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22ayla21 · 18 days ago

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A Year On

Exactly one year has passed since her mother died.

Author's Note: This fanfiction is based on my personal experience from the past year, with the difference being that I didn't have anyone by my side to support me. My dad might understand what I'm going through, but even I feel like it's not real support.

She hadn't slept for several days. Each time she closed her eyes, the same image appeared before her: her mother's pale face, emaciated hands, the white sheets of the intensive care unit. And that cursed life support machine, beeping monotonously, counting down the last seconds.

Today wasn't just any day; it was the anniversary. Exactly one year ago, on June 6th, at 8:20 AM, at the Oncology Hospital, her mother passed away. Adrenal cancer, which was just a backdrop, because in reality, she was killed by a blood infection contracted from a negligent doctor at another hospital during surgery. This knowledge gnawed at her from within. Injustice, helplessness, anger—all of it mixed into a single, unbearable knot.

The pain hadn't gone away; it had only dulled, becoming a constant, background noise in her existence. Relatives? They disappeared the moment her mother was gone. Or rather, they didn't disappear; they dumped all their problems, expectations, and difficulties on her. She felt like a puppet, pulled by strings in different directions, draining her last bit of strength. Burnout had become her constant companion, and life seemed to be hurtling into an abyss, with no chance of stopping.

The only anchor she clung to in this whirlwind of despair was Leona. He was always there, by her side. He didn't try to "save" her, didn't force comfort upon her; he simply was. His presence was a quiet harbor in the raging ocean of her suffering.

She lay staring at the ceiling. Gray rays of dawn pierced through the curtains, painting the room in bleak tones. Every nerve in her body screamed with exhaustion, but sleep wouldn't come. Suddenly, the door quietly opened, and Leona entered the room. He was as always: relaxed, with his emerald eyes slightly narrowed and a slight, self-satisfied smirk that, at that moment, seemed the most beautiful thing in the world to her. Thick dark brown hair fell over his eyes, two braided strands, tied with yellow elastic bands, swayed gently. Lion ears on top of his head, a long tail with a tuft of fur at the end—all of it was so familiar and dear.

He didn't say a word, just walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. She felt his warmth, his strong yet gentle scent. He carefully took her hand, his tanned fingers wrapping around her pale palm. She squeezed his hand back, clinging to him like a lifeline.

"Not sleeping?" His voice was low, slightly hoarse, as always.

"No," she whispered. She felt tears welling up again.

Leona didn't ask unnecessary questions. He knew. Knew what day it was, knew she was having a hard time. He simply ran his thumb over her wrist, as if trying to soothe the pulsating pain.

"Do you want anything?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just be here."

Leona nodded. He pulled her closer, and she buried her face in his shoulder. His broad, muscular back was so dependable. She heard his heartbeat—steady, calm. There was something soothing in that beat, something that helped her not to lose her mind.

She felt his hand glide through her hair, burying itself in it, then descend to her back, stroking with calming movements. His touches were strong yet surprisingly soft. He always knew how to touch her to make her feel better. This was one of his unusual qualities—behind a mask of laziness and arrogance lay surprising sensitivity and perceptiveness.

"You know," she began, her voice muffled by tears, "I feel so... empty. As if there's nothing inside me."

Leona didn't answer immediately. He just held her tighter. Then he said, "Emptiness fills. With time." His words were simple, but they held a kind of ancient wisdom, as if he had seen such emptiness many times before.

"But when?" She lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen.

A familiar, slightly arrogant smirk flickered across his face. "When you decide it's time." He stroked the scar above his left eye, as if in thought. "You can't be a victim forever. It's boring."

His words, seemingly arrogant, she knew concealed something else. It was his way of making her move forward, not drown in self-pity. He understood her yearning for justice, for he himself was its prisoner.

"I feel like I can't do this anymore. Relatives, their problems, studies... I just can't cope."

Leona pulled away to look into her eyes. His emerald eyes were so perceptive. "Then don't cope."

She flinched. "What?"

"Stop trying to cope with everything at once. You don't have to be all-powerful. If they're dragging you down, let go."

"But how...?"

"Easily. Put yourself first. Why should you carry other people's problems if they don't want to solve them themselves? You don't need to prove anything to anyone." He looked at her with such intensity that she felt exposed. "You don't have to be a queen. You have to be yourself."

His words hit home. All her life, she had been taught to be strong, to cope, to carry everything. And Leona, this lazy and arrogant prince, seemed to see right through her. He understood her inner conflict, her deeply rooted desire for recognition and justice, because he was just like her.

"I'm so tired of all this," she buried her face in his shoulder again.

"I know," his voice softened. "But you're not alone."

That was what she needed to hear. Not empty reassurances, not lectures, but a simple confirmation of his presence.

"I wish her death hadn't been so... meaningless," she mumbled. "She went through so much, and then that doctor..."

Leona squeezed her hand. "Sometimes life is unfair. That doesn't mean you have to break." His gaze was firm. "It means you have to become stronger. For yourself."

He stood up, pulling her with him. "Come on. You need to eat."

She resisted. "I don't want to."

"But I said you need to," a hint of the domineering tone she knew so well from him entered his voice. And that was exactly what she needed—someone to take control when she had no strength herself.

She let him lead her. He prepared something simple but nutritious for her. It was hard for her to swallow, but she ate, knowing Leona wouldn't back down. He sat opposite her, silently watching her, his lion ears twitching slightly from time to time.

After breakfast, he suggested they go for a walk. "You need to clear your head. Lying around is useless."

She reluctantly agreed. They walked slowly through the park, under the warm June sun. Leona walked slightly ahead, his long tail swaying from side to side. He was so graceful, so strong. Next to him, she felt safe.

"I feel like I'll never get over this," she said softly.

Leona turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. "Get over it—no. Accept it—yes. The pain won't leave, but it will change. It will become a part of you. And you will learn to live with it."

He spoke of pain with surprising calm, as if it were something he knew well. Perhaps his own experiences of rejection and injustice gave him this understanding.

They reached the lake. Leona sat on the grass, leaning against the trunk of an old oak. She sat down beside him. He didn't try to entertain her or talk about trivialities. He just was. His presence was tangible, firm, like a rock.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh air. Next to Leona, even on this day of mourning and sorrow, she felt less alone. He was her anchor, her support, that rare person who saw the real her, with all her wounds and weaknesses, and still remained by her side. And at that moment, in the silence of the park, protected by his strong shoulder, she felt a tiny, barely perceptible sprout of hope breaking through the thick despair. Perhaps life was indeed hurtling into an abyss, but as long as she had Leona, she wouldn't let herself fall completely. He was the thread she clung to to survive.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar

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bettsfic · 11 months ago

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I have this thing where what I'm writing is absolutely not what I'm about in real life. I like complexity and depth in what I read. But the things I care about make only vague appearances in my writing, I don't know how to fully explain it. I have a lot of passion in life and I'm ~relatively emotionally intelligent. I'm curious about emotions, anyway, but what comes out in my writing is just cookie cutter.... Bland..... Zero complexity or emotional exploration. It's like I'm on autopilot when I write and I can't shake it.

i'm about to present to you yet another writing spectrum: director-writers and actor-writers.

a director-writer creates stories by writing discrete scenes that they see in their mind. like a film, a scene begins, something happens, a scene ends. we move on to the next scene. i would venture to say a majority of writers today are director-writers, because what's been en vogue in the 21st century is very much influenced by our visual media. we watch visual media. a great many writers like to render their prose such that it feels like a reader is watching the story play out. these director-writers are standing on the outside looking in, manipulating and moving all the pieces of their story to create the desired end result.

director-writing is so common that i meet many, many writers who trap themselves in scenic prose because they assume that's what "good writing" is. these writers are not actually directors. they don't want to be standing behind the camera; they want to be in the mind of the characters. and those people are actor-writers.

an actor-writer's prose doesn't necessarily prioritize scenes one after the next, but develops a compelling narrative voice. actor-writing is about learning to be someone who isn't you. i think the moment you abandon the forced witness of the camera and instead dive into the mind, experiencing the story instead of rendering the story, you unlock the path of that complex emotional exploration you feel is missing in your work. and you will probably never go back.

here's an activity to try:

whatever you're working on right now, open a new doc, take your main character and, in your mind's eye, trap them in an interrogation room. sit them across from you. ask them, "what is your deal?" write down their answer.

in this activity, you're looking for a few things:

what is their story? why does it matter to them? (this is probably the biggest problem i have with the pitfalls of director-writing: nothing matters. everything is just...happening. as a reader, i'm always looking for what i'm being asked to love. maybe that love is awful, toxic, contradictory, ambivalent, whatever. the point is, it matters. a huge percentage of the things i read never ask me to love anything.)

are they trying to convince or persuade you of something, making their testimonial unreliable? or are they confessing to you things they'd never admit to anyone else?

what is at stake for them? what is their deepest desire and their greatest fear? in what way is their deepest desire flawed? how is their greatest fear irrational? how have the events of their story influenced or distorted their perception?

close narration offers us the greatest possible access to the interiority of the narrator. first person is really just a monologue, an explanation, an excuse, a confession, a plea, a prayer. so so so many writers get blocked because they're trying to See the story instead of Listen to it. they force themselves into this elastic third person where the reader remains a distant witness with the occasional thought, insight, or feeling, but that comes second to what i call Bodies in Space. if i never read another "he strode across the room" again it'll be too soon. imagery is wonderful, don't get me wrong, but i would always, always rather get insight into what a character is feeling, thinking, grieving, dreaming than the knowledge that they are sitting in a chair.

i'm not saying switch to first person. you can create the effect of first person with very close third, and you can create the effect of third person with very distant first. pronouns don't really matter. what's important is voice over vision.

i say this a lot, but if i want to watch a story, i'll turn on my tv. prose is the only art form that allows us to fully explore human consciousness. let it do the thing it was invented to do.

my theory of director-writers and actor-writers is adapted from Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, in which he defines "picture" vs. "drama" writing. however i found that terminology confusing and poorly articulated, so i flipped it into a process-based approach with what i hope is more accessible phrasing. also, prose = consciousness is from 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley.

#writing advice #actor writers #director writers #tell don't show

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paranoiastudio · 1 year ago

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I love you

pairing: Art Donaldson х f!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, sub!Art x dom!reader, masturbating

word count: 944

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

Cold and still slightly damp arms hug you from behind and you can’t help but snuggle closer to the man. Art is breathing heavily down your neck: he just finished his morning workout, took a shower and was next to you again. All this time you remained in a dark and cool room, wrapped in a large blanket.

- Mmm... Art, dear... - Words are difficult, yesterday you had too much wine and now you didn’t feel too good.

- It's time to get up, it's almost ten. - Art kisses the back of your head, you hear his hoarse laugh in response to your displeased whimper.

You stretch and Art intertwines your arms and legs, pressing you closer. Leaning against his strong chest, you give Art access to your neck and gasp when he immediately finds your pulse with his lips.

- Did we miss breakfast?

- You missed breakfast, my love. - The man smiles, covering your breasts, hidden by the fabric of his T-shirt, with a large calloused palm. - But I brought you something...

- And what is it? - You turn your head and immediately find yourself pulled into a kiss, neat and barely perceptible. It was as if Art was simply touching your lips with his own, standing on the thin line between tenderness and passion. - I didn't brush my teeth.

- I don't care. - Art reaches out for a kiss again, but you roll over and you find yourself face to face.

- I still feel bad... - Flying has always been difficult for you, and next to Art you fly much more often than usual.

- Did you take aspirin? - Concern immediately appears in his beautiful eyes. - Shall I bring you something?

- No, just stay here... - You squeeze Art’s hand and you silently lie together, sharing such a rare moment of peace and quiet.

- I love you. - You knew this, Art had already said this once, you saw his feelings for you, but so far you had never said it in response, deciding that you would only say it when you were absolutely sure of it.

Now, lying in a hotel room on the other side of the world from home, still drunk and swollen, you, listening to yourself, are silent again. You do so much for him. Does it really mean nothing that you dropped everything and went with him?

You kiss Art and move a little closer. Your sweet little boy never pressed you for an answer and you were grateful for that.

- I... - The man stutters as your warm hand touches him through his shorts.

- Hush, just let me take care of you. - You pull back the elastic, lower your shorts, then your panties, and stroke Art’s abs through the T-shirt; his body delighted you every time and you never missed an opportunity to touch him.

Grasping his half-erect member, you gently move your hand and squeeze his balls between two fingers. Art groans and you run your tongue along his long neck, catching a small bead of sweat between his collarbones.

- You shouldn’t strain yourself, there’s such an important match ahead. - You whisper, continuing to move your hand. - The situation is so nervous, I see how tense you are....

Art rests his forehead against yours and thrusts his hips forward, catching your touch. You spit on your palm, making your movements easier and speeding up.

-You can touch me, remember? - You smile at how quickly Art grabs your chest, as if he was waiting for permission. - Do not rush...

The man whines softly and tries to pull your shorts off, you willingly help him, never stopping teasing his dripping cock. It’s already wet between your legs and Art feels it, slowly spreading you apart with his fingers.

- I don't think you should be so overworked. - You take his hand away. - Just let me...

You find yourself close to him and push his penis, red with excitement, between your thighs. The warm friction causes a loud moan from your lover and he immediately begins to move, being squeezed by your legs.

You stroke Art’s head, he kisses your neck and chest, they are right in front of his face and the man continues to fuck himself between your soft and warm thighs.

- Oh God... - Art presses his face to your neck and hugs you much tighter. - I'll cum...

- Come on, baby, please... - Your hoarse voice spurred him on and you felt that he was on the edge.

Pulling back slightly, you take the throbbing member in your hand and insert it into yourself in one smooth motion. Art screams like a wounded bird and you feel him cum copiously inside you.

You move your hips a few more times, taking everything he gives you. The man kisses your sweaty skin, breathes heavily and continues to thrust into you until you calm down completely.

