.

“To what?”

“To the parts of Greendale that do not appear in your charming little textbooks.”

You swallowed. “The seam.”

Her eyes brightened. So she knew about the book. Of course she knew.

“Not a seam,” Mary corrected, voice dropping into velvet. “A mouth.”

The handwritten note in the margin came back to you so vividly that your fingers curled against your palm.

“That was you,” you said.

Mary tilted her head. “Was it?”

Irritation cut through the fear. “Do you ever answer questions directly?”

“When they deserve it.”

“You are infuriating.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Your eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

Mary’s smile turned slow. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, my dear.”

Your face went hot so fast it was almost painful. “That was not jealousy.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why did your voice change?”

You stared at her.

She stared back, serene and viciously pleased.

The bell rang.

You jolted hard enough to bump your hip against the desk. Mary did not so much as blink.

Beyond the door, students began flooding the hallway, their voices rising into the ordinary chaos of a school day. The sound should have made you feel safer. Instead, it made the moment feel stranger—this impossible conversation tucked inside the mundane machinery of public education.

Mary looked toward the door, then back at you.

“We’ll continue this later.”

It was not a request.

You should have objected. You should have demanded answers right then, before she could disappear down another hallway and leave you questioning your own sanity.

Instead, because you apparently had learned nothing, you asked, “Where?”

Mary’s smile softened.

“At my house,” she said.

Your brain stopped.

Somewhere in the hallway, a student laughed too loudly. A locker slammed. The world continued doing normal things while yours quietly tipped sideways.

“Your house,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“That seems…” You searched for the correct word and unfortunately found several, none of them appropriate. “Unwise.”

Mary stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to make the desk between you feel symbolic rather than useful.

“Most worthwhile things are.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Her gaze dipped to your mouth again. Brief. Devastating. Then she stepped away, all elegance and restraint, and moved toward the door.

Before she opened it, she paused.

“Oh,” she said lightly, as if remembering something ordinary. “And do keep an eye on Sabrina Spellman.”

Your stomach tightened. “Why?”

Mary looked back over her shoulder.

For one fleeting second, something old moved behind her eyes. Something vast and amused and hungry. Then it was gone, tucked neatly back beneath Mary Wardwell’s beautiful face.

“Because,” she said, “some doors open from both sides.”

Then she left.

Students poured into your classroom moments later, loud and oblivious and alive. You stood behind your desk with your pulse still racing, your lesson plan forgotten, Mary’s warning echoing in your bones.

Some doors open from both sides.

Inside your bag, the coin turned warm. No longer cool to the touch. Warm. Like it had heard her. Like it approved.

—

Tagging: @milflovers4 @wandsgirl

Let me know if you want tagged for future chapters! Or untagged!

[veevid]

warnings :- a lil bit of sexual tension and gory description (we know how our rat bastard is like.) pairing :- rumplestiltskin x fem!reader

EMOTION

The loud, relentless whirr of the spinning wheel filled the tower, drilling into (first name)’s skull until it felt like her thoughts were unraveling along with the straw. Again and again, her hands worked the fibers—too tight, too loose, too hopeful—and again and again the straw fell limp and useless at her feet. This was the fifth failure. Her shoulders sagged, arms aching, frustration simmering dangerously close to despair.

“This isn’t going anywhere.”

She leaned back from the wheel with an exasperated sigh, irritation sharp in her voice as she wiped sweat from her brow. The torchlight flickered across the stone walls, illuminating Rumplestiltskin where he lounged nearby, watching her with that ever-present, unsettling calm.

“You just need to stop thinking about it.”

His tone was oddly measured, almost thoughtful, his eyes reflecting something deeper than mockery this time.

She turned to look at him, strands of hair sticking to her face.

“Magic, is about emotion. Summon up that moment that made you so angry; you would’ve killed if you could.”

The words struck something raw. She studied him for a long moment, then muttered bitterly,

“And you do that?”

“I do.”

Something shifted in his voice—something darker, heavier.

Her curiosity overcame her caution.

“What’s your moment?”

He inhaled slowly, then exhaled as though dredging something rotten from the depths of memory.

“Once, a man made me kiss his boots in front of my son. And in my mind, I go back and I rip out his throat. And I crunch his veins with my teeth.”

The words were graphic, vicious—and spoken with chilling clarity.

And (first name) listened, transfixed. Her eyes widened slightly, an unintended, almost reverent smile touching her lips as the sheer intensity of his confession wrapped around her like smoke.

“And that dearie, is how magic is made.”

Rumplestiltskin noticed her expression and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile in return.

“Bloodlust.”

She whispered the word, tasting it.

“I like the phrase.”

His voice dropped.

He moved then, slow and deliberate, circling until he stood behind her seated form at the wheel. The air felt thicker, charged. She stiffened when his hands settled on her bare shoulders—calloused, rough, and startlingly warm against her skin.

“Let me help you.”

He whispered.

