Us Two In The Spotlight's Glow

Us Two in the Spotlight's Glow

***So, some of you may have seen I have a new Obey Me OC/D&D character named Sibella. She is all I can think about, and this was born. Enjoy. *** Summary: Sibella's life, and death, had always been empty and alone, until she gains a certain noble patron. Who knew the Avatar of Pride could make such good company?

The stage was many things. It was home. It was life. It was joy and despair. It was the only reason why Sibella could bring herself to rise from her bed sometimes.

But it was also horrendously lonely.

She hadn't realized it when she was still human, but since dying and awaking as demon of pride in the Devildom, she had come to recognize it as a simple fact of life.

Or, well, after life.

She hadn't minded at first — though she had certain words for which ever sick asshole decided to give her the whole "deer in headlights" look. Her life had always revolved solely around her career as prima ballerina. She didn't have time for things as small as friendship or a social life, when all that precious time could be spent perfecting her fouette. Why would that change now that she was buried six-feet under?

Sure, some might say that she missed out on a lot of the fun things, like partying at The Fall, or enrolling in that devil-forsaken academy. But she was happy.

She wasn't.

She was happy before.

She was tired before.

She could be happy now.

She tried not to think of how fucking empty she felt.

That's all there was to it.

She was a one woman show. The diamond that dazzled in the spotlight. She had fought tooth and nail to get to where she was, and she wasn't about to let something as fickle and strange as emotions take it from her now.

But death had a funny way of changing things. And the Devildom even more so.

Sibella had been making a name for herself for years. By now most of the Devildom knew of the hypnotic dance of the icy prima ballerina. She had a reputation. On stage: she would warm your hearts and move your very soul to the point that you would feel alive again. Off stage: she was colder than snow and no one could manage to get a single word out of her before she was either in her dressing room or fleeing to the dance studio.

Well, almost no one.

She had been in her dressing room after a show. Her performance had been flawless as always, though she was looking forward to a good soak in the tub when she got home to soothe her aching feet and bones. She had barely begun to take her hair down from the head-splittingly tight bun it had been pulled back into, when she heard it. "O-O-Oh. I'm sorry, sirs, but the lady doesn't take guests." She felt one of her long ears perk at the sound of her security guard's voice. He'd never been nervous around nosy fans. What the hell was going on out there?

"Perhaps. But I'm sure she can make an exception." Her frown turned into an afronted scowl at the sound of the deep, arrogant voice. She most certainly did not make exceptions. Had they any idea how precious her time was and how exhausting it was to perform like that? Why, the audacity to bother her after performance like-

"I-I-I ... I'm sorry, my Prince and Lord. I'm just following orders."

Sibella nearly dropped her hair brush as she whipped her head towards the door and looked at it with wide eyes. Prince. As in the Prince of the Devildom. As in Prince Diavolo. And did he say a lord was here as well? Even in her human days, Sibella had never achieved the honour of performing for royalty. But now she had done so unknowingly!

Her breath halted as she immediately began playing-back her performance in her mind. Sure, she was confident that she was a damn good dancer, but this was nobility! Had she slipped? Did she misstep at any point? Under rotate? Over rotate? Why had they come back to see her? Surely they were equally, if not more, busy than herself! If they wanted to take the time to see her, than perhaps she had messed up. Perhaps they were here to ban her from ever taking to the stage in the Devildom again or-

She couldn't help but yelp, throwing her brush across the room as a loud knock sounded at her door.

She managed to take in a few deep breaths, her heart banging against her chest, as she smoothed out her hair. "Yes?" She called out with as much neutrality as she could manage.

"Miss Sibella, I-I'm sorry to bother you ma'm, but you, um ... you have visitors. I-It's um ... It's Prince Diavolo and Lord Lucifer, ma'm."

Shit. When was the last time she even talked to someone who wasn't a member of the theatre's staff?

She caught a glimpse of her terrified expression in the mirror. With another grounding breath, she carefully smoothed her face into one of passive indifference as she rose to her feet — barely surpressing a wince as her tights-covered wounds met the floor once more. Pulling back her shoulders, and raising her chin, she opened the door.

Staring back at her was her bodyguard — who looked like he would rather be anywhere but here — a giant gigantic red-head with golden eyes that glittered with excitement and a wide grin — who she immediately recognized as the prince — and another man — slender, with dark hair and burning crimson eyes. He stood back, arms crossed with only mild interest on his face.

The red head moved forward, his smile growing impossibly wide, as he held out his hand. "Miss Sibella! It's an honour to meet you."

She took a moment to remember herself, bowing her head slightly before meeting his eyes once more. "The honour is mine. I wish I had known we would be dignified with such noble guests this evening. I would've had the staff prepare our best booth for you."

Sibella quickly repressed a flinch as the Prince burst into a strong, hearty laugh. "No need to worry about that! The V.I.P. booth is always reserved for me! I've owned this theatre for years. I've been meaning to see this esteemed performance of yours that everyone in the kingdom is talking about, and I am elated to have finally been able to drag old Lucifer down to see it with me! You are truly remarkable!"