- Thank you... - He always accepted your caresses with such gratitude that it could not help but excite your ego.

You feel him go limp inside you, cum mixed with your secretions running down your inner thigh and dripping onto the bed.

Without opening the hug, you close your eyes and purr blissfully, feeling pleasantly full. All he has to do is cum inside you and you will be glad of it. Isn't this love?

Art doesn’t slip out of you, continuing to bask inside your velvety, warm walls. He clung to you like a child, leaving wet trails of kisses on your skin.

- You need to eat... - He speaks first. - And maybe we’ll go to the doctor?

- No need. I feel better now. - He inhales the aroma of shampoo from Art’s still wet hair and kisses his forehead. - It's always better next to you...

#art donaldson #challengers #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x fem!reader #smut #imagine #art donaldson imagine #challenges imagine

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l-in-the-light · 9 months ago

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Luffy vs Katakuri. Fighting Oneself on the Other Side of the Mirror (1/2)

This post about Luffy's and Katakuri's similarities was requested by @mewiyev, I hope you will enjoy it! Also, there will be a part 2 coming up :D

I often mention that Whole Cake Island is our Alice in Wonderland arc of One Piece. Strawhats explore the Mysterious Forest and find their own dopelgangers that look like their own reflections in the mirror. That theme is especially important for Luffy and Katakuri's fight.

The mirror and its reflective world are symbolic of transition, transformation, identity, and perception. Mirrors can also reveal the future.

Right at the beginning of the arc, Luffy finds his doubleganger. It serves as foreshadowing to his fight with Katakuri of course, but also introduces us to the oddities of this new adventure. Strawhats enter a fantastical world (mysterious forest, but also Whole Cake Island in general) where the laws of physics and logic do not apply.

To move forward you need to go backwards, when you want to rush, you need to walk slowly, everything is reversed, like in a mirror.

Resting and relaxing before a battle? That's not how world works according to Luffy! Doing a stealth mission instead of beating up the emperor? Unheard of!

A cooking Luffy?! Welcome to Luffy in the Wonderland adventure! Mirrors often show us also "the opposite of what is normal or expected".

There's even someone taking over Sunny and attemping to steal Luffy's position as the captain of the Strawhats! Even later trying to recruit Luffy as his own underling, turning the familiar hierarchy completely upside down.

And that person is suspiciously similar to Luffy, especially in his powers, but also his personality, code of honor and strength of will.

They even mention that it feels like fighting oneself.

Except the tiny fact that Katakuri is "slightly" better than Luffy.

His techniques are better versions of Luffy's.

Mochi, despite being quite elastic and stretching, is a bit different from rubber, it's sticky and you can eat it, and it definitely doesn't bounce. That's why despite the similarities, Katakuri and Luffy are also different people when they start this fight.

The obvious difference between them would be the mastery of observation haki.

Now, there's no denying that Katakuri's observation haki is very impressive, but, as we learn later, it's less about developing the skill and more about "how he uses it".

You can fool your opponent thanks to it. We know from Pekoms that Big Mom's strength lies in her ability to acquire information. That's her biggest power. Katakuri knowing what Gear 4 or elephant gun attack is, doesn't have to be the result of his observation haki, but cleverly faking it and adjusting it, based on all the intel he acquired about his opponent beforehand. That's how he makes his powers seem even more terrifying. Because like Bege said: "looking into the future doesn't make Katakuri more special", but overwhelming his opponent into believing that it makes him invincible is definitely working in his favour.

He's the strongest General Officer in Big Mom's empire and Strawhats declared war on her all the way back in Fishman Island arc. Katakuri had plenty of time and reason to do his research for his future potential opponent.

Katakuri sees right through Luffy's attack and understands his intentions like they're transparent. That's because he would probably do exactly the same in this situation: take the blow on himself to prevent anyone else from getting harmed.

Katakuri as a child would never accept people laughing at him, but he learned his lesson thanks to Brulee getting hurt. The same way Luffy learned his lesson from Shanks, who ended up losing an arm as the result.

They both want to defeat each other at their best.

They both rely on imagination in the fight, adapting new techniques quickly. Katakuri was so delighted with the donuts he made them into his new attack. At the end of this fight Luffy gets inspired by Katakuri and exploits the future sight's weakness by adapting unpredictability (like in his fight with Enel) and as the result his Snakeman is born. It's the first time Luffy's attacks don't follow any laws of physics, instead they mimick Katakuri's mochi qualities!

And meat is source of strength for Luffy.

They're on the same page. They want one on one fight with no one disturbing them. Katakuri even brought Brulee here, like he was hoping Luffy's actions would lead to this outcome. They're almost guessing each other's thoughts here. Is that observation haki, or is that them just being so similar to each other? Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Katakuri criticizing Strawhats for being overly emotional, despite being worried about his own brother as well. He keeps his calm no matter what, but he doesn't do it for himself, he does it for the people he still needs to protect. Luffy also demonstrates it when he tells everyone to not waste Pedro's sacrifice and escape.

But just like rubber and mochi can be similar but aren't identical, Luffy and Katakuri also have some important differences.

Katakuri is quite considerate, but also peculiar about his sweets. It's kinda reversed for Luffy who can eat just about anything and won't complain (despite his preference for meat), but will often behave in inconsiderate ways, especially when he eats all the food by himself and won't leave anything for others.

Luffy also is clearly more chaotic and crazy than Katakuri, if Brulee's reaction is anything to go by. And she probably knows Katakuri the best out of everyone ;)

Katakuri has a reputation to uphold which is vastly different from Luffy's: the walking chaos. Katakuri is the perfectionist on the surface, but...

It turns out even Katakuri isn't perfect and can also lose his calm. He has his weakness, he hates when others see how he looks when he eats and would avoid it at all costs. It didn't use to be this way, it's the result of his past, he decided to "change his nature" (carefree, earnest, soft) for the sake of others, literally and figuratively hiding it from other people's perception.

Mirrors are said to have the power to deeply disclose who we truly are. That's not a coincidence that Luffy and Katakuri's fight takes places in the mirror world of all places.

But Luffy, after catching up on Katakuri's true nature and seeing through him, knows that Katakuri isn't that stoic perfectionist that we were led to believe. Luffy is honest with him here, telling him he needs extra time to recover, not hiding anything. Katakuri reacts with "I'm not so soft to let you get away like that!", but he actually is. After Luffy miraculously escapes, Katakuri just sits and waits for him to return, despite the fact he says he half-expected Luffy to escape and not come back.

As the battle goes on, differences between Luffy and Katakuri dimnish further, they start to reflect each other more and more. Even the thing Katakuri couldn't comprehend: Luffy's neverending determination to stand back up despite falling to the ground over and over again in shame of defeat.

Luffy tells him. "It just feels much better that way". Being able to just freely voice his thoughts, to complain when he feels pain or hunger, to thank his opponent when he feels grateful to him, to fall to the ground when his opponent's attack is stronger and better. Live earnestly, embrace everything that is thrown at you, just do your best the way you are, not by trying to be something or someone you're not. Be free.

And at the very end of their battle, Katakuri does the same, for the first time in decades, erasing the last difference between Luffy and himself: he also falls on his back. Luffy placing the hat on his face is the sign of respect, but if you think about it, it erases the whole point Luffy was trying to make, doesn't it? It's like telling Katakuri to still hide his weakness. But Luffy never meant to undermine Katakuri's resolve. He just tried to show him that he can be free while also respecting the vow he made to himself long time ago. One doesn't exclude the other, if that's what you choose for yourself, by yourself.

That's what changed for Katakuri and it stays true later on. Katakuri is still hiding his face, as we are shown through Egghead arc. And that is not a contradiction. The vow he made in his childhood never stopped being important to him, after all, and we will explore the reason for it.

But what changed for Luffy? Alice in the Wonderland is said to be a tale about Alice maturing. So does Luffy change or learn lessons from this adventure or does he just become better at haki and that's it? We will take a closer look at it in part 2. Edit: part 2 is done! https://www.tumblr.com/l-in-the-light/763644921544638464

(yes I run out of pictures per post space again)

#one piece #luffy #luffy vs katakuri #charlotte katakuri #alice in wonderland #whole cake island #one piece meta #mirror world

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estellan0vella · 1 year ago

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Fun With Hair Clips Older Brother Sukuna AU HFBU

The afternoon sun filters through the thin curtains, casting a warm, golden light over the living room. The atmosphere is filled with the cheerful sounds of the TV show Sofia the First, the theme tune is playing and Yuji is singing along. You sit cross-legged on the plush carpet, surrounded by an assortment of hair clips, ribbons, and tiny elastics. Yuji is perched beside you, his small hands eagerly working to braid a section of your hair.

Yuji is your little shadow, never straying far whenever you're around. His wide, innocent eyes sparkle with admiration and curiosity, and you can't help but smile at his earnest concentration as he attempts to twist your hair into a neat braid.

"Like this, right?" he asks, glancing up at you for reassurance.

"Exactly," you reply, offering him an encouraging smile. "You're doing a great job, Yuji."

He beams at your praise, his little fingers continuing their careful work. The bond you share with Yuji is heartwarming, a beautiful connection that blossomed naturally from the moment you first met him. His unconditional love and trust in you are evident in every small gesture, every enthusiastic hug, and every time he tugs at your sleeve to show you something new.

As Yuji finishes the braid, he reaches for a colourful hair clip and secures it in place, then looks at you expectantly. "Do you like it?"

"It's perfect," you assure him, and his face lights up with pride.

The two of you spend the next few minutes adorning each other's hair with clips and ribbons, laughing at the silliness of it all. You're in the midst of placing a tiny crown clip in Yuji's hair when he suddenly grows serious, his youthful eyes searching yours with a hint of worry.

"Are you gonna have a seizure today?" he asks quietly, his voice tinged with concern.

You pause, your hand hovering in mid-air as you consider how to respond. Yuji's awareness of your epilepsy is something you and Sukuna have addressed with care, explaining it in terms that a four-year-old could understand. Despite his age, Yuji is perceptive and sensitive, his empathy far beyond his years.

"I don't know, Yuji," you reply gently, setting the clip aside and taking his small hand in yours. "But remember what we talked about? If I do, you know what to do, right?"

He nods solemnly, his tiny fingers squeezing yours. "Don't be scared, make sure you're safe and call Suku"

"Exactly. And you're such a brave boy for remembering that. You're smart, just like your brother"

As if on cue, the front door creaks open, and the familiar sound of Sukuna's footsteps echoes through the hallway. Yuji's face brightens instantly, and he scrambles to his feet, running towards the door with a joyful shout.

"Suku! You're home!"

Sukuna appears in the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow over the room. His sharp eyes soften as he takes in the sight of his little brother barreling towards him. He scoops Yuji up effortlessly, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips as Yuji wraps his arms around his neck.

"Hey, kid," Sukuna says, ruffling Yuji's hair affectionately. "Were you good for (Y/N)?"

Yuji nods vigorously. "We played hair salon! Look, I made her hair pretty!"

Sukuna's gaze shifts to you, his eyes lingering on the colourful array of clips and messy braids in your hair. A chuckle escapes him, a sound that's both amused and fond. "I see that. You're quite the stylist, aren't you?"

Yuji grins proudly, and Sukuna sets him down, his attention now fully on you. He strides over, his presence commanding yet comforting, and bends down to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

"You doing okay?" he asks, his voice low and laced with genuine concern.

You nod, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch. "We're doing great. Just having some fun with hair clips."

He smirks, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. "Yeah, I can see that. You look like a walking rainbow."

You laugh, the sound light and carefree. "It's all thanks to Yuji's expert styling."

Yuji giggles, his earlier worry forgotten in the presence of his beloved brother as he bounces around with his never-ending energy.

The afternoon passes in a blur of laughter and play. Yuji insists on watching more episodes of Sofia the First, and you and Sukuna indulge him, enjoying the simple pleasure of spending time together as a makeshift family. At one point, Sukuna even allows Yuji to place a clip in his hair, the sight of the usually stoic man with a bright pink butterfly clip drawing peals of laughter from both you and Yuji.

As the day draws to a close, you help Yuji get ready for bed, reading him a bedtime story and tucking him in snugly. He clings to you, his small arms wrapped around your neck in a tight hug.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," he murmurs sleepily. "I love you."

Your heart swells with emotion, and you press a kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Yuji. I love you too."

You quietly close the door to his room, leaving it slightly ajar, and make your way back to the living room. Sukuna is there, waiting for you, his intense gaze softening as you approach. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close in a comforting embrace.

"You're amazing with him," he murmurs against your hair. "Thank you for being here."

You smile, resting your head against his chest. "I love being here. With both of you."

Sukuna's grip tightens, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. The love and protection he offers are unwavering, a constant source of strength in your life. With him by your side, you know you can face anything, even the uncertainties that come with your condition.

As the night deepens, you and Sukuna sit together in the quiet of the living room, the TV now silent. The bond you share, built on trust, love, and mutual respect, is a testament to the strength of your relationship. And as you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of Sukuna's embrace and the comforting presence of Yuji in the next room, you know that no matter what challenges come your way, you'll face them together.

The next morning dawns bright and early, with Yuji bounding into your bedroom before the sun has fully risen. You pull a pillow over your head, releasing a loud sigh as Sukuna grumbles from beside you but the sight of Yuji's joyful face soon has him reluctantly rising.

"Come on!" Yuji pokes you. "Get up"

"Give her a few minutes," Sukuna says, pulling the pillow off of your head.

"Can we make pancakes?" Yuji asks, his eyes wide with anticipation.

You glance at Sukuna, who shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Sure, why not?"

"Call me when they're ready," You mumble, pulling the sheets up only for Sukuna to poke your sides. "No, you can't do this to me. It's cruel and inhumane"

"If I have to be awake so do you," Sukuna says.

