Ooooh so many snippets back to back eating so good… been thinking of op and how you’ve talked about the matrix before
I was thinking, with wheeljack hiding in omega and not being there when op and bee meet the counsel… what if they had a plan in case Optimus was… “Difficult”. They ask him to stay after sending Bumblebee away. Then they grab him, open up his spark chamber and put in their fancy new “matrix of leadership.”
He’s bigger, stronger, “wiser”, and, most importantly fully dedicated to protecting and upholding The Autobot Cause. (And, of course the council)
Hey! :)
I’m sorry, do we want this Wrecker to absolutely lose his shit?
TFA Optimus is this man’s little awkward middle-child with Eldest Daughter Syndrome (trust me, it makes sense). Wheeljack absolutely adores his lil’ baby Prime with his whole being—wants him to regain some of his innocence and confidence, to actually be a kid who knows his worth and is able to accept help.
Wheeljack would die for him, kill for him, go to jail for him, all of the above in any order (because it’s Transformers and we can honestly make anything work somehow).
If the Council did anything to this sweet boy after all they have already put him through, Wheeljack wouldn’t even care about toning things down for the kids anymore. That man would go full John Wick as only Aligned-continuity ‘bots can do, and show no mercy.
The Matrix being used to turn TFA Optimus into an antagonist of this narrative is a really cool take. Instead of being an ancient relic containing the power and wisdom of the Primes, it’s created by the Council to turn anyone of their choosing into their perfect puppet dictator.
That’s some twisted stuff!
And we know it would cause a lot of issues not only psychologically, but also physically! The use of mind control in the Human Error arc showed us just how much TFA OP holds back physically—as he was able to knock Scrapper, Wreck-Gar, Snarl, and Sari around together with a single swing, lift Snarl up by his horns and slam him into concrete, and hoist Wreck-Gar up with a single hand to use him as a fucking meat-shield.
TFA Optimus is stronger than he seems, strong enough to repeatedly survive when pitted against the larger and more-experienced TFA Megatron. That’s his formidability as-is.
Now, upgrade his frame and take away all of those “pesky morals” he’s developed to help him stand against the Council.
He’d be a terrifying enemy, and a really effective puppet ruler due to the wild popularity his heroic exploits have earned him.
If the Council had the ability to do this to TFA Optimus, why wouldn’t they?
But his family wouldn’t think much on the other consequences of this action. How could they? Their leader is being puppeteered to hurt people, his great fear after Human Error. He’s a prisoner in his own body, he must be so scared…
And what kind of family would leave him like that? What kind of father wouldn’t do whatever it took to set his son free and bring him home?
…
…
…
“You’ve surprised me with this visit, little Wrecker, but more-so with how you’ve chosen to conduct it. I would have thought you would be relishing in your triumph, or plotting my murder.”
“Believe me, there’s nothin’ I’d love to do more,” Wheeljack looks up, his optics narrowed and his voice full of venom. “You attacked my home and you put my kid in a position where he chose to kill himself to save lives, and that’s just in the past forty-eight hours. I could tear you apart with my bare servos and never think twice on it.”
“Then, why won’t you?”
“… Because we both know that somethin’ is wrong,” Wheeljack replies quietly. “That those Council fraggers did somethin’ to Prime after he brought you in. That wasn’t him, at your trial.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Magnus’?” Megatron jeers from the other side of the cell barrier, then he frowns. “… I heard something, after the small yellow one was sent away and that oaf Sentinel Prime began escorting us to our prison cells. A struggle.”
“Sentinel didn’t turn back?” Wheeljack asks.
Megatron snorts. “He was barely awake, let alone able to process what he was hearing.” He grows serious. “… You’re right. Something is amiss. That was not the Prime I faced on Earth. He seemed far too much like Ultra Magnus, only-"
“He ain’t the one pullin’ the strings.” Wheeljack crosses his arms. “Someone’s pullin’ his.” His shoulders raise. “… I have an offer for you.”
“Oh?”
“I get you and yours outta here before you can be transferred to the stockade like ‘Prime’ ordered,” Wheeljack says, and Megatron blinks. “In return, you murderous glitches will do everythin’ in your power to kill every last twisted fragger on the Council while I rescue my kid.” He takes a deep vent. “And… we bring your people home and rebuild this world together, without them.”
Megatron is honestly at a loss. “You’re talking about a coup d’état. You can’t expect that to actually go well for you, with the Elite Guard-"
“I went to the Elite Guard first,” Wheeljack states. “They’re under Sentinel’s command right now, and the kid knows his best friend ain’t himself. Honestly, I had him at ‘punch some power-hungry old people who really deserve it’.” He shrugs. “The guy’s got issues. Blackarachnia, too—we brought her in, and she’s pissed ‘cause only she can mess with her idiots. We’ll work on it, eventually.”