Sibella's onyx eyes flickered curiously over to the gentleman accompanying the prince, only to find his eyes already resting on her. His eyes held an all-knowing gleam as he smirked at her. "Yes. I must send my compliments. I haven't seen a performance like that since my time in the celestial-realm," his eyes shifted back over to the Prince, giving Sibella the opportunity to control her slightly-flushed expression. "Though perhaps I may have enjoyed it more if someone hadn't been gasping and awing throughout its entirety."

Diavolo laughed, planting a heavy hand on Lucifer's shoulder as he did. "Oh! Your jokes always get me!"

The ballerina smiled politely as she maintained her eye contact with the Lord. "Then perhaps you should come again sometime. I assure you this is far from the only accompaniment that I dance to, and it is also not my most impressive. If you can find the time, I can guarantee that you won't be disappointed."

Sibella held her breath as she felt his onyx eyes pour over her entire being like a river's spring and seemingly pick her apart. She hadn't felt so exposed and vulnerable since- She lifted her chin higher and shook off the unwanted memories.

The lord tilted his head. "Perhaps, we will-"

"I will go buy us season tickets for your shows on the way out! It will be a great opportunity to get out of the office. Yes! Wonderful idea, Lucifer!"

Sibella did her best to bite back a giggle as Lucifer narrowed his eyes sharply at the Prince before sighing in defeat. "Of course, my lord."

The ballerina could almost see sparkles floating in the air around the Prince as he beamed. "Brilliant! Well, until next time then, Miss Sibella! We will see you again."

And they did.

They didn't attend every performance, but they were Sibella's most frequent patrons by far. Most of the time they would come together. Sometimes only Diavolo would come with different company by his side. Other times it was only Lord Lucifer, by himself. But regardless, they would always come to visit your dressing room afterwards for conversation. At first it was intimidating. She had increased her practice hours, nearly to the point of destruction, to push herself to maintain a performance level worthy of their presence. But as months passed, Sibella had begun to become more relaxed with the pair, and them her. She dared to say that she even looked forward to their pointless, time-wasting visits. It was ... nice.

One of said nights had been a particularly grueling routine. Sibella allowed the facade of strong, immovable, grace to drop the second she was hidden back stage and silently limped back to her dressing room.

She threw yourself onto her couch before ripping her satin slippers off her feet with a choked cry. Beneath them sat bloodied tights that hid bruised, blistered and swollen toes. She hissed through her teeth as she slowly peeled off the pink, thin fabric and examined her injuries.

She couldn't help but groan as a knock sounded at her door. She couldn't leave it ignored — not while knowing who stood behind it.

She looked up at the ceiling taking a minute to collect herself before pulling herself to her feet. Only, the second her poor toes touched the ground, a strangled shriek slipped from her lips and she had to quickly catch her balance on the arm of the couch as pain shot up her legs.

"Miss Sibella?" Fuck. It was Lucifer. Of course it had to be the observant one. "Are you alright in there?"

Sibella cursed under her breath, doing her damnedest, and failing, to bite back a whimper as she stood back up. "Of course. I-I'll be there in just a moment."

But the odds were not in her favor. Her abused legs felt like jello beneath her feet and threatened to give out with with every step she took. Her panicked eyes flickered desperately between the door, only 10 feet away from her, and the end of the couch, where she now stood. She could leap that distance in a single grand jete on a good day. Surely, she wasn't going to let it defeat her now?

With a choked deep breath, she lifted her hand away from the sofa and tried to quickly make her way to the door.

She was betrayed by her stupid feet. Sibella had barely managed to let out a yelp as she began to fall towards the ground.

The door swung open and two strong hands quickly caught her by her arms.

Her breath hitched as Lucifer helped her back onto her feet. "I was fine," she insisted.

"I can see that," the lord grumbled, keeping an arm fixed securely around the ballerina's shoulders as he looked at her injuries. "And I'm sure that you're in absolutely no pain at all, and if I were to let you go that you could walk back to that couch perfectly fine."

A flare of frustration ran through the proud demoness as she lifted her chin. "Most certainly."

"Then let's see it," he stated simply and began to remove his arms.

With gritted teeth and pure spite, Sibella held her breath as she wobbled her way back over to her couch and all but tripped into its cushioned comforts. "See?" she panted. "Perfectly capable."

Lucifer hummed with a raised eye brow. "Yes. And the trail of blood you left behind isn't discerning at all. You looked like a baby fawn attempting to walk on ice."

Sibella glared sharply at him as her ears tucked back against her skull. "You may leave now."

He scoffed and leaned against her vanity instead. "I think not. You're in no state to be alone right now. You're injured."

The ballerina waved off his concern. "Part of the repercussions of dancing. I told you, I'm fine."

"You're clearly not."

Anger boiled desperately beneath her skin in a way that only Lucifer could manage as she sneered at the lord. "And what would you do about it?"

