Catch A Grenade.

Catch a Grenade.

Yan Nanami x GN Reader.

Synopsis: You should have just left that damn satchel where you found it.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, some infantilization, humiliation/manipulation, and violence.

Word Count: 900.

Continuation of Never Let Me Down Again.

*~*~*~*

“Go.” Only one word, said so coldly yet loud enough to hear it above the stomps of Kento’s clad feet making their way down the hall. “I say this only once.”

The only reason he does not tug you is because he will surely accidentally break your wrist or your arm.

You know this from experience, all without words and all with actions.

“Since you have planned so much, you should have planned for other possibilities.” You cannot see his face because you are facing the corner of the living room, your forehead leaning against one of the walls. You cannot see his face, but you know he is furious, from the tone in his voice to the position he forced you into. He put you in the time-out corner, a corner that you have not been put into since the first month you arrived here.

The walls are a dull marigold and smell of spoiled milk. This corner also has a large white spot that is uncovered by the paint, and so you attempt to push your nose against that instead.

In what felt like months ago, you attempted to tear off the paint out of boredom. Kento was angry, but not angry enough to buy more paint to fix it.

“I do so much for you…” He says, and there is the sound of his armchair squeaking slightly. He must be sitting on it, grimacing. There isn’t any other cause to think about, not when this sound has been the only one you had heard for months, aside from Kento’s tones, the television, and your cries. Yeah. That must be it, you think. “God. What the hell were you thinking? I have work tomorrow too…”

You don’t say anything. You close your eyes and breathe in the only piece of air that does not smell so rotten. You can imagine being somewhere else, doing something else, other than being here, and being forced to stand on your tiptoes against a coat of yellow latex. Anything else.

“Answer.” He demands, and you can hear the soft sound of his right foot thumping up and down on the musty carpet floor. “Or do you want to be in more trouble than you already are?”

Out of instinct, out of a want so embedded within you, to survive, you stutter out some hardly audible words.

“You don’t have any logic in you, do you?” He sounds so disappointed, and your mind goes to the image of him having his arms crossed. “I’m right. Aren’t I?”

Your toes hurt already. But it feels like something is holding you up by your neck and forcing you to stay there. An invisible noose made of fear. An invisible weight in your chest too.

…

“I’m sorry, Kento…” You murmur, sniffling as tears and snot and drool run down your face.

“No, you’re not.” He refutes. You can hear him turn to another page of whatever he is reading.

“Please. I am… I am…” You repeat I am a few more times, feeling humiliated, like just an infant who doesn’t know their place.

A sigh. “Are you? Are you? How do I know you’re not lying, hmm? Again?”

Even the soft carpet underneath your toes feels like a bed of thorns at this point. Everything hurts.

“Please, Kento…! I am…! I am…!”

A whine escapes your lips, like a defeated dog sent off to rest in their crate without a treat: a dog, a mutt, a pet.

“Are you?” Another familiar sound of pages turning. You must have been here for hours at this point, so the thing he is reading must be quite long indeed.

So long.

You can imagine him rubbing his thumb and pointer finger into his brow area in frustration, disappointment, in apathy pretending to be sympathy. “You don’t appreciate what I do for you… Do you?”

You can feel a glare, and the ghost of something squeezing your neck to force more desperate words out of you. “P-Please, I’m-” 

You hear the squeak of Kento’s armchair again.

You feel hands, the same hands that always felt so strong, on your shoulders, and you are turned around with ease. He looks at you, but you don’t look at him. You look at his shirt, his work shirt, still halfway unbuttoned with his tie hanging loosely from the stained collar. You can smell his cologne, although it has almost fully faded away. You can remember tying it before he left for work this morning, he looked so happy that you were behaving so well for him.

You almost scream out thank yous, but then Kento ruins your small moment of happiness again.

“We aren’t done.” You see the book he was reading this whole time, it is thick and red and looks so heavy. The pain on your cheek came so fast that you didn’t even see it move. You stumble back, the back of your head hitting hard against the white spot on the wall. 

You were too focused on the pain, on crying even more, that you didn’t notice the book being raised again.

Put everything down I've made the best fucking screenshot of Astarion ever

This is so fucking him in one picture, P E R F E C T I O N

Gods he's such a fucking mood istg

bitch you are doing a good job (ﾟヮﾟ)

Russian Roulette.

Yan L x GN Reader.

Synopsis: You decide to test your luck while it still lasts, as small as it is. 

Warnings: Yandere themes, past stalking, kidnapping, and manipulation.

Word Count: 1.1k.

*~*~*~*

“Hmm… why do you want me to do that, exactly?” The response is much longer than a simple okay or sure or no, but the question was what you expected to be in the realm of absolute possibility. You have given L too little credit in the past, when you first woke up here, thinking that he can shut himself up and go back to whatever he usually does, like eating cake or watching the same footage of you in your home for the tenth time that week. 