Megatron frowns. “And they’ve accepted your idea to free Decepticons from their confines?”
“… After Jazz told them exactly what happens in the stockades?” Wheeljack nodded. “Yeah. This may come as a shock, but you fellas are actually the lesser of two evils.” His optics narrow. “And if we’re gonna bring down this Council and those who remain loyal to them, we need real warriors who haven’t had their skills stunted with molds and conditionin’ to dissuade rebellion. We need people who are willin’ to kill. Congrats, fragger—that means it’s your lucky day.”
Megatron approaches the cell wall. “… So much risk, for the sake of one ‘bot?”
“That ‘bot is my kid,” Wheeljack states. “And I’m not losin’ another one, not like this… Now, do we have a deal? Your freedom and a real shot at peace in exchange for a bit of Autobot-approved governmental assassination.”
“… You had me at ‘punch some power-hungry old people who really deserve it’.”
Wheeljack takes a keycard and swipes it across a panel, and Megatron steps out of his cell to face the white Wrecker. Their optics lock, Wheeljack searching for deceit while Megatron gazes back with an eerie calm before raising a servo.
Wheeljack reaches back to grab a blade, only to blink as the servo rests upon his shoulder.
“Let’s go get your son back, Wrecker.”
…
Ultra Magnus could hear them coming.
Holed-up with the Council and their new, young Magnus as their chambers shook with the force of Decepticon fire and the unleashed wrath of an Omega Sentinel, it was difficult but still possible to hear the footsteps approaching the door.
“They can’t get in,” Sigil insisted. “The security encryption, the lockdown protocols—they can’t-"
The door started to steam before a large section in the middle melted down to form a gap.
And Bumblebee smirks in triumph, dropping an empty canister. “Organic-based acid, one that even melts Autobot alloy. Snagged it from a total jerk called Meltdown, if you’re wondering.”
He steps back, and Wheeljack is the first to enter the room—his optics narrowed, his battle-mask raised, and his swords held at his sides.
Behind him, the members of the once-Prime’s team follow—and behind them comes Megatron and his most-elite warriors, standing as one.
“… A deal’s a deal,” Wheeljack remarks, glancing at Megatron. “They’re all yours, King ‘Con. Just leave Optimus to us.”
And Megatron smirks. “With pleasure.”
“You led the leader of the Decepticons here to slaughter us?!” Halogen demands, standing and slamming his servos on the table.
Wheeljack glares at him. “You wouldn’t answer my questions about what you did to Optimus. I had to get your attention somehow.”
“We’ve bestowed great power and wisdom upon him,” Alpha Trion insists, rising to his feet and gesturing to where Optimus stands with his servos folded behind his back and watching the scene with empty optics. “It was a compromise we came to on behalf of our world, we needed a leader we could depend on!” He sighed, shaking his head. “You must understand-!”
“No, you must understand.” Wheeljack points his blade, glaring. “You took the wrong kid.”
With that, the Decepticon warriors surge forward and descend upon the Autobot Council.
In the chaos that follows, with sparks flying and pink Energon splattering, Ultra Magnus crouches behind a desk and watches as Wheeljack comes to face the Cybertronian he had come for.
“Hey, Prime,” he greets. “If you can hear me in there, we’re here for you and we’re gettin’ you outta this mess. Don’t worry.” He glances over as Contrail’s head flies by. “… Worry a little.”
“You’ve betrayed Cybertron,” Optimus says, his empty optics finally narrowing. “Stand down and order the Decepticons to cease their attack.”
“What part of this makes you believe I have any control over them?” Wheeljack asks, grinning slyly before growing serious. “Prime, they’re the decoys. I honestly don’t care how this ends as long as we get to bring you home with us.”
Optimus draws his upgraded axe and readies himself for battle. “This is your last chance.”
“… Yeah, this is definitely gonna be a jam session later,” Wheeljack decides, then he dodges a swing of the glowing axe before he slams his foot into Optimus’s abdomen with strength that may have once forced him to stumble back but now hardly fazed the massive Autobot ‘leader’. “Uh-oh.”
Optimus grabs Wheeljack’s leg and throws him across the room and into a wall, and Wheeljack grunts as he falls to the floor.
Bumblebee activates the wheels on his heels and zips around the Prime, firing his stingers and trying to slow the behemoth down—but Optimus extends the handle of his axe and trips him, sending him rolling across the room.
“Bumblebee!” Bulkhead shouts, then he swings his wrecking-ball and launches it—only for his former leader to catch the ball with ease and use his axe to slice through the cable.
Bulkhead yelps in pain, and Jazz darts forward to support him when he staggers back.
“Ratchet!” The cyber-ninja shouts, and the field-tech marches forward and activates his magnets to hold Optimus in place—but the Prime grunts and activates his battle-mask before flexing his arms and releasing a burst of energy which is able to overpower Ratchet and throw him to the floor.