"Not how it works at all," You grumble, sitting up and pushing your hair out of your face.

The three of you head to the kitchen, and before long, the air is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of pancakes sizzling on the griddle. Yuji stands on a stool beside you, eagerly helping to mix the batter and flip the pancakes, his laughter ringing out whenever he manages to flip one perfectly.

Breakfast is a lively affair, filled with chatter and laughter. Yuji's boundless energy is a constant source of amusement, and even Sukuna, with his typically reserved demeanour, can't help but join in the fun. After breakfast, you clean up together, Yuji insisting on helping to wash the dishes.

As the day progresses, you decide to take Yuji to the park, wanting to give him a chance to burn off some of his seemingly endless energy. Sukuna agrees to join, and the three of you set off, hand in hand, enjoying the warm, sunny day.

At the park, Yuji races around with boundless enthusiasm, dragging you and Sukuna from one activity to the next. You push him on the swings, help him navigate the jungle gym, and even join in a game of tag, your laughter mingling with his as you chase each other around.

Sukuna watches with a fond smile, his usually stern features softened by the sight of you and Yuji playing together. He joins in occasionally, his competitive nature coming out as he playfully tries to tag you or lift Yuji high into the air, much to the boy's delight.

Eventually, the day begins to wind down, and you all head back home, tired but happy. Yuji chatters away, recounting every detail of the day's adventures, his excitement evident in every word.

Back at home, you settle into a relaxed evening routine. Sukuna cooks dinner while you and Yuji set the table, the atmosphere filled with a comfortable, familial warmth. After dinner, you all curl up on the couch to watch a movie, Yuji nestled between you and Sukuna, his small hand clutching yours.

As the movie plays, you glance over at Sukuna, who meets your gaze with a soft, affectionate smile. In that moment, you're reminded of how much you cherish these simple, everyday moments. The love and connection you share with Sukuna and Yuji are what make life truly special.

Before long, Yuji's eyelids begin to droop, and you gently carry him to bed, tucking him in and whispering a soft goodnight. He mumbles a sleepy reply, already drifting off to sleep.

You return to the living room, where Sukuna is waiting for you. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as you both settle onto the couch.

"Thank you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"For what?" you ask, leaning into his embrace.

"For everything. For being here. For loving Yuji. For loving me."

You smile, your heart full. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

As you sit there, wrapped in Sukuna's arms, you feel a profound sense of contentment. No matter what challenges come your way, you know that with Sukuna and Yuji by your side, you can face anything. Together, you are a family, bound by love and unbreakable bonds. And that, you realize, is the greatest gift of all.

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pjisskullourful · 2 months ago

Text

꧁𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘭꧂

🪑 Ethan × reader

18+ readers only! 🔥 filthy bedtime fun

° Ethan Torchio/female reader insert

wordcount:: 2,993

° your boyfriend wants to be your favourite chair

° anon request: Ethan x reader, where ethan tells her to sit on his face for a round of cunnilingus, she is a little insecure at first because she's heavy and he assures her it's okay and gives her a well deserved treat once she sits, grazie xxx

“I want you to sit on my face.” Your boyfriend said, his tone needier than what you had gotten used to hearing over the past three months.

Your first thought was of how you were going to get out of this. Luckily, you had an excuse to be avoiding Ethan’s eye right now, facing the bathroom mirror as you brushed your hair. He was behind you, towelling off after the shower that the two of you had shared.

Your cheeks were filled with heat and the insecurities were swarming your system. Despite it being an exciting offer, you were more apprehensive than anything else and you bit on your bottom lip a little.

You had never sat on anyone’s face. Nobody before Ethan had offered it. And you hadn’t requested it of anyone - classifying yourself as ‘too big’ for that particular sex act. You held realistic perceptions of your weight and you stayed within the parameters of what could be done with your heavier than normal body.

He must have been offering it as a means of repaying you for all of the times that you had gone down on him - he was extremely polite like that. But, even as the insides of your thighs twitched, all that you could think of were the risks that went with resting your body weight on his gorgeous face. He could get an uncomfortable crick in his neck, or sustain much worse injuries if it took you too long to finish and climb off.

“I don’t know how you would have the energy for anything like that, weren’t you just saying how tired you were, like, five seconds after you came?” You asked, referring to the hand-job that you had given him in the shower.

“Well maybe the view that I’m getting right now is better than any espresso shot and I’m back to being wide awake.” He said. After returning his towel to the track, he had taken a seat on the closed toilet lid, looking at the back of you.

“Wow, my booty is more fuckin’ powerful that I knew.” You said with a giggle as you set the hairbrush down.

“Are you saying that you don’t want me to eat you out?” He asked.

“I’m kind of busy braiding my hair.” You continued to deflect. You were working your damp hair into two braids.

He stood up, approaching where you stood at the vanity. He came into the reflection, his serious face much more difficult to avoid looking at now. “If you don’t feel like it and you wanna just go to bed, that’s totally fine, I never wanna pressure you, honey. But you made me feel so good and I wanna return the favour. You’ve more than earned a treat from me.” Your eyes met his, your fingers working on auto-pilot. “I’m not tired anymore, I’ve got all of the energy that I need to enjoy this amazing body.”

You cleared your throat, you had been getting more heated with each word that he said. You secured the tail of this first plait with an elastic. “I was never really all that tired…”

He smiled and leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Fantastic, so be my bedtime snack…”

Before starting the second braid, you turned to look at him and secured the next kiss on your lips. “I’ll meet you in there.”

With both of your roommates working the night shift, you and Ethan were free to walk around the house naked. There were also no restrictions on how loud you could get during sex.

You finished your plaiting and left for the bedroom. He hadn’t pulled on any clothes, just lying out on your bed. As he waited for you, he had started looking at something on his phone.

The device was set aside as soon as you climbed onto the bed with him. His eyes greedily took in the sight of you, probably making a running order of all the things he wanted to do to you.

But the look on his face changed when you laid down next to him, flat on your back. He lifted his head from the pillow, his mouth slightly open as if he couldn’t believe what he was currently seeing.

“What are you doing? I said that I wanted you to sit on my face.” He said.

For something to do, you started to pick at the already-chipped polish on your fingernails. “I know, but…”

He rolled onto his side, facing you. “What’s wrong? Is something the matter, ‘cause we can just cuddle if you’re not feeling it after all.”

“It’s not that. You can always make me feel it. It’s just that…”

He leaned in, coming into your field of vision. “What is it? Can you look at me, please?”

You sighed and raised your eyes, meeting his gaze. His stare was like a truth ray, you had told him this before - it was one of the reasons that you had been able to get vulnerable with him in the earlier stages of your relationship.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” You said.

“What are you talking… Do you mean my feelings? ‘Cause I’m a big boy and I can definitely take it if you tell me that you’re not into a position.”

“No, I mean physically.” You said. “What if I, like, break your nose?”

He gave a little laugh, which you couldn’t join in on. “You’re not gonna break my nose.”

“There are other ways that you could get hurt.” You said in a small voice.

He picked up your hand with both of his. “And I’m not worried about any of them. Honestly, I think you’re seeing a disaster where there isn’t one. Like one of those psychics who predicts that the end of the world is super soon, but it never happens.” He lifted your hand and began placing kisses to each of your fingers. “I wish you’d just give it a chance. We both have such a great time when I’m eating you out, so why can’t we do this?”

“Ethan…” You said with another sigh. “You’re making it really hard to say no.”

"So don't say no." He said, leaning in and kissing you softly. It was one of his slow kisses, the type that you felt like you could melt into. His kisses could shoot all of the other thoughts out of your mind, until you were just feeling, not thinking. And the intensity was always there, unlike anyone you had kissed before.

“You don’t need to worry. I wouldn’t have offered something that I didn’t think I could handle.” He said.

Your fingers played with his loose hair as you continued to avoid making up your mind. “Yeah, I know that on some level, but…”

“Every part of your body excites me. It doesn’t scare me.” He said. “And I don’t want you to be scared either.”

“We need some sort of safety signal, for when you need me to get off quickly…” You got distracted by the new look on his face. “Not like that. I mean, climb off quick. Like if you’re in pain, or you can’t breathe, or something…”

“I don’t think any of those issues are going to come up. But if it helps you feel better then by all means, we can have a signal.” He said.

“What if you pinched my back?” You offered. “But make sure you do it above my ass so I don’t think it’s just part of you being sexual.”

“That sounds perfect.” He said. “Good idea, honey.”

“Thanks.”

He paused before speaking again and you could tell he was waiting for something. “So, will you sit on my face now, please?”

You nodded while not meeting his eye. “We can try it. But we don’t have to spend heaps of time on it. And you don’t have to feel bad about asking me to climb off, ‘cause I’ll do it, straight away.”

“Great, I don’t think there’s any more ground rules we need to set out.” He said.

“I guess not…”

He gave you a kiss before rolling over to put his back on the mattress. “Alright, please proceed to sitting on my face, honey.”

He looked perfectly at ease as he laid there, but you weren’t really feeling the same way. As you sat up, your mind continued to be dominated by insecurities. You didn’t know what it would take to make them go away, you only knew he hadn’t found it yet.

He had no idea how short you were planning to keep this ‘just trying it’. Your priorities hadn’t yet shifted to your pleasure - his safety was still the most important thing.

You had decided that you were only going to sit on his face for a couple of minutes. It would be part of the foreplay, rather than needing to be the main event of this night. You wouldn’t need more than a couple of hot minutes. Then once he could breathe and be comfortable again, that was when your focus would go to securing your climax.

You couldn’t deny how sexy he looked, outwardly eager and it was all for you. How had you gotten so lucky?

You turned your body around and lifted yourself up onto your knees. Thankfully, your padded headboard would give you plenty of support. You held onto it as you lifted one of your legs, passing it over his head, until your knee could rest on the pillow.

As you got your other knee in position, he took the opportunity to press kisses across your exposed thigh. You smiled, feeling butterflies in your belly, despite your lingering concerns.

It seemed like he could hardly wait to get started. In addition to giving your inner-thigh more-and-more kisses, he also placed both of his hands to your body. As you were getting settled in this position, his hands were in near-constant motion - feeling your legs, the sides of your torso and across your butt. Already you felt that your body was so appreciated, and you knew this was only his starting point (there was so much more that he had in store for you).

You could get comfortable like this, feeling steady as you hovered your pussy a few inches above his face. You kept hold of the headboard while your other hand stroked through his hair.

Seeing him beneath you like this was giving you a sense of power, which held a lot of potential.

‘Just a couple of really hot minutes’, you vowed to yourself.

Then you felt his tongue, pressing to your entrance and exploring how aroused you currently were. Your skin prickled as your anticipation began to break free from its cage.

He dragged his tongue up, gliding between your labia. Your fingers curled amongst his hair, twisting the strands to hold in a loose grip.

His tongue reached your clit and a smile lifted the corners of your mouth. He pushed his lips up against the hood in a sweet kiss. As he lingered here, your thoughts drifted away from how you had been trying to track the time.

As your sensitivities grew and demanded more of your attention, you realised you didn’t know if you had been in this position for two minutes or longer.

When he started to move his tongue again (up-and-down now), your resolve to climb off failed you. Instead you were just enjoying this tempo that he was establishing. It seemed that with each stroke, more of your cunt responded as blood steadily pumped into this area.

He gripped your thighs tighter as he began to bob his head, lifting it from the pillow so he could apply more pressure to your pussy. Everything happened in waves, swelling but easing before it could hit the point of overwhelming you. Your fingers properly clenched on his hair now.

The glorious sensitivities wanted to dominate your consciousness. Your insecurities lost their standing on your list of priorities.

Without deciding to, you began to move your hips. You rocked back, using your body weight without fear of the result. And the result felt so good.

You got more contact with his tongue and tingles sprung up even higher within you. So you kept going, thrusting again-and-again. You steadily got into rhythm with him and you transferred your other hand to the headboard, holding it for more support.

“Mn, fuck.” You struggled to catch your breath.

Your body was throbbing, all of your consciousness lay at your core. He was consistent with his lapping and you got to enjoy even more effects. You enjoyed the friction and all of the excitement it fuelled.

The intensity sharply increased when he put his mouth directly to your clitoris. And he didn’t pull back from it. He started lavishing kisses upon it. As he gently sucked it and occasionally added his tongue, you continued to pump your hips. The tempo didn’t matter so much to you anymore, it just felt too good to stop.

“Puh-promise I’m not huh-hurting you?” You asked.

He extended his tongue and kept this pressed on your clitoris as he attempted to answer. “Puh-wom-us.”

You moved a little slower and looked down. He disappeared and reappeared in your vision, covered by your body. But when you did gain a glimpse of his face, you saw that his eyes were shut. He may have looked peaceful, if not for the crease between his brows.

Before you could get too carried away by these concerns, he let out a muffled moan. With his mouth still occupied with your clit, the noise couldn’t come out clearly. But it didn’t sound pained. You didn’t think he was trying to communicate to you that he was feeling a crick in his neck. Instead this aligned with noises you had heard him make during other cunnilingus sessions.

Feeling less worried, you could concentrate on your movements again. You started to reclaim your tempo, grinding down to where his mouth savoured your clitoris. You felt minor spasms in each of your thighs.

You shut your eyes, purely fixating on the building pleasure. You knew that there was no chance of you climbing off of his face now. You simply couldn’t. You couldn’t bear the thought of this ending without you orgasming.

Once you locked into your momentum again, you found that it was effortless to maintain. There was nothing to interrupt your flow, the way you were rocking your hips felt so natural. There were far less restrictions than what you experienced when receiving cunnilingus in other positions. It was a revelation, finding how much further you could push your hips.

“Please, Ethan…” You gasped out. “Please don’t stop.”

He seemed to respond by sucking harder on your clitoris. He alternated between this and massaging it with his tongue. This continued pressure brought more noises tumbling from your lips.