You can work with this.

“It’s not like you have given me much else to do.” You say, not biting your tongue this time around, the bitterness in your voice coinciding with the box of sour fruit gummies on the other side of the table, with the artificial sweetness in L’s tone. “Plus if you want to treat me as well as you say you want to, you would oblige the simple request of playing a game with your favorite captive.”

His eyebrow raises at the last word that slipped out of your mouth, not out of guilt or shame or fear that your reality has punched him straight in the face, but out of just… curiosity.

“What if I don’t?” He smirks, looking up at you. “You did just rudely rush in here stomping and making demands… not exactly the behavior I would think of when I hear the word captive.”

“I’m going insane.” You say, glaring down at him, your fists curled so deeply into your pajama pants that you swore that they would break. 

He chuckles, and it feels like the messy hair covering your angry face has just gotten even more disheveled. 

“I jest, I jest… fine… I’ll play with my favorite captive.”

It feels like this weight has just been lifted off of your head, but the one in your heart remains.

“No need to be so… tangled up.” He says the pun naturally, popping in a few more pieces of the neon candy. 

You start grumbling curses under your breath as if he did reject your proposal. He didn’t though. He didn’t, so you’ll play by his much longer game for a bit more before you struggle yet again.

“Not funny.”

There are only six pieces of candy left in the yellow box, each one a different color.

“What are you waiting for?” He asks, slouching forward instead of backward this time around and crossing his legs. “Go get your… game.”

You scoff and race off to L’s bedroom, putting your knees next to the mattress that is on the opposite side of L’s bed. Under your pillow are the six red plastic cups you stole from the cupboard last night, along with a chocolate egg still in its packaging, something you got from L after threatening to jump on your mattress until the few trinkets he got for you would fall on the floor and break. You won for once, in the end, but that condescending look he had while giving it to you makes you want to kick him in the groin again. 

It is the same look he has when you return to him, tail tucked between your legs as you set up the cups and the chocolate egg on the table. The box of candy is empty now. How in the hell does he not get so many cavities?

“Alright then, explain the rules.” He raises his arms to the ceiling and yawns loudly, obnoxiously. 

You sit down on the opposite side of the table. Your posture is much more restrained than his, he notes. Your hands are on your lap and your back is straight. You still don’t know how to relax. A symptom of being raised in high society.

“It’s a game I used to play with the younger servants when I was little.” You explain. Thinking of the past brings back unwanted feelings, but thinking of the present does the same. You have never experienced true freedom, but at least here you can speak your mind and your emotions. God, maybe you are going insane, being… thankful to him, your captor. “Someone guesses which cup has the object underneath. If they win, they get to ask a question to the person who scrambled the cups. If they lose, the person who scrambled the cups gets to ask the question.”

The image of a smaller you playing with porcelain cups and a ring, perhaps your mother’s, as the servants look confused makes L laugh softly. How cute.

“I’ll go first.” You insist, putting the chocolate egg under one of the cups and swiftly moving them around. “Okay. Go on. Don’t take your time.”

“Alright.”

L’s pointed finger moves slowly to the cup in the middle.

“If I remember correctly, it is this one, isn’t it?” He asks. “Right?”

That smile of yours makes choosing the wrong cup on purpose makes it worth it in L’s eyes. 

“Nope.” You lift the one farthest to L’s left and your right. The chocolate egg is there, untouched.

He doesn’t pretend to be surprised, instead still smiling. You do the same, albeit unknowingly.

“Alright, my turn now.” You didn’t even get to ask him a question, but you are too deep in your pride to care about it right now. You won against L for once. You’re proud. It’s cute.

One by one, you slide the cups and the chocolate egg over. You’re confident, it would appear. 

How cute.

He puts one cup over the chocolate egg and moves all of them around, much faster than you did your turn. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to concentrate. 

He stops moving them, and it feels like the weight on your heart becomes even heavier.

Your pointer finger shakes as you move it to the cup in the center, silent.

L shakes his head.

“Nope.” He says, the word mocking yours.

His right elbow rests on the corner of the table, his palm cradling his chin as he looks on, to the shakingness of your breath, to the way your folded hands tremble. 

The air feels thick, and you don’t even know why. Or do you?

“You already know what I am going to ask you, aren’t you?” The question is longer than anticipated. 

“N-No.” You stutter.

“Oh?” The sound feels like a stab to the heart or a punch in the face. “That’s fine, I guess.”

He leans in. Closer and closer. You back away, but not enough to not smell how sugary his breath is. 

“There is a knife missing from the knife drawer. Where is it?” 

You didn’t win against L, you say to yourself. He won.

“...Underneath my pillow.”

???