“What did they do to him?!” Sari shouts as she lands by a recovering Bumblebee, optics wide.
Wheeljack stands, glaring. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, which makes this both easier and harder than I thought.” He glances at Ratchet. “We need to pin him down long enough to access his spark-chamber! Any bright ideas, doc-‘bot?!”
“One!” Ratchet activates his EMP generator. “But given how much energy he’s giving off, I’m not sure I know exactly how hard to hit him!”
Wheeljack huffs, rolling his shoulders back. “So, we need to wear him down a bit so we can just use the normal-strength blast to be safe. Okay. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. We’ve got this.”
“Do we?!” Bulkhead asks while Jazz awkwardly tries to had him his severed wrecking-ball. “Have you ever fought an Optimus Prime, before?!”
“Hey, I’m just reckless—not absolutely fraggin’ nuts!” Wheeljack protests. “My Optimus Prime was a beast, the only things that ever fraggin’ daunted him were Relics of the Primes, the actual god of chaos, or-" He blinks. “… Megatron!”
The leader of the Decepticons looks up from where he’s put a blade through Alpha Trion. “I thought we agreed you’d handle this part!”
Wheeljack gestures. “Hey, they knew he could kick your aft as an independent little guy and decided to make him bigger when they enslaved him! They think all they need to bring you down is brute force with their stupid-aft ideas of ‘wisdom’ at the helm! You just gonna take that?!”
Megatron’s optic twitches.
“You’re wrong, you know. You are nuts,” Ratchet tells the white Wrecker as the Decepticon warlord practically launches across the room to lock his twin blades with Optimus’s axe. “Jam session.”
“I know, I know.” Wheeljack waves it off as they both watches the commencing brawl. “But hey, Optimus can blow off some steam beatin’ King ‘Con up without developin’ a whole moral crisis about it. We wait for our openin’, then go for his spark chamber. Just give it a few minutes.”
Just then, Optimus throws Megatron to the ground and raises his axe over the ‘Con’s head.
Megatron’s optics widen, and Wheeljack blinks before he sighs. “Son of a bitch.”
“Megatron, you have proven yourself far too dangerous to be kept alive,” Optimus states coldly. “For the sake of all Autobots, I must-"
Wheeljack’s shoulder slams into the Prime’s and forces Optimus back, and Wheeljack steps between the brainwashed mech and Megatron.
“Oh, how the tables turn,” he remarks.
Megatron pushes himself up, frustrated. “I could have handled this without your help, Wrecker.”
Wheeljack deadpans. “You had your chance, now just stay- Ah!” He stumbles back, gripping his face, then lowers his servo and smirks as Energon dribbles from his lips. “Heh. Not a bad swing. You’ve been payin’ attention. I’d be proud if I didn’t think it might’ve dislocated my jaw.” He sighs. “Who am I kiddin’? I’m still very proud.” Optimus marches toward, and Wheeljack takes a deep vent as he stands up straight. “But what can I say? You’ve always made me proud, Optimus.”
Optimus has his axe in two servos, ready to swing, but he pauses as his optics widen. Then, they narrow as the axe shakes in his servos.
“That’s a lie,” he mutters. “I disappointed you, time after time—with how I led my team, with how I treated Sari. I always disappointed you!”
“… You worried me, Prime. And you frustrated me, scared me, outright pissed me off…” Wheeljack smiles and shakes his head. “But that’s just what kids do. They’re not supposed to be perfect little obedient angels—they’re supposed to burn your fuel, mess with your scrap, break your spark… and you love ‘em for it, so much that it hurts.” The axe swings and pauses mere inches from the side of Wheeljack’s head, and trembles. “You’ve always taken things to spark, Optimus—and you learn from your mistakes. And that has always made me so very, very proud of you.” He nods as he steps forward. “I’m lucky to have you as my leader, and I’m sure as Pit lucky to have you as my kid… no matter how much they’ve tried to take that from you, to take everything from you.”
Optimus blinks, then his optics narrow again. “I am the leader of Cybertron. I am not a child!”
He goes to lunge forward, but Wheeljack catches him in his arms and hugs him—his optics closed.
“… You’re not a child,” Wheeljack agrees. “You are the bravest, strongest, and kindest young ‘bot I have ever had the honor to get to know. I wasn’t there for your firsts, I didn’t get to see you grow up… but I’ve gotten to see you grow into yourself, to find who you really are under all they’ve tried to force you to be.” He opens his optics, and he gives a tired smile. “And you don’t have to be a child to be my kid, Optimus. Just… young, and not dyin’ on my watch—remember?”
Optimus’s face drops, a bit of spark returning to his optics, then his optics narrow again as he shoves Wheeljack back and raises his axe-
BLAST!
The EMP blast knocks Optimus to the ground before Ratchet uses his magnets to flip him over, exposing the Prime’s chest.
