no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her
pairing: emmary | wc: 996
can be read as a prequel to emmeline after
Come home to me.
Promise me.
Promise me you'll come back.
She wasn't breathing. As far as she could tell, she hadn't breathed in a long time. Hadn't needed to. Never would need to again.
Don't do this to me.
Please.
I can't take it.
It was difficult to move. There was something heavy all around her, weighing her down, keeping her caged in.
You told me it was over. That you wouldn't do this anymore.
She squeezed her fingers together and found that the sensation was familiar, the feel of it nostalgic. She can't remember much, but she knows this feeling is something she is used to.
You'll die. You know that. You won't get lucky a second time.
Dirt. She was touching dirt.
It was under her fingernails, inside her mouth, under and over and all around her body.
If she wanted to leave, she'd have to dig her way out.
Do you want to die?
She doesn't think she did.
Her fingers move, her arms twist and turn until she can wiggle a path upwards. She tries to focus, but her mind is a fractured thing, memories spilling out of the cracks.
⋆
A large room, covered in blood. Or maybe not blood, but something akin to it. It drips down the walls.
No, no it doesn't. She's just close enough to notice the brushstrokes.
It is red, but it isn't blood. It's just paint.
She's staring, she realizes, at the wrong thing. She's meant to be looking at the picture that hangs on the wall, not the wall itself.
But the paint is harsh and thick and peeling, and it doesn't look right. It's too natural. Something that appears to be hand-made rather than the result of magic.
But this is a magical room, right? She can feel the magic around it, so thick she thinks she could touch it.
Focus.
The picture. Yes, the picture. She's looking at it now.
It's a group of people, all huddled together. She can see them but can't quite make out their faces.
They're moving, though. Jumping in the air.
Magic. The walls may not be magic, but this picture is.
A hand touches her shoulder, warm and firm.
They look happy, don't they?
I wonder if we're gonna look like that when we graduate.
Somehow, she knows they didn't.
⋆
Time passes, or at least she thinks it does.
She can't tell, she just moves.
The ground is solid and unmoving, until it isn't, and she feels a cold wind hit her arm as it finally breaks out.
She keeps on crawling, punching her way to the surface. It should hurt, she thinks, but it doesn't.
You never think things through.
You just start fights like you can win them all.
You can't.
Eventually, she kicks around enough dirt that she can crawl out of the ground, pushing herself up until it releases her.
It's dark, and there's dirt in her eyes, but that's fine. She doesn't need to see, she knows the path before her like the back of her hand.
As she straightens herself she notices a piece of flesh hanging loose in the side of her waist. She picks it up and rips it off her body, and throws it on the ground.
She hardly feels it.
⋆
A small room, just barely big enough for a double bed. A girl, laying down next to her, crying.
It's an awful sound, quiet but excruciating. She doesn't like it, doesn't want the girl to cry anymore.
This is not fair, it's not fucking fair.
Outside, the city is quiet. Eerie, almost. She's never known this part of town to be quiet, why is it quiet?
Because everyone's dead.
No, not everyone. There's still some of them left. They're still here, after all, aren't they?
She places her hand over her own heart, feels it beating. Then she takes her other hand and places it on the other girl. They're alive.
I don't feel alive.
We're alive.
We'll be dead before we know it.
⋆
The tree is the center of it all. Everything that grows in this place, grows around it. That's what the girl had said, when they first came here.
You're everything I have.
She touches its bark, and she can feel it. The years spent here, the memories made. She rests her forehead against it and knows she is not far from home.
This is our life. It's not just yours.
She follows the invisible footsteps they have left behind; hers bigger and spread apart, the girl's smaller and closer together.
The girl, the girl, the girl.
She had a name, a beautiful name. A face she loved to look at, arms she found comfort in.
The girl, the life, the promise.
Are you really going to walk away?
No, she thinks. I won't walk away, I'll walk back.
⋆
There's a letter on the table. It smells of death.
It is death. It'll kill you.
I won't let it.
You say that like it's a choice.
I survived one war. I can survive another.
No.
Yes. I have to.
Why?
I just do.
⋆
She follows the pathway til the end of the park, turns right and keeps on walking.
Her body, if it can still be called that, is falling to pieces and leaving a trail behind, but it is functional enough to carry her.
Two turns to the right, one to the left. Walk two blocks, turn right one more time, and there she is.
Come home.
Here she is.
The door is red, red like the paint, red like the blood. She knocks on it, and the force of the knock causes one of her fingers to fall off, but she doesn't care. It doesn't matter.
All that matters is that the door opens, and the girl appears behind it.
Come home to me.
Mary stares at her, mouth agape.
Emmeline smiles.
“I came home."
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I’m so glad you liked what I sent in again for the Three Wishes part 2 (genie yandere)! I really like that I was able to help you cause your writing talent is way too good. (And as a fellow artist…I get what it’s like to be in a roadblock and the frustration that comes with it).
I actually really love reading more unusual or less well known fairy tales and mythology, so I could always send some more your way so you don’t have to do any research. (You can be lazy! Yay!) Though if you’re up for that, I think it’d be easier if I just messaged you privately instead of going back and forth with anon asks (if that’s comfortable with you of course).
I also like Reader’s “suffering” too in yandere stories. I always like stereotypical HEA, but my version of “suffering” is more so that the yandere wins (and Reader doesn’t die either or is heavily abused to the point where death is the better option. I hate where there is no heavy “dere” in yanderes, cause if it’s just “yan,” it’s just an abusive piece of shit).
That’s absolutely understandably about not wanting to focus on the Prince, I was just throwing it out there in case you wanted to make him a new important OC. And changing the Prince into a different profession also is perfectly fine. (Heck in the original story, pretty much the main reason the Prince was out and about was because he was scholarly-like. Having a deep and wide fascination with all the world had to offer. The dude really just wanted to go on an adventure and learn more).
And I’m glad 6.e. made your heart explode with delight! (I also have a guilty pleasure of thinking about all the fucked up things yanderes can do to their lover/others).
🩷🩷🩷
Do whatever you feel comfortable ask if you wanna stay anon or dms~ If you are thinking about spam this blog doesn't get many to to be fair. But yeah it is probably more comfortable in dms.
But just a heads up I personally don't know when I would actually start posting here again just yet. While I am slowly getting back to writing rn but I am taking the chance to write some longer stuff or more personal (deranged really) without pressuring myself to post like one or two fics every week. (also started another hobby of journalling soo) If you don't mind just exchanging ideas and stories then yeah~ ^^
Another reason why I dont want to deal with tags, hashtags and proofreading
But yeahhh hmm I deff placed a few readers in a "better death than this" while also adding to it that the reader in my head still has a fear of death but no real bad abuse???? I THINK- lmao
Ehh I guess it is more so I love the idea of yanderes having control over where the reader is I guess, so controlling the area where they are, or maybe the controlling the mind or movements, or arranged marriages :p All my wips that i am working on currently is just that right now. Either one or a mix of them.
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