Sebastian Solace Oneshots

Seb - I missed you 🩸🌀🍥

Trigger warning: References to blood, $H, Suicidal thoughts, gore, experimentation, c*tting, t0rture, and descriptive imagery of wounds. Once again, Experiment! Reader. This doubles as an angst and background to your and Sebastian's lore here. (I technically made Evileye as an OC but now we are all E. Haha this is a technical OC x canon, I have pulled you in) Technical body dysmorphia.

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To say that overthinking was common to him wasn't wrong.

But Sebastian's grown too numb to the otherwise jarring and bloody thoughts that now plague his mind. His brain desensitized to what most would consider gruesome, he's able to laugh every time. You die, he gets to laugh when you come back. He gets tolaugh at whatever gorey, painful or swift death.

When both of you were first convicted, having to hear you scream from the opposite end of the facility seemed as the salt to his plentiful lacerations and injections. The same to you, of course, having to listen to him thrash on the table from your place, equally being bound by gauntlets while sick doctors carve into you. At times you forgot each other's faces, voices, kept apart for lengths at a time. When your screaming stopped, unbeknownst to Sebastian that it stopped because they deemed you done and placed you in a glass vat of liquid for monitoring from then on, he feared the worst; that they killed you. His mind wandered at the time, hoped you were able to slip in sleep rather than bleed on an operating table. His skin, or scales, would pale at the thought of a slow death, or internal bleeding.

He'd lived years thinking you were gone, but in truth you were simply trapped in water with a secure latch atop the container, unable to scream through the 6 inch thick glass, nor the soundproof walls of your new cell. The silence is worse than hearing screams. Quiet was deafening.

The color white became a hatred, as that color only wrought more pain; white lab coats, white padded rooms, white syringes. When he killed that guard, he was happy to see crimson, blood, red, a color that wasn't ghoulish ghastly white in his eyes. He was happy to see the yellow lumps of fat roll out of his arms and chest, happy to see the off-white of his bones, the fleshy oranges of muscle and sinew. Happy to hold a purple keycard when he opened the cells, welcoming the grey compound rather than the dreaded synthetic snow painted on walls. In your monitoring office, the scientists had dashed out, the power flickered and burst, you couldn't get out of the vat. For a while you waited in the dark, honing ears in on screams, gunfire, snarls, gushing water, and turrets. Terrified you might just rot in the liquid.

Sebastian's heart, the same one he had thought grown cold like stone from the years of hurt, swelled seeing you, but then clenched at the state. God, your skin was a dark grey, your hair a black congealed mass that housed eyes and eyes, your irises became such a deep and bold blue. Saturated. The same fin-like ears, webbed hands with claws. He spied the tail that extended from your spine and tailbone. Your legs, gone. Sharp dorsal fins went down your back, from the centre of a concave he was unfamiliar with. Gills, scales.

He's happy you're alive but at what cost? He tries to figure the mechanism to open your container, and would have broken it, had he the good graces of time on his bloodied hands.

The now proclaimed Saboteur heard heavily armed security personnel on their way, he was already injured, and knew if he stayed he'd face certain death.

You tell him he can go.

He retreats in the vents with the heavy promise that he'll find you again, even as his throat tightening tells him you may never even see him. Seb's stomach lurches at the thought; to have you so close to him, but possibly lose you without even hearing you speak? It pains him greatly while he turns sharp bends within the vents.