“Hold him down!” Wheeljack shouts straight away, and Bulkhead pins one arm while Jazz and Bumblebee pin another and Ratchet uses his magnets to hold the legs.
Optimus practically roars in frustration, kicking and fighting—but Megatron arrives and pins the Prime’s shoulders. “Wrecker, whatever you need to do, you had better do it!”
Wheeljack runs over and kneels beside Optimus, picking Sari up as she runs over and setting the girl on the Prime’s chest. She places her servos on the panels, her optics glowing—and they part, opening to reveal the object held within.
“Whoa.” Sari’s optics widen as she stands and steps back. “What is that thing?”
“The Matrix of Leadership,” Wheeljack replies, glowering at the reliquary. “Or, whatever your reality’s twisted version of it is—not that it wasn’t already fragged-up in my reality.” He leans over, getting a closer look. “… Thank Primus for small mercies. It hasn’t encased his spark.”
“Meaning what?” Jazz asks, strained.
Wheeljack wordlessly reaches in and tears the Matrix out of Optimus’s chest, standing and dropping the reliquary before his sword comes down and pierces it.
Optimus screams as his optics and chest glow and his whole body shifts.
Everyone watching reels back, horrified, as the young ‘bot’s frame reverts to its previous shape before his body relaxes.
Then, Optimus’s optics weakly flicker back online “… Wheeljack?”
“Prime?” Wheeljack kneels, immediately shifting from furious avenger back to worried caregiver. “Hey, hey.” He takes Optimus’s shoulders in his servos. “Look at me, Optimus. Are you-?”
Optimus throws himself forward to embrace the white Wrecker, closing his optics and tearlessly sobbing into his mentor’s chest.
Wheeljack’s optics widen, then close as he hugs him back. “… I’ve gotcha, Optimus. I’ve gotcha.” He rests a servo on the back of the younger and smaller mech’s head. “You’re safe, and I’m never lettin’ anythin’ hurt you ever again.”
“Wrecker?” Megatron asks.
“He’s back.” Wheeljack looks up at the warlord and nods shakily. “He’s back.”
Megatron nods in return, then glances over at the destroyed reliquary. “Hmph.”
“… Back home, the Matrix of Leadership was a relic that supposedly held the collective wisdom and power of all the Primes who’d come before,” Wheeljack explains quietly. “It gave whoever had the ‘honor’ to wield it extraordinary abilities, but… it changed them. It stole their innocence, their ability to be anything else but what everyone else needed them to be.” He glances down at the trembling young mech in his arms. “I knew the last wielder, my universe’s version of Optimus Prime. Saw how rarely he smiled, listened to the stories of how having his title forced on him cost him his best friend, heard people talk about how he never laughed or cried or broke… witnessed him give into the destiny that had been laid out for him. I watched that damn thing encasing his spark kill him.” He grimaces. “It-… It killed him.”
Ratchet frowns. “You said the Allspark killed him.”
“Because it went into the Matrix,” Wheeljack says. “It went into that thing that had his spark in its grasp, and then neither would let him go. And he died… He saved us all, but he died.”
And Ultra Magnus stands up from his refuge to glare at the Wrecker. “And so, you’ve chosen to trade our future for his life?”
“This wasn’t about our future, you glitch—it was about yours,” Wheeljack says, gently passing the Prime in his arms over to Ratchet before he stands and walks over to face Magnus. “But hey, you don’t hafta worry about that anymore.”
“And why is that?”
Wheeljack reaches over and grabs Ultra Magnus’s shoulder. “Because you don’t have a future.”
Wheeljack’s blade plunges into Ultra Magnus’s abdomen and twists, causing the leader of Cybertron to gasp in pain and try to double-over—but Wheeljack holds him in place, never looking away from the Magnus’s optics.
“It’s like I told you,” the Wrecker says quietly, his face devoid of emotion but his optics holding a storm. “You took the wrong kid.”
He releases Ultra Magnus and lets him fall to the floor, then glances up as Megatron walks over to stand beside him. “There will be consequences for this, Wrecker. You must know that.”
“They hurt my kid,” Wheeljack says. “Does it look like I give a damn about consequences?”
Ultra Magnus tries to start crawling away, only for the Wrecker to plant a foot on his back.
“And just to make myself completely clear about what I’ll do to you personally if you dare try to go back on your word, Megatron, since I still very much blame you for Prowl...” The blade raises up. “No one is ever hurtin’ my kids again.”
Hybrid AU in exile week where avian instincts can take over to a degree that is almost horrific, erasing someone’s personality and rationality when they’re panicking. First part here.