Then he began to fill his finger into your pussy. It glided up between your sensitive walls as you kept to your tempo.

The pleasure was flooding through all of you, taking you to the point of no return as he added a second and third finger. He curled them and gave you the most intimate massage of all, prompting you to see stars.

The enjoyment was almost unbelievable, as if feeling this good could pose an actual danger to you. You were so caught up that you failed to remember that you should be afraid of breaking his nose. Your body was weightless to you now, it simply encased all of your very receptive nerves.

The tremors in so much of your body couldn’t be ignored and you felt your strength wanting to fail you.

But then you hit the climax and everything was finally able to boil over inside of you. Your mouth dropped open as the relief surged through you, pure and perfect.

You cursed and whimpered as you fell apart. You lost your momentum, too overwhelmed to know how to move your body anymore. But Ethan kept you detached from reality with his fingers still working inside of you. He had parted his lips from your clit, allowing you to graduate into the realm of your afterglow.

“Holy fu…” You breathed, gradually opening your eyes.

His hand caressed from your thigh to your back, then back again. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me that I was right.”

You made a noise that was almost like a laugh. Your body felt more tender and you had to consciously decide on all of your movements, nothing was happening automatically at present.

Your mind still felt blown as you landed on the bed beside him. You gasped for air as you moved into a comfortable position - coincidently, this brought you closer to him. He was facing you as he laid on his side, a thoroughly satisfied smile on his mouth. He looked as pleased as he did after reaching his own orgasm.

“I told you that I could handle it, honey.” He said and you could certainly forgive him for any current smugness.

You wiped your hand across the built-up sweat on your forehead. “I'm not sure that I did handle it. I think that’s the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had from someone eating me out.”

“I’m just happy we finally did it like that.” He said.

You were so focused on him that you forgot about pulling the covers over any part of your body. You rolled onto your side and brought your hands up to his cheeks. “I’m glad that I trusted you and I’m gonna do it more going forward, with less hesitation.”

He responded by putting his lips to yours. The kiss told you that nothing else needed to be said, you could just exist in this state of synchronisation with him.

»»————-　♡　————-««

🍑taglist: @bethanysnow - @gr8rainbowpunk - @idyllicbutterfly - @maneskindiva - @maneslut - @saschenkaaa - @slavicgoddess13 - @elvirabelle - @maneskintifoso - @thegeminisgirl - @ha-la-ansia - @butkutee - @ursulalurks - @itsmaneskinbitch - @icarodamiano - @crwnnjules - @paralianeyes - @fand0mskullfa1ry - @chocolatepizzatyrant - @lizzylynch1 - @kammerstx - @myleftsock - @tellmesomething01 - @adoredamianos - @vittoriaisfuckingpathetic - @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis - @shinshans - @lonnybunnys - @lyricalliz - @chemical-killjoy [join here!]

#he wanna swim with his face #maneskin x reader #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin fic #maneskin smut #ethan x y/n #ethan x reader #ethan torchio x reader

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postoctobrist · 7 months ago

Note

When me and my friends were young (but not that young) our small hometown town somehow got the money to build a 1000ft long pedestrian suspension bridge. We were bored and found that if we grabbed the suspension cable at its lowest point and pushed and pulled it at the right frequency we could slowly build up oscillations in the bridge. You could feel the walkway swaying underneath us and see the movement in the main suspension cable. We would do this with several people with one person counting out the beat until the oscillations got so large that the suspenders attaching the walk way to the main cable started to slam into the hand rail and make a horrible clanging noise. Then we would all be scared, and no longer bored so we would stop.

While doing this I was aware of the differential equations describing first and second order resonance in elastic structures with and without dampening. I had studied several engineering disasters where cyclic loading close to some multiple of the resonance frequency lead to collapse of buildings and bridges. It is a small town and I was bored.

I am bad at transitions, and I would like to ask for advice/articulate something. Mostly to force myself to articulate thoughts I have never spoken about, and you do not have to read all this. Because it is very long and large parts of it are honestly pretty horrible. I have for some time been making a very conscious effort to not think about "my gender". Because I felt that there would be no use in thinking about myself through that lens. Telling myself that I can do whatever I want regardless of gender. This seemed to work for me except I find myself paralyzed. I cannot imagine myself in a romantic or sexual relationship. Romantic or sexual attention I receive feels like it is intended for somebody else. Even in situations that should be simple where attraction is mutual I feel confused and conflicted. As I write this I am wearing clothes somebody gave to me almost a decade ago, they have holes in them and I never really considered what they look like to other people. A couple times a year when I make budget or apply for a job etc I thin about the future but only ever a year or two ahead. This future blindness gets so bad I often can't even make plans for the weekend. I find myself looking at my reflection as if trying to find something wrong with my appearance but I couldn't put my finger on any specific flaw. I look like an attractive man, what else could I ask for.

I have recently allowed myself to think about this and I am not sure that it is helping. I realize now that being a man can be an exhausting constant effort for me, and that certain things that I have been doing can alleviate this pressure. When I wear my long hair down, I do not imagine that I have become a women, but the act of wearing my long hair down and shaving my entire face is not something I would do to look like the manliest man. This almost symbolic rejection of my internal drive to act as a man has a profound effect on me. Especially when I am alone I find this very calming, my mind is a little quieter, my breathing is a little deeper.

However in public this is often over shadowed by a new discomfort. My already ever present sense of danger in public is heightened. Around many men I feel physically unsafe, as if a threat of violence lies just under the surface of every interaction. Around women my discomfort around men and with myself seem to combine and I cannot shake the feeling that I will make them feel unsafe. Making women feel unsafe makes me unsafe and so on. All this is worse the more feminine I am.

My small symbolic gestures of femininity in private would seem to have no real downside. Their benefits seem to come into effect as soon as stop trying to look masculine. However in the perception of others I feel a pressure to appear either completely man or women. I now find myself trying to appear feminine and this might be worse. Outside perception of me feels completely beyond my control. Which is a good excuse for me to repress any thoughts or feelings about it. I want to accept that this is outside my control, and also that I desperately want to control it.

Some of things I believe about this view of me from the outside are not things I would ever want to put on anyone else. I have never seen a person that would look worse with some musculature, and have always found strong people aesthetically pleasing and attractive. I enjoy being strong, it practical utility, the sense of security it provides me, and as an accomplishment I am proud of. Yet at the same time I sometimes find myself revolted by my muscles. My size, my veins, my bones, nothing about them is wrong except that they are there.

I feel I need to juxtapose any feminine attributes against my masculine ones (one earring is allowed but with short hair. Long hair is allowed in a bun but with stubble). To appear as a feminine man and not a failed attempt at manliness. Is this my reaction to a societal pressure or my own misandry against weak men? I have no way of knowing. Similarly I feel that the only way to be extremely feminine or a woman would be to subject myself to sexual objectification, and infantilization ("femboys" are only feminine as long as they are somebodies fetish and because they are boys and not adults). Again I cannot say if this is my reaction to a societal trend or my own judgement on other people. Either way I cannot help but feel that this pedophilic degrading view of femininity and women is a moral sin I have committed. Yet what possible use could there be in applying a moral judgement on my own thoughts? I don't choose to feel or think these things. I don't want to wear booty shorts, or dress up like a princess. Do I think less of those who do? If don't subject myself to this degradation in exchange for femininity will it be because I have the self respect of a man? Or is it just cowardice.

I don't want to look like a trans women. I want what my grandma has. She is a matriarch. The varicose veins on her arms, her short hair, a raspy laugh, a double mastectomy, these things are just the type of women she is. She is a mother of mothers. She might not be asked to pray over the meal, but her wisdom is an open secret among those that are really looking for ruthlessly honest advice. She must enjoy wearing jewelry (or she wouldn't bother) but never seems to take it too seriously. When telling a story about how she fought a bear off her daughters or cracking a joke about how she will die any day now her womanhood is so effortless, so inconsequential, so in the background that it almost seems almost useless.

oh my fucking god lady just take the fucking estrogen

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quoththemaiden · 1 year ago

Text

@mrghostrat This is now the third time since December that I'm writing about your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems (1, 2). Please come collect them, because they're causing a disturbance.

Or, if you aren't able to wrangle them, then please enjoy this scene inspired by Chapter 10 of Big Name Feelings.

For everyone who hasn't already seen the top portion of this on Discord, know that this is set sometime after the con but before the big bang.

—

"I think your hair might be getting long enough to braid now."

Crowley's eyes snapped over to him. "Braid?"

Aziraphale blinked at the sharp question. "I didn't mean anything by it." He'd still never figured out quite where Crowley's gender identity lay, or if it changed day-by-day. He suspected Crowley's public presentation of his gender was either "whatever's simplest for everyone involved" (around people he didn't know but generally liked, like at the con) or "whatever causes the most problems for everyone involved" (like with a particularly annoying security guard that had left Aziraphale remembering that being middle-aged, white, and extremely stuffy in appearance was its own form of armor). Aziraphale's own perception of Crowley's gender was just "Crowley." What Crowley felt about it was something Aziraphale had never quite managed to parse out. "You can do whatever you like—"

"Do you know how?"

"How...?"

"To braid hair." Crowley's tone was oddly urgent. "Like for your nieces or cousins or—"

"—for crafting, yes. Tassels for bookmarks and such. You want me to—" Crowley practically flinging himself down onto the sofa next to him was answer enough. "Oh."

Crowley's hair really was barely long enough to braid, Aziraphale decided as he gently freed it from its elastic band. He ran his fingers through it slowly and carefully, easing out the light tangles from a day's confinement. Crowley slumped forward in boneless contentment, and Aziraphale had to switch to prickling the top of his scalp with his fingernails to get him to sit up straight enough for Aziraphale to work.

Aziraphale determined his gameplan, then, and gently eased up a few locks of hair at the crown of Crowley's head, smoothing down the top with the flat of his palm. He started working the strands into a French braid, taking it tiny piece by tiny piece to ensure every section was balanced in size. If Crowley were doing it himself, he suspected he'd get it done in just five messy joins, but every strand he brought in gave Aziraphale another excuse to run his fingertips along Crowley's scalp and he luxuriated in each opportunity. "Has anyone ever told you your hair is unreasonably thick?" he murmured, his voice huskier with fond affection than he'd intended. Crowley spared him from a tease by being too utterly sedated to manage more than a vague hum in response. Aziraphale smiled at that and kept his progress blissfully slow and methodical until he had no choice but to tie the braid off at the nape of Crowley's neck — half a French braid, half a ponytail made bushy from having had waves worked into it. He placed a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's head, padded by the thickest part of Crowley's braid and somehow all the more intimate for it. "All done, love."

Crowley leaned back against Aziraphale's chest, tilting back his head to look up at him with eyes made impossibly soft with contentment. "I'm never putting my own hair up again. Just hope you know that."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, just as fond. "I'll manage somehow, I suppose."

—

Crowley's boneless appreciation of the hair braiding had turned into boneless napping, and while Aziraphale enjoyed having Crowley fall asleep against him at certain times of day, he had never been one for naps himself and there was a limit to how long he could stay motionless sans entertainment before even he got antsy. He eased his way out from under Crowley, grateful the other man was a heavy sleeper even during the day, and was left deciding what quiet amusement he could pursue until whenever Crowley woke up and started making noises about dinner. He could always read some fanfics, of course, but his eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards his favorite muse.

His muse who had, he recalled, tempted him into joining a rigged bang and had talked him into getting a digital tablet. Aziraphale still planned to do his official art for it traditionally, because he was sure Crowley's writing would deserve no less... and, if he was allowed to be vain in the privacy of his own mind, because he still remembered the feeling he'd had when Crowley responded to his scans with barely coherent keysmashing. He wasn't in deferential awe of Crowley anymore, although he still loved his writing just as much, but part of him still hoped that Crowley might respond with just as much enthusiasm at getting to see the finished piece in person, textured paper and unprocessed colors and all. Well, assuming he could be gutsy enough to actually give it to him in person instead of just leaving it on the drafting table for him to find, which was really the more statistically likely result. But anyway.

But anyway.

His muse was sleeping in front of him, and a stylus on an iPad would make hardly any noise at all. And if he got good enough at using it, maybe he could draw some extra digital art to celebrate the fic as well.

In any case, sketching Crowley while he slept was one of life's little joys. He didn't think Crowley knew how often he did it, and that was probably for the best. If he did it all in his notebook, it would have been too easy for Crowley to flip through and find the sketches (and removing sheets would have felt damnably like a guilty conscience). With his iPad, however, he was safe to sketch as much as he liked and there was no real way for Crowley to stumble across it. Aziraphale willfully shoved aside the thought that that didn't really sound any less guilty and started setting stylus to screen. It wasn't long until he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and where Crowley was lying face-down on the sofa, his new braid highlighted in a beam of afternoon sunlight.

Something Aziraphale did appreciate about digital art was that white could be layered on top of other colors and be shockingly vibrant, which wasn't an effect he could get easily with his beloved watercolors. Something else watercolors didn't give him was the ability to pick out very fine details, and as his sketch started coming together, he found that was exactly what he wanted to do now. While Crowley's hair was a vibrant red in his selfies or on stage, when he'd had the opportunity to run his fingers through every strand, he'd found that Crowley's hair was showing his age just as much as his own was.

The first day Aziraphale had found a grey hair had come as a shock. He'd naively assumed that with his hair being as pale as it was, even if it started greying, he might well never know. Instead, he found that the grey hairs' texture was frustratingly different from the strands that were still blond, and until they reached a critical mass fifteen long years later, they had an unfortunate tendency to stick out unattractively if his cut was anything less than perfect. He had become quite a regular at his barber's.