The room froze as he locked eyes with her. His head tilted. Blood-red eyes narrowing. "Dress your wounds for starters. And then ensure that you made it home, and have what you need for recovery." Her pulse thrashed like a wild-beast inside of her as the lord drew closer. "You need me right now, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. You have no one else," shivers ran down her spine as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let me help you."

She tried to think of an alternative. Another way that ended with her safely making it back to her apartment. But her bodyguard was off for the day, and she knew that no one else would willingly help her. If she didn't accept this offer, she would be spending the night in her dressing room, which would be miserable for her already aching body. Not to mention unhygienic.

"Fine," she sighed, giving in and allowing herself to slump against the couch. "If it'll make you happy, my Lord."

He huffed and shook his head as he looked around her dressing room. It was clean, neat, perfect. Just like all things in her life. Any gifts she had been given by fans were in a organized drawer in her vanity. All makeup and hair products were specifically placed by her mirror. All costumes were bagged and hanged in order of use on her rack. Even though the room was practically a home away from home, she could never bring herself to customize it. Her dressing room was for the Prima Ballerina Sibella and her only. There was no space for sentiment here.

"Where is your first-aid kit?" Lucifer questioned, looking among her selection of dance slippers. Sibella silently pointed to the cabinet above the mini-fridge that the stage manager had set up for her. The lord nodded and walked over, removing a red box before taking a seat beside the demoness. With careful hands, he lifted her wounded feet into his lap, and grabbed some disinfectant.

They both remained silent as he worked and gently soothed the aches that had been condemning her with experienced hands. It wasn't until he had begun to wrap her feet in guaze that he spoke. "I will be sure to inform the director that you will not be performing this week."

The ballerina shot up, "What?!" she hissed venomously, her deer-like horns reappearing on her head as her demon form threatened to break loose. "No. You have no right. I am fine, Lucifer!"

He narrowed his eyes, and firmly pressed against her freshly-bandaged, fractured toes. A pained-cry tore itself from her throat before she could stop it. He raised an eyebrow and released his hold. "You can barely walk. You expect me to believe that you can dance the same routine that caused these injuries for the rest of the week?"

Sibella snarled and tore her legs back in towards herself. "You don't know what you're talking about. It's nothing I haven't done before."

He paused at her words, lips pulling into a thin line as he took in her furious, yet vulnerable state — Sibella hated the way it made her feel so open. "If you go out there like this, you will only further hurt yourself. Not only that, there is no possible way that you can meet your own high-standards for yourself in this condition. You will only become angry at yourself, and that will only get worse and worse with every performance you do without letting yourself rest and recover." The lord nodded to himself, as he stood and held out a hand towards the ballerina. "Come. You're going home. And you will be taking time off. I will personally ensure that you do."

She slapped his hand away and went to stand on her own once more.

Lucifer huffed, rolling his eyes, before scooping up the demoness in his arms. Sibella refused to make it easier for him. Keeping her arms crossed as he carried her out of the room. Although she was by no means pleased by this arrangement, she allowed him to continue with his plan. That was until they made it outside the theatre and she spotted exactly how the demon planned on taking her to her apartment. "Absolutely not," she hissed, her body tensing in his arms as she squirmed and pushed against him and tried to get away from the car he was carrying her towards. "Put me down. You're not putting me anywhere near that tin-death-trap!"

Lucifer gritted his teeth as he tightened his hold her. "Then, pray tell, how do you plan on me getting you back to your apartment?" She snarled at him, continuing her resistance. "Anyway but that! I only live down a block or two from here and usually jog as a warm up on my way to theatre!"

The demon sighed miserably. "Of course, you do," he made no effort to stop his movement towards the car. "I am not carrying you all the way there — not that it would be difficult. And you are in no condition to walk. So driving it is." "No! Stop!" She screamed as shifted into her demon form. "Put me down! I'd rather walk a thousand miles with shattered limbs that get in one of those monstrosities for a single second!"

Lucifer growled, attempting to secure his grip on the thrashing woman once more. "Will you stop acting like a child?! What in Diavolo's name is wrong with you?"

"I died because of those machines before and I refuse to do so again! Put me down!"

Lucifer froze, giving the demoness the opportunity to drop back onto her own two feet, and weakly stumble away from him. The lord blinked back at her. "You died in a car accident?"

She sneered at him from behind a deadly glare. "Does it matter?"

His lips pulled into a thin line as he glanced between his car and the demoness before sighing and approaching her once more. "I was unaware. We won't take the car," she looked up at him with wide-doe eyes. "I'll carry you. Just ... Wrap your arms around me."

Sibella stared at him for a moment — her anxiety riddled heart still running wildly in her chest. With trembling arms, she silently held onto his shoulders and allowed him to lift her into a bridal carry once more. "There," he whispered as their eyes met. Her breath caught at the shocking tenderness that hid within them. "See? Not too bad is it?" Lucifer chuckled as the demoness's cheeks flushed pink. He stared at her for a moment too long before clearing his throat and looking at the sidewalk ahead of them. "Just up the block, you said?"