Tw graphic violence
When he hears Tommy’s distressed shriek, Philza launches into the air immediately, flying so fast the world blurs below. He finds his chick pinned beneath an assailant, and plunges toward them, slamming into the man so fast he’s flung away from Tommy, slamming into the ground hard enough that he is stunned. By the clippings of Tommy’s primary feathers tucked behind his mask, the attacker claims to be Tommy’s guardian. Philza’s blood boils as he realizes this was the abuser Tommy spoke of. Tommy is painfully motionless from where he’s ensnared in a net like an animal, and his fury builds, attacking faster and faster. The abuser is caught off guard only at first, and begins to fend Philza off.
But then Tommy makes a noise. And while he should be relieved Tommy is alive, Philza’s blood turns to ice. It’s not a pained sound, the kind he’d expect for the hatchling’s injuries. It’s not a scared chirp, either, the kind half broken by a sob like he’d heard earlier. No, it’s a soft, tranquil coo, trance-like, the kind used during wing grooming to indicate bliss.
And Philza sees red.
He rips into the abuser with his bare claws, shredding through soft skin and sturdy armor alike. The mask shatters as he gorges through the abuser’s face, blinded with fury long past the end of his agonized screams, past the last of his thrashing struggles, past the death of the monster that hurt his child.
Eventually, the threat to his chick registers as dealt with. Philza peels himself off the scraps of the abuser’s mutilated corpse. He finds Tommy still softly cooing, placid inside the net he’s tangled in. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, incapable of comprehending the horrific situation he’s in. The most response Philza gets is blissful little chirps. He’s in preening position, or would be if the net didn’t constrain his other wing. Technically it’s easier to cut Tommy out if he’s not thrashing, but his docile acceptance of his ensnarement is sickening.
Once free, all Tommy does is snuggle even though he’s very clearly bleeding to death. When Philza tries to heal him instead of preening, his coos whine, wings spreading out in the proper display position and trying to nudge him to continue where his abuser left off. No wonder Tommy insisted on grooming himself if he’s been manipulated like this for so long. Except Philza doesn’t know why he’s stuck like this, how his abuser forced the instinct to be so overwhelming.
His heart breaking, Philza hugs his poor hatchling. He begs Tommy to snap out of it, but he can’t understand a word he says. Tommy is only confused why he isn’t being petted anymore, quietly cooing in the same affectionate tone his abuser forced out of him. He seems distressed that Philza refuses to preen him, only calming when Philza echoes his coos, nestling into his arms contentedly as Philza stiffly runs a hand down his feathered back. Is this just making it worse? Is he trapping Tommy further in his instincts? But every time he stops Tommy’s coos sound so concerned. Terrified, almost, like he expects to be hurt the moment the love bombing stops. Philza abhors whatever it took to make him like this. So he holds the hurt hatchling, at a loss as to how to heal the wounds driven through his body to the soul within.
When Tommy finally comes out of his trance, he begins to sob for what’s been done to him. Philza only hugs him tighter, suppressing the worried coos building up in his throat, scared of shoving Tommy back into his trance.
Ace: Oh, don't tell me ya listen to sports podcasts like Jack?
Jack: Hey!
MC: No, it's a true crime podcast.
Grim: What's true crime?
MC: Stories of crime that actually happened. Here, I'll show you.
[MC unplugs their phone and turns up the volume]
Narrator: ...Police were horrified at the sight of the young man, standing with a distant look in his eyes over the corpse of his brother, who had received several bashings to the face and shoulders.
Ace:
Deuce:
Jack: Why do you listen to this?
MC: It's soothing, okay?
Epel: Murder. Is soothing.
MC: Yes!
Sebek: Humans and their violent tastes... how disgusting.
MC: Oh, wait until you hear about the Zodiac Killer.
inspired by body terror song by ajj, and the s5 hc of will getting attacked by vecna on the hilltop, as a parallel to s2! this one was a challenge for me, and i kinda think they look a lil goofy, but what do expect from cartoon horror lmao
i wish you would leave me alone. stop calling and texting me, i can’t even block your number because you just call or text from someone else’s phone. i can’t get rid of you. i see you whenever i see a blue ford. i see you whenever i smell my vanilla pumpkin chai perfume (you almost ruined it for me, actually). i hear you whenever someone says “moth” or “matthew”, and i even respond to those now because of you. boy has that been confusing with the matthew at work at times. i hate you for the added confusion, by the way. i still see a broken shell of a person when i look in the mirror because of you, not that i look in the mirror that much anymore (also because of you). at least your initials have faded, where you spitefully carved them into my body. i hated explaining the initials on my thigh. someone kissed them tho, to try to make me feel better. to try to remind me that you’re gone. that you can’t do that to me again.
part of me wonders if you actually do feel guilty over it, and part of me wishes you had killed me that night. you cried over my body until i woke up, after you held my throat in your vice like grip — accusing me of cheating on you (i didn’t. i never cheated. you did though. i hate you for that too, because now i have it in my head that nobody can be trusted.)
i want you to leave me alone. stop calling. stop texting. stop reaching out. stop following me when i’m in the city. i don’t want you near me.
