#there Is a light even in the darkest of basements

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

sometimes I think about how in the end isaac found peace. the whole game is a symbolic journey through him defeating his inner demons- all the final bosses are directly confronting one of isaac’s own issues and why he killed himself. frommom symbolising his simultaneous fear and guilt from his abuse, to blue baby symbolising him confronting his own suicidal depression and either the fact he’s dying or is already dead, to dogma being the aspects of christianity that were tainted to hurt him and his mother while the beast has Isaac himself representing the good and healing parts of faith and how it can be a genuine positive if you don’t fall into the dogma people will use it to push on you. and when he’s able to confront his own traumas and win, when he’s able to find the good in things while throwing out the bad, when he’s able to accept his own death… he finds peace. not through death, but through self reflection and self kindness. by realising he doesn’t deserve to suffer, he’s able to, somehow, rest well with his father, telling stories. and the game continues- of course it does, because your inner demons don’t stay dead forever. but there is peace at the end, even after everything. and then i just feel like crying a bit.

[thedropsofblood]

Awesome!, can I please request a platonic yandere dad with a serial killer y/n! In which he doesn't mind and is actually encouraging them!

Word count: 6k

Being a full-time serial killer, as cool and amazing as it sounds, is honestly a really shitty job, especially when you're only doing it for the money. Your family was torn apart by a nasty marriage, leaving you with your dad while your brother goes with your mother.

Your father's performance at his job worsened because of it, leading to him being demoted to a fairly bad position, and suddenly you can't afford to attend school anymore.

Something worse than having to say goodbye to your classmates is having to find a job in this economy, who in the world would hire a 16 years old for a full-time job without any degrees or prior work experience? Even if they do, the pay would be so bad that you might start picking up spare coins in the streets instead. You went through sleepless nights extremely conflicted and stressed out just because of it. While at your darkest moment, your mind threw an idea at you that made you question yourself more than expected.

What if you became a serial killer? There's plenty of information on the internet to help with it. And organs sells, doesn't they? Even a kidney or an eye makes a person rich overnight on the right market, and one less person on this earth wouldn't hurt, would it?... You mean, you'll only be targeting junkies and prostitutes anyways, and that'll be fine, right?...

And that's how you committed your first murder, a man high on drugs in the middle of an alleyway at midnight. A clean stab at the back of the throat followed by one to the head. You had to hold back the urge to vomit as you wrapped his body into a plastic bag and into your basement while your dad was asleep.

With a surgical knife and gloves on, you became your "procedure", lungs, heart, liver, wrapped neatly in ziplock bags and placed on ice. You tried not to think back about it when you held the wads of cash in your hand, blood money, as they said. But does blood money really matter if you have enough money to sustain your family for months on end?

You hoped he wouldn't mind you lying about winning a scratch lottery that day. As time goes by, you've long gotten used to the feeling of taking a person's life and repeating the same step over and over again. Kill, down to the basement, dissect, sell and profit. It was a neat little routine, you've even bought a lock for the basement, just in case your father decides to enter it at some point.

But no amount of preparation could've prepared you for this. You opened the door to the house, clicking your tongue at the creak before dragging the bagged body in, making sure to close the door behind you. Your victim for today was a prostitute, normally, it would've been easy to just blindfold them and slice them cleanly in the neck, but this time, you got careless and couldn't finish them in one or two stabs, getting yourself a nasty bruise on the side of your head and injuries on your arms. You still finished your job, of course, what kind of killer would you be if you didn't?

As you dragged the body towards the basement, you were flashbanged by the lights of the hallway turning on. Panic surges through your body, causing you to freeze in your place before snapping your head to look at your father looking back at you in the end of the hallway. You looked at the bagged body and back at your dad, trying to find an excuse.

Your words were caught in your throat, no matter how much you tried to speak up, nothing came out, only a silence filled between you and your dear father.

A sigh escape from your father broke the silence, the eyebags on his face, the exhaustion in his sigh, fuck, he was waiting for you and here you were, coming home at 2 in the morning, dragging a dead body towards god knows where?

You grit your teeth, before you can even speak up and make an excuse to defend yourself, he barks at you with a stern tone. "Sit down. You can explain it to me later, why were you out so late and why are you bleeding?"

You jumped at the mention of your wounds. Right, you completely forgot about that. You decide to bite the inside of your cheek and sit down onto the couch, preparing yourself for an hour lecture or worse, getting kicked out of the house and being left to rot on the streets. Your dad wouldn't do that, right? Sure, you've been a problem child ever since you were a kid, but your dad loves you... Right?...

Your thoughts were cut in half when you felt the sting of alcohol being applied onto the wounds on your arms, causing you to hiss and look up at your father. You wanted to complain like you usually do, yet, you couldn't bring yourself to do so, especially not when your father still had the same worried look in his eyes. Instead, you bit your pride and let your father bandage you up.

He pulled you into a hug, something completely unexpected from somebody like him. You've always seen him as such a strong, superhuman person, the pillar of your family, but you've never seen him feel so... Helpless? Worried? Scared? Ever since the divorce with your mother.

"You worried the hell out of me, kid. You don't even know how many calls and messages I've sent you, I thought you fucking died in a ditch somewhere. And don't even give me the 'I was working overtime' bullshit, I've seen enough, I'm not five, I know what you do."

Your body completely froze in his arms as you looked at him with wide eyes. You hesitantly hugged him back, burying your face into his shoulder. "And you don't hate me because of it?"

Silence filled the room, broken by a sigh from him. "No. You could've just... Chosen a normal job instead of risking your life everyday over a few wads of cash. I don't care what you want to do, as long as you're safe and happy."It felt so weird to have someone finally supporting you after trying to be independent for so long, you tightened your hug around your father before you buried your face into your father's shoulder, tears beginning to build in the corner of your eyes.

As you sobbed quietly, your father's hand patted your back, silently comforting you until you succumbed to sleep. You've already had a long day today, he doesn't want to bother you anymore.

The next night, when you were getting ready to set out, you made sure to put the lunchbox filled with the dinner your father made for you into your backpack on your way out for your 'job'.

A/N: I'm not even gonna lie if I had a dad like this I would be killing people left and right /nsrs

[white-wolf-buckaroo]

To protect something precious one must be willing to do anything

A dad!Vander fic (with my og character, Luna, Vander's fifth adopted child)

Set before Act 1.1.

Masterlist: there you go

Disclaimer: english ain't my first language folks

The Last Drop was quieter than usual, the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses a dull echo of its typical rowdy energy. The tension in the Undercity was rising. Whispers of the enforcers' movements trickled through the streets like oil ready to catch fire. Vander had kept an eye on it all, but tonight, he just wanted the evening to end quietly.

Luna had begged to stay upstairs with him while he tidied up the bar. Powder had already gone to bed, and Vi had promised to keep the others in line, though her tone suggested otherwise.

“Can I help, Vander?” Luna asked, perched on a barstool far too big for her.

“You can sit there and keep me company,” Vander replied with a faint smile, wiping down a mug. “That’s a big enough job for now, Lu.”

She nodded solemnly, as though she'd been given an important task, and began doodling on a scrap piece of paper. For a while, everything felt normal.

Then the front doors creaked open.

Vander looked up sharply, his hand stilling. The figure that slipped through the doorway was unmistakable: his dark coat swept the floor, and his mismatched eyes gleamed even in the dim light.

A man both respected and feared in the undercity. Whispers of his name were only heard in the darkest of corners. To Vander, he had once been a friend. Not anymore.

Silco.

Luna looked up from her paper, frowning curiously at the stranger. Vander’s chest tightened, but his voice stayed calm as he said, “I thought rats knew to stay out of my bar.”

Silco didn’t respond immediately. He closed the door behind him, his steps measured as he approached the counter. He seemed to take in the room—its emptiness, its stillness—before his gaze landed on Luna.

The girl blinked at him, wide-eyed but not yet afraid. Silco tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t realize you’d started a daycare, Vander.”

“Leave her out of this,” Vander said curtly, stepping around the counter between Silco and Luna’s line of sight. “What do you want? You know very well you’re not welcomed here.” his right hand clenched, the scar on his arm burning as if it was still a fresh cut.

Silco smirked, his good eye narrowing. “Straight to business, then. Fair enough.” He leaned casually against a stool, unbothered by Vander’s looming figure. “I came to talk about the enforcers.”

Vander didn’t flinch, but his grip tightened on the rag in his hand. He turned to Luna then, picking her up without a word from the barstool and setting her on the ground. “Go downstairs, will you kiddo?”

“But you said I could stay with you while you cleaned up,” she pouted, looking up at him with her big eyes, ignoring the stranger Vander didn’t seem to like.

“I’m almost done anyways. Come on, I’ll be downstairs in a minute to tuck you in.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She huffed, but obeyed, heading for the basement.

She was curious, though. Too curious.

Luna had started to learn to sneak around thanks to her siblings. And she was good at it. It also helped that she was a small thing, which made it easy to hide in tiny crooks and creaks invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for her (and also, sometimes, even when they were looking).

She walked downstairs and opened the door to her and her sibling’s room, but she closed it again without entering, staying silent in front of it. When she didn’t see Vander peaking through the door upstairs to see if she was still there, she tiptoed her way back up, making sure to not step on any creaky floor board.

Hidden from view, standing right behind the doorframe to the bar, she could hear Vander’s and the man’s voices just right.

“She seems like a sweet thing,” she heard the stranger say, letting out a light chuckle. “Seems to be taking after you.”

“Cut the small talk, Silco,” Vander’s voice was hard, impatient, uninterested, in a way Luna had never heard him before. “What’s it with the enforcers that has made you come all the way here knowing you aren’t welcomed?”

“They’ve been sticking their noses deeper and deeper into the Undercity.” Silco’s tone was soft but deliberate, dripping with the same quiet menace as always. “Your people are starting to wonder what you’re going to do about it. And I am asking myself the same.”

Vander didn’t answer.

Silco smiled thinly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I’ve been hearing rumours. Word has it you’ve been awfully quiet, Vander. It makes me wonder… Do you have a plan? Or are you just hoping the enforcers’ interest will go away on its own?”

Vander met his gaze, unwavering. “I’m handling it.”

“Handling it?” Silco echoed, amused. He tapped two fingers on the bar thoughtfully. “And what does that mean? Shaking hands with the enforcers? Hoping they’ll play nice?”

Vander’s jaw tensed. He didn’t respond. He wouldn’t give Silco the satisfaction.

For a moment, the only sound was the slow drip of a leaky pipe in the corner.

Silco’s attention moved to the door Luna had disappeared into a few minutes ago, catching the glimpse of a loose strand of hair peeking from behind the doorframe. He didn’t say anything, but his expression softened, though the shift was more unsettling than reassuring.

“You’ve built quite the family here,” Silco said, his voice quieter. “But you can’t shield them forever, Vander. The world doesn’t care how tightly you hold onto them. It will take them anyway.”

Vander’s eyes flashed with anger. “Stay away from my family.”

Silco straightened, smoothing out his coat with a casual gesture. “Of course. You’ve made yourself clear.” His lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. “But let me give you a warning, old friend: the enforcers won’t play by your rules. If you’ve struck some foolish deal to keep them at bay… well, it won’t last. It never does. I, on the other hand, plan to handle them keeping the upper hand. I suggest, solely because of the old friendship that connects us, that you do the same if you want to keep your… family, safe.”

Before Vander could reply, Silco turned on his heel, striding toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle and glanced back.

“To protect something precious,” he said softly, almost as though to himself, “one must be willing to do anything.”

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Vander let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Luna ran down the stairs as quickly and silently as she could, opening and closing the door to the basement room the same way. She ran to her cot, seeing her siblings already deep in sleep, and she waited for Vander.

He didn’t take long, as he had promised.