With Crowley's hair being as long as it was, his grey hairs had worked smoothly into his braid. From even the small distance from couch to armchair, they melded into the red strands perfectly... but Aziraphale had just spent long minutes twining them into neat twists and didn't need to see them now to know they were there. Aziraphale zoomed in close (another marked benefit of the digital display) and set his pen to a thin, sharp line, layering sleek silver strands into the red braid he'd drawn. Following the way they weaved around each other and dipped in and out of view felt delightfully meditative.

Eventually, Crowley made a soft snuffling snort-groan as he roused from his nap, slowly turning to unbury his face from the pillows. "Wha' time'zit?" he mumbled, patting around blindly for his cellphone.

"Coming up on 5:30 now," Aziraphale replied softly, trying not to startle him into full wakefulness too quickly. He rose and fetched Crowley's phone, placing it gently into his fumbling hand. "There you go."

"Mmrrr. Don't need it now." Crowley tucked the phone under his side in what Aziraphale would have guessed would be a very uncomfortable fashion but which Crowley did without even thinking. At least it wouldn't be going anywhere from there, Aziraphale supposed. "What're you doin'?" Crowley made grabby hands at the iPad Aziraphale had brought over with him.

Aziraphale handed over the iPad without even one thought, much less a second. "Oh, I was just waiting for you to wake up, really."

"...Angel." Crowley had zoomed out on the picture (with a completely unsurprising lack of propriety) and was now staring, frozen and much more awake, at the drawing of himself. "You aren't going to post this on Tumblr, are you?"

Aziraphale laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that, despite the ripple of shock Crowley's tense tone had caused him. "Come, now. When have I ever posted a drawing of you, my dear?"

"When have you ever made a drawing of me?" Crowley retorted. He waved vaguely at the screen, accidentally sparing Aziraphale from having to answer. "I don't mind being old, but I don't want the world knowing my boyfriend thinks I'm old." His frazzled waving turned a little more flaily.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale gently took the tablet back from him and set it down on the floor so he could take Crowley's hand in both of his. "I assure you, I'm not the kind of artist who spends my time drawing things I don't think are beautiful. And that includes every detail I put in."

Aziraphale would have hoped that was obvious, really. The strands of hair he had drawn weren't brittle grey; they were molten silver. They caught the light like a precious metal woven like a ribbon into cinnabar-red hair. Crowley could have been a queen, fallen asleep after a long day in her finery. He could have been a fae whose very essence was beauty, sleeping with no fear that it would be stolen away because it couldn't.

He could have been an ordinary man, who was so deeply, truly loved that even his grey hairs seemed to shine like the soft gleam of a newly-forged star when they caught the last strong beams of afternoon sunlight shining in through the windows.

Aziraphale hoped Crowley could see it, too.

Crowley made a grumpy noise. "I still don't want it on Tumblr. — Not that I can tell you what to do with your art, but—"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a warm smile. "I don't want it on Tumblr, either. I drew this just for me."

"...really? Even though...?"

"Just for me," Aziraphale whispered in confirmation, his eyes seeking out Crowley's and saving him from having to finish that sentence. "I've only ever drawn you for me." I love you to the point of creation, his heart sang. It wasn't quite how that quote went, he knew. It was the only way it had ever gone, for him.

"Hn..." Crowley shifted to look at the iPad where it lay down on the floor. "I suppose... Well. Despite the subject matter, you drew it well, at least."

"Well, thank you for that," Aziraphale jibed back lightly, completely devoid of malice.

"Ngh, you can't blame me for feeling self-conscious about my greys when you haven't got any."

Aziraphale let out a huff of a laugh. "Oh, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley looked defensive, then abruptly switched to looking shrewd. "Wait. Do you dye them??" He leaned forward eagerly, like this was taboo knowledge.

"Oh, where was that compliment two decades ago? No, not at all. Do you know how long I spent getting over feeling self-conscious about them, and now for you to not even realize I have them?"

"No way. You've been holding out on me!" Crowley's eyes had a light in them that Aziraphale had seen sometimes — the look of someone who has been wanting something very much and thinks he's just figured out how to get it. Aziraphale drew back instinctively in trepidation. He had no idea what Crowley could possibly be wanting, though a fluttering feeling in his chest suggested that it was, in some way, him.

Ridiculous. As if they hadn't had sex already.

"I'm going to go get dinner started."

Crowley let out a whine that cut off abruptly enough that Aziraphale suspected he actually hadn't intended to make it.

Aziraphale paused. "What?"

"Ehhh... just envious, s'all."

Aziraphale took a moment to muse about whether Crowley knew the difference between "envious" and "jealous" and decided, firmly, that he had faith that he did. "Of what?" he asked with an incredulous laugh, since he still had no idea what "envious" could possibly apply to here.

"Negghhh, you've gotten to play with my hair enough to know I have greys, and I haven't gotten to touch yours once."

Aziraphale blushed darkly at that, remembering some choice occasions in which Crowley had gripped his hair tightly enough to hurt. He cleared his throat and opted not to mention them. "That feels much more like your fault than mine."

"Just... tryin'a respect your boundaries, angel."

"Why would that be a boundary?" Aziraphale asked, baffled.

"I asked for it and you haven't."

Aziraphale didn't quite remember it that way, but it was a fair enough interpretation from Crowley's point of view, he supposed. "Well, no. It sounds perfectly nice, but I'd hate to bore you with it. I know you're much more fidgety than I am."

"Not bored," Crowley insisted, his eyes urgent. "Never bored when it's you, angel. Siddown."

Aziraphale laughed breathily. "Too late. I'm already up to cook dinner."

"Angel."

"You'll just have to wait," Aziraphale teased in a singsong lilt, casting a smile back at Crowley over his shoulder.

Crowley flung himself back on the couch with an impatient whine, leaving Aziraphale feeling very smug about his attempt at whatever the romantic equivalent of foreplay was. Crowley sounded very much like he was being left with blue balls. "Bastard."

"Only as much as you deserve, my dear," Aziraphale sang back as he went into the kitchen, acutely aware of Crowley's eyes following every step.

—

It wasn't really in question, at all, that Aziraphale would end the evening snuggled on the couch with Crowley's hands in his hair. There was also no question that he'd enjoy it thoroughly, and he also knew it wasn't the kind of thing that was likely to lead to anything more. So, instead, he just relaxed into it and let his thoughts drift.

"...do you really think I'd mind if my red fox turned into a silver fox?" he mused. The thought was languid, easy, relaxed. Crowley spluttered in incoherent surprise anyway, and Aziraphale laughed softly. "Yes, I know. There's a reason I'm not the writer of the pair."

"Y'are, though. Don't think I've forgotten that you are."

Aziraphale blushed a little at that. "Oh."

Crowley's hands resumed their meditative motion through Aziraphale's hair. "But... yeah. I'd rock it, wouldn't I?"

"You would," Aziraphale murmured with a smile. "And I'm quite looking forward to seeing it someday, my dear."

#good omens #ineffable husbands #bnf au #fanfiction of fanfiction #my writing #not actually about asexuality but let's be honest that hair-petting scene was my kind of ace #apologies for any misrepresentation about watercolors #seriously bilvy come get your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems out of my head #and be aware that if you leave time between posting future chapters then i might have to write more and nobody wants that

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kimberbohwrites · 1 year ago

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Rolan Headcanons

How Old is Rolan? (SFW)

Inspired by a conversation between the amazing and wonderful @darkurgetrash and I the other day that made me want to compile my thoughts in one place.

I believe that Rolan is anywhere between 27-35 years old. Why?

Thanks for asking! (lol)

-As someone who is (nearly) 36 years old and went through a traumatic upbringing, I have a lot of experience in this subject and I’m here to shed my weird expertise and light on this. (Also, as a side-note I believe that Rolan would have the most fire skincare routine if he was in a modern au situation)

-Let’s just start with the physical signs of aging. Like the dark circles under his eyes, people who are older get worsened dark circles under their eyes from stress, lack of sleep, etc. Now there are such a thing as hereditary dark circles in humans (I have them) but again, they worsen with age.

-His face shape is another very distinct sign of aging and a real difference to help you spot people in their 20s vs people in their 30s. While your face shape doesn’t necessarily change as you age, your features do become broader as your skin loses elasticity and that natural youthful glow.

-Rolan’s face looks to me like a more mature adult face in that respect and when you compare him to younger and older tieflings it seems to be consistent.

-I know the big topic of debate is the wrinkles, could he be prematurely aged by the stress he’s gone through? Absolutely, he does have some signs of premature aging around his eyes from a hard and stressful life (I also have these lines). I agree here.

-But take a look at Cal and Lia, they have also had hard lives but appear much younger than Rolan. However, they both seem to be adults, not youths, which makes me put them in their early to mid twenties. (In my mind: Cal is 23, Lia is 27, and Rolan is 32-33)

-Going into the less physical subject of debate that goes with this topic: The apprenticeship. I don’t think his apprenticeship necessarily means he’s young you can start an apprenticeship at any age and what we do know about Rolan’s background makes it all the more likely he got a late start in life. I sincerely think Rolan wouldn’t have wanted to leave Cal, Lia, and their mother before the Descent of Elturel and their mother’s subsequent death.

- I actually believe that her death was likely a catalyst for him wanting to 1. Get stronger to protect them and 2. Need to leave Elturel for it to actually make that happen.

-Furthermore, I think some of his prickly exterior and facade of bravado are a sign of age as well, not immaturity. Those both come from a place of shame, shame that he has likely felt over a long time which could be worsened by the perception that he hasn’t achieved more in life. (But I could just be yapping on this one lmao)

These are just my thoughts on this subject, let me know what you think as well. At the end of the day, we are all just making sh*t up, which is the true spirit of Dungeons and Dragons lmao (also falling deeply in love with a background NPC with no last name).

#holy rolan empire #rolan nation #bg3 rolan #rolan brainrot #rolan bg3 #rolan x tav #rolanites #rolan fanfic #rolan headcanons

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bread0nhead · 13 days ago

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The Beauty and the Blast | Chapter Six

Summary: In the spotlight, the world calls her Pulchra. A rising celebrity model who's known for her quick, Infinite Beauty. A quirk that alters a persons perception of beauty, causing anyone who sees her to subconsciously view her as the embodiment of their ideal vison- making her universally captivating. Everyone either wants to be her, or to be with her. From obsessive fans to controlling agencies, everyone wants to own her. While the world sees her as perfect, behind closed doors she's deeply lonely yet craves the silence. He's loud, intense, blunt and more emotionally repressed than an angsty teen alone on Valentines. Everyone sees him for his explosions and strength, but its that short fuse that landed him battling the hardest war yet- public image and the PR team that comes with it.

Notes: Cross posted on ao3 I've been writing this for weeks in a Google doc and in the doc it feels so long. Like I actually wrote a lot and I feel so proud. The time its taken, the number of pages. Amazing. Then I paste my work in here and realize I barely wrote shit. Rating: 18+

You were standing on a riser under bright lighting wearing a sleek tailored suit that had a deep plunge highlighting your sternum. The stylist fussed over you, correcting any loose thread or wrinkled edge. When everything was perfect she took a step back and took in the full picturesque doll before her. Your hair is long and slightly curled. Makeup light but with a bold lip. The stylist smiled like she was admiring her own art.

“It's perfect. You’re perfect”

You offered a soft faux smile “Thank you”

“And your skin is simply glowing!”

“It's just good lighting.”

“Must be more than that” she brushed a curl behind your ear “Maybe a new love interest?”

The heel of your left shoe buckled under and you stumbled off the riser but caught yourself before completely embarrassing yourself.

“I- I’m fine!” Thank god for the makeup, the artificial blush hides the heat on your cheeks.

The stylist now frantic over the structural integrity of the perfectly pressed suit.

***

Bakugou had his hands wrapped in elastic bandages as he furiously swung at the punching bag.

Your touch lingered on his mind, like it burned into his skin. He stayed up too late last night trying anything to distract himself from the thought of you. And when he gave into the temptation, he pulled out his phone and looked through the proofs from the photoshoot. Zooming in on you in every picture. And worst of all, something that makes his stomach turn when he thinks back to last time. He did the unthinkable while staring at one of the photos of you. But the release was the only thing that actually put him to sleep. He swung at the bag even harder, putting some spark behind it.

“Hey bro, we just repaired this gym!” Kirishima said as he walked in the gym with a big smile on his face.

Bakugou just ignored him and kept swinging his fists.

“How was your date last night with your super hot model girlfriend?”

Bakugou missed the bag that time and it only sent him spiraling and just exploded the damn thing.

“It wasn’t a date!” There was a long pause and the longer the pause the more Kirishima smiled. “And she’s not my damn girlfriend!” Bakugou was bright red now.

“But you like her, right?” “Don’t be an idiot.”

“That's not a no.”

Bakugou side eyed him and went for the free weights. He ignored Kirishima's comment and lifted the weights a few sizes heavier than he usually goes for. Kirishima started his workout routine and they stayed in silence except for the occasional grunting and cussing. “She….wouldn’t go for a guy like me.” Bakugou groans the second that came out of his mouth.

“Bro! Of course she would! Why wouldn’t she?!” Kirishima dropped his weight to listen intently.

“Are you fucking dence? Look at her and then look at me.” Bakugou hated being vulnerable. But Kirishima is the only person who gets to see this side of him.

Kirishima listened without commentary.

“Half my body is covered in scars and my arm still isn’t what it used to be. She’s perfect and I’m…” Bakugou didn’t let himself finish his sentence. Just picked up the weights again and pumped harder.

“Aw common bro, girls love scars! They’re so manly!” Bakugou rolled his eyes and popped his earphones in to listen to whatever angry mental music was next in shuffle.

Bakugou watched his form in the mirror, drawing most of his attention to his beat up arm. Scars created hills and valleys from his chest to his fingers. Even after years of physical therapy, surgeries, and training. His arm will never perform the way it used to. His hand is too scared over on that arm to produce the same amount of nitroglycerin, making the explosions weaker. That entire side of his body was almost completely covered in the history of the war.