"Yes," she muttered, leaning slightly into him. "It's the gothic, navy building across the street from Savonne." Lucifer hummed and began walking without further question, and Sibella ignored the rush of warmth that filled her heart for the first time in two life times.

*** GAH! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!! I hope you all enjoy Sibella as much as I do! I will keep ya'll up to date on what happens with her in the one shot! Thank you so much for the love and support! *** Taglist:

@thegrimgrinningghost @henry-and-the-seven-lords @satans-beloved-riv @cosmixbun @sufzku @obey-mes-treasure @kissed-by-a-dementor @yukihaie @justtiarra @mammoneybb @poly-bi-mf @burrixino @pumpkins-mainside-blog @acousticpen @sucker-for-angst-and-fluff @itskrispy @10paradox10 @vallison-rea @ivoryclive @newfangled-artistry @pumpkinpatchkid @chirikoheina @sailboat21 @theother4 @todoroses @circus-of-freaks @mcx7demonbros @bloopthebat

KEEPING PROMISES

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: After four months of captivity, Leon comes to your rescue. You soon find that the worst part of trauma is the aftermath—something he knows a thing or two about.

words: 4.5k

warnings: kidnapping, mentions of torture, heavy PTSD, hurt/comfort

notes: got a light-hearted request and absolutely butchered it bc i wanted to explore the effects of what being taken for experimentation might actually look like.

The room they throw you into is comprised of four-walled metal. A hospital gurney shoved into a corner. A chair with leather straps buckled to each arm and leg, crusted over with aged brown puddling—the morbid centerpiece. 

The last twenty-four hours have been a blur. A blink of darkness. A flashbang through time. You suspect you have a concussion, and the blood congealing your hair at its crown all but solidifies the idea. A shitty predicament to be in. All the videos and articles and word of mouth said the same thing: no second location. Die if you have to. Don’t let a kidnapper drive away with you inside the car.

What about four of them? What could you have done, truly?

You try to remember. Memories are the only thing you can control now. You remember friends and family, your pets, your shitty job. But still, the last twenty-four hours draw one big blank, except for the car ride. The music. Four deep voices, muffled by the trunk. No safety release—an older model. They thought it through.

They plan to torture you. That much is clear. That much sends you to wracking shivers that chatter your teeth, that rattle the brain inside your throbbing skull.

Nobody will find you here. Wherever here is. A warehouse, you believe.

No. Scratch that. Someone will find you, maybe years down the line, when the rats have gnawed on your corpse until nothing but brittle bone remains.

The door swings open, spilling light into the room, showcasing the well-used chair. A masked man steps inside, dressed all in black, kitted out in tactical gear, and you tense. He doesn’t deserve a reaction. To see you shiver and shake. You’re terrified—a fact he’s better off not knowing.

“Drugs wore off, I’m guessing.” His boots thunder against the floor as he strolls over to you, knife poised in his right hand. “If you promise to be good, I’ll untie you. Our intentions aren’t to make you suffer.”

Whatever he wants. Whatever he wants if it means letting you leave this place alive.

You nod your head in agreement, and he lifts a gloved hand to your mouth. Frees you from the cloth gag.

“I’m sure you have questions. Unfortunately, I can’t give you any answers. Not right now.” He tugs you forward by the collar of your shirt, far enough to reach the arms tied behind your back. “You’ll see soon enough, though.” A quick slice through fabric, and your shoulders ache as they relax to neutral position, a sharp burn that lances down to your fingers.

You say nothing in response. Just cross your arms at your chest and hope that he’ll leave you. That he’ll bypass the chair and lock you in here again, all alone.

No identifying features. Every bit of skin, covered in black material. Even his accent sounds fake.

“You’re docile,” he says, darkened eyes squinting from behind his mask. “That’s good.”

You aren’t sure what his praise entails. Just want to go home, to sleep in your own bed, to not be so scared anymore. 

“Someone’ll be here shortly to collect you. Play nice.”

As if you would risk any other course of action.

He closes the door, a set of keys jangle inside the lock, and his footsteps thud away. You’re left to darkness yet again.

An unbearably long time later. They lead you somewhere, a man at each arm, tugging you along. A place encased in shadow, cold and damp. Still inside the maze with the uninviting metal walls. The grating bites at your bare feet. A scream echoes up from below, curdles the blood inside your veins. 

“Don't worry about that. Our patients can be dramatic sometimes.”

You worry. Worry even more after that.

Patients. Patients mean doctors. Doctors mean facilities. Facilities mean testing. Experiments.

Or they’re lying. Seeking to chip away your armor—any easy feat regardless.

You’re unsure of the day, the week, the month. Let alone the time. You’ve lived in total darkness for who knows how long. You sleep, you wake, they bring you food, they draw blood. They’re nice enough to let you shower, to provide you the decency of relief inside an actual bathroom.

Unfortunately, the whole taking you against your will thing ruins any hospitality they care to give you.

“Today’s the big day,” says one of the men, eyes squinting with a smile beneath his mask. “Are you excited?”

Excited is the last word you would use. Maybe terrified. Maybe resigned. Maybe exhausted. 