Vander looked more tired than a few minutes ago, but he managed to smile at her softly, making the little wrinkles by his eyes deeper. He sat down next to Luna after pulling her covers all the way up to her neck, and he smoothed her hair down the side of her head, resting his warm palm on her cheek.

“Ready to sleep?”

Her voice broke the silence, answering with another question “Who was that man?”

Vander forced his face into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “No one you need to worry about, Lu.”

She frowned. “He looked scary.”

Vander huffed a quiet laugh, though it held no humor. “He wants to look that way, trust me. It’s how he gets what he wants.” His thumb brushed softly against her cheek as if trying to wipe away the thought of Silco entirely. “But you don’t need to worry about him. It’s late, and you’re safe here.”

“Promise?” Luna whispered, the word small but heavy, searching his face for certainty.

Vander paused. For a moment, he seemed far away, as though the weight of the entire Undercity hung around his shoulders. But then his hand lingered a little longer on her face, warm and solid, grounding her as much as himself.

“Promise,” he said at last, his voice steady, quiet, true.

Luna let out a tiny sigh, her body relaxing back into the cot. Vander stayed with her for a little while longer, watching her eyelids droop, her breathing slow. When he was sure she’d fallen asleep, he rose to his feet with the practiced quiet of a man who had tucked in children a thousand times before.

He stood at the door for a moment, looking back. The sight of her and the others—Luna curled into the tiny space they’d carved out of a brutal world, Vi and Powder cuddling as they slept, Mylo’s soft snores and even Claggor’s feet starting to dangle out of the bed—filled him with a fierce, wordless resolve.

Silco’s wrong, he thought, clenching his scarred hand at his side. I can keep them safe. I will. He had made a deal with Grayson. He’d keep the undercity under control, and she’d help keep the trouble far. He’d stick to the deal, even if it went against the morals he had defended most, if not all of his life, for the five kids sleeping in that basement he was standing it. He had to.

Vander stepped back into the hallway, ignoring the faint echo of Silco’s words on him like a shadow. The world doesn’t care how tightly you hold onto them.

He’d just have to make sure to hold onto them tight enough.

Taglist: @keira7664@starryhiraeth @eternallyvenus

[lexosaurus]

Urban Legends

Late entry for Dannymay Day 5: Cryptids

(ao3)

There was a rumor in Amity Park. An urban legend, one of a figure made of shadows and secrets that roamed the alleys of Amity Park at night. A restless spirit, it hid in the darkest corners of the night and fed on the fear of anyone unfortunate enough to stumble across it.

Tucker had seen the figure once before when he was late getting home from Sam's house. It'd nearly given him a heart attack with how quiet it was at the edge of the alleyway. Where it hovered, the light of the street lamp should have cast a long shadow behind it, but instead, it was as if it'd eaten its own shadow with the way its fuzzy form shifted like smoke. 

Tucker had felt the blood drain from his face there. He was sure—more than sure—that he wasn't going to get out of this one alive. But as if it'd heard his thoughts, the creature seemingly tilted its head as if to ask, "Now why would you think that?"

"Because you're insane," Tucker had wanted to say, to shout. "Because I feel insane."

The creature looked almost shy after that. It wrung its hands together, though far too smoky to contain anything resembling fingers, and that only made Tucker feel more insane because there was no way this cryptid creature of a shadow was responding to him.

Was there?

Tucker squinted at the soft edges of its torso, the amalgamation of shadow that gave it depth and shape. It was young, he realized. The shadow—or whatever person it was resembling—was younger than him. 

For some reason, that made Tucker feel weird.

As if to prove his point, the creature almost seemed to take a step back. 

Tucker couldn't just stare at it forever. So he opened his mouth, the words tasting dry on his tongue as he tried, "Hello."

The creature said nothing. It didn't have a mouth to speak with, or even ears to hear with. But Tucker knew it was listening.

"Hi, I'm Tucker." He swallowed, the rational part of his brain telling him it might be smart to run, now, but the other side of his brain, the one that had hung out with Sam for too long, urging him to say, "Who are you?"

To his surprise, the creature responded, not with words, but rather with a low, watery whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Tucker had no idea how he was supposed to respond. Ice had spread across his body and up his spine, rooting him in place. He tried anyway. "Oh, that's cool." His voice cracked.

The creature seemed to laugh. It was a small, delicate thing, as if it were afraid of offending Tucker.

But that was ridiculous. This was a cryptid made of shadows and fear. It couldn't possibly...do...

Tucker's grip on his scooter tightened, and his fingers hurt from the pressure. But he persisted. "I'm just trying to get home."

The creature tilted its head again as if to say, "Well then, what are you still doing standing there looking dumb in the middle of the road?" And Tucker knew, this time, that he wasn't just putting words in the creature's metaphorical mouth.

"So...uh...have you been in this town long?"

The creature shrugged.

It shrugged. 

Then, the street lamp flickered as shadows gathered before it, shaping into some sort of rectangle or square. But before Tucker could make sense of what it was trying to make, the shadows exploded outward and dissipated into the air.

"Huh? You...uh...exploded?" Tucker tried, his gaze still locked into the space where the shadows had been just moments before.

The cryptid stayed silent.

Tucker felt his face grow taut, first in fear, then in anger. Because of course, of course, this creature was making fun of him. How had it known the worst day of his life? The day his best friend died from an explosion in the basement?

The creature hadn't been timid. It'd been luring him in with a trap so it could feed off his distress. It wanted him to think of Danny, of that day, and then it was going to feast on his misery and go to hunt down the next poor soul who happened to cross its path.

"That was private," Tucker said.

The cryptid looked almost concerned. It stepped forward, hand raised as if to argue, "I wasn't making fun of you!"

But it clearly was. 

“You were just looking into my memories, right? That was private.”

It shook its head frantically now, shadows following in delay, and something inside Tucker began to crack. Something that he turned away from and shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind almost immediately after.

Because now it was so obvious, too obvious what was going on. The way the cryptid had formed to look like a teenager. Like a fourteen-year-old boy. Like the same fourteen-year-old boy who'd died in the explosion. 

Like Danny. 

But it wasn't Danny.

It wasn't.

Tucker hopped back on his scooter and began leaving the cryptid behind, his chest feeling both lighter and heavier the more distance he got.

Because it wasn't Danny. I couldn't have been. 

But then, why was that nagging feeling refusing to leave his brain? Or was that just the denial that his therapist had talked to him about?

It wasn't Danny. 

Tucker lay in bed, his brain playing back that moment over and over in a vicious cycle of rumination that only served to guarantee exhaustion the next day.

There was an urban legend in Amity Park. One about a shadow creature, a cryptid that had no name, that looked like it could be called Danny. No one knew when it first began appearing in the city, but all sightings had been reported after the explosion at the Fentonworks. Sam and Tucker had been planning on going to Danny's later that day, but they had been running late, and that was the only reason they were still alive.

The creature began appearing after that day, resembling the shape of a fourteen-year-old boy who'd lost his life in the blast. But it was just a rumor, just a local urban legend. Half the city didn't even believe it was real, and the ones that did were called crazy conspiracy theorists.

Tucker hadn't believed it was real. He hadn't believed in ghosts. Sam was the one into the occult, after all. Not Tucker.

And then on the way home from Sam's house, he'd come across the cryptid. The one that wasn't named Danny, but could have been, may have been.

Maybe.

But he'd left.

So he would never know.

****

[read more of my work here]

[808airsoftbros]

(Totally Not) Leaked Journal Entries of Yandere Kiss of Life

Author: I hope I don't get caught... Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this new Yandere segment of mine and if you want to see more stories check out the Masterlist.

Julie Han

Honestly, when I looked at Julie's words in her journal, all of this could land her life sentences in prison... If she wasn't so good at covering her tracks and dirty work. Julie would lock her victim in her basement in her home in Hawaii island to ensure they wouldn't escape and would "spend quality time" with them when she returned for vacation from her idol life. If you were disobedient she'd have creative ways to punish you, leaving you out in the hot sun until you begged her to be let inside and have water, or worse not feed you. The person's identity is unknown at this time is most likely to have been stuck in her secret home for years before she debuted as an idol and she'd have trusted accomplices to take care of you while she was gone.

Natty (Anatchaya Suputtipong)

Natty is the worst out of all of her members, like Julie she'd kidnap you by drugging you with anesthesia before sending you back to her home country of Thailand in her secret hideout which of course is the basement. Natty would often travel back to her home as often as she could without being seen or noticed by netizens to have her fun with you, she loves to roleplay as a dominant mommy, pouring candle wax, often giving you blue balls until you beg her to release, Natty would also punish you harshly by her whip or cutting off necessary sustenance until you apologize to her for whatever reason.

Belle (Anabelle Shim)

Belle is the literal devil herself, or what she likes to call herself to hide her identity from the public, unlike the other members, she hides you in their dorm or specifically the hidden room behind her closet, her victim would not have seen the light of day again unless Belle allows you to but you can't go out without her holding your hand wherever you go and running away is futile as Belle would put a hefty bounty on your head, and when you do get returned, she'd severely punishes you but sending you to the Kpop's darkest facility... The dungeon... I do not have any information besides rumors or any confirmation of its existence.

Won Haneul

Oh, Haneul is straight-up disturbing... Haneul loves to play games with her victim and ensures you are entertained in your eternal cell of the dorm's basement. Still, before she could trust you wouldn't run away or cause any trouble, like other idols, she'd send you to the secret dungeon where you are conditioned to obey without question, from rumors, victims are subject to little food and clothing, forced labor and even pleasure their masters until the victim loses all hope and spirit before inevitably accepting their fates that they are meant to be their partners for life. When you do return, Haneul is most pleased you were obedient and did what she says without hesitation, whether it's to attend to her sexuall needs or whatever, and not once has to "reeducate" you.

[armpirate]

Until You're Mine || Choi San | Ch. 2

MASTERLIST Previous || Next

Pairings: Mafia!San x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, obsession, mafia love

Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.

Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.

Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.

Chapter duration: 12 minutes

The air in the basement was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the low hum of a single light bulb casting long shadows across the concrete floor. San stood motionless in the middle of the room, his sharp, dark eyes fixed on the man tied to the chair before him. Lucas, the man who had dared to betray him, was barely conscious -his face a swollen mess of bruises and cuts, his breaths coming in ragged, pained gasps.

San adjusted the cuff of his navy suit, still immaculate despite the violence that had unfolded here. His black coat hung open, a stark contrast to the gore that splattered the floor beneath him. There was no rush, no urgency in his movements. He was methodical, calculating, cold.

Lucas looked up, lifting his head weakly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He knew too well that was only the beginning.

—Stop with your campiness —he spit the blood piling up in his mouth��. Is this all you got?

San tilted his head, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering, his eyes moved toward his body, sitting on the old wood chair, tied up from every part of his body so he wouldn't be able to resist what was to come.

—Hyun Su, your turn —he signaled to the older man standing in the corner of the room, watching with casual detachment, before he looked back at Lucas—. Don't worry. I'm leaving you in good hands.

The middle aged man was next to San when he stepped back from the chair, waiting for instructions with two of his hands on his back.

—He was quite skillful with his hands, so why don't you show him how artistic you can also get with him? —his right eyebrow, with a small slit in the middle due to a scar, lifted when he looked at Hyun Su.

With a flick of his wrist, San signaled to Wooyoung as he made his way toward the stairs. He had always been loyal -his best friend and most trusted ally-; he two of them understood each other on a level beyond words

—Oh —he turned one last time—, but keep his face and head untouched. I want everyone to recognize him when I send the message. Make sure everyone knows what happens when they try to play me.

—Looks like your time's up —San heard Hyun Su say, his tone playful—. Mr. Choi wants to send a message, and it seems like you're going to be the messenger.

Lucas groaned, too weak to resist, too broken to fight back.