Concept : Reader is a shrine priestess and have a crush on the shrine priest. But he is so powerful that people made a contract with the snake demon. They let him eat the priest in exchange for not attacking the village. The priest tried to fight the snake, but he was defeated. The villagers cut off his arms, so the snake can eat him better. Reader tried to save him, but was locked away in the shrine. But the priest cursed the village and his fused with the snake making him a snake monster he killed all the villagers and cut off six arms to replace those he lost. And now he can claim his sweet shrine maiden all for himself. (Sorry if its quite long and detailed, do as you wish) Thanks!
—anonymous
—a/n: alright, i’ll bite and do this one with my own take, but please add the source behind such suggestions next time lol this one is originally from the compilation manga ive read forever ago, Hachishaku Hachiwa Keraku Meguri (TW!!! under-age, noncon, horror, extremely dead dove!!!), specifically the 4th story. i…don’t recommend reading every story btw, some of them are very…yikes, but the 4th one is pretty good if you can get past a certain issue (namely, the mc’s vague age range). the main difference is that the monster is a woman and mc’s a guy.
if you want my personal recs, stick with reading 3rd (the statues, is okay), 4th (6-armed snake lady, fave if only because of the monster’s beautiful design and backstory but wished the mc would be someone older), and 5th (swamp-worm monster in the forest, warning, pregnancy/birthing is involved, is okay) story and ignore the rest. 2nd (the monster on the road) is okay, actually, but i hated the monster’s creepy old man design lol rest is just a big fat no to me for various reasons.
anyway….i rambled enough. i think…i might actually keep this character, even if he isn't entirely original and is (almost) literally the genderbent version from the manga. i actually envisioned him with dark-colored skin though. hm, so the setting might even be different! i’ll let yall decide~enjoy!
—tw / tags: gn reader, horror, gore, violence, imprisonment, neglect, implied multiple deaths, amputations, general yandere themes, sfw…ish
You can hear the screaming in your ears, the horrible gut-wrenching shrieks heralding the arrival of death. The earth rumbled distantly beneath your feet, striking unspeakable fear in your cold veins, pounding your heart, and your empty stomach twisting with nausea. You shuddered and your voice came out weak, dehydrated, “N-no…”
Raking your throbbing nails down the wood, bloody raw from scratching and pounding on the chained door, you fell to your knees and bowed your head. You’ve warned them, that the demon would not accept the trade—or that the priest wouldn’t retaliate in some way. A choke erupted from your dusty throat at the vision of the priest you cherished so, so much flashed within your mind.
His warming smile and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, had transformed into something wrathful and malicious. His expression became one that spoke of murder, of dark, malevolent intent, as the hateful village men severed his arms and fed him into the yawning mouth of the snake-god. It wasn’t his cruel fate that had broken your heart and shattered it into pieces though.
The very moment before he disappeared into the slicked depth of the demon’s belly, the priest saw you and wore a horrified face. With blood tears running down his eyes, he interrupted his furious cursing with a soft whisper of your name. You remembered screaming through your tears and fighting against the fisted hands of burly men then, when the snake-god folded its mouth shut and swallowed him whole.
That was the last you’d seen of him and wept his name as the men dragged you from the forest clearing, satisfied that you were too weak to save the one they all feared.
He shouldn’t have died fearing for you.
As they’d thrown you into the dilapidated shrine, you were numbed with fury and sorrow and shouted that the demon would hunger for their flesh once more, that the priest had cursed them all, when they slammed the door shut and leave you for the dead. Your pleas and cries grew hoarse as you screamed your grief to the sky. There was no reply, only jeers from the village in the distance, as if laughing about your foolishness, that you shouldn’t have fallen in love with the priest.
Their cruelty was beyond your comprehension
You had no idea how long time had passed, there was no light in this rotting shrine, not even a single peek of any warm sunlight or the moon’s soft glow. There was no water, for your throat ran dry and your skin tightened on your bones, and there was no food as your stomach stopped rumbling some time ago. The villagers intended to let you die alone, pitifully and bitterly alone.
It could’ve been days, it could’ve been weeks, when you rose your head from the coarse ground, confused. Weakly, your hand reached towards the wooden door, and your calloused fingers traced around its edges, feeling along the rough surface and finding the raw marks you left behind, until they settled on a crook. Something familiar electrified the air, the sense of power pressed into your senses. You furrowed your brows—before fear sunk in your nerves once more.
The demon had returned to welt its hunger.
Screams followed and you remained in the shrine, with no more tears to shed. You couldn’t weep for the cruel men and your tongue was too dry for you to utter even a single prayer for the innocent children you once tended to. You bowed your head between your knees, but you were still alive.
You still knew fear, trembling with the desire to live.