You’re our last hope, they had said. After you, there’s nothing.

And you see why now. Bodies line the hallway, stretched out inside green canvas bags. They remain still within, unbreathing. You’ve witnessed death. The after.

That will soon be you, no doubt. 

They planned for this. The malnutrition, the poor accommodations, the sleep deprivation, the psychological warfare. Wear you down, stretch you thin, keep you pliant.

You’re docile. That’s good.

But they haven’t hit you—yet. Small victories.

They lead you into a laboratory of sorts. Empty rows of beakers, jars filled with pickled body parts, a program pasted onto a computer screen. An operating table.

You dig your heels into the floor, dead your weight as flight rips through you. They hold steadfast, unmoving while you thrash around in a pitiful display of strength.

There’s nothing left. They laugh when you slump. Laugh even harder when you begin to cry.

Within the hour, you will be nothing but a body bag. They’ll make you disappear—burn you up, dissolve you in acid, throw you into a pit where you’ll find companionship with the dirt.

You have no fight left. Strapping you to the table is easy. Cutting away your shirt is easy.

However, the surprise of far-off gunshots provides an unexpected difficulty.

The men bristle to attention, speak to each other in coded phrases before they disperse out into the hallway.

You’re left alone, left to endure the shouting and the shooting, left vulnerable and scared.

You shift your body to the side, and the gurney rocks—just a small vibration, a small jolt of the wheels, but you can work with this. They failed to secure your feet, simply looped the straps through.

Okay. Think, quick. Need a plan.

You glance around. Surgery tools on the counter. Gotta have something sharp in there to cut these straps.

The gunshots start up again, echo closer, and you throw your lower body off the side of the gurney. Surprisingly lightweight when you roll it over to the counter and kick off the bag of instruments. Easy to knock on its side, but you didn’t think about the sharp clatter that sends thundering footsteps your way, shouting voices.

You take the bag between your teeth, then a trembling hand busies with its contents. Just enough give from the bindings to move your wrist, and it’s all you need. You pull out forceps, clamps, sutures, scissors—

Scalpel.

Your heart almost stops when a bullet sprays through the door. Your brain shuts off. Act. Survive. Get the fuck out of these straps.

One hand freed. You see the blood but feel no pain. Get out. Just get out. 

Someone bursts into the room. You shield yourself, huddled behind the gurney. Grip the scalpel tight in hand. Both of your hands, now freed.

Your odds of winning against a gun: negative zero. Your odds of trying anyway: one hundred percent.

Footsteps thump throughout the room, cautious in speed. You curl further in on yourself, your hands shake, you hold the breath inside your lungs.

They grow closer. You have two options: fight or die. Running will get you nowhere with bullets involved.

“Are you alright?” asks a deep voice, quiet. A lie. A fucking lie. 

When a hand touches your shoulder, you spin around and stab the scalpel into flesh—your target cries out, hisses out a string of curses.

You sprint for the door, only to realize it’s locked. It’s locked. You turn to locate the other door, only to find the man standing between you and escape.

You’ll break it down if you have to. 

“Fucking—hey. Hey!” Much like a cornered dog, your hackles raise as he approaches, blood draining from the laceration on his arm in thick tracks of red, like a raindrop window.

You miss the rain. You miss the sun. You miss your home, and your bed. Good food, a bubble bath. You miss living. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says, arms outstretched in an offering of peace.

“Sorry, but I’ve heard that one before.”

You search for a weapon, a defensive item, a distraction. The beakers on the shelf. Just a few steps to your left.

“Okay, can we not throw things? That hurts, you know.”

“That’s the point, dumbass.”

“Jesus Christ—“ he ducks under your throw, levels a tired glare your way. “It’s a bad idea to hurt the only person trying to help you.”

You attempt another. A pathetic toss that he easily sidesteps. 

The adrenaline runs dry. Your knees buckle. Shattered glass coats the floor. 

“Are you done?”

You nod. “You can kill me now.”

“I already told you, that’s not why I’m here.” You slump against the wall, and he approaches, blood-splattered and battle-ready. Kneels before your pitiful form. “Let me see.”

He holds out a hand, nods to your bleeding wrist. What do you have to lose? You’re exhausted. Couldn’t fight him if you tried. 

“I’m guessing the scalpel did this,” he says, gives you a soft smile that settles balmy inside your chest. Strangely genuine. You aren’t used to that.

“Yeah. I think I should stay away from sharp things.”

“I agree.”

As he wraps a layer of gauze around the injury, you ask, “What… what month is it?”

He glances up at you. “March.”

March. Four months. You missed your best friend’s birthday. Your cousin’s had her baby by now.

Four months gone. Wasted away, spent damned in that awful metal room. 

“Hey.” He rests a hand on your shoulder, lightly squeezes to reorient your reality. “Life goes on, but you still have plenty of time to catch up.”

You aren’t sure how he knows. Maybe he does this often. Saves innocent people from big bads. Regardless, his words comfort you a little. Help the thought of after seem less scary.