On his back, San ignored the exchange. It was business, nothing personal. Lucas had made his choice when he tried to double-cross him during the drug exchange, and now he was paying the price. There were no second chances in San's world, no room for forgiveness.

He walked to the stairs, followed by his friend, wiping the edge of his sleeve with a clean white cloth. He didn't need to witness anything, because he knew his men knew better than to disobey his orders.

Wooyoung was halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen -a text from Mingi. It was a simple message, but it stopped the man in his tracks, which indirectly caused San to stop as well just to check on him.

—They found something.

San frowned, his thumb hovering over the screen as he opened the message. A picture popped up -a grainy shot taken from a security camera. It was the woman from last night. Y/n.

He stared at the image for a long moment, the events of the night before replaying in his mind. The feel of her hands on him as she tried to stop the bleeding, the way her red-rimmed eyes had looked up at him in fear and something else -something that had stirred something deep inside him.

Instead of discussing her out for everyone to hear, San just nodded and continued his way, knowing his friend was following from behind until they reached one of the rooms in that house to give them the privacy they needed.

—Is that the girl? —Wooyoung asked, closing the door behind him.

—Yeah, that's her —San sighed, taking his jacket off while making his way to the wide armchair at the corner of the room.

—He sent a report on her as well —his friend continued—. Almost a saint. Your Guardian Angel was on your ass last night.

And San could only wonder if that was the reason she was in her head, and not for the obvious reason that she could snitch on him to the police.

He didn't even understand why he kissed her.

San clenched his jaw. He shouldn't care. She was just a random woman who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time... Who was he kidding? She wasn't just a woman. He owed her his life, sure, but that didn't mean that was the only reason he kept thinking about her.

—He looked into the events being held in that place last night, and the only one was a mediocre award ceremony —he shrugged, while scrolling down Mingi's message—. She works in the event planning company behind it, CloudGold.

That only made the spectrum of those who made her cry even bigger. Last night, his first thought was her boss being behind it, but with that new information, he knew the range went from her boss to any of the assistants to that event.

—Graduated from the Most Holy Trinity School, then on the Cristo Rey High School, and graduated with high honors at the University of Detroit. Not a single stain in her record. Not a missing assignment, not a failed exam. The good girl in all forms of its meaning —Wooyoung chuckled—. No wonder she helped you without a doubt. If she's as Christian as her studies, it was in her blood to help you. Do you think she's the type to go to mass on Sundays? —Wooyoung joked.

Although San's frown deepened. He hadn't asked for all that information, but his men knew him well enough to anticipate his thoughts.

His mind raced with possibilities, with what to do next. She wasn't even in his orbit, she wouldn't be in danger because no one knew he went for a shelter where she was. And, for some reason, he didn't think she'd spill anything of what had happened that same night, mainly because she didn't know who he was -most possibly.

He had no reason to care for her or dedicate a corner of his day to her, and yet...

San stared at the photo on his phone, at her face, and felt something unsettling. Her features were sweet and delicate, all of them creating the perfect balance to make her the pretty creature she was. Her smile was gentle, with a small dimple forming under the right corner of her lip. A bit lower on her neck he noticed the thin silver rosary hanging almost in the middle of her cleavage, remembering it was the same one she was wearing the night they met.

And suddenly, he wanted to know everything about that smile. What caused it? Who caused it? Was it a professional smile? Or one he aimed at people closer to her?

She had saved him without knowing who he was, without demanding anything in return. In his world, that kind of innocence was rare -dangerous, even. And it was something he couldn't ignore.

That same innocence was triggering something he wasn't sure he'd be able to control.

—Where is this picture from?

—They followed her this morning, just in case she'd go to the police station —he informed—. This picture was taken at the entrance of her workplace, so I guess we're safe for now.

Pocketing his phone, he made a decision.

—Wooyoung —San called down to his friend, earning his full attention, getting him to focus even more.

—Yeah? —came Wooyoung's voice, lifting his eyebrows while he waited for his friend to go on.

—I want to know her every move —he finally sentenced—. I want to know everything she does from the moment she leaves her house to the moment she comes back. Her circle, colleagues, family, even the priest she goes to confess her sins to... I want to know everything.

Without saying a word, Wooyoung just nodded before he stepped outside the room.

Y/n sat at her desk, hidden from those who came through the main entrance, staring blankly at the notebook she had been drawing on for the past thirty minutes. The night had ended hours ago, the venue was probably silent and empty, with only a flicker memory of everything that happened the previous night, but her mind refused to quiet down. She had done everything she could to scrub the image of him -the bleeding man in the grey suit, the stranger who had barged into her life without warning- from her thoughts, but it was no use.

Why am I thinking about him so much?, she asked herself, clicking her tongue when finding no logical answers for that question.

The tension in her shoulders remained, a reminder of the chaotic mess that had unfolded in the night, not only at the event but afterward with him. She should've been angry -furious, even. He had come into her life, covered in blood, and left without so much as a proper explanation. He gave her one sweet talk while he was using her to survive, and then kissed her without asking her if he could.

Everything about him was wrong, everything about that man screamed at her to step back. But instead, her mind replayed his every word, every glance. The brief touch of his hand on her wrist. The look in his eyes when he had said, "I'll find you". It sounded like a promise of how he'd think of her as much as she was going to think of him.

That was the part that unsettled her the most.

Y/n rubbed her temples, trying to shake the feeling, but she couldn't. She had spent half the day going over everything again and again, and by the time evening hit, she realized she couldn't let it go.

Then there was the car -the sleek black car that had picked him up that night. She hadn't gotten a great look at it in the dim light, but there was one thing she did remember clearly: the license plate.

The numbers and letters flashed in her mind, refusing to leave. She wasn't even sure why she had memorized it. Maybe it was a gut feeling. Or maybe it was something more.

Before she knew it, Y/n had turned the pages of the notebook and jotted the registration down, the numbers and letters scrawled in messy handwriting. Her pen hovered over the page for a long moment. It was insane. She didn't even know that guy, yet there she was, tracing a thread back to him, like some kind of... forced connection.

—God, what am I doing? —she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

It wasn't how she usually acted. She was level-headed, focused. She was careful, the type to walk the opposite side when seeing someone with one ugly look. Helping a man covered in blood, without letting justice get their piece of cake wasn't something she was educated to do. And definitely obsessing over a stranger wasn't something she did, nor expected to do.

And yet, she couldn't stop. That man got in her system like a disease, and it was so illogical she couldn't quite understand what happened the previous night for her to feel that way.

Her fingers itched for her phone, and before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled it out of her bag, scrolling through her contacts. She knew exactly who to call -Derek. He wasn't a close friend, at least not anymore. They were closer when they were kids, since they were constantly forced to be together because their parents were close, to the point of thinking of them celebrating their first holy communion together. Through the years, he became that good christian with a stable job, dedicating his life to protect those around him, becoming a police officer. As much as she didn't quite want to rekindle a friendship, he was the only person she knew who worked with car registrations and records. And, most importantly, he was the only person who wouldn't try to dig deeper on why she was asking him that favor.

After a few rings, Derek's gruff voice came through the line.

—Y/n? It's been a long time... What's up? Are your parents alright? —his voice turned concerned for a second.

—My parents are well —she hesitated for a second, gripping the phone tighter—. How are you?

—I'm okay —she could see his smile through the line—. So, anything new?

—Well, I'm calling you because I need a favor.

—Sure, what kind of favor? —there was a curious note in his voice.

—I need you to run a license plate for me —she took a deep breath, knowing how ridiculous that was sounding as she explained—. Can you do that?

There was a pause on the other end.

—You're not in trouble, are you?

—No —she said quickly, forcing a laugh—. Nothing like that. I just... I saw something weird the other night, and it's been bothering me. I just want to know who the car belongs to.

That click of tongue on the other side gave her a hint on what was coming up, and it was the reason why she cut all types of connection with him.

—You'd be doing way better if you had stayed in your mother's bakery.

There was nothing more tempting than thinking of tying herself to a bakery in Farmington Hills, only because her parents were convinced that living and working in Detroit was going to put her life at risk every day.

Out of her twenty six years of life, that happened only once. And it wasn't like she was completely in danger...

—Alright. I'll do it —he finally said, following her thick silence—. What's the plate number?

Y/n glanced down at the notepad, reading off the numbers and letters she had memorized so easily.

—It's... XXV-435.

There was a brief silence on the other end as Derek likely typed the number into his system.

—Give me a minute —he said, his voice turning more serious—. I'll see what I can find.

There was a big chance that the license plate was fake, although she didn't think of that possibility until she was already on that call.

As the seconds ticked by, Y/n stared at the night outside the window at her right, her heart pounding faster than it should've been. What was she doing? Why was she chasing this down like it meant something?

—Okay... —Derek's voice returned, slower this time—. This car's registered to a real estate business. High-end stuff, nothing public.

—What? Real estate? —she sighed— So I guess there's no way to know what person that car belongs to.

—It's a company's car, so it's difficult to know —he said, the tone in his voice shifting—. Why do you want to know? Y/n, if it's something that happened, it's better to let authorities work with it instead of doing it on your own, I...

—Can you say what's the name of the real estate?

—Obsidian Ventures.

A chill ran down her spine. Of course. The man she had met -who she didn't know the name of yet- hadn't exactly screamed "ordinary". The way he had carried himself, even bleeding and half-conscious, had exuded control and power. Who else would be behind one of the most important companies in Michigan if it wasn't him?

—Look, I don't know why you're looking into this, but... be careful —Derek warned—. Rich people are the most dangerous out there.

—Thanks —she swallowed, her grip tightening on the phone—, but I'll be fine.

She hung up before he could say anything more, her heart racing as she stared at the dark screen. She shouldn't have done this. She should have let it go, walked away, pretended like that night never happened.

But now that she had a sliver of information, she couldn't stop.

She already had the company he owned, which opened a new door for her to think of a possible new connection, or an excuse, to see him again.

And why couldn't she shake the feeling that this wasn't the end?

Her fingers hovered over her phone, debating. She could leave it alone. She could forget about the car, about him, and go back to her life. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't possible.

Because he had already left his mark on her, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever be able to shake it.

Taglist: @a-tiny-thing

[rafayelsbelovedbride]

Dragons and scapegoats

I made a post a while ago comparing Philos/Earth/Lemuria to Omelas here. And now that Sylus has his myths too, let me continue.

Special thanks to @ourlittleuluru for giving me more reason to talk about him. I was just going to reblog it with your tags but it got too long. So here it is~

While my expectations about the myths were way off for Sylus, I think, he still fits this theme really well. Because, yes, he was the child in the basement, and he was the scapegoat, along with all the dragons.

When humans first arrived in the past days of Philos, they probably came to this place to escape the wanderer-infested Earth and find a place where they could live a peaceful life. Maybe the public was told Philos would be a nice little utopic place where people could live without fearing for their lives. But they were sold a lie. What they found when they arrived at Philos was a dying planet where dragons ruled, with a hollow core that was falling apart into pieces. It was just fragmented landmasses slowly drifting apart as described in Xavier's anecdotes.

So, wouldn't the public be outraged? Defeated. Betrayed. Drained. Drained, because they still have to fight for their lives. Betrayed, because they were scammed out of a better future. Defeated, because there is no such thing as heaven, only a different hell.

So, of course, to prevent the public from turning against them, the people who brought humanity to Philos had to find someone to blame.

A perfect scapegoat. A scapegoat that can hold a mirror to all of humanity's twisted desires and yet still be blamed for it.

Dragons, the harbinger of war and conflict. Dragons, that could bring the darkest parts of one's soul to light. Of course, they're to blame. After all, anyone would prefer to say, it was not me who had these evil, heinous thoughts, my soul was corrupted by a dragon. No need to take responsibility for my wicked nature, the dragon made me do it.