“Hey asshole!” Himari stormed into the gym, throwing the nearest towel she could get her hands on at Bakugou's head. “Did you forget?!”

He bared his teeth and seethed “What the hell do you want now?! What the hell are you talking about?!”

“The interview, you idiot! It's in two hours!” Himari groaned.

“I didn’t forget! I just…didn’t confirm.”

Himari was stunned. She dragged her hand over her face. Mumbling how she knew she shouldn’t have trusted him to handle this on his own.

“Please, for the love of my blood pressure. Just go. Be charming- whatever your version of charming is. Brood a little. Say something vaguely tender. And then you can leave.” “I don’t do charming.”

“Fine. Whatever. Be yourself. Just show up and don’t insult anyone while on TV.”

Himari pinched her nose and walked out the door “I need a raise.”

***

Sitting in your dressing room, you scanned over the pre-approved interview questions Jun emailed over to you. It included phrases like: “You and Dynamite share explosive chemistry, how would you describe working with him?”

“Are you two the next power couple in both fashion and hero culture?” “Do you think beauty and violence can coexist?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Bakugou is going to lose it.”

You opened the folder of the proofs and swiped through each photo. You stopped at the one where you're both nose to nose. You remember the warmth of his touch and the way it made you feel. Explosive chemistry? Power couple? If that's how other people see you, then how does he?

You closed the folder, chest feeling warm and tight.

Pulchra will nail the interview.

But you? You’re terrified.

#bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #bakugou x you #bnha bakugo katsuki

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brimbrimbrimbrim · 3 months ago

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A Ruined Ratio (Muse/Sculptor!Reader) pt.2

🖤A Ruined Ratio 2/7 🖤

Muse x F!Sculptor!Reader

Part 1

Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 1.5k Warnings: Sexual Awakening, Rough Sex, Knifeplay, Cumplay, Sexual Tension, Voyeruism, Bloodplay, Blood & Gore, Dubious Consent, Violence, Choking, Light BDSM, Toxic Relationship, Branding/Marking, Stalking, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Yonic Symbolism, Liberal use of Artistic Rhetoric. Genre: Dark Romance / Horror / PWP

Summary: As a celebrated sculptor spiraling into creative stagnation, you strive to capture some sense of soul after stumbling upon one of Muse's violent, gruesome art installations. Muse thinks you're derivative but not without potential. He just has to strip you down to a blank slate first.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

The late afternoon light hisses through the oversized factory windows, hazed in a falling sparkle of clay dust. Outside, the sun bleeds against the skyline of Hell’s Kitchen in sheets of exhausted gold, but inside, there’s only the dry scent of refined, mineral-rich soil and the metallic tang of unwashed tools rusting on their hooks. You stand, feet hips distance apart, in nothing but black boyshorts riding high on your hips, the elastic stiff with grey smears. Every inch of you is smudged in some manner of hardened clay—cracked patches along your thighs, flaking streaks up your arms, your bare breasts dotted with accidental grazes from your subject matter.

"I didn't know I needed you," you tell the thing you've made.

It doesn't speak back, so you crouch low, bare knees aching against the sealed concrete, fingers twitching in the air just inches from the hollow mouth of your newest piece. The sculpture towers over you—a grotesque head, warped far beyond anatomical accuracy, the mouth stretched so wide it devours its own nose, up to the space where the forehead begins. A gaping wound of expression, it yawns upward, lips peeled over as if pried open by invisible force.

You blink, seeing orgasm and horror, wondering if what you've made is a simple revolt against everyone's perception of you, yourself, and your work: simplicity, chastity, a beacon of hope for men in a sea of liberated women . Unfinished statues stare blankly at you, dwarfed by this monstrosity you've made. They're all clean lines, sculpted arches with feminine curves too softened to be provocative, though there are too many... and there that hatred returns. The same self-disgust that had you up all hours of the night, working your body to its limits to birth this... this thing...

Its eyes gleam with cheap stage jewelry, gaudy and glittering in decaying sundown lights. Citrine and topaz, garnet and glass rubies, all nestled into those tunneling sockets with surgical precision—an idol bedazzled—a golden corpse mask or something you saw in a book about martyred saints, maybe. Clearly inspired by the sick parody of opulence you saw in the alley, but not wholly original. The false stones leer at you knowingly, as suspicious as magpie eyes.

And still, you stare upwards, aching. You don’t know what to name the feeling that’s been rotting slowly in your gut since that night outside—the installation, the smell of blood and burnt-cedar cologne, the breath on your throat and that hand so tight against your belly it felt inside you . That heat it made in your stomach hasn't faded, only fueled your digging hands, wrist-deep in wet clay, molding and forcing and pleading with something shapeless to become something more .

Maybe inside you'll see what's missing...

You slip forward onto your palms, clay crust crumbling beneath the press of your hands. Your body sways. You exhale slowly, then lean in, crawling inside the mouthpiece.

It's a tight squeeze—the sore curve of your back brushing the clay palate. You nestle deeper until you’re curled inside it, limbs folding inward, palms cupping elbows. Your spine molds to the ridged interior, right hip pinned by the tight crescent of the lower lip packed with metal wiring and salvaged rebar. The air is thick inside—humid, smelling of old sweat and powdered gypsum. Like a womb or a freshly cracked tomb...

Your phone begins to ring. The sound is thin and shrill, bouncing off concrete, echoing through the extensive studio like the sirens outside. You bury your head down, forehead sweating across the hard ridges of your knees, arms wrapped tighter around your ribs, nipples pebbling in the warm gap between chest and upper thighs. The ringtone keeps going. You know who it is: Sylvan. Or maybe your agent. Could be some other leech wanting to negotiate with the artist herself... but something holds you within the mouth, as if it has teeth locking you within.

You were wrong to come in here, a voice in the back of your head warns—your inner critic, maybe. You should’ve stopped, should’ve cleaned it all up, should’ve kept your/the mouth closed. Should’ve taken the mallet to it until it looked like nothing.

You fall asleep eventually, lulled by the whispered vitriol between your ears and the oppressive comfort of being completely obscured from the world. No feasting eyes. Not here. But there are and there have been...

All day he's been watching, sometimes pressing close to the window when your back was turned, other times observing from the defunct warehouse across the street... coming and going, watching you cast off layers of clothing as grey stains took their place... visualizing what you'd look like in red—in blood and bloods—in artful cuts, bruises, brushstrokes of grime and chaotic splatters of hot, frothing cum...

When your eyes pry themselves open again, peeled from the weight of sleep, the studio has gone cold. It's dark, everything blue lit by the night with slivers of gold highlighting angles here and there, cast upwards from street lights below.

The silence that greets you is brutal: no barrage of evening traffic, no hiss of brakes, no layered shouts from the streets away, only the groaning cycle of the boiler kicking to life and the soft, domestic hum of the refrigerator. What time is it?

You cannot recall the moment your eyes last closed, just a gravitational pull inward. You remember the mouth—not yours, but the sculpture’s—its interior pressing around you like wet heat, as it continues to do even now. You shift inside, as snug as a fetal slip, and groan at the pull of stiffness in your lower back, your knees, and cervical spine, where a headache begins to unravel.

You groan at the ache, and someone groans back...

Suddenly, the space around you inhales, gulping you deeper into the clay mouth as fear bathes you in fine sweat. The tiny hairs along your forearms rise in warning, your skin crawling and though you have not yet seen it with your eyes, your body knows that someone is watching.

You do not spot the hewn outline at first, not clearly, but then he moves, and the light reveals him . One gloved hand lifts to press flat against the grimy glass while the other remains curled around the iron banister, his head tilting the way an artist studies a still life—quiet, calculated, and endlessly patient.

He does not move, does not break posture, does not falter in his watching, and so you blink—once, hard—your limbs cramped from the tight curl of your position, your chest rising and falling in such restrained movements to feign death... to become invisible.

He sees you anyway.

And even as your throat aches from dryness, you hold back a whimper, watching his fingers extend against the old window. The sound of it opening is agonizing—a warbled creak of wood warped by humidity and disuse.

He shifts, dragging through the opening shoulder first, the barely-clothed trapezius muscle snagged by a leather suspender strap. Your heart skips as a tri-buckled boot hits the innards of your studio. He's past the threshold of inside and outside, sauntering past your kitchen, around a lounge chair to stop several feet away. He's here... the thing that cluitched you in the alley... unmistakably human in form, yet too—

He breathes in, a ragged pull through the cloth covering his face. In the darkness, he's weeping ink, but the eyes beneath soaked tears that shine red and black. Buttery fabric clings like gauze dipped in plaster, impressing every ridge of muscle, every slant of bone, black suspenders carving down his sides and framing the low dip of his waist. Below, his pants hang loose, but the shape beneath it all is anything but...

The only thing you manage to whisper—to yourself, to the shadows, to the heavy air—is, "I'm dreaming," because anything else means you let him pant into your neck, touch your softness—let him come inside your home.

So you stay silent, motionless, your body sinking tighter into the curve of your creation’s mouth, seeking protection, but the broad-shouldered leviathan just watches, silently choosing not to enter further.

And then his voice—low, sadistically devoid, and made faint by the weave of cloth—replaces the silence. “You're lucky, you know… time clings to your medium like training wheels. Forgiving. Patient. Unlike blood that dries too fast—it demands instinct. Demands sacrifice. Like watercolor, maybe. Slippery. Honest."

"But all that time you have?" He snorts, inspecting his gloves, tugging the right up his wrist a little higher until the fingers spread, long and steady. "Maybe that's the real curse. Too long to think. Not long enough to feel.”

You do not answer, not because you are unwilling, but because you're not yet ready to admit he's right. Instead, you just breathe and tell him, "You're not real," to which his chest hitches with quiet laughter. You close your eyes again—not to sleep, but to force him out—and whether time passes or not becomes irrelevant because when you open your eyes next...

... he's gone.

Check it on AO3 HERE

#daredevil #muse #muse x reader #fanfic #x reader #smut #dark fic #horror #angst #slowburn #enemies to lovers #toxic romance #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #brims writing #reader insert #writing #muse daredevil

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writing-with-sophia · 2 years ago

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Magical/ Superpowers list: General

Part 2 of magical/ superpowers list. I didn't know the readmore function before, so it caused trouble for everyone. I'm really sorry!

Probability manipulation (luck manipulation)

Enhanced healing/regeneration

Phasing (ability to pass through solid objects)

Sonic scream

Super breath (ability to blow strong winds or freeze objects)

Weather manipulation

Teleportation

Super hearing

Super smell

Empathy (ability to feel and understand others' emotions)

Telempathy (ability to manipulate others' emotions)

Energy absorption

Energy projection

Super stamina

Night vision

Holographic projection

Super flexibility

Underwater breathing

Plant manipulation

Gravity manipulation

Camouflage

Astral projection

Dimensional travel

Super luck

Laser vision

Enhanced senses (enhanced taste, touch, etc.)

Dream manipulation

Fear manipulation

Probability manipulation (ability to alter probabilities)

Illusion creation

Enhanced speed reading

Enhanced memory

Body swapping

Enhanced agility

Omnilingualism (ability to understand and speak any language)

Magnetic manipulation

Density control (ability to become intangible or super dense)

Earthquake generation

Super breath (ability to create strong gusts of wind)

Animal transformation

Sonic boom generation

Molecular manipulation

Hypnosis

Elasticity

Force field manipulation

Energy shields

Gravity control

Bone manipulation

Enhanced intelligence

Power mimicry (ability to copy others' powers)

Acid generation

Flight through astral projection

Energy wings

Enhanced senses (enhanced taste, touch, etc.)

Power negation (ability to cancel out others' powers)

Enhanced persuasion

Time stop

Molecular combustion (ability to cause objects to explode)

Animal telepathy (ability to communicate with animals)

Insect manipulation

Dreamwalking (ability to enter and control others' dreams)

Probability manipulation (ability to alter outcomes)

Force manipulation

Healing tears (ability to heal others with tears)

Power absorption (ability to steal others' powers)

Elemental transmutation

Energy constructs (ability to create objects out of energy)

Enhanced senses (enhanced taste, touch, etc.)

Magnetic flight

Reality warping

Flight

Super strength

Invisibility

Telepathy

Telekinesis

Super speed

Healing powers

Shape-shifting

Time manipulation

Mind control

X-ray vision

Super intelligence

Energy manipulation

Elemental control (fire, water, air, earth)

Super agility

Precognition (seeing the future)

Super durability

Super senses (enhanced hearing, sight, smell, etc.)

Immortality

Force field generation

Teleportation

Animal communication

Super reflexes

Elasticity

Pyrokinesis (ability to control fire)

Cryokinesis (ability to control ice)

Technopathy (ability to control technology)

Astral projection

Time travel

Size manipulation

Chronokinesis (ability to manipulate time at will).

Astral manipulation (power to manipulate and interact with the astral plane).

Biokinesis (ability to manipulate and control biological matter, such as healing wounds or altering physical characteristics).

Probability manipulation (power to manipulate probabilities, increasing or decreasing the likelihood of specific events).

Sound manipulation (ability to control and manipulate sound waves, including creating sonic blasts or generating illusions through sound).

Memory manipulation (the power to alter, erase, or enhance memories in oneself or others).

Spatial manipulation (the ability to manipulate and control space, including teleportation, creating portals, or bending space to manipulate distances).

Technopathy (the power to communicate with, control, or manipulate technology and electronic devices).

Dream manipulation (the ability to enter and manipulate dreams, altering the dreamer's experiences and perceptions).

Emotion manipulation (the power to control and manipulate emotions in oneself or others).

Energy vampirism (ability to absorb and feed off various types of energy from other sources).

Probability sensing (the power to sense and perceive the likelihood of specific events or outcomes).

Supernatural luck (extreme good luck that seems to defy probability).

Elemental transmutation (ability to transform one element into another).

Power replication (power to copy and temporarily possess others' superpowers).