After you leave this place. Adjustment seems impossible. Going back to work, paying bills, grocery shopping, cleaning house. All so mundane in comparison. Useless. What’s the point in doing all that shit?

He helps you to your feet. Says, “I’m getting you out of here.”

You believe him. 

When he brings you to the extraction site, calls for evac, tells you everything’s okay now—you believe him.

He visits you in the hospital during a two week stint of quarantine. Day four of fourteen. March twenty-third. Says so on the calendar. 

Funny. How time changes, your perception of it. You were shoved into that trunk last year. Last. Year. 

His presence helps.

“You clean up well,” he says, taking a seat in the chair at your desk. Temporary lodging, barebones, stark white everything.

At leaks it looks like a bedroom. And nice people visit. To take your vitals, and draw blood, and ask you questions (a lot of questions). They give you medication.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to be back here.”

He presents his wrist, the hospital band wrapped around it, and the orange sticker signifying that he is, in fact, allowed to be back here. “My room’s down the hall.”

“So we’re neighbors, then.”

“I guess so.”

You fold down the corner of your page then close the book: a sappy romance novel given to you by one of the nurses on the floor. “How’s your arm, by the way?”

“It’ll be fine. Luckily, you have shitty aim.”

“I never apologized for that, did I?”

He gives a calming shrug. “I don’t need one.”

“Oh. Can I ask why?”

“You were scared, and you weren’t thinking straight. I get it.”

“If I’m being honest, I still don’t think I’m exactly… normal.”

“It’ll take a while.”

“I guess you understand that, too?”

“More than you know.”

In a melancholic way, that comforts you. He’s been where you are now, at least somewhat, and he seems to be doing well. Better than most would, at least.

“Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

“I just…” you exhale a sigh, “Do you know why they took me? I’ve asked half a dozen people and nobody will give me an answer.”

If you can understand why they did it, if your captivity was assigned purpose, then maybe—maybe your suffering would mean something.

“Sometimes there isn’t a reason,” he says, and your shoulders wilt. He leans forward in his chair, bracing elbows on his knees, and looks down at the bruised-up state of his hands. “Bad people do bad things just because they’re bad. That doesn’t make what you went through any less real.” He clenches them into fists.

More than you know, he had said.

You believe him.

A routine begins after his first visit. Borne from boredom, seeking comfort, a need for companionship.

He shares bits and pieces of his life, small anecdotes that say little about him as a person. He asks you questions about your life from before. About your job, your hobbies, your family.

On the seventh day, he tells you his name. Leon. It sounds nice on inner-monologue repeat. Even better out loud. 

“Leon. Yeah, that suits you,” you say. He’s moved from your desk chair to the edge of the bed, thumbing through the book you currently read.

“You think so?”

“It’s unique. Elegant.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Nothing about me is elegant.”

“I very much disagree.” He glances over at you, gives a hum. Closes the book. “No, I wasn’t—fuck, I wasn’t trying to make it weird.”

“I’m flattered, actually.”

You scrub a hand over your buzzing face, now timid as he stares at you. “Jesus Christ.”

You have eyes. Those eyes work. And now that you aren’t in immediate fear of death, you can appreciate his… aesthetic. He cleans up well, looks good in civilian clothing.

Him sparing you from a torturous death might contribute a bit to your starry eyes. That’s what you tell yourself.

“Anyway, thank you again for saving me.”

“Like I told you the last seven times, you don’t have to thank me.”

“I do, though. You have no i—“ you clear your throat when a surge of tears constricts your voice, and he tilts his head. Patient, observant. “You have no idea what it was like in that place.”

He turns serious, brows knotting, settling a shadow over his eyes. “You’re right. I don’t. But if you ever want to talk about it…”

“… you’ll be here.”

“Exactly.”

On the eleventh day, you talk about it. Curled up in his desk chair this time, while he reclines in bed and stares at the wall across from him. A gift of privacy, and you’re grateful.

“The nurse had to sedate me last night.”

“Yeah, I heard. Nightmares?”

You nod. Need to talk about it, lest the brainworms feast on what sanity still resides.

Just say it. Don’t worry about your shaking hands, or the smallness of your voice, or his neutral glances.

Say it. He gets it.

“I don’t really know what caused it, but. Well, everything they did was to wear me down, ya know? It was mostly mental. They never touched me or anything.” You inhale a deep breath, enough to fill your lungs past capacity, and it burns, and you appreciate it. The grounding. “In my dream, though, they did. And it was—fuck, it was brutal. And I woke up and I. Well, I think I was facing the wall, and I thought it was the trunk they put me in and I was just… I was there all over again.”

Fingers graze your knuckles, and you look down at the sight. The way he holds your hand, the scrapes and scars. “You’re okay now.” His grip tightens, but you can’t look up at him, and he doesn’t comment on it. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

“I need to.”

“Forcing it does more harm than good. Trust me, you still have time.”

“I’m not like you. I’m weak.”

“You don’t have to be like me.” He laughs under his breath, a sound free of humor. “And I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

He goes to pull away, but you catch a finger and swallow down his stare. “You are the reason I’m alive right now. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“So your opinion is biased.”