So, they declared war on dragons, promising a better future once again. They killed every single one of the dragon-kind until there was only one of them left. Now, the last dragon cannot be killed. If all dragons were dead, then there would be no scapegoat. One of them must be kept locked in the basement to remind us all he's responsible for every evil in this world. We are not just locking a little child into the basement, we are locking the evil away.

So they made a spectacle out of the last dragon's demise and sealed him into the abyss with a claymore in his chest. A violent end for a vicious dragon. A constant reminder to all humanity to keep their souls untainted by desire. Of course, a puppet without a want is the easiest to control after all.

But, now, enough time has passed. Maybe the public is growing restless and no one really cares about the child in the basement anymore. So, the moment they find a puppet with a single desire, they frame her too. And burn her dragon. Burn her sympathy for the locked child.

And that's how it begins. For MC's and Sylus's story, they're both the scapegoats. And for their story, MC is the one who broke the child free out of the basement and brought doomsday to Philos. With Sylus, we take a closer look at the story from the child's perspective rather than the savior's, who set the child free.

And, we see that even freeing the child and destroying the people responsible for his imprisonment does not guarantee a happy ending. He is still a dragon who is destined to ruin anything he loves and everything he desires.

And, maybe that was the reason why he let himself be trapped by the sacred judicator in the first place. Sylus never accepted his identity as a dragon. He hated it. He fooled himself into thinking he was just like other humans, and cut up his horns every time they grow until he was a bloody mess. Maybe, that young dragon, while soldiers were chasing him with their swords, thought that this was what he deserved. Happiness and being satisfied with what he has is just not in his nature. That day, he was defeated not by an army of humans, but by his own hatred against himself.

So, loving her, with his own soul etched in hers, meant accepting his own nature. And maybe, that was how he actually broke free out of his chains. That's when he saw himself not as a scapegoat for humanity's sins, but as a lonely dragon who deserved this love he received.

At the beginning of the story, he did not try to break free from his chains until MC found him, he did not seek revenge unless MC asked for it. But by the end, he broke free when was imprisoned and burned down every city to the ground. By the end, he seeked MC when she was about to be executed and willingly fell into their trap. Only this time he did not accept his end because he hated himself, but he accepted it to save his beloved who owns half his soul. That was a sacrifice he made in the name of love, all with selflessness, while accepting his flawed nature. And that's how he broke free of the dragon's curse at the same time he escaped his fate to become a scapegoat for the people of Philos.

And I really love the current Sylus. He still longs for human connection just like his younger self. But his desire to connect does not bring self-hatred anymore. Instead, he rides the subway, takes the twins under his wings, and goes to karaoke with MC's coworkers.

Maybe, he feels at peace now. I hope he does.

He's reunited with the owner of his soul. And even if everyone blames him for what's wrong in this world, he has no desire to let them have their way. He will escape the space-time prison and chase MC to the ends of the worlds.

So, he will get the ending he actually deserves this time with his beloved by his side.

[rickssugarplum]

The Rick is Over

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 7x05! Watch it first before reading this! Thanks and enjoy! ❤

(Rick Sanchez x Reader) Spoilers for 7x05, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

You help Rick process it all.

With the pull of the lever, all the lights in the sub-basement go out, finalizing the end of the decades-long show that's been ongoing most of his life.

It's all finally over.

Rick Prime is dead.

Still coated head to toe in blood, Rick stands in the darkness in the now useless lair, where he'd spent countless days and nights searching, tracking, and looking for any signs of his lifelong enemy. The one who caused him all his pain, destroyed all of his dreams he had when he was young. All he ever wanted, was to live as a husband and father to the two most precious girls in his life.

That life had been ripped away from him so many years ago.

Now, he has killed the man who was responsible. His ultimate goal had been achieved.

So, why does he still feel so empty?

He didn't say a word while flying back home. The voice of his grandson right beside him felt like miles away. It was as if his entire world had gone mute. He could not just go to sleep in his room. Not tonight.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

You were in your living room, reading a book in complete silence, until it was broken by the familiar whirling sound of the portal. You were clearly expecting Rick to emerge from it, but you nearly screamed when you saw him soaked in crimson blood.

"Oh my God! Rick?!!" you shrieked as you stepped towards him. He stood there, emotionless.

"Rick! What the fuck happened!? You look like you came through a slaughter!"

The old man just looked at you; still silent. It caused even more panic in your veins.

"Rick, please. You're scaring me! What is going on!? Say something!" you begged. He was never one to be quiet, even more alarming when he's drenched in blood. Did an adventure go awry or...

"W-where's Morty!? Is he okay?" You asked in fear that something might have happened to him. Your heart rate slightly lowered when he nodded, assuring his grandson was alright.

Looking more closely at him, you saw more damage inflicted on his face. "Jesus Christ, Rick. Your nose is broken!"

Rick finally spoke in a hoarse but defiant voice. "I got him."

His bloodshot eyes stared directly into yours. You saw the anger he's shown in them only when he's described his past, his stolen life; his darkest demons.

Immediately, you knew who he was talking about.

"You-you got...him?" You couldn't speak the name, despite sharing it with the man in front of you. Rick simply nodded again. Not knowing what exactly happened, the blood covering him made one thing clear.

Rick had finally killed his enemy.

Slowly, you took his hands, searching in his eyes for any ounce of how he was feeling, knowing he had avenged his wife and daughter.

"Are-are you okay?"

Morty had asked him that exact same question after it was all said and done. He said that he was. But now seeing the concern in your face and repeating his grandson's words just mere hours before caused the final crack in the dam.

Suddenly you felt two long arms around you, grasping your frame tightly, and Rick let out the loudest, broken wail you'd ever hear. His anguish was bigger than his body, causing him to collapse, dragging you both to your floor. You simply held him as he cried into you, letting out decades of repressed grief and trauma that'd haunted him.

"Shhhh... It's okay, Rick..." you murmured, placing his head on your chest and stroking his slightly damp hair. "It's over..." you whispered. "I'm here... I've got you..."

The man was trembling like a newborn fawn. He looked so fragile. You couldn't possibly know exactly what was going through his tormented mind as he screamed into your chest. His cries sounded so animalistic, it almost scared you. But your heart was breaking hearing him suffer inside. He had cried for the life he lost, his wife he had promised forever to, and his little girl, whom he swore to protect. All Rick wanted was to have his beloved Diane by his side and to see his baby Beth grow up. He wanted them to grow old together. All of his plans. His dreams. Their future, will never come.

Tears welled up in your own eyes, but you stayed and gently rocked him, whispering words of comfort.

"It's alright, baby," you said softly.

Baby. Diane used to call him that. He let out another sob at that memory. Leaning down, you press soft kisses on his forehead.

"I'm so proud of you, Rick..." you confessed. It was the truth. You wanted him to know that. How lucky you were to have the most passionate Rick throughout infinity. He squeezed you a bit tighter at your affirmation.

Time didn't matter to either of you. You could hold him forever if he needed it. That would be how long it would take to heal this broken heart.

After awhile, his sobs started to fade into soft weeping.

"Rick? Can you look at me?" You asked softly. There was no command in your voice. It was mainly to make sure he knew his surroundings. Slowly, he lifts his head up to look at you. The blood of his enemy was slightly rinsed underneath his eyes from tears. You cupped his face in your hands so tenderly, giving him a faint smile.

"You did it."

Rick's expression had become nearly blank. After all the crying, he almost felt numb. "What do you need right now?" you asked him, stroking his cheek.

He wrapped his arms around you again. This time, not in desperation, but in comfort and gratitude. In his hold, he simply whispered,

"Just you..."

It relieved you to hear his answer. You both stayed in your embrace, with no plans on letting each other go. Rick could feel a slight relief as you assured him you were not going anywhere. He closed his eyes and let everything sink in. Through all the changes he's made, he's achieved the biggest change of all. The hunt for his nemesis was over.

So.

What now?

He's going to find out.

❤

[nectardaddy]

BITTER . . . kyotani “mad dog” kentaro + f! reader

                     𖥔    CHAPTER THREE : ROTTEN DOGS    𖥔

warnings : 17+ to read, language, crime, blood + violence, manipulation

a/n : a little short and might be a little boring but let me world build, it picks up after this trust

Kyotani runs a business through fear and dogged loyalty.

A business of bruised knuckles and broken bones, bloody noses and cracked lips. A fight club. In a dingy basement and a hushed reputation; nobodies and somebodies alike came there, and all for one thing - debt. 

Shady deals are always made under the table.

They came to him in debt, he fixed the problem - for a price. He put a leash on them, made them fight; if they won, he got a cut. “No strings attached” at first glance, but someone was quick to rat out anyone who ran. Now, people look at him in disgust, in a stirring anger that festers until they're a shell of the person they once were - a dog on a chain. Pawns. Nothing more. 

The “business” grew around him at a speed he couldn't comprehend. He remembered it used to be just guys beating the hell out of each other for no other reason than boredom. Now they beat the hell out of each other for cold, hard cash. Strangers, friends, and so called found family now intertwined themselves in a seedy business practice that would land them in prison - again. 

Now he uses it to his advantage.

He lies, cheats, steals, and manipulates. Finds people's darkest secrets and deepest fears, and pins it above them as a warning. He ruins their lives and doesn't lose a single moment of sleep over it. 

Kyotani is one felony away from his third strike; after that, he'll be put away for god knows how long. 

His first was arson. After a handful of misdemeanors and recklessness, he found himself lighting a car ablaze to prove a point. The only point he found was covering his tracks better.

He thought he learned his lesson, but then came the second: armed robbery. Did it for a friend who later ratted on him the second the police got him alone. But now the felon walks the guy like a dog because of a gambling addiction and a foreclosed house - karma was a bitch. Kyotani finds it funny to see him choke on his own spit and tears when he fights, laughs when he's kicked to the ground and pleads for the fight to stop. 

The guy hasn't won a single fight since he started, and won't. He'll forever be choking on the collar placed on him because the only thing rats do best is rot. 

He was close to getting his third when he got arrested the last time - the time that landed him in anger management. He likes to dabble in the fights himself, but more often than not he takes it too far. He starts seeing red when they taunt and tease him, and he loses himself completely amidst the blood and sweat.

Almost got nailed with attempted murder. But he talked his way out of it at the station (in all reality, he framed someone else for it who had run too far off leash). His only misstep was trying to punch a cop when the arrest took place - oink too much and he lands in jail again - so now he takes anger management because his crooked lawyer has a silver tongue. 

He's more cautious now with deals, doesn't hang around Iwa and the others now that police have sniffed them out, and keeps his own nose clean. 

He makes his dogs do the dirty work for him.

They only say yes because they're scared of him, terrified of what he'd do if they dared say no. They've seen the extent of his anger, a lack of words and a plethora of pain, so they grin and bear it when given a filthy order. Even coined the name “Mad Dog” for the sole fact they thought he was fucking crazy.

But the few that aren't scared of him, the ones that bark and scratch and bite right back, he keeps. He likes those types, reminds him of himself, and he keeps them close to the fold. Yahaba was one. Knew him from high school, used to hang around Iwa's group, but wound up in a load of debt from drugs and gambling. He was a lanky guy, selfish, arrogant, and a mouth that would one day get him killed. Kyotani likes that about him. Likes that he fights back and gnashes his teeth. Likes that he can't be controlled. 

But he's loyal nonetheless. 

Yahaba was a one man army. He knows a bit of everything about everyone - he's the whisper in Mad Dog's ear. From liars, to thieves, and snitches, Yahaba would always find out. And would always tell Kyotani. 

It's cold outside when Kyotani leaves his shitty apartment. He's got on layers, a worn out sweatshirt and an old leather jacket, but the cold eats right through them. But he doesn't have a far walk, so he sucks it up and keeps walking. 

It's almost seven, and at eight he starts his nightly ritual of watching others nearly kill themselves for money. He watches the cash jar slowly fill until it spills over with bets, watches nobodies and somebodies all gather for the same ruthless thing - a good old fashioned fight.