Fear manifestation (ability to manifest and control the fears of oneself or others).

Meta-communication (power to communicate with concepts, ideas, or abstract entities).

Astral projection (ability to separate one's astral body from their physical body and travel in astral form).

Reality manipulation (the power to alter and manipulate the fabric of reality itself).

Quantum manipulation (the ability to manipulate quantum particles and phenomena).

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sableflynn · 4 months ago

Text

Out unseen - ch. 13

first | previous | next

Elyse and Volkan have a conversation. Anna goes deeper undercover.

contents: beatings, referenced noncon, and the one and only ✨forced to watch✨

Read on Ao3

---

Elyse had never wanted to be a leader.

Strictly speaking, she wasn’t—they weren’t any sort of formal team or anything with a hierarchy, they were a group of friends sharing an apartment and trying to fix some of the wrongs in the world. But stakes grew higher, and decisions had to be made, and one day Elyse realized everyone was turning to her for the last word. Trusting her to make the right call.

She took it on, because she had to. But now Felicia was gone, and the note from Volkan sat on her desk and burned a hole in her mind, and she wished more than anything that someone else could tell her what to do.

1 pm. To discuss the enclosed. Come alone. It was 12:55.

She’d attached the calling charm to her mirror, locked everyone else out of the room, and now all she could do was count the seconds in her beating heart. Autumn rain lashed the window outside, ripping bright leaves from trees in sodden clumps, darkening the room even in midday. The shadows stretched long across the hardwood floor, leeching the color from everything they touched.

Elyse barely spent time in the bedroom anymore. Everything that had once been a comfort was now a sharp pain, a pick in her chest, a reminder she couldn’t ignore. By daylight she found herself anywhere but there, keeping herself busy, convincing herself she was making progress. When night fell and exhaustion finally dragged her to her cold, empty bed, she lay alone, images of Felicia burned into her mind, Felicia tortured, raped—

Elyse drew in a shuddering breath and forced herself to stare into the mirror.

12:56. Felicia’s hairbrush sat on the table, coppery strands still wound in the bristles. A hair elastic was wrapped around the handle.

12:57. A soft green skirt lay on the ground where she’d slid out of it before slipping into bed. Elyse couldn’t bring herself to put it away. It would feel like giving up.

12:58. 12:59.

She blinked, and Volkan was there.

It was like looking through a window into another room a world away. He was in what must be his office, relaxed in a leather chair, framed by the bookshelves lining the wall behind him. As she took him in, took in his room, she realized he was looking not at her but past her, taking in her own room in turn. She knew what he saw: the unmade bed, Felicia’s clothes left on the ground, absence filling the space like a ghost. Elyse twitched with the suppressed desire to block his view of the room.

The faintest smile ghosted his face; she wanted to break through the glass and slap it off of him.

“Elyse.” He inclined his head at her in greeting. “It’s a delight to meet you at last.”

“Let me see her.” She wanted the words to be firm, cold, authoritative, but she sounded like nothing so much as a petulant child.

“Are you sure you want her here for this conversation?” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “It could be—”

“Let me see her.”

Volkan held her gaze, and then his smile broadened, and he stood. “One moment.” He walked out of her line of vision, and he was gone.

Her nerves were tingling. She gripped the edge of the desk, leaning close to the mirror, and then a few seconds or hours later, Volkan returned with Felicia.

She was Felicia, the Felicia who Elyse loved, the Felicia of the photos, the Felicia of Elyse’s nightmares. Warm red hair gone lank and dull, freckled skin a marbled canvas of white and black and blue, arms crossed across her chest in a futile protective gesture.

The worst of it all were the tiny details Elyse’s nightmares couldn’t capture. It wasn’t just the exhaustion in her eyes, the slip of a dress that did nothing to hide the bruising covering her body. It was the way she hunched into herself, barely perceptible but always present. It was the casual ownership in Volkan’s touch, the way he moved her body around like nothing. It was the way something in her faded every time Volkan’s hands touched her skin. Elyse had never seen Felicia make herself small before.

“Felicia,” she said, her throat dry, swallowing against the tremor in her voice. Felicia’s gaze bored into her, gripping her heart with its intensity, and her mouth silently formed Elyse. Behind her, Volkan settled his hands on her bare shoulders, and she flinched but held her gaze.

This is a game for him, Elyse thought—and it had been obvious from the start, but she felt it more starkly now than ever, as his greedy gaze drank up her every flicker of reaction. Even now, able to see Felicia for the first time in a month, her reaction was nothing but a performance for him, her grief another layer of entertainment.

She needed to cut to the chase, to ask him what he wanted, why he had arranged this meeting, but all she could do was take in Felicia, scared and strong, chest rising with shallow breaths, bruises darkening her cheekbone, Felicia—

“She’s been a great help with my research,” Volkan said, his large hands rubbing circles into Felicia’s shoulders. “Felicia, tell Elyse about what we’ve been doing together.”

Felicia swallowed and stepped away from Volkan’s touch. “He…we…”

It was the first time Elyse had heard Felicia’s voice since she’d been taken and it was a shard in her heart. Felicia glanced back towards Volkan, and when she turned to look at Elyse again, there was something of fire in her eyes. She began to speak very quickly.

“We’re somewhere up north. The trees—there’s woods, and a town nearby, and I can see mountains—”

Volkan moved faster than her eyes could track, and the sound of the slap rang out before she could process what Felicia had said. She stumbled from the slap, her steps making distance between them, her hand to her cheek and the fire still in her eyes. Volkan, more amused than anything, opened his mouth to speak, but Felicia cut him off.

“He’s working with Gabriel Davids, from the university—”

The amusement was gone from Volkan’s expression, and when he hit her, it wasn’t a slap, but a punch to the jaw. Elyse gasped, and Felicia fell back, and Volkan hit her a second, third time.

It was the photos come to life, and it was worse than Elyse could’ve imagined. She breathed out, “Stop,” and hated herself for the distance between them, and with another blow Felicia collapsed to the ground. Volkan studied her fallen form, gave a final kick to her ribs, and the smile that returned to his face had a darker edge to it.

“You’d think she would’ve learned what her mouth is for by now,” he said conversationally, nudging her curled form with his shoe.

Elyse’s fists were curled, nails digging hard enough to draw blood. She bit down the half-dozen retorts—she couldn’t afford to antagonize him, not with Felicia at his feet, unmoving—and tried to keep her voice steady as she asked, “What do you want?”

“For her?” He glanced down at Felicia, then smiled back up at Elyse. “You tell me. What are you willing to offer to get her back?”

She studied him, his self-assured smile, the easy confidence. He had to have an angle. He hadn’t bothered to arrange this meeting for nothing. “You aren’t looking for money…” she began cautiously.

He held her gaze a heartbeat longer, daring her to continue, and then dipped his head in acknowledgement. “You need to stay out of my business.”

It wasn’t completely unexpected, but she watched him warily. He stepped over Felicia as if she weren’t there, walking closer to Elyse—no, closer to the mirror.

“I’ll admit, it was charming at first, watching you and your friends make your attempts on my operations. Darya and Kailo, always sticking their noses in my trade deals. You and Marcus, staking out my home like you’re going to make a difference. You’ve assembled quite a little crew.”

(He didn’t mention Anna, she realized, his intel isn’t flawless—and then she halted that train of thought before her expression betrayed her.)

“But it ends now.” Despite his affected air of casualness, his eyes were hard. “You call off your friends, you stop interfering with my operations, and you end your ridiculous attempt at investigating matters that don’t involve you.”

So somewhere, the work they’d been doing struck a nerve. But she’d give it up a million times to get Felicia back. “We do that,” she said, scared to believe it was that easy, “and you’ll let her go?”

“No.” The word was a knife. “You do that, and I won’t strangle her and send her back to you in pieces.”

The heat rose in her voice. “You’re already going to kill her either way—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to kill her for no reason.” Behind him, Felicia had pulled herself up to sitting, but made no move to stand. Her face was blank. “Once we finish our work together, I’ll sell her off to someone else. You can pester them if you still want her back.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to argue, but he cut her off. “This isn’t a business meeting. I’m not offering you a deal.” He was close now, and his eyes were cold. “I’m giving you a warning.”

Her breath caught in her chest. He was watching her, tracing her reaction, and her mind was buzzing. She looked past him to Felicia, who was still sitting with her legs curled beneath her, whose lip was bleeding and whose eyes were a thousand miles away.

If Volkan ended the conversation, Elyse would never see Felicia again. The door was quickly closing, and she needed to force it back open.

She locked eyes with Volkan and said, “Then let’s make this a business meeting.”

He raised an eyebrow at that and looked almost impressed—fuck him, she wasn’t trying to impress him, she didn’t want his approval—and he nodded. “Go ahead.”

Keep him talking. She needed more information, and she couldn’t ask any more of Felicia. He had the upper hand, and he knew it, but the more he spoke, the more likely he’d let something useful drop.

Hating herself for playing along with him, hating the question, hating the answer she anticipated, she said, “You never did tell me what it is you’re doing together.”

His smile made her stomach churn. He let the question hang in the air a heartbeat, then said, “We’re conducting research together.”

Research. He had mentioned that earlier. She held his gaze, tried to keep her expression neutral, wondered if he would elaborate or if he’d force her to ask question after question—

“We’re researching magical healing techniques, its effects and applications. Ways that a healer can turn that power on themself, heal their own burns or bruises or broken bones.” The image flashed in Elyse’s mind, the photo of Felicia’s arm snapped like a twig. “It’s such a complex field, and some avenues have been woefully underexplored. But Felicia’s been capable of some remarkable things when I push her.” He glanced back at Felicia then, almost affectionate. “She’s been an invaluable asset.”

Elyse grit her teeth and refused to dwell on the implications. Behind Volkan, Felicia sat still, staring at nothing in particular, blood dripping from her lip to the ground. She’s not an asset, Elyse thought, she’s a person. But what she said was, “Don’t try to dress this up as some legitimate research venture. It’s kidnapping and torture.”

He actually laughed at that, and it pissed her off. “Don’t be so self-righteous, Elyse,” he said. “We are making important discoveries here.” We, we, as if Felicia were a willing participant in this. “And when the time comes, I have ways of turning my findings legitimate.”

Gabriel Davids, from the university. How many other contacts at the university did he have? How many avenues of influence across the city? And how the fuck could she possibly negotiate to get Felicia back, when he had everything and there was nothing she could offer him, and—

“I can tell you’re really upset about all this.” His cloyingly faux-sympathetic tone was almost enough to push her over the edge, but she bit her tongue and forced herself to lock eyes with him. “You have to understand, I have my own obligations and interests to think of. But I’m not entirely unreasonable.” He paused to consider, almost theatrical. “She’s a good enough healer, but she’s not irreplaceable. If you find me another decent healer who can take whatever I do to them, I’d be happy to make a switch.”

Elyse’s mind was blank, wrapping around what he was saying. “Find another—”

“You live near the university.” It wasn’t a question. “It wouldn’t be too hard to find another healer to take her place.”

And for a bright, horrible moment, Elyse considered it. People came from all over the world to work and study in Trisgate. People starting over in the big city, no friends, no family. It would be easy enough to find someone that nobody would miss. Just one stranger’s life, and then she’d have Felicia back and this nightmare would be over.

And they’d be condemning another to torture. And they’d never be able to untangle themselves from Volkan’s evil and the part they’d played in it.

“No,” Elyse said, forcing the thoughts from her head. “You’re insane. We’re not bringing anyone else into this.”

Volkan shrugged. “This is the best offer I can make you. Take it or leave it.”

“We’re not bartering lives with you.” As she spoke, she looked not at Volkan but at Felicia, not knowing what she wanted to see—forgiveness? Understanding? But Felicia’s eyes were empty and her mind was a thousand miles away. Even anger would’ve been better. It was as if Felicia wasn’t even there.

“Then there’s no point in continuing this conversation.” The finality in Volkan’s tone froze her heart.

“Wait—”

“I made you an offer, and you aren’t interested.” He was moving closer to the mirror, fuck, he was going to end it all— “And remember, you’re going to stop interfering with my work. That’s not negotiable.”

“Volkan, wait—” Her mind was racing, but there was nothing she could say, and he was going to end the conversation, and Felicia sat still as a statue behind him. “Felicia—”

At the sound of her name, Felicia looked up, and locked eyes with Elyse with a burning intensity.

And then she was gone and Elyse was staring into her own eyes in the mirror.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and she started to sob.

She was alone in her room, the walls closing in on her, storm still raging outside, and her mirror was just a mirror, and Felicia was gone, and now they were even worse off than when they’d started—

No. Felicia had given her information, and paid dearly for it. Elyse couldn’t let that go to waste.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped the tears from her face, and took one last look at her reddened eyes in the mirror.

The others were waiting for her. She needed to be a leader and tell them what she had learned.

***

The tension in the living room was a physical thing, choking Elyse as she stepped into the room and everyone’s gaze immediately turned on her. Marcus sat in an armchair, fingers drumming the worn armrest; Darya paced, more restless than she’d ever been; Kailo was on the couch, still, his energy drawn inward. The moment balanced on a knife’s edge; she had made a choice, and they knew nothing, and they were waiting, and she realized she had no idea what to say.

Marcus opened his mouth to ask something and, suddenly desperate to control the situation, Elyse blurted out, “She’s alive.”

Something of a collective breath of relief settled over the room, taking the edge off the tension. Elyse sank onto the couch next to Kailo, her mind sifting through everything of the conversation, trying to untangle a thread she could lead them with. She’s alive. He’ll kill her if we move against him. Gabriel Davids, from the university. Volkan’s fist cracking against Felicia’s jaw.

Start at the beginning. “They’re up north,” she said.

“Did he tell you that?” Marcus leaned forward in his chair, heightened, suspicious. “Why should we believe anything he says?”

Elyse looked him in the eye. “She said that.”