You’ve both resorted to hushed voices, as if shutting away the world outside. The four walls of his room intimate instead of imprisoning.

“I don’t know many people who would do what you did.”

“You mean my job?”

“And this. Coming to visit, spending time with me. I didn’t know that was part of the description.”

“It’s not. You just… remind me of somebody.”

“Who?”

He shrugs. “It’s not important.”

Closed-off as ever, enigmatic. Magnetic in the curiosity that plagues you, but still, you let him go, and skin burns warm where his hand used to lay.

“Will you tell me why they took me?”

He leans back, fluffs up his pillow, and you read the change in energy. He’s done talking. “I took an oath of silence, I’m afraid.”

“I figured as much.”

It’s day fourteen now. Your antibiotics are finished, electrolytes balanced, system flushed of illness. Free of… whatever stuck you in quarantine in the first place. Ready to go home.

Home as in a fresh name, a false death certificate, a new start that you never wanted. 

Everyone you’ve ever loved will know you to be dead. Four months missing, body never found. You’ve seen too much. Bad people would come looking for you.

Let them.

Far as the doctor and the nurses and the agents who meet with you are concerned, your anger stems from overreaction. They sedate you again—fuck the meds you aren’t taking them this is wrong!

A family you’ve known almost three decades, your entire goddamn life, and you'll never see them again. You never asked for this. You want to go home. 

They send Leon to your four-walled cell, some kind of sick-joke manipulation tactic poorly guised as a mediator. Look, the man you’ve grown close to, who understands what you’re going through, here to do our bidding. To make you seem crazy. Dramatic. He’ll convince you, right?

Who wouldn’t act like this? Who would agree to this?

“You’re a fucking liar. I should’ve known.” The meds leave you woozy, double-edge your vision. You can’t even coordinate well enough to sit up, to look at him proper.

You’re still angry. Still so fucking angry you could scream the walls down, but your muscles have turned gelatinous and you couldn’t show it if you tried. Which makes it even worse. Turns to fury that boils and wails and consumes until nothing of you is left but ash and you’ve always been one to project hatred inward anyway.

“I never lied to you.”

“I don’t fucking care. I just wanna go home.” Even your voice runs flat, slurred like you’re six shots deep. At least you can still cry. “This isn’t fair. I wanna go home. I miss my family. I wanna go home.”

“Listen, I understand—“

“No you don’t. Stop saying that. Shut up, Leon.”

He doesn’t. Nobody does. You never wanted this. Never asked for it. It’s not fair. It’s not fair!

A cool pressure rests over your temple, and you open your eyes to find him kneeled beside the bed, a gloved hand comforting against the side of your face.

“I know exactly how you’re feeling.” His gaze shards up your chest—if all-consuming grief had a look, you witness it now. “Losing everything, starting all over again, leaving behind your entire life. It’s not just you.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can. You’ve come this far, and I won’t let you give up.”

You wish to move, to push him away, but you’re so tired. “You should’ve left me in that warehouse.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

He talks you into complying. You resign yourself to a new life. Change your driver’s license, your birth certificate, credit cards, cell phone number, email, leave everything you ever loved behind.

It’s hard. You sit in your new apartment and you cry most days. The agency allots you a therapist for the first six months. Until you can get back on your feet.

After six months, you’re still crawling. You have no money. Your resources are cut off and the agency doesn’t care and you have nobody to turn to.

Scratch that. Leon cares. He calls sometimes, to check on you, to see how you’re doing. What can you even tell him?

Yeah, everything’s good.

You couldn’t leave your house for months because every car screamed danger. When you conquered that fear, got a job nearby, a customer sounded like the man who always drew your blood. Woodsmoke smooth, a guise of trust, malicious in the eyes. You were fired after four days of consecutive no-shows. Four days of hiding inside your locked bedroom. Another job, quit after the first week when the song you heard in that goddamn trunk played every hour like clockwork.

Yeah. Everything’s good.

You don’t expect the knock at the door. Nobody ever comes to visit anymore, and a surge of adrenaline leaves you frozen at the kitchen sink.

Another knock. You drop to the floor. Curl up beneath the counter.

The phone rings, and you leave the answering machine to catch it:

Hey, this is Leon. If you’re home and you can hear this, I’m outside right now. Probably should’ve called first, huh?

Oh. Just Leon. Thank god.

You open the front door and peek through the crack, and he steps back to give you space.

“It’s just me,” he says, gives you a smile, all reassuring and warm.

You step back to let him in, and he moves slowly, calmly. Guilt curls heady inside your chest, makes you wince. It’s not his fault. “Sorry. I’m still jumpy.”

“No, it’s fine. My mistake. I just wanted to stop by while I’m in town.” He toes off his shoes then crosses thick arms, clad in his leather jacket. “You’re a shitty liar.”

Everything’s good.

“I know.”

He motions to the couch, asks, “Can I sit?”

“Yeah. Do you want water or something?”

“No, that’s okay. I can’t stay long.”