He never understood the appeal of watching fights. It was bloody and gruesome, but he found his target audience and leaned in further when money started flooding in. It all started just so he could let his anger out. To pour out his rage onto others who willingly wanted it to begin with. Though he imagined they never expected to be beaten to a pulp - but he did it regardless. It was fun to him, a game almost. Watching other's eyes dilate with fear once he landed the first punch was like a drug. 

And he simply couldn't get enough of it.

He leaves his apartment early, most days, to get to the abandoned warehouse down the street before anyone else. Despite his forthcomings, he enjoys the quiet before the storm. Likes the festering feeling in his gut before a good fight. Today isn't any different. 

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket along with a lighter, and lights the first one he can get his hands on. The nicotine makes his shoulders drop and he sighs. 

Anger management was killing him. 

It was boring and stupid, he doesn't need some therapist telling him shit he already knows. He's well aware of his anger, and doesn't care in the slightest. He has an outlet for it, the only downside is that it's not legal. But he stays despite the feelings because truly anything is better than being locked up for twenty plus years.

There's a woman there that pisses him off, his “accountability partner,” who sits there and taps her foot until he wants to throw the very chair he sits in. Who snaps back at him without a care despite a look that could kill; and there's a disgusting voice in his head that claims he likes it. Likes how she fires back with venom, likes how he can tell she's holding herself back, and likes the fact that she absolutely hates him. 

He burnt his cigarette all the way down on his walk, and he flicks it to the ground when he goes to open the door. It stays unlocked, abandoned, empty, until it hits eight and then things start to pick up.

But it's seven and he only knows of one other person that would be here this early. And he's proven right once he makes his way towards the basement. 

His loyal little lap dog Yahaba. 

“Yaku's off the fucking rails.” The man's voice echoes in the empty room, wide and only filled with a makeshift ring in the middle. There's dried blood on the floor, some in specks and some in puddles. Looks like a crime scene in places, and probably is.

“Good for him.” The apathy in his words makes Yabaha roll his eyes. But still the other shoots him a look like he's lost his mind; Yahaba is almost certain that he has.

“No, not good for him.” He argues, “We're losing money.” 

Yaku wasn't a stranger to the brawls, nor was he a stranger to a leash. A year ago he was a dog on a chain, locked down by debt from drugs and liquor. But he was ruthless, blood thirsty, and itched to sink his teeth into others despite his stature. It paid off. Now the man is owned by no one, but comes to let off steam from a failed relationship and the need to draw blood. He beats others within an inch of their lives for fun, not for debt. 

There's a pause before Kyotani turns to get a good look at him, and he watches as the other keeps his gaze. He's sitting in a chair across the room with his phone in his hands, but closes it when Mad Dog finally looks at it. Yahaba was never one to back down - it would get him killed one day. “We?” The tone shift is palpable, and his eyes narrow at the man across from him. Once a dog, always a dog - and the other man knows it all too well.

He changes the subject. “He's talking to Kuroo.” 

Kuroo Tetsuro, a flashy guy in a suit with a devious backdoor business of selling drugs. A lot of the people under Mad Dog are here because of him, got too caught in his suave and finesse to realize they were being swindled. A pipeline from drugs to fighting. 

The blonde takes a chair opposite to Yahaba, and flips it so he straddles it. The screech of it echoes off the concrete walls, and neither of the men flinch at it. Leaning his arms against the back of it, he lets out a huff. “What's he stirring up?” 

“Kuroo wants his money.” The statement hangs in the air with a weight, both men can see it.

There's a peak in his lips at the words, like he wants to laugh. To giggle and chuckle at the sinking sentence in the room - but he doesn't. He only keeps the small smirk, and the other knows all too well what it means. Kyotani would fight today, and Yaku should start getting his will together. “I'll handle it.” 

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Caution in the man's voice makes Kyotani's smirk only peak a bit more. 

“The rat dug his grave, the least I can do is put him in it.” 

taglist (open, reply to the masterlist or send an ask)

@phoenix-eclipses @wyrcan @warlocksoup @yogurtkags @bakery-anon 

@crypt-0rchid @hyunteru @kameyyy @nekozaki @angelichwv

@a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @localgaytrainwreck @standcom @ggggbabybaby2 @chaloume

@kawoala @evilari111 @baylz @sahrii @cryoarm

@solzscribblez @chososcamgirl @lavender-pink-socks @nobodybutnnoorr

[rotten-pomegranate]

can I rq feitan x reader hcs

Yea Tehe

He’s a yandere in this and he’s a meany because that’s the only people I’m attracted to 😍

Seriously this is one of the darkest things I’ve written so dni if your uncomfortable

Warnings:VERY DARK CONTENT abuse, rape, yandere, kidnapping, torture, sexual abuse, mental abuse, forced abortion, AGAIN VERY DARK CONTENT

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He doesn’t wait around very long before he takes you all for himself and your not protected from all the sadistic games he likes to play

Hes so controlling, he picks what you where, controls how much you eat and how much you sleep and don’t even try and go against this because that will earn you a trip down to the basement and in his torture chair

He uses a lot of physical punishment when he first takes you, He needs it to set in that your his and he’s the boss and honestly he doesn’t really get better with time

He’s gonna get urges to make you his in a different light eventually and when he does don’t fight him because the more you fight the more aggressive and rough he gets

If your not already traumatized and terrified enough of him he’ll regularly get you to sit in a chair and watch as he tortures people

He’s gonna bring “home” heads of people you care about if you keep asking to see them or be let go

He has a room for you but he only fucks you on his bed and makes you sleep in his room on those nights so you can’t even cry to yourself, oh and don’t cry to him because he’ll give you something worth crying about if you do, his words

If he ever gets you pregnant he’s gonna beat you up until your not anymore and then make you feel bad by asking if you would really want a baby in this environment

He may get you a cat and wait a couple months until you love it and then use it as leverage by threatening to hurt it if you don’t do this or that

He makes you do all the chores around the house and he doesn’t make it easy because he’s a messy guy, you also have to cook every night or you’ll be starving while you watch him eat

If you ever try and escape your getting tracked down and dragged back, he’s talking away all your privileges and breaking both your legs, your also getting treated to a possibly multiple day long torture session, and your sleeping on the floor chained to the wall by your door from now on while he sometimes comes in to beat on you

He’s just one of the worst possible yanderes you could have

©rotten-pomegranate- All rights reserved, don’t steal, translate, copy, plagiarize, claim my work as your own or post it on other platforms.

[fairytales-and-folklore]

I'll Stare Directly At The Sun But Never In The Mirror

The Owl House » Huntlow

Title: I'll Stare Directly At The Sun But Never In The Mirror

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: The Owl House (Masterlist)

Relationship: Hunter | The Golden Guard x Willow Park

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Hunter has been avoiding mirrors, terrified he'll see the many faces of all the grimwalkers and golden guards that came before him — or worse, the face of a witch hunter. One night, Willow gives Hunter a haircut, helping him feel more like himself than he's ever been, and giving him the courage to confide his deepest, darkest secret in his closest friends.

He looks…nice. Not like Belos. Not like Caleb. Just…like him. Like Hunter. It's the most like him he's ever looked in his entire life. "It's perfect," he says, turning around to face her with a bright smile. "I love it. You did an amazing job, Willow. Thank you so much," he says, surprising her by drawing her into a tight hug, chin tucked against the curve of her shoulder as he closes his eyes and takes in a slow, steady breath. "Oh. You're— you're welcome," she says, a radiant smile curling across her pink-tinged cheeks as she melts into him, all soft edges and comforting warmth.

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He finds the book at a local shop downtown, half price on a Halloween special. Keeps it hidden in its little brown paper bag and waits until everyone else has gone to bed, listening for the telltale sound of Gus's soft snoring coming from the couch above him before slipping out of his sleeping bag and sneaking up the creaking basement stairs to lock himself away in the first floor bathroom.

In a house full of seven people, he figures it's the only place he's going to get any sort of privacy — only, the door doesn't actually lock, it slides, and it's currently stuck on its roller, leaving a two-inch gap between the door and the frame, but it's the best he can do under the circumstances.

Once inside, Hunter takes a deep breath and pulls his copy of The Witch Hunters Of Gravesfield out of its wrappings, silver-white lettering shimmering across the dark blue hardcover in the soft golden glow of the bathroom light, upper lip curling into a scowl as he peers down at the two little puritans carrying pitchforks and lit torches illustrated on the front cover. He glances up on instinct, needing to make absolutely certain that he doesn't look a thing like either of them, catching sight of himself in the little medicine cabinet mirror for the first time in weeks.

Hunter has been in the human realm for a couple of months now, and his hair is starting to get a little too long for his liking. He'd always assumed that all witches' hair grew this fast, but seeing as Willow, Gus, Amity, and even Luz's hair has only grown a few inches each compared to his several, he's beginning to suspect that this might just be yet another quirk of being…what he is. He could simply tie it back, but…well…then it might remind him a little too much of a certain someone he'd seen lining the portraits of his unc— of the emp— of his mindscape.

So he's been avoiding mirrors lately, afraid he'll see the face of a witch hunter staring back at him. But tonight, when he looks in the mirror, Hunter sees something so much worse than the ghostly, sharp-angled face of his ortet. Tonight, when Hunter looks in the mirror, he sees his own worn and weary face staring back at him with a head of long, shaggy blond hair, so light it's almost white, framed around the sharp edges of his pale, scarred skin, and is immediately and viscerally reminded of Belos.

Hunter gasps, flailing backward so hard he nearly crashes into the toilet, panic radiating through him like he's been struck by lightning. He sits there for a couple of seconds, fighting to calm his racing whatever he's got beating inside his chest in place of a heart, using Willow's four-count technique to steady his breathing. It works long enough for him to get shakily back up to his feet, but he still has to clutch the bathroom sink for support, staring a hard line into the mirror, almost like he's willing the phantom of his dead uncle to reappear, if only to prove that he hadn't just seen the monster inside himself.

But all he sees when he looks in the mirror this time are his own bright red eyes set against his own pale, scarred complexion, terror etched into every detail.

Hunter is so tired of being afraid.

So he makes a decision. Decides he's had enough of avoiding looking in the mirror and hating what he sees, and reaches for the pair of red rubber-tipped shears he'd seen Mrs. Noceda use to trim Luz's bangs a couple of times. Holds them up over the meddlesome forelock all the men in his "family" seem to share, and lets the first satisfying snip fuel his catharsis. How hard could it be?

Very, very difficult, as it happens.

• • •

Willow can't sleep, and so she does what she always does whenever she's feeling restless, and heads down to the kitchen to brew herself a cup of tea. She's walking down the darkened corridor, little light spell held aloft in her open palm, when she sees a sliver of light coming from the gap in the bathroom door. 

Figuring one of the boys must have forgotten when they were washing up for bed, Willow lets out a small sigh and moves to turn it off, pausing when she hears the sound of heavy breathing followed by a panicked chorus of no no no no no, oh Titan what have I done? coming from the other side.

"Hunter?" she says with a gentle knock. "Is everything okay in there?"

She hears a startled meep! followed by a deafening silence, and then, finally, a resigned sigh.

"I fucked up. Please help me," comes Hunter's low, shameful voice, muffled from the other side of the door.

With his permission, Willow slides it all the way open, one hand coming up to stifle a startled gasp as she's met with the sight of Hunter huddled over the bathroom sink, pair of scissors clutched in his hands and a mortified grimace on his face, chunks of light and dark blond hair littered all over the tiled floor.

In the seconds it takes for Hunter's face to reach groundbreaking levels of scarlet cringe, Willow schools her features into a soft, reassuring smile, holding out her hand for the pair of scissors with a simple, "Here, let me."