She closed her eyes, breath hitching as she followed his guidance. His hands slid down her shoulders, steady and insistent, then wrapped around her arms as he lowered himself onto a stool behind her, guiding her movements.

“They made me kneel.”

She whispered, venom seeping into every word as her hands began to spin again—faster, surer.

“I didn’t do anything wrong… but they made me kneel.”

Her voice sharpened, trembling with restrained fury.

His lips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck. Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop.

“They made me apologize. To a child.”

Her grip faltered for a moment, then tightened again.

“But I realised… that no matter how good I was, or how hard I worked… I was never going to be more than I am now.”

The anger surged, white-hot, burning through her chest and down her arms.

“What do you want to do to them?”

Rumplestiltskin whispered, so close now that she could feel his breath against her skin.

“I want to make them bow. I want their kneecaps to crack, and freeze into the stones.”

She leaned her head back against his, surrendering to the heat of it all as his lips pressed to her neck. Still, she spoke—steady, cruel, honest.

“I want their necks to break from bending.”

A smile curved her lips as she turned her head just enough to look at him.

“Look.”

He whispered.

His gaze flicked to the wheel.

(first name) gasped. Woven through the straw was a flawless strand of gold, gleaming impossibly bright in the torchlight.

“I did it. I’m going to live.”

Her voice was quiet, awed, as she lifted the gold, hardly daring to believe it was real.

“You’re gonna do much more than that dearie.”

Rumplestiltskin murmured, leaning closer still.

“Don’t stop… until they are on their knees.”

His words slid into her ear, dark and intoxicating, the space between them gone entirely.

“Let’s keep going.”

She whispered.

He kissed her cheek, then her shoulder, his presence amplifying everything—rage, power, hunger. The spinning wheel roared on, drowning out the world beyond the tower walls as gold continued to spill forth until night surrendered to dawn.

(an :- wink wink)

---

(first name) sat before the spinning wheel once more—but now she did not tremble.

The grand hall was packed with royals, nobles, and courtiers who watched in stunned silence as her hands moved with effortless precision, straw transforming into gold before their very eyes. Her posture was calm, unyielding. Powerful.

From the crowd, unseen beneath a cloaking spell, Rumplestiltskin watched—eyes gleaming with pride and something far more dangerous.

“Here. Here’s your gold.”

She said, holding out the long strand of pure gold to the King.

“This—did you really do this?”

The King’s voice cracked as he took it, turning it over as if expecting the illusion to break.

“You saw it with your own eyes.”

She replied evenly.

“You’re just a Miller’s daughter.”

He snapped, scrambling to reclaim his dignity as murmurs rippled through the hall.

“I am so much more than that.”

fin-

AN :- HAHAHAAHA I'M GIDDY I LOVE THIS SM.

next part's gonna be a bit short tho.

[feelyaalien]

Drag Path, Chapter 1 | Eugene Roe x fem!oc

"You're enlisting?!"

His fingers ran through a mass of blonde curls, removing leaves that were stuck to his hair. She hadn't bothered to ask what had happened before she walked inside the safety of their home, but her lips were now sealed on that regard—she knew she'd feel stupid by deflecting his question. Or guilty.

I already feel guilty.

"Did you seriously think that I'd stay home, taking care of flowers with our aunt while you're out there having all of the fun?"

Childish. She was aware of it. Alistair only stared at her like she had grown two heads, but then a laugh that sounded more like a bark escaped his throat. He looked at her, then. Truly looked. Every time his irises so much as twitched, she could feel him focusing on another part of her face, and she wondered, does he think I look stupid?

He sighed, then. Reached up to hold both her upper arms in his hands and she felt the need to shake off his touch. She didn't know why.

"Autumn. You're a woman. This isn't... something fun. It's supposed to be the war. I know I'm not the perfect brother, I never have been, but you have to understand that the place where I'm going... you can't follow. It's going to be dangerous. Other men, they... they're not going to be like me. Or like Joseph."

Joseph. The boy next door who kept staring at her like she was Carmen Miranda.

She cut him off. Sharp, decisive.

"I already filed the papers. They'll send a letter within the week to confirm it."

Time seemed to freeze around them. Her eyes didn't leave his own, but those green hues of his that matched her own were somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't the four walls around them. Somewhere where the reflection was that of blood, of the noise that they could only imagine for they hadn't lived it yet.

Alistair stepped back abruptly, the movement so aggressive she nearly stumbled when he removed his hands from her body. Years ago, an embrace from her brother would've comforting, nowadays? They felt like knives prickling her skin, making her wish she could rip off her own flesh.

Gone was the boy who used to dump piles of snow behind the back of her jacket. Gone was the boy who would protect her with his full body when their mother got too violent. In his place stood the man who now paced the length of the dusty living room in the late afternoon, the golden sunlight shining over the furrow of his brows and the tightness of his lips.

He laughed.

The sound was strange, unsettling. It made something feel like it was crawling up and down her back, but she didn't know what.

"You're crazy."