Your hands were shaking wildly, but you forced them back into prayer as the screams continued unabated. The walls rattled with thunderous crashes. Louder and louder, until finally, after hours of agony, they stopped. Silence followed.
Only silence and the smell of blood, lingered. And an ominous feeling.
You slowly rose from your hunched position, your gaze fixed on the wooden door. The air had turned heavy with tension, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Something approached, quietly grinding the pebbles and dirt underfoot as it moved closer and closer.
Somehow, the walls started swaying and the sound of cracking timber reached your ears, rising above the deafening sounds of your heartbeats and your shuddering breathing. You clasped your hands into a prayer once more and begged the gods to answer, to spare you from the belly of the snake-god. Your prayers became desperate begging, for mercy.
As if in response to your prayer, the ceiling creaked and groaned and a low growl emanated from above. Your eyes widened, and you stumbled backward, barely catching yourself on a nearby pillar. The walls rumbled, and cracks began appearing along the floorboards.
Then, the light.
It cut into the pitch-black darkness you’d been trapped in for days and blinded you. Clasping your hands over your eyes, wincing in discomfort as if light burned you, something exploded overhead, shattering the roof tiles and raining tiny chunks onto your head. You flinched at the loud noise, shielding your face and ducking your head between your legs from any further danger.
As the crackling groan quietened, you remained still—half expecting the pain to cut into your skin and long teeth tearing into your brittle flesh. But, silence hangs thickly above into the air. As if in waiting for you to unveil your eyes to the world.
You hesitated, before slowly lifting your head, squinting and blinking against the light. When you adjusted to the brightness, you blinked and saw shadows. Shadows cast by a massive serpentine being coiling amidst the splinters and rocks littering the ground all around you, staring down at you with glowing golden eyes.
Your breath caught in your throat and you staggered forward, your arms reaching above your head, “—! You…you came back…?” Your words broke and dissolved into hiccupping sobs that shook your frail frame.
Long discolored arms distended from the being’s side, wrapping around you in a dangerous embrace. The priest’s pale face buried into the crook between your neck and shoulder, nuzzling into your dirt-caked hair and releasing a deep purr. Its body vibrated and you felt yourself being lifted from the ground. Your arms instinctively snaked themselves tighter around its thin neck, your cheek pressing against its strangely scaled skin, and you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. “Don’t leave me…please don’t leave me again…” You cried, with rivers of tears falling down your cheeks.
Tears you thought were completely dried out.
This was not the priest you remembered, his ashen body protruding from the mouth of the dead-eyed snake-god, his grin jarring with a smile too large for his handsome face, and having a few arms too many stitched to his sides. But as his fiery golden eyes warmed and his touches overly gentle on your skin, you knew. This was the same man you loved, the very man who never ceased to cherish you and always looked for ways to make you smile on bad days. Even after all this time. Even when everything else changed, he remained steadfast, loving, and kind.
—though, only to you, as he held you as if you were the most precious jewel in his world. Despite his loving gaze, he was dressed in the blood and guts of those he’d gleefully slaughtered for their slights against him, glimmering on his eternally long tail in the moonlight. Yes, he gripped your tiny body tighter to his emaciated body, all he’ll ever need is you.
Le reste de la bande venait de sortir, mais Grognard était resté dans la cuisine, tournant autour de la table, inspectant les pots de farine et les flacons d’épices sur les étagères.
« Tu veux quelque chose ? » l’interrogea sèchement Achille, pressé de reprendre l’inventaire des courses à faire.
Grognard leva les mains en signe d’apaisement.
« Non, juste… »
Il n’était pas homme à bégayer et, pour cette raison, Achille se douta de ce qu’il allait demander avant qu’il ne rouvrît la bouche.
« Comment va le patron ? »
Dans le mille.
Achille hésita, mais Grognard appartenait au cercle des plus loyaux compagnons de Lupin et il aurait risqué sa vie pour le patron – Achille l’avait déjà vu le faire. En outre, très honnêtement, Achille était à bout de ressources.
« Il n’a pas quitté son lit depuis avant-hier. »
Grognard grimaça.
« Tu as pu lui parler un peu ? »
Achille secoua la tête.
« Non, il n’a pas ouvert la bouche depuis… depuis. Il ne me répond même pas quand je lui propose à manger, ou que je lui pose des questions sur nos affaires en cours.
– Et tu sais… tu as compris ce qu’il s’était passé ?
– Pas vraiment, à part l’essentiel : que Sonia… »
Grognard opina avec un bruit de commisération.
« Je sais que ça a été violent. Je crois qu’elle a voulu préparer un coup sans le patron, sûrement pour lui faire une surprise, comme elle cherchait toujours à l’impressionner, et qu’elle s’est alliée à une crapule qui l’a… qui…
– Qui s’est débarrassé d’elle pour tout empocher, je suppose.