You’re used to it. Being alone all the time. Staring at the cold sheets of your bed, sharing meals with the empty chair across from you. You miss having friends, and family, and—and you miss being loved.

As if witnessing your thoughts, he makes a sound in his throat. Shakes his head. “Not that I don’t want to. I have somewhere important to be tomorrow.” 

“It’s fine, Leon.”

“Is there anything you need while I’m here?”

“I’m fine.”

He falls silent, squints up at you. “You don’t have to bullshit me.”

You blink for a moment. Decide the best way to worm yourself from beneath his stare. Decide it’s best to be honest. “I’m just…” you deflate with a sigh, and the drain of false optimism leaves you exhausted, “I’m not your responsibility.”

“I don’t think that. Maybe I’d just like to do something nice for you.”

“But… why?”

“Why not?”

You join him on the couch, curling up all sad and defeated. Tired. So fucking tired. “We barely know each other.”

“Like that’s ever stopped me before.”

You don’t deserve it, you want to say. You shouldn’t be here. Alive at all. 

He turns to you, leans forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “We can start with lunch?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I didn’t ask if you had money.”

The thought of leaving your apartment scares you. The thought of staying scares you. And he knows that. Can sniff out your six-month-long bout of agoraphobia like he exists inside your brain.

And he smiles, soft as always, a comfort to frayed nerves. “I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s just lunch.”

Just like before, like all those other times that he made promises with impossible odds, you believe him. God, if you believe anybody, it’s him.

He gets it. Knows exactly what to say to sate, to glue a little piece of the Old You back in place.

He gets it, and he’s been here before, and you like him.

Shit. You like him. 

“Okay. Lunch.”

His smile widens, and he looks at you like you’ve walked through flame—earth-shattering pride and warmth and something else you can’t quite place. “Maybe we can make it a date.”

A date. A date.

Your eyes grow wide, and he waits. Gives you time to process.

It’s a lot.

The idea seems wonderful. But the world is grey most days, and many things that should provide happiness bring you little more than lightning-strike stress.

You wish you could say yes. 

“I don’t think you realize what you’re getting into.” His smile disappears, and you reach for a hand. Wish to will the color back to his face. “I’m not saying no. I’m just.” You take a readying breath, and steady your eyes on his. “I’m really fucked up right now, and I understand if you don’t wanna deal with that.”

You don’t even want to.

“Listen, I’m not expecting you to marry me. We’ll just… dress up and have a nice time.”

You look at him, and the emptiness, the exhaustion of his own eyes speaks to how much he needs this, too. A break. A distraction. Something good for once in his life. A sentiment you very much share.

You drag a thumb over the back of his hand and scoot closer, until your legs touch and the heat of his body calms you. “When you said I remind you of somebody. It was you, wasn’t it?”

His nose crinkles in a way undeniably cute. Almost embarrassed, if you can believe it. “Damn. That obvious, huh?”

“Context clues, actually. You’re really hard to get a read on.”

“I’ve been trying to work on that.”

“Then I guess I can work on… leaving the house.” You give a shrug. “No better time than now, right?”

“Now is good.”

Another piece, glued back in place. He seeks to work through one at a time, over and over again, until none remain. Won’t stop until the you that you lost becomes whole.

You’re scared. Nauseous, pained in the chest. But hopeful.

He keeps his promises.

Quirkless support course deku my beloved <3

I would like to see the angsty Wally doodles 👀👀👀

Waaaa

Lesson 16 spoilers!

I'll leave this here too jsjs

the translation! srry I forgot to put it in the video ヘ⁠（⁠。⁠□⁠°⁠）⁠ヘ

Barbatos: See there the inncoent blood you have spilt! On the steps of Notre Dame

Belphie: I am guiltless... they ran and fell.

You are transported into an unfamiliar, colour-soaked world, with nothing except the clothes covering your skin and a pounding headache. When you stray into the first village you find, you look nothing like the people there. But though you think your body and your ways must seem monstrous to them, they take you in with nothing except acceptance. 

Or: You are transported to Home as a human, and the rest of the inhabitants are puppets. 

Frank is always frustrated when he’s as stumped by something as the rest of his neighbours. He’s supposed to be the one with the answers, after all. But no matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot classify you into a single genus existing in this world. Your bodies are, at least in general shapes, similar enough. And yet, the texture of your skins are entirely different, and you have things in your mouth you refer to as ‘teeth’ that he is entirely unfamiliar with. The fact that you call yourself an adult, and yet have parts of your body that are still growing, is strange to him as well. Even if it’s just your hair and ‘nails’, none of their bodies do anything similar. After the realization that your closest match would be a tree, rather than anything talking, he simply gives up on coming up with a conclusive answer. You deserve a category of your own. 

The first noticeable difference is, of course, the differing amount of fingers. Julie decides, lightheartedly, that this gives you an unfair advantage in arts and crafts! So many things are easier… She’d like to have an extra finger to crochet with as well, really!! Besides that, she’s absolutely fascinated with your hair and how it feels- She’ll want to try doing all kinds of different things with it.

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