Alistair stated it like it was the truth, and maybe it was. Maybe she was crazy for not wanting to stay back while people were dying out there. Maybe she was crazy for thinking that the work of a nurse would be the same one that led her to tend to flowers daily with so much more care than she showcased any other human being.

But she didn't smile, not truthfully. The corner of her mouth lifted, that was the truth, but her eyes were downcast, and her teeth snagged a piece of the inner flesh of her mouth.

"I just don't want my brother to sacrifice himself all alone," she replied in a murmur, lifting her gaze to look at him. He seemed a thousand times less threatening than he did ten seconds ago. "We always were stuck together, weren't we?"

The silence that followed was heavier than the humid Boston air clinging to their skin. Alistair stopped his pacing. The frantic energy that had driven him across the floorboards moments ago seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a rigid, terrifying stillness.

"All alone," he repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He ran a hand over his face, dragging down the skin as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion. "You think you're saving me by putting yourself in the line of fire? Autumn, you're talking about the Red Cross, about blood and guts and things you've never seen outside of a butcher shop. It's not..." He struggled for the word, his green eyes pleading. "It's not noble. It's hell. You're going to see bodies, you're going to see people dying."

"I know." Her voice was steady, betraying the trembling of her hands which she quickly tucked into her armpits. "But it's a hell we'll be in together. In the same theater, at least. If something happens... I want to know. I don't want to be sitting here, pruning Aunt Gloria's hydrangeas, waiting for a telegram that tells me I'm the last Heider left."

Alistair looked away, his jaw working. He knew that fear, she assumed. It was the same fear that had bound them together in the dark corners of their childhood bedroom while their mother screamed in the hallway—the fear of being the one left behind to pick up the pieces.

"One way," he muttered, almost to himself, turning toward the window where the sun was beginning to dip below the skyline, painting the room in bruised purples and reds. "We're all going one way, aren't we?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The fight had left him, replaced by the crushing reality of the date on the calendar.

"Gloria is going to lose her mind," he said finally, his voice rough. "She'll scream at us both."

"I know."

"She'll blame me. For putting the idea in your head."

"She can blame who she wants. My signature is on the paper. Not yours."

Alistair let out a long breath, finally turning back to her. The anger was gone, replaced by a sorrow so profound it made Autumn's chest ache, right where the old scars lay hidden beneath her blouse. He walked over to her, slower this time, telegraphing his movements so she wouldn't flinch. He reached out, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. This time, she didn't mind the touch nearly as much.

"Come on," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Let's get dinner started before she gets home. If I'm going to ship out, and you're going to... do whatever this is... we might as well have one last decent meal that doesn't taste like cardboard."

The transition from life-altering news to the mundane clatter of the kitchen was jarring, but it was a rhythm they knew well. Crisis, then survival. Chaos, then dinner.

Autumn moved to the icebox, pulling out vegetables while Alistair rolled up his sleeves, revealing the pale skin of his forearms. They moved around each other in the small kitchen with a practiced ease, a dance perfected over years of keeping out of the way, of being silent, of being a unit of two against the world.

She chopped carrots with a rhythm that matched the ticking clock in the hall. One way. One way. One way.

"I requested a nursing position," she said after a long stretch of silence, the knife hitting the cutting board with a definitive thud. "General hospital work. Behind the lines. I'm not... I'm not trying to be a hero, Alistair. I just want to be useful."

Alistair leaned against the counter, watching her. He looked skeptical, perhaps sensing what the universe had in store for the Heider luck—that "behind the lines" was a promise rarely kept during war.

"Just promise me something."

Autumn paused, looking up at him. "What?"

"Don't lose your head. You've got that... fire. The same one Dad had. The same one she had, though I hate to say it." He pointed the knife he was holding at her, a grim half-smile on his face. "You get stubborn, and you get reckless when you think you're right. In Boston, that gets you grounded. Over there? It gets you killed."

Autumn felt a defensive retort rise in her throat, but she swallowed it. He was scared. She could see it in the way his knuckles were white around the handle of the paring knife. God, she was scared, too, but she didn't show it nearly half as much as he did. Or, at least, she hoped she didn't.

"I promise."

She lied. Or maybe she meant it, then. She didn't know that miles away, a clerical error was already shifting, swapping papers, changing a 'Nurse Heider' into something else entirely. Something that would require every ounce of that recklessness he feared.

"Good." Alistair turned back to the potatoes. "Now, put on some music. It's too quiet in here. It sounds like a funeral."

Autumn wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the radio in the living room. She turned the dial, static hissing before settling on a melody. She stood there for a moment, looking at the room. The dust motes dancing in the fading light, the worn armchair, the safety of it all. She was trading this for mud and blood, and for the first time since she signed the papers, the gravity of it anchored her to the floor.

“I’m gonna wing it.” She had told herself earlier that morning.

As she looked at her brother's back through the kitchen doorway, bent over the sink, she realized she wasn't just winging it. She was jumping. And there was no pulling the ripcord now.

The masterlist

Now Playing: One Way - Twenty One Pilots

The Autumn-verse pinterest board - band of brothers edition