– Je crois, mais aussi… Je pense qu’il y avait une sorte de vengeance amoureuse, parce que… le patron n’a rien dit, mais d’après ce que… Je crois qu’elle était en morceaux », souffla Achille.
Grognard se laissa tomber sur une chaise. Son visage avait perdu ses couleurs. Leur vie, passée comme présente, occupés comme ils l’étaient à des jeux dangereux en marge de la société, les avait habitués au frisson, au danger et à la violence – même si ne travaillaient pour Lupin que ceux qui ne la courtisaient pas. Mais certaines horreurs ne se concevaient pas et les laissaient sous le choc.
Le silence s’étira.
« Je ne sais pas quoi faire, finit par confesser Achille.
– Il faudrait de l’aide. »
Cette remarque provoqua chez le domestique un ricanement sans joie.
« Et qui pourrait nous aider ? »
Grognard ferma les yeux.
« La vieille Victoire, on pourrait la faire venir, non ? C’est le genre de personne dont on a besoin dans ces situations.
– J’y ai pensé, mais quand j’en ai parlé au patron, il m’a interdit de la contacter. Apparemment, il lui a donné comme mission de s’occuper d’une petite fille dont la mère est malade et il refuse qu’elle s’absente.
– Et on est obligés de lui obéir ? insista Grognard, qui avait toujours été le plus insolent de la bande. On pourrait juste la tenir au courant de la situation : m’est avis qu’elle sauterait d’elle-même dans le premier train… »
C’était tentant, mais peu sage, et Achille se résigna, comme toujours, à exprimer la voix de la raison.
« Le patron est déprimé, pas fou. Je ne vois pas comment on pourrait défendre à ce stade de ne pas écouter un ordre direct. »
Grognard acquiesça sourdement. Puis il releva la tête.
« Et son ami, là, l’écrivain… Il a l’air d’être un brave type, non ? Il n’ira pas le vendre à la police… »
C’était une bonne idée.
« Je connais son adresse à Neuilly, j’ai servi plusieurs fois de chauffeur au patron quand il lui rendait visite…
– Tu crois qu’on pourrait le faire venir ? s’enquit Achille, soudain revigoré à cette idée.
– Il est très surveillé par les roussins, qui le soupçonnent à raison d’être le fameux historiographe qui documente nos aventures. Ça me paraît dangereux de l’amener dans notre planque, surtout à un moment où le patron n’est pas… au mieux de sa forme. Il serait plus facile de conduire le patron jusqu’à lui, ça je sais faire discrètement.
– Et comment on le convainc de monter dans une voiture alors qu’il ne quitte même plus sa chambre ? »
Grognard sourit avec malice :
« Rien de plus facile, on le prend par son point faible : si son ami lui envoie un appel à l’aide, il accourra toujours, quel que soit son état. Or, par chance, l’un d’entre nous est un excellent forgeur, conclut-il avec un regard éloquent pour Achille.
– Tu me flattes », rétorqua ce dernier.
En temps normal, il n’aurait eu aucun espoir de tromper Lupin avec ses maigres talents. Il n’était même pas le forgeur ordinaire de la bande : cet honneur revenait actuellement à Mendès et à Jacques, pour les affaires courantes, tandis que les correspondances les plus sensibles étaient en général gérées par le patron lui-même. Mais les circonstances étaient exceptionnelles et ils n’avaient pas de meilleur plan. Il fit donc signe à Grognard de le suivre en direction de la bibliothèque du rez-de-chaussée, où il prit dans un secrétaire le matériel nécessaire et les échantillons d’écriture appropriés, rangés selon l’ordre alphabétique dans une vaste armoire dont le contenu valait, en secrets d’État et en confessions scandaleuses, plus d’or qu’un coffre de banquier.
Le plan fonctionna très bien, et même extrêmement bien puisque Lupin, qui passa la soirée et toute la nuit chez son ami (lequel, malgré sa surprise initiale, s’était montré généreux en hospitalité et réconfortant comme savent l’être les romanciers, qui trouvent les bons mots pour apaiser la douleur de leurs semblables), rentra le lendemain en pleine possession de ses moyens.
Il voulut naturellement passer un savon à Achille et Grognard, mais tous deux s’en fichaient et ils étaient si soulagés de l’entendre parler à nouveau qu’ils n’écoutaient rien des remontrances elles-mêmes. De toute façon, ils connaissaient bien assez le patron pour savoir que la seule personne contre qui il était réellement furieux, c’était lui-même, pour s’être laissé berner sottement. Dieu sait qu’il avait des excuses, mais on ne devenait pas Lupin sans une obsession du contrôle et de la perfection tout à fait démesurée. Cela lui ferait d’ailleurs le plus grand bien, songeait Achille, de se rappeler que ses complices aussi avaient des talents sur lesquels il pouvait se reposer, et d’accepter leur aide.