By her instruction, Hunter sits on the edge of the toilet while Willow hovers over him, assessing the damage. He's about to say something, lips poised at the ready with an apology, something to the effect of thank you for doing this, I'm sorry I'm such a mess, when Willow runs her fingers through his hair, and just like that, his whole brain short-circuits, every inch of his skin breaking out in a flurry of shivers like he's just swallowed a shot of fire-bee honey and chased it down with freezing rain.

"Your hair is so soft," she says with a kind of reverence, and Hunter nearly passes out from the effort of trying not to breathe too loudly, lest it come out as a sigh (or Titan forbid, a moan.)

"Th— oh," he gasps as her fingernails gently graze his scalp, sending another wave of fire-and-ice shivers down his spine. It's hands down the best thing he's ever experienced in his entire life, and for one wild moment he's actually grateful that he's a grimwalker, because if his hair keeps growing at such an alarming rate, it might mean she'd be willing to do this for him again in the near future…

…if she isn't put off by the fact that he's a grimwalker, that is. She's bound to find out eventually, just…hopefully not tonight. Hunter glances down at the dark blue hardcover just visible from where he'd dropped it and attempts to subtly nudge it out of sight with the toe of his shoe.

He clears his throat and tries desperately to regain some modicum of composure. Be cool. Reply to the compliment like a normal person.

"Thanks, I…grow it myself," is what comes tumbling out of his mouth instead, blushing even harder when Willow lets out a soft giggle at the dumb joke he totally stole from a 90's era human realm sitcom. Featuring a scene where a dorky guy also gets his hair cut by his long-time crush. For one ridiculous moment, Hunter wonders whether this situation could also end in him getting to kiss her.

"So, what did you have in mind?" Willow asks, breaking him out of his little daydream sequence.

"What?" Hunter falters, terror flooding him. She can't read minds, can she? Oh Titan, she absolutely cannot find out that he was just imagining what it would be like to kiss her.

"For your hair," she elaborates with a patient smile, and Hunter lets out the breath he'd been holding. "Was there a particular style you were trying to go for, or…"

"Oh," Hunter sighs, tension mounting in his muscles for a whole different reason this time. "No, not really. I just…wanted something different."

He feels the longest piece of his hair pull away from the rest of his head, held aloft between Willow's careful fingers, followed by a snip that sends a flurry of white-blond hair drifting around his shoulders like falling snow.

"I get that," she says, tongue stuck between her teeth as she concentrates on trimming a different selection, and Hunter struggles not to fidget, sigh, or catch fire each time she cards her fingers through his hair, sending another spell of blissful shivers down his spine. "I like my longer braids, but sometimes I just want to chop it all off and go back to a pixie cut."

"You had a pixie cut?" Hunter asks, finding it hard to picture her with anything but her signature braids.

"A little while back," Willow says with a small nod and a self-effacing chuckle. "It was totally wild and untamable, stuck up in all directions, but it was nice for summer. I'm sure my dads've got a bunch of embarrassing school photos lying around somewhere. I can show you sometime, when we're back home…if you'd like."

"I'd— yeah. I'd like that a lot," he says, overwhelmed by the notion that Willow wants to invite him even further into her life, take him home, let him meet her parents, share a piece of personal history with him that she deems embarrassing.

Wild and untamable, huh?

"I'll bet you looked adorable with a pixie cut," he blurts out, imagining a slightly younger Willow with short cropped hair, dark as a starless night sky and covered in a sea of gravity-defying waves.

He feels Willow fall still above him, blades halfway through a cut, and worries for a moment that he's somehow offended her.

"Not that you don't look adorable now," he says, rushing to correct his mistake, face going up in flames as he word-vomits an endless stream of compliments he usually tries to keep under lock and key inside his head. But, well…given the choice between outing himself about his huge embarrassing crush and potentially hurting Willow's feelings or damaging her self-esteem, Hunter would gladly take the former.

"You'd look good with anything. Long braids, short braids, pixie cut," he barrels on, wondering for a brief moment whether it's possible to give yourself third-degree burns from the temperature of your own skin. 

"Hell, you could probably even pull off the choppy mess I made," he says with a nervous chuckle.

Above him, Willow slowly starts to unwind, shoulders rising and falling as she takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Thank you, Hunter," she says in a soft, small voice. Finishes cutting the section she'd been tending to before his comment and then pauses again, hesitating like she's trying to decide whether to say something.

"For the record, I think you look adorable too," she says after a moment, and Hunter could almost swear he feels her hands shake ever so slightly as she gathers the next layer of hair between her fingers. "I don't think you could ever look bad, even with the choppy haircut."

Hunter blinks a few times and has to remind himself to breathe.

"Speaking of which, I should be just about…" Hunter hears the last snip followed by the sound of metal clattering down against porcelain as Willow places the scissors on the side of the bathroom sink. "Done!" she exclaims with a cheerful smile, coming around to stand directly in front of him, tongue between her teeth as she studies her handiwork.

"What, um—" Hunters falters, still not recovered from the fantastical notion that the Captain thinks he's adorable, eyes wide as she leans in close and starts carding her fingers through his hair.

"Just need to add some finishing touches," she says, gently tugging the shorter tufts of hair to work them up into their usual state of fluffiness, and Hunter struggles not to let himself get lost in it, or Titan forbid vocalize how good it feels.

Once she's satisfied that everything is even and she's styled it in a way she thinks looks good, she glances down to look him in the eye, only just realizing how close their faces are to one another's, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink as she swoops back into a standing position.

"Okay, all done!" she exclaims, voice a little higher and squeakier than usual, adding even more fuel to fire that she is absolutely adorable no matter what she does.

"What do you think?" she asks, sounding equal parts giddy and apprehensive.

Not entirely certain his jelly legs will support him, Hunter gets to his feet and stands in front of the mirror. On the count of three, he opens his eyes, and when he does, he finds a whole new person staring back at him, hair short and neat, but with a few of his signature fluffy cowlicks sticking up near the top. 

A little hint of his old forelock curls across the center of his forehead, no longer dangling across his line of sight. Hunter huffs out a chuckle, wondering just how annoyed Flapjack will be when he finds out he can no longer tug on it to get him to do what he wants.

He looks…nice.

Not like Belos.

Not like Caleb.

Just…like him.

Like Hunter.

It's the most like him he's ever looked in his entire life.

He hasn't said anything in over a minute, too busy staring at his own reflection, examining his new look from all angles, and Willow is starting to get nervous.

"I'm sorry!" she blurts out. "I know it's a little shorter than you're used to, but you kind of chopped off your little hair noodle, so I had to—"

"It's perfect," he says, turning around to face her with a bright smile etched across his face, huffing out a laugh at the words hair noodle.

"I love it. You did an amazing job, Willow. Thank you so much," he says, surprising her by drawing her into a tight hug, chin tucked against the curve of her shoulder as he closes his eyes and takes in a slow, steady breath.

"Oh. You're��� you're welcome," she says, a radiant smile curling across her pink-tinged cheeks as she melts into him, all soft edges and comforting warmth.

It's only when he pulls back, much later and yet far too soon, that he realizes just how close the two of them are standing, the moment suddenly so charged it's a wonder he can't feel the electricity crackling in the air all around them. 

He finds himself instinctually leaning down, heart stuttering in his chest as Willow mirrors him, eyes fluttering closed, lips forming a small pout, so close he can practically taste her watermelon lip balm. 

Hunter swallows, thinks this is it, and lets his own eyes drift closed, lips a mere whisper's breadth away from hers, when he plants his back foot to keep himself steady and feels the sharp corner of The Witch Hunters Of Gravesfield digging into the scar on the back of his ankle.

Hunter lets out a yelp, hopping up and down in pain, while Willow reaches for the offending thing that had hurt him with a narrowed glare. Hunter freezes, watching her eyes widen in curiosity as they scan the front cover.

"Is this what got you so worked up tonight?" she asks, sympathy he doesn't deserve etched in the soft smile she offers him as she gazes up at him with those pale green eyes that never fail to make him feel like he's lying in a summer meadow.

"Don't worry, Hunter," Willow reassures him. "There haven't been any witch hunters in the human realm in over four hundred years. We're safe here."

And just like that, the meadow is on fire.

Hunter looks at her for a moment, smile so earnest, eyes so bright and hopeful. Feels the guilt of keeping this secret well up inside him to the point of drowning, and decides he's had enough of lying to the people he cares about most, in this world or any other. 

It's time to come clean.

• • •

He's on his way to wake Gus when the two of them round the corner to find him trudging up the stairs from the basement, looking a little bleary-eyed.

"Hey," he says, stifling a yawn. "I woke up and you were missing, so I came up to see if everything was okay. Are you—" Gus pauses mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight of his best friend with half a foot less hair than the last time he'd seen him.

"Whoah, you look different," he says, clocking the alarmed look on Hunter's face and hastening to add, "Good different."

Hunter manages a small smile and says, "Thanks. Willow cut it for me," with no small amount of pride. 

"Nice work, Willow," Gus says with an approving nod, and beside him, Willow preens. "Kind of a weird time for a haircut, though. Is everything okay?"

Hunter's smile falters.

"Um…no," he says, shoulders dropping as he heaves a weary sigh. "There's something I need to tell you. Both of you."

He turns to look at Willow, wishing he could smooth over the worried crease in her eyebrows, kiss the soft pout of her lips until he's got her smiling again. For a brief moment, Hunter wonders whether he'll ever hear her laughter again after what he's about to tell her, and the sorry excuse for a heart inside his chest clenches with something close to heartbreak.

But no matter what happens, he has to do this. He's tired of keeping this a secret, and she deserves to know the truth. They both do.

"Could we, um…" he says, waving vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table, where the two of them follow him, settling in with Hunter at the head, Gus and Willow close by on either side. Hunter stares at them for a moment, lips parted like he's about to cry, at a loss for where to begin. This could be it, a terrified voice inside his head reminds him. This could be the end of everything.

"So, first thing's first, I'm not a witch," he sighs, staring down at the warbling striations like wooden waveforms across the surface of the kitchen table, unable to look either of them in the eye.

"I'm a grimwalker," he confesses in a breathless rush, ripping off the bandaid in one painful go. "And I don't know exactly what that means. All I know is that I'm a clone…made by Belos…of someone who used to be a witch hunter…with Belos."

He waits for the weight of his words to sink in, for the cry of outrage, the scoff of disgust…but instead, he's met with silence, and he's honestly not sure which is worse.

"And I'm not the first, either," he pushes himself to carry on, tears cracking his voice as he swallows against the griffon-sized lump in his throat. "I'm just one of many in a long line of Hunters that Belos made disappear whenever they couldn't live up to his standards. Whenever they turned against him. Like I did."

"I guess that's why I can't do magic," he says around a slightly hysterical laugh, pressing his fingers into the faded sigil on his wrist, wishing it would disappear completely. "I'm not half a witch. I'm not even a witch at all. I'm just…a copy of some dead guy who used to be buddies with Belos. They hunted witches together. I was literally made to hurt the people I love."

"And I'm sorry," he chokes, crying in earnest now as he buries his face in the palms of his hands. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys sooner, I was just so scared that once you knew, you'd never want to— you both mean so much to me, I couldn't risk losing you, so I—"

He's staring down at the table, tears trailing down his cheeks, a tight knot in his throat, hands balled into fists at his sides, when he feels two sets of arms wrapping him up in a hug, Gus's cheek pressed against his temple, Willow's chin resting against the top of his head.

"You're not getting rid of us that easy," Gus reassures him with a low chuckle, and something inside Hunter snaps, floodgates bursting open. He sobs openly into both of their shoulders, sniffling as Willow gently strokes his hair and whispers a soothing chorus of it's okay, we're here for you, let it all out, reminding him that he's safe, that no matter who made him or who he was made after, he's nothing like them, he's not Belos, or—

"Caleb," Gus says with a heavy sigh, pulling back to take a seat at Hunter's side.