“How was she?” Kailo’s voice was small; as she turned to him, he flushed, as if he regretted the question but couldn’t stop himself.

Felicia curled on the ground, Volkan delivering a final harsh kick to her ribs. The urge to reassure Kailo competed with the need to tell the truth, and Elyse didn’t have a way to answer that question without bursting into tears.

“He’s working with Gabriel Davids,” she said instead. “He’s from the university. One of the most well-respected healers in the city.” She’d heard the name before, in passing; his connection to Volkan caught her completely off-guard.

“He wasn’t on our radar at all.” Darya leaned over the back of an unoccupied chair, brow furrowed. “If we—”

“We can’t.” Elyse was terrified to let Darya even finish that thought, terrified of what would happen to Felicia, what was happening to her at this very moment. “This whole call—it was a warning. We were getting too close to—to something, I don’t know, and if we keep going, he’ll kill her.”

The finality of the words hung heavy in the stunned silence. Elyse’s heart was pounding so hard, she was sure they could all hear it.

Marcus finally spoke. “We were so close…if we could just—”

“We can’t. It doesn’t matter how close we get, he has everything.” He has Felicia. “He knows all of us somehow, he said your names—”

And then she caught herself, because no, he didn’t have everything.

Kailo picked up on her hesitation. “But?”

“He doesn’t know about Anna.”

It had been weeks since Anna had slipped away to work her way into Becker’s crew, to follow his tenuous connection to Volkan and find a way to get Felicia out of there. It was the closest thing they had to a lead, and if Volkan hadn’t mentioned her name, if he didn’t know who she was and her cover was still secure…

“I haven’t heard from her in a bit, but—that means she’s close. It has to,” Elyse continued, half-trying to convince herself. “She’s finding a way in, and they don’t know her, and…”

Marcus flared up at that. “So we’re just gonna sit around and wait for Anna to figure something out,” he snapped. “And meanwhile, Felicia’s with that creep, getting beaten or—”

“Marcus.” Darya’s voice was sharp, laced with anger covering fear, and her cheeks were damp with tears.

She’s the only one besides me who saw the photos, Elyse realized. The only other one who had a real idea of what condition Felicia was in at that moment. She wanted to grab Darya’s hand in comfort, but instead she turned back to Marcus. “Do you have a better idea?”

He was silent at that, but the space yawned with what she wasn’t telling them: the offer she hadn’t accepted, the one chance they had and she’d refused it. It must’ve been written plain across her face; she couldn’t believe no one was pushing her on it. Felicia wasn’t coming home, and it was because of the choice Elyse had made, and she was paralyzed with it.

“So we know she’s alive, and we have some information about where she is…” Kailo began, gently, and Elyse could’ve hugged him for how easily he broke the tension. “Can you get that information to Anna?”

“I don’t have a way to contact her,” she said. “I’ve just been waiting for her to call when she’s able. But she’s getting in deeper with them; she hasn’t been able to call as much lately.” Her hands trembled in her lap; she clasped them to still them. “But it’s something.”

Their eyes were all on her: Kailo, next to her on the couch; Darya, moving restlessly from the window to the couch and back again; Marcus, still and searching. It was something, she kept saying, but they needed more. She stood, trying to set herself as solid and determined, knowing she was scared and useless.

“We can’t make a move yet,” she continued. “But we have more information. We can look at maps, cross-reference with what she—” Her voice wavered, and she fought to keep it still. “What she told us. It has to mean something.”

Her breath was coming shorter and shorter, and she couldn’t hide the trembling in her hands no matter how hard she clasped. The emotions were too much, too close to spilling over. It’s done, she told herself. There isn’t anything else we can do right now. And if she spent another minute in that room with everyone watching her and waiting, she would break.

She left the conversation and made her way to the kitchen. The storm had finally blown over, and feeble sunlight broke through the lingering clouds to bathe the countertops in a warm glow. She grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured herself some stale coffee; she wasn’t going to sleep that night either way, she might as well self-sabotage.

It was 1:40. The conversation with Volkan and the follow-up with everyone else had barely taken more than a half hour. The entire rest of the day stretched before her, an endless expanse for her to fill with nothing but her thoughts, until she crawled into her empty bed and didn’t sleep and turned all night with the same thoughts in a spiraling cycle that only captured a fragment of whatever Felicia was facing.

She should’ve taken Volkan’s deal. She stood up there with her false confidence, acting like she was some sort of leader, but she’d dropped the only chance they had. What the fuck was wrong with her, she should’ve at least pretended to go along with it, buy them some time, make an opening for Volkan to slip up—

Marcus entered the kitchen; perhaps he was trying to be quiet, but his presence was too loud. Elyse extricated herself from the slow spiral of her thoughts, poured him a mug of coffee and handed it to him without a word. He took it and cupped it in his hands, resting his elbows on the island counter. In the slanting sunlight, his skin took on a warm glow. He breathed deeply, his eyes half-shut, and finally: “You didn’t actually tell us how she was.”

All at once, Elyse was exhausted. “How do you think she was?”

“It’s just—you saw her.” His eyes were open now, and locked on her across the island. “All this time, I’ve been terrified she was dead.” His voice caught on the word, but he stumbled on. “I couldn’t even imagine—what did it look like?”

The question caught her off-guard. “What?”

“His house—the room. Wherever he’s keeping her.” He leaned forward across the island, and it hit her: he was grasping for details, needing more than what she’d given them. Terrified of the unknown.

But she was empty, and had nothing left to give. “I don’t know, Marcus. It was an office. A nice chair and some bookshelves.” And gleaming hardwood floors, when Felicia had sprawled at Volkan’s feet.

“That’s it? An office?”

“What do you want from me, Marcus?”

His face told her he wanted exactly what she wanted: Felicia home, safe. He set the mug down and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just—there needs to be more.”

Her blood ran cold. There was more, a deal she should’ve taken, a slim but extant chance to bring Felicia home. “More what?”

“More…something. This is the closest we’ve gotten since she—” He cut himself off, looked down at his clenched hands, then continued. “It didn’t get us shit. I thought you’d have something…real for us.”

Her blood turned from ice to fire at that, his blame and her own guilt kindling into slowly-growing anger. “Felicia gave us something,” she reminded him. “She told us where they are, gave us names, and Anna—”

“Fuck that,” he snapped. “Maybe you’re fine with waiting around for Anna to solve things, but I’m not. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who actually gives a shit about Felicia.”

It was a slap in the face. She wanted to slap him in turn, but her hands had never been her weapon.

“Remind me, Marcus,” she said slowly, coldly, “how did she end up with Volkan in the first place?”

He looked as if she had slapped him. Hypocrite. “How can you even—”

“I’m telling you that if we make one wrong move, he’s going to kill her.” Marcus would’ve taken the deal in a heartbeat. The thought hit her, and she brushed it aside like cobwebs. “So we can’t—”

“We can’t, do you ever—”

“Let me talk, Marcus. Just because you hate yourself for leaving Felicia to die—” It was cruel and she couldn’t care; she barreled on. “—it doesn’t mean I’ll let you risk her life again now. He said he’d—” Kill her and send her back to you in pieces. “He—” Felicia crumpling as his fist smashed across her face, curling on the ground, blood dripping from her nose—

She couldn’t breathe. What was happening to Felicia, right now, while they stood here and argued about it? How many more ways could he hurt her? She rubbed furiously at her eyes to scrub away the images; her fists came away wet with tears.

She couldn’t look at Marcus, but she felt his eyes on her. “Elyse…”

“When Felicia gave me that information,” she began, voice shaking, “he beat her so badly she could barely move.” She stared at the cooling mug of coffee in her hands, the dusk of the setting sun fading from the countertop. “He beat her, and it just kept going, and I couldn’t do a thing, and I just had to stand there and watch it—” She swallowed back the tears and looked at Marcus’s face then. The anger and frustration were still simmering beneath the surface, but something more tender was beginning to break through.

She took a breath. “I don’t know what we can do.”

It was painful to admit to her helplessness; it was worse to know that there was something she could do, and she had refused it. There were no good choices, and she’d still made the wrong one.

Marcus, at last, was silent, his face pale as a ghost. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and she couldn’t imagine how anything he said could help—and then he blew out a weary exhale, shifting to lean against the counter and look out the window, the lingering autumn twilight smoothing the shadows of his face. The mug of coffee was cold in her hands.

***

People got into the dark underworld of Trisgate one of two ways: either they had the skills and inclination to take everything they wanted, or they got in too deep and owed someone higher up more than they could ever give. Anna couldn't afford to become the second one if she were to have any hope of finding Felicia.

Insinuating herself with Becker’s gang had been easy enough; she lingered, she let them get used to her face, and when the chance arose for her to be useful, she took it. It wasn’t long before she was running jobs with them, working her way deeper into the organization. The weeks passed, and she gained their trust and pretended that the information she passed along for them wouldn’t be used to hurt anyone, that the weapons and drugs she smuggled wouldn’t be used to kidnap and torture and kill people just like Felicia.

Somewhere among all the subterfuge, she’d made enough of a positive impression on Becker to get brought along with his inner circle to that night’s gathering: a cocktail party, an intimate gathering hosted by some magnate with his fingers in all the city’s magical materials trade, a rumored business contact of Volkan’s. Another in for Anna, a chance to listen and learn.

She mingled that night, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers, drink untouched but a prop in the part she was playing. Her ears were attuned for any mention of Volkan’s name, but the conversations around her layered and tangled, names and companies and places, so many facets to this dark underworld that were impossible for her to tease apart.

The host. Fuck, what was his name? Emmett, Evanson? If she could meet him—or if she could linger in his vicinity while others chatted him up—he was a tenuous connection to Volkan, but it could be enough. She scanned the room, but he’d introduced himself and welcomed everyone at the start of the party, and she hadn’t seen him since. Her gaze trailed past the buffet, the dance floor, and there: the courtyard doors were open, but few guests had ventured out after the storm that tore through earlier that day. Maybe Elmer or whatever his name was had stepped out for some air—or for a private conversation.

Her short heels clicked on the stone steps as she made her way outside, breathing in the sweet scent of rain. The earlier storm had given way to an unseasonable warmth, tree branches shaking off water droplets with each shift in the breeze. The courtyard was expansive; winding paths snaked through neatly trimmed hedges, trees headed towards winter dormancy, hidden nooks with stone benches invited clandestine conversations.

Anna made her way among the shrubbery, hoping she’d find the night’s host, but with each step carrying her further from the party, she realized how much she needed the air and the space and the stillness. Even alone, she couldn’t fully let her guard down—she could run into someone at any time—but it was a step removed from the constant performance that her life had become those past months, the agonizing balancing act of ingratiating herself with cruelty without doing more than she could ever take back.

The courtyard was still and quiet in the way of dusk following a storm. A cool breeze brushed the trees, a fountain gurgled, and the murmur of the party sounded a thousand miles away. She was alone, and as much as she craved it, it wasn’t where she needed to be. She took a few breaths and braced herself to put the mask fully back on, and then she heard distinct rustling from the bushes.

She acted on instinct, tracking the darker shadow among the shadows, grabbing a body and forcing it against the stone wall surrounding the courtyard. A knife flashed in the dark, and she grabbed the wrist and pinned it against the wall and the knife fell, and she was finally able to take a look at who she was holding.

The man was young—more of a boy, really, likely not yet out of his teens. Disarmed, he looked harmless, but for the hot anger simmering in his eyes like coals.

“Who are you?” she hissed, pressing him into the wall.

“Let me go,” he growled, jerking against her with sudden force.

She held firm. “Who are you?” She threw a quick glance behind her, but there was still no one else around. She knew that from inside the light of the party, the courtyard was dark and impenetrable, but the murmur of the fountain would mask any approaching footsteps, and if someone found them—the boy shoved against her again and she almost buckled, but planted her feet and held him in place.

“If you’re nobody, and they find you,” she continued, forcing herself to look into his eyes, “they’re going to kill you.”

It would be nothing to incapacitate him, skinny scrap of a kid that he was, and if she brought him to the others and announced she’d found him skulking around the garden, she’d rise even higher. He could be a gift for Volkan. She could climb to Felicia’s rescue over this boy’s dead body.

“I’m not afraid of you.” The waver in his voice betrayed him. His defiance was a cheap bravado that couldn’t fully cover the scared kid he was underneath.

“I’m serious.” She threw another glance over her shoulders; no one was there. “I don’t know who you are or who you came here to kill, but if you go in there, you will die. And then you’ll never get the revenge or whatever it is you’re after.”

Her words got through to him, and he softened. “Help me,” he whispered.

“I am.”

“No, I mean, help me fight them. We could take them down together—”

“No. It doesn’t work like that. You aren’t going to sneak in there and bring down the systematic corruption in this city with your shitty butter knife.” Hadn’t they all thought that, just a few weeks ago? This boy may as well have been Marcus, brash and angry and ready to solve the world’s problems. He may as well have been Felicia, who’d tried and was being repaid tenfold.

Anna pulled back a bit to look the boy in the eye, looking for resignation, maybe, surrender. She saw only the same fire smoldering. “You lost tonight,” she said. “Don’t be stupid. Go home.”

She released him and stepped back, watching. The boy kept his eyes locked on her as he crouched down, fumbled in the dirt for the knife he’d dropped. Found it, slipped it back in its sheath. Then he backed along the wall, away from the party, eyes still on her, until he turned and ran.

She watched him until she could no longer make out his shape in the darkness. Her skin prickled, and she spun around, sure that someone was watching her. The courtyard was still empty. In the distance, the party glowed and murmured. Anna took a breath, ran her hands through her curls, and steeled herself to play her part.

#whump #out unseen #my writing #my oc: felicia #my oc: volkan #my oc: elyse #my oc: marcus #my oc: darya #my oc: kailo #my oc: annaliese #ou content #whole gang's here!!

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