"What?" Hunter asks, blinking back tears as he stares wide-eyed at Gus, Willow slipping her arms from around his shoulders as she sinks back into her chair, giving Gus the same baited-breath look as Hunter.

"His name was Caleb," Gus says slowly, like he's revealing some long-forgotten secret he's certain he shouldn't know. "He was Belos's brother, and he was a witch hunter…until he fell in love with a witch."

"How— how do you know that?" Hunter asks, hardly daring to believe it.

"I saw him, that night I tapped into Belos's memories," Gus explains. "I only caught glimpses, but it was enough to piece the story together."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I just…didn't know how to bring it up, or what Caleb might have meant to you," Gus says, fixing Hunter with a sympathetic frown. "At first, I thought he might have been your father, he looked so much like you. And for you to find out that Belos killed him, after everything you'd already been through…I just didn't want to cause you any more pain."

At this, Willow reaches out to hold Hunter's hand, the soft pad of her thumb rubbing soothing circles against his palm. Hunter clutches it like a lifeline, thankful for its warm comforting weight.

"But then I realized…Caleb died hundreds of years before you were ever born," Gus continues, a small smile curling across his face as he glances down at Hunter and Willow's entwined hands, comforted by the fact that at least his best friend fared better than all the others. "And then I saw that hallway with all those broken Golden Guard masks in Belos's memory, heard him call you Caleb when he saw you holding Flapjack, and I kind of just…started piecing it all together."

"So you…you knew this whole time?" Hunter asks, still sniffling. "You knew what I was and you didn't treat me any differently," he says, staring back at him with a look of awestruck affection in his eyes.

"Of course not, man. You're my brother, no matter what you're made of," Gus says, reaching out a hand for their signature fist bump. Hunter huffs out a shaky laugh as he raises the hand not currently linked with Willow's to meet his brother halfway.

"And you?" he asks, glancing up from the pretty picture of their laced fingers to meet Willow's soft gaze. "Does it…bother you? Knowing what I am?"

"Why should it?" Willow says automatically, like she's offended he would even think such a thing. "Does it really matter where we came from or how we were made? All that matters is who you are, who you choose to be, and the only person who gets to decide that is you."

She gives the palm of his hand an affectionate three-pulse squeeze before letting go to push back from her chair, and Hunter has less than a second to mourn the loss of contact before she's swooping down to wrap him in a tight hug, blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as she leans in close and whispers, "And from everything I've seen, I really like who Hunter is."

Far too soon, she's pulling back, offering him a wink that makes all the air rush out of his lungs, before casting a glance at the stovetop across the way.

"Okay, heavy emotional topics like this call for some comfort," she says, warmth flooding her chest as she thinks back to all the times her dads ever tucked her into bed with a warm mug of her favorite drink on the whole of the Isles, thankful that the human realm has an equivalent. "How about I make us all some hot cocoa?"

"Yes, please!" both boys chant in unison, and Willow snorts with fond amusement before bustling off to the other side of the kitchen to heat up some milk. Hunter watches her go with a smile nothing short of smitten curled across his face, the space between his fingers still pulsing pleasantly from where she'd held him.

"You know, I did try dropping hints," Gus says with a wry smile, snapping Hunter's focus back to him. "To let you know it was okay for you to tell us whenever you were ready."

"You did?" Hunter asks, wondering how in the world he could have possibly missed the signs.

"Why do you think I wanted you to read Cosmic Frontier with me so badly?" Gus asks, arching a playful eyebrow.

"Because it's amazing and you wanted to drag me into your awful fandom so you wouldn't have to suffer the cliffhangers alone," Hunter jokes, but even as he says it, he can't help but think back to all the times Gus placed special emphasis on the word clone, all those times he reassured Hunter that duplicants were cool, and how much stronger it made the bond between Avery and O'Bailey when they finally came clean about all their secrets.

"That too," Gus chuckles. "But it's also because I thought you'd relate to Chief Engineer O'Bailey. See that his story had a happy ending, that Captain Avery and Security Officer Quando still loved and accepted him for who he was. Hell, he and Quando even end up getting married in the last—"

"Ah, bup bup bup! No, no, no, no, no spoilers!" Hunter claps a hand over his ears, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt when Gus bursts out laughing.

"Okay, okay, no spoilers," Gus relents, sighing as his laughter subsides to soft stuttered giggles. 

"You know, it's kind of funny," he prompts. "With this new haircut, you even look more like O'Bailey now. Is…that what inspired the change? The whole grimwalker thing?"

Hunter's smile falters for the first time since they hugged him, that same flicker of fear and disgust welling up inside him at the mere memory.

"For weeks, every time I looked in the mirror, all I could see was Caleb," Hunter exhales on a heavy sigh. "But then today, when I looked in the mirror, I saw Belos, and I just…I couldn't—"

"It's okay," comes Gus's calm, reassuring voice, paired with a gentle hand on Hunter's shoulder. "I totally get it." 

"But you know you're not him, right?" he says. "You're not either of them. Even if you were made in the likeness of Caleb, you're still Hunter. You're your own person, always have been. And I'm glad you found a look that lets you feel like you."

"Thanks," Hunter says, smiling back at him. "It helps…knowing that at the very least, I was made after someone good. Someone who maybe didn't start out on the right path, but who found his way there eventually."

Someone who defied his own brainwashed upbringing. Changed and redefined every belief he ever held. Fell in love with the very thing he was never allowed to want.

It's in this moment that Willow comes back over, setting down three soup-bowl-sized mugs of perfectly tempered cocoa in front of each of their chairs, about to settle into her own before jumping back up and exclaiming, "Oh! I forgot the marshmallows! Hang on, I'll be right back."

"To Caleb, the hunter who fell in love with a witch," Gus cheers, clinking his cocoa mug against Hunter's before taking a hearty swig in Caleb's honor.

Hunter pauses mid-sip, lips curving upward into a big, goofy grin as his eyes wander back toward Willow, watching as she jumps up to reach for the bag of jumbo-sized marshmallows on the highest shelf, misses, and then summons a set of vines to snag them for her, beaming in triumph as she grabs a generous handful for the three of them to share.

"Guess I'm more like Caleb than I thought," he sighs, blushing and averting his gaze to the ceiling when Gus catches him staring, a knowing smirk curling across his face as he glances back and forth between the two of them, watching history repeat itself…

…though if they're lucky, with a much happier ending this time around.

[rotten-pomegranates-fics]

Can I rq Feitan x reader headcannons

Yes Tehe

He’s a yandere in this and he’s a meany because that’s the only people I’m attracted to 😍

Seriously this is one of the darkest things I’ve written so dni if your uncomfortable

Warnings:VERY DARK CONTENT abuse, rape, yandere, kidnapping, torture, sexual abuse, mental abuse, forced abortion, AGAIN VERY DARK CONTENT

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He doesn’t wait around very long before he takes you all for himself and your not protected from all the sadistic games he likes to play

Hes so controlling, he picks what you where, controls how much you eat and how much you sleep and don’t even try and go against this because that will earn you a trip down to the basement and in his torture chair

He uses a lot of physical punishment when he first takes you, He needs it to set in that your his and he’s the boss and honestly he doesn’t really get better with time

He’s gonna get urges to make you his in a different light eventually and when he does don’t fight him because the more you fight the more aggressive and rough he gets

If your not already traumatized and terrified enough of him he’ll regularly get you to sit in a chair and watch as he tortures people

He’s gonna bring “home” heads of people you care about if you keep asking to see them or be let go

He has a room for you but he only fucks you on his bed and makes you sleep in his room on those nights so you can’t even cry to yourself, oh and don’t cry to him because he’ll give you something worth crying about if you do, his words

If he ever gets you pregnant he’s gonna beat you up until your not anymore and then make you feel bad by asking if you would really want a baby in this environment

He may get you a cat and wait a couple months until you love it and then use it as leverage by threatening to hurt it if you don’t do this or that

He makes you do all the chores around the house and he doesn’t make it easy because he’s a messy guy, you also have to cook every night or you’ll be starving while you watch him eat

If you ever try and escape your getting tracked down and dragged back, he’s talking away all your privileges and breaking both your legs, your also getting treated to a possibly multiple day long torture session, and your sleeping on the floor chained to the wall by your door from now on while he sometimes comes in to beat on you

He’s just one of the worst possible yanderes you could have

©rotten-pomegranate- All rights reserved, don’t steal, translate, copy, plagiarize, claim my work as your own or post it on other platforms.

[djwiththejd]

A quick analysis of Medusa in the new PJO (2023) Disney show

So this really struck me as soon as I watched the episode when it came out on Tuesday, but the writers really added some serious depth and complexity to Medusa’s character which I think fits both the critical lens people are viewing her myth as and how it was originally portrayed.

Here, Medusa is put together and conscientious of her “grotesque” appearance. Instead of letting her snake hair run wild she dons a demure dress and hat combo that hides away the majority of her identifiable features and makes her look like a sweet, beautiful young woman. We only see this shift to her more “monstrous” side when Medusa tries and fails to isolate Percy from his group and decides to take off her hat and “remove her cover” so that she can still turn the kids into stone for her own purposes.

However, I don’t think Medusa’s belief that her powers are a gift is a lie. Yes, Athena is incredibly vain, I can absolutely see her punishing Medusa for her “situation” but I can also see how it can be used as a defense mechanism by Medusa. Athena did punish Arachne in an equally hideous way, so Medusa had every right to hold anger towards Athena for what she did and still have some gratitude for the safety and power that becoming a gorgon has allowed her to gain.

But the show portrays Medusa as a complex character.

Even when we first arrive to “Auntie Em’s” only the most vicious and terrifying stone creatures are on display outside. They can be construed as both defense mechanisms to keep wayward innocents out as well as a warning to those who would try to harm her. I can imagine Medusa not intending to turn many of the statues in her basement right after she was cursed and hiding them away in shame because she couldn’t bear to look upon their faces of fear and horror, but it also could just as easily have been a way to hide her darkest secrets in a place where none are likely to find them.

I like the duality of interpretation opportunities offered to us in the show. I think it allows people who are sympathetic with Medusa’s plight to still have that room for sympathy if they choose to interpret her scenes in a more favorable light but still understand why Medusa had to be beheaded. For all intents and purposes, I did appreciate that her beheading was “unseen” to the audience. Regardless of your analysis of Medusa’s creation story, it feels comforting to know that her death was not some spectacle to behold. It may have been a Disney censor, but it also gives her a chance to die with as much dignity as possible, at least that’s how it came off to me.

[kevin-the-bruyne]

In response to your tags in this post: https://www.tumblr.com/fadelbison/778627631266562048 *puts on my circus outfit* Why do I feel like this would be how they announce any relationship developments? Like they both continue to tell the same sweet story of an outing they had (potentially of seeing the Northern Lights?) multiple times over the span of many months, reiterating it again and again with few changes. Then, at one event Khaotung as he's telling the story, adds an extra sentence: "Then First became my boyfriend" (or proposed/moved in) And, like the audience is kind of shocked caused he dropped it so casually and First barely reacted either, and the MC was too shocked that the event continued on as normal. Then FK drop all their outing/Iceland photos including them with either matching rings or kissing on the cheek and calling each other boyfriend. Then they go down silent for 3 months. The fandom is in ruin!! 😂😂😂

Honestly, I have no wish to even think about what fandom would do lol never anything good. but I am endlessly charmed by your scenario. It's like: 5 Times Khaotung Says He Wants To Go To Iceland with First + 1 Time He Did 🤣. Now that Kt has gone back to acting like the only place First belongs is in a shrine in his basement - or maybe that's just the Japanese air - I bring you a Kt that I think will in five years from this point in the story do exactly that, propose to First in Iceland then just casually slip it in in a fan interview that will end before anyone else can get their bearings and he can whisk his bf away from the sea of dropped jaws in triumph

[FirstKhaotung PG-13]

Summary: In a quiet, cool night in Japan, Khaotung tells First abut everything that he's ever wanted.

--- “It’s not enough for me.” Khaotung tries saying into the cool breeze of a Japanese night. It’s somehow easier here, even though he is here for work as well, but far away from the magnitude of everything he owes to this career it’s somehow easier to admit that a part of him exists that deeply resents it.

First goes still next to him. It’s funny to Khaotung that he can feel it all the way from here, sitting on a completely different lounge chair. When he turns to look at First, he is already looking at him like he’s trying to study the lines on his face. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look too anxious.

“This relationship?” First says jokingly, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated alarm. Khaotung snorts and rolls his eyes. It’s always nice looking at First, always nice to see him smile, to see him blink even, but right now like this where everything outside this bubble feels irrelevant, Khaotung feels it so deeply - how nice it is to be with First.

“I want to hold your hand.” He says wistfully. First reaches out and tangles their fingers together, Khaotung clicks his tongue but doesn’t let go, he rests his head against the back of his chair still turned towards First.

“Me too.” First says softly, like he’s voicing a well guarded secret, “I want to kiss you.” He adds, like he's sharing his most darkest thought.

Khaotung is perhaps a little surprised. 

He forgets sometimes, because First doesn’t show his burdens often; always ready to cheer people up and see the bright side of things, so ready to accept that the only cherry blossoms they’d get to see on this trip are the ones they had to pose with. He remembers feeling a flash of irritation at First’s bright smile as he held a fallen petal up to Khaotung’s hair and said, “These are plenty beautiful, don’t you think?” But–

Khaotung shuffles over to First’s lounger and hates that he can’t help but check, as though on reflex, that they’re alone. He kisses First; an easy, practiced slide of lips, a home to find comfort. First’s arms around him makes him feel secure, eases the worries pressed right up against his throat. His hands sliding up Khaotung’s back, a reminder that there’s not much more that he could want from First, really. It took years to even hope - let alone believe - that he could have this.

First underneath him, solid, steady, real, lips glistening with Khaotung’s spit.

First, who wants to cheer him up at the cost of hiding his own pain, fingers practiced in the patterns that soothe Khatung’s ache the best. First, who he’s seen in puffy jackets and shivering from the cold, but not yet with flecks of snow in his lashes and the expanse of an aurora that already lives within him to be reflected in his eyes; the press of cracked, cold lips against each other. First, who fills every moment to the brim with happiness. First, who’s tears feel like a dagger in his heart. 

There’s enough, enough, enough, overspilling in abundance. But–

It's First, who's smile, Khaotung knows, is his final destination.

–For once, for once - can it not be later?

[when-hyperfocus-hits]

This short story is based on a HC that @connectionterminated13 had about William's "experiments." I had an original idea to write it in William's POV, but I thought it would be more interesting to see it on the outside looking in, in Mike's POV. Original post Enjoy!!! -----

He likes to watch them contort in pain and slowly fade away. The rats, I mean. He says it’s more satisfying when they live again.

“Isn’t it amazing, Mike?” He tells me after dissecting a poor rat. “It’s like it never died.”

“I liked that one,” I say, staring at my shoes. That one didn’t try to bite my fingers off out of pure starvation.

“Oh, please, Michael, it’s a rat.” He props the half-dead rat upright, and it wobbles groggily away back into its cage with its zombie buddies. 

I’m feeling particularly defiant today. “So what?” I pick at that one hangnail on my thumb. “That rabbit is a rodent too.”

I jump when I hear the rat cage slam. 

When I look up again, I can’t help but flinch when he grabs my arm. 

“You don’t understand the possibilities, Mike! A substance that can regenerate an organism to the point where they can live again. Can you even fathom what I could do with this kind of substance?” 

“I dunno, give it to a hospital?” 

I can’t feel my hand. Maybe it’s better that way. 

“How are your scars?” He asks me with a twinge of poison in his tone. 

I glance at my arm. “Gone, I guess.” 

“Do you know how long it takes for scars to completely heal and disappear?”

“Uh–”

“Years. And yours were healed in one day.”

It’s your fault. You fixed it.

He lets go of my hand, getting up to get another animal he scavenged from the overgrown backyard. 

It goes on like this, like always. I’ve learned to just stay out of the basement. I’ve learned to ignore the screams of dying animals from down below, but over the days… or was it weeks? Those screams turned more shrill— a horrifying, gut-wrenching scream of agony that seem to come from the darkest, deepest parts of the basement.

One night was particularly bad. They say foxes can scream…

This is different.

Even when I step down the stairs, the air feels different than before. Like musty, but tense. 

My father’s snores in the other room strangely comfort me as I walk down the creaky basement stairs. 

The basement feels different. Why is it stuffy? The ground is moist beneath my feet.

It’s dark. The only light is from the door I left ajar upstairs. The rats hoarsely squeak and scratch at the rusted cages they’ve been locked in for days.

I try to flip the light switch, but it’s almost impossible to find anything in the cramped, crowded basement. 

The rats hiss when I accidentally kick the cages looking for any kind of light. I stub my toe on a particularly heavy thing, and try to hold back a yelp. 

Kneeling down, I feel around for what I practically broke my toe on. Dusty box.

I need a light to be able to see what’s even inside the heavy box, but as I feel around, something sticks out, literally.

It feels like stuffing. Headless.

“Foxy…” I whisper, dragging the heavy box into the dim light from upstairs. Not just Foxy, but multiple stuffed animals of every Freddy’s character… Even Fredbear.

His glossy black eyes never cease to make me uncomfortable. It has a sly sparkle in its eye… or maybe it’s just the light.

“Toys!”

I’ve never turned around faster— It’s a kid’s voice.

“Toys…” A small, dark-haired girl approaches from the darkness, but she’s so pale, she could be a ghost.

“What the hell— heck. What the heck are you doing in here, little girl??”

She immediately recoils, wide-eyed and panicked. “Don’t hurt me—”

“What—? No, I’m… I’m not going to hurt you…” I don’t know whether to take her and get the hell out of here or to call the police or… “How did you get here? We have to get you out of here— Did he do something to you—”

Her green eyes somehow get wider.

“Sorry— One question at a time. How did you get here?”

“The man… he looks like you.”

“No, I’m… I’m not him. I’m Mike. I’m not saying you can trust me, but at least trust that I’m not… him, and I won’t hurt you.”

She only nods, her eyes at least are not as wide anymore.

“Did he… do something to you?”

“Not me… my friends.”

“What friends? There are other kids here?” 

“Not anymore…” She looks up at the basement door.

“He took them away?”

She gives me a nod and starts heading towards the basement stairs.

“Wait, wait— Don’t go up just yet,” I refrain from holding her back but she turns back to me anyway. “Let’s go up together, okay? We have to sneak out. Get the cops.”

“They can help me?” She offers her hand. 

“Yeah, yeah….” The thought of going to a police station especially after what they know I’ve done. I take her tiny hand, and lead her up the stairs. “How old are you?”

“Four.”

“Wow, four… Only four,” I whisper. 

She giggles at my tip-toed feet when we rush up the stairs. But I don’t hear his snores anymore.

“Stay here, uh… Your name?”

“Cassidy…!”

“Shh, shh… Thank you, Cassidy. But let’s be quiet, okay?” The living room is darker than before. I reach for the phone, “I’ll just call the police–”

But a familiar grip on my arm stops me.

“Like hell you will.” 

“Dad–” I barely get out. He’s holding me tighter than before. 

I feel another, much lighter grip on my leg. She’s crying now, hiding from him. “I broke your arm once, I can do it again, Michael.” 

He’s twisting. It hurts.

I’m feeling defiant today again. “How could you ‘experiment’ on literal children–? She said she had friends down here— Ahh— Dad stop—” 

I can’t feel my arm. It’s a sickening shade of purple now. There’s a crazed look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. It’s like complete fury just barely contained by a mask of fake calm. 

“Do you realize what will happen if you go to the police, Mike? They know what you’ve done.”

“It’s to save the kid—”

“So you care more about a child you don’t even know more than your own brother?!”

“No—!” I yell, mostly because of the pain. “You know that’s not it—!” I manage to rip my half numb arm away fast enough to scoop up Cassidy. 

His mask is slipping. His face is red now. 

“I’m taking her home!” I try to stare right back with as much fire in my eyes as he does. Surprisingly, he stands back away from us, still near the phone. I take my chance to bolt out the door in his stunned state. 

I glance at the car, but no keys. I have to run. Who knows how long he’ll stay there, shaken. 

“Where is your home?” I ask her, still running as fast as I can to anybody I can trust. Henry. Yes, Henry.

“I don’t…”

“You don’t know?”

She shakes her head. Henry would know. He can help. He has to help.  --- Not sure if I got carried away towards the end with incorporating some of my own headcanons, etc, but please lmk what you think!

PART TWO IS HERE!!

[ninadove]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

Thank you Sunny! 🖤☀️ You know how much I love talking about my own fics. Hehe.

I love each and every one of them, notably a Layton one I can’t show yet, but for now (in the order I find them back):

I know there’s been pain this year (But it’s time to let it go) [🦚]

“What? Nooo! Adrien doesn’t hate Christmas.”

“Are you absolutely certain? What was he like last year?”

“Well, he —”

Marinette furrowed her brow, scanning her own memories. Of course she was absolutely certain. At least, she thought she was.

Okay — she could not ignore that Adrien had run away from home that night, wandering the snow-covered streets to escape the freezing cold of his own home. Nor could she brush away the disintegrated Morris column, cataclysmed for the crime of bearing his own face.

Oh, and the shaky videos circulating on YouTube. That musical number was… Concerning, to say the least. Still, it was no smoking gun.

Right?

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, plopping down against the counter. “Adrien hates Christmas.”

I had been trying to write this fic since I was 14, with the wrong characters and the wrong tools. I have many feelings about what makes a family and what it means to heal and what magic truly is and I am so so so happy to have finally stitched it together!!! Plus it has the cousins and Feligami and Amelie and Duusu and Plagg. This fic is the Christmas ornament I will always find a special spot for on my tree! 🎄❤️

Daedalus [🎩]

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

The words are soft, but certain; for all the accusations that have been brought against him, this one stings in a unique manner.

Luke settles on the limestone bench, facing away. His gaze lands on the tip of his shoes, or perhaps sways with the blooming lilac.

“The little boy in the statue,” he finishes, even though there is no need. “I don’t know how I didn’t put it together back then.”

This one is just me going back to my roots, and at my roots are Clive and Hershel. One of these days when my emulator works I shall stream the rest of the game so you guys can understand

Satellite [🦚]

It hits him like a truck, or rather it doesn’t: the truck metaphor would imply a projectile, a concentrated blow set in motion by a well-known mechanic. It would imply that Adrien asked for it, that he crossed the street while the light was still red, or that maybe he sat in the middle of the highway and waited.

But no. He is at the mansion when it happens, in the atrium — not even in the study nor the basement nor the attic, not in any of those places he is not supposed to lurk in. Earth itself reshapes under his feet, cracking open to swallow him whole.

SUN FELIX YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS TO ME. ☀️

Ou bien dans les étoiles [🪶]

Cyrano’s light would be a gift and a punishment: a finger pointed straight at the vileness of the world, the caress of April upon a dandelion. As for the darkest parts of his soul, the threads of self-hatred he had danced on all his life, Le Bret would guard them with the devotion of a hellhound.

OR: Le Bret never finds the words to talk about Cyrano, but someone else does.

I may translate this one at some point… Cyrano de Bergerac is a love letter to the French language, after all. 🖤🪶

Mayday mayday (This ship is slowly sinking) [🦚]

After years of spatial exploration, Adrien lets his ship drift into nothingness.

A century later, Argos is born.

I just. Have. Thoughts. And feelings. About this one.