#and horrid at putting my thoughts into coherent words

[ohheyitsem]

I am so intensely physically ill after watching genloss. I loved it, don't get me wrong, but the absolute dread it instilled in me is something else I swear. I wasn't terribly bothered until Niki died. Despite knowing it wasn't real, something about how abrupt and senless her death was incredibly disturbing to me. Then, the ending when Ranboo died so quickly with absolutely no theatrics. I literally have no words. I am unwell.

[zorosleftshoe]

Fat, Funny, Friend - (c.b)

Pairing: Colby Brock x plussize!fem!reader

Warnings: Body dismorphia, self hate

Summary: Colby has always dated skinny women, sometimes you just need a little reassurance

Disgusts. Rage. Guilt. All feelings I became overwhelmed with as I looked at how the dress hugged every curve, every roll, that the glittery black dress outlined as if putting it on display. Instinctively, I tugged at the tight fitting fabric in an attempt to loosen it from my skin but it didn’t budge. A heavy sigh rolled off my tongue as I shrunk in defeat. A light knock on the door ripped me from my thoughts and away from the sad girl staring back at me from the mirror.

“Are you ready, darling?” Colby asked peaking his head into the room to respect my privacy as much as he could. “I don’t want to rush you.” I shook my head frantically and swallowed down the negative words that threatened to spill from my lipstick stained lips.

“Let’s go before I change my mind again.” His eyebrows furrowed together in worry but he obliged by sticking out his elbow and waiting for me to clasp my hand around it. With one last unforgiving look, I glanced back towards the mirror and watched as our two silhouettes mocked me. “Maybe I should stay home.” The suggestion fell on deaf ears as Colby had already gone into business mode with his eyes fixated on the two men in front of us.

“Sam!” Colby used his free hand to give Sam a half hug before looking to the brunette next to him. “Nate! So good to see you guys. Thanks for meeting us here. It just makes sense to ride together, no?” The two men nodded in agreement before I caught Sam’s gaze.

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” He asked referring to the strapless dress that clung tightly to my chest making it nearly impossible to breath and my heart began to hammer in my chest at the question. My eyes darted around the room as I frantically thought of an answer to his question. ‘What’ fell from my lips before I could form a coherent thought. “It’s cold outside. Are you sure you want to wear that? At least wear a jacket. We don’t want you getting sick!” I inhale deeply at the realization and happily accept his hug as he takes two steps forward.

“What’s up, bitches?” My heart drops at her voice. As if on cue, Amber walks into the room dressed in a gorgeous floor length gown. The baby pink mixed with a sharp gold that leaves you breathless. “Hi, Sam.” Her eyes lock onto Colby and I can’t help but hold my breath. “Colby.” Amber was a goddess. Someone who could walk into a room and catch the eye of everyone in it. I knew if it came down to Colby choosing between us I would never be his first choice. Honestly, I feared I wasn’t even on the roster.

It was no secret that before Colby and I met he had exclusively dated thin women. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that. Every body is beautiful and that is something I have always stood behind. Especially when the world isn’t always kind to women who look like me. The second we had gone public comments came flooding in by the handful. I had never seen so many whale comments in my life. High school hadn’t even been that bad and that was a horrid experience.

“You okay?” I nod but I can tell Colby isn’t satisfied with my answer. “We can table it for now but I want to talk about it later.” He presses a gentle kiss to my temple before stepping away to entertain Amber in a quick conversation. Sam noticed my uneasiness and tapped my shoulder.

“They’re just friends.” I nodded in response but failed to swallow down the bubbling fear of Colby leaving. “I’ve never seen him as happy with anyone as he is with you. I’m stoked he found you.” With a half smile and a firm hand on my shoulder, he saunters off to the next person before we’re all piling into the van that would be our Uber.

“Colbs.” The name is rushed as I graze over the number of seats as well as the number of people. Not enough room. Never enough room. Colby leans down so his ear is hovering next to my lips. “I,” I hesitate already feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I won’t fit.”

“Nonsense, baby. Of course you’ll fit.” He attempts to pull me forward with the hand he has resting on my left side but I don’t move. “Baby-“

“Colby, I really won’t fit. As embarrassing as that is to admit, it’s the truth. In a couple seconds we’ll be the last ones standing here and then everyone will know why I don’t want to get in the van. Amber will know.” His eyes widen in disbelief.

“What does Amber,” he pauses and lets out a heavy sigh. “You can sit on my lap. But we have to go.” Once again he attempts to step forward with me in tow but I stand my ground.

“I’ll crush you. You should just go without me.” He shook his head and finally turned his body to face me giving me his full attention.

“This is an important night for me. You know I want you there. You’re really gonna stay home because you’re scared of a seat?” I knew he didn’t mean it with ill intent but I could see his rising anger behind those baby blue irises. A bitter chuckle leaves his lips and he uses two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose before raising his hands in surrender. “Do what you want. I can’t be late.” I watch as he climbs into the already crowded van and shuts the door. A few seconds later it pulls off and leaves me standing in the driveway in my fancy attire. Tears threaten to spill as I trudge up the long staircase to Colby and I’s shared room.

The mirror facing the door is the first thing I see upon entering our bedroom. A sob escapes my lips at the sight I see. A girl with sad eyes and mascara stained cheeks stares back at me and I quickly claw at the zipper of the dress before tugging it off my body and kicking it somewhere in the room. I dress myself in a comfy sweater and warm sweatpants before throwing a blanket over the mirror and flopping down onto the bed. Hot tears roll down my puffy cheeks as thoughts of Colby and Amber run through my mind.

Hours passed before the door finally opens and Colby steps into the room. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and his jacket is nonexistent. He takes a look at the mirror before noticing my position on the bed and slowly sitting next to me. I don’t need to look to know he’s thinking of what to say. A gentle hand touches my back and begins rubbing it in a soothing motion.

“Can we talk, love?” I turn my head towards him and watch as his eyebrows furrow together at the sound of my sniffling. “I’m sorry about earlier. I know how that would have triggered you and I should have been more understanding.”

“It wasn’t very ‘live, laugh, love’ of you.” I whisper trying to relieve the tension between us only to be given a disapproving look. “It is what it is.”

“Baby,” he moves from the bed to kneel on the floor so he’s eye level with me and uses his free hand to move a few stray hairs out of my face. “That mirror doesn’t define who you are. The way you look doesn’t define who you are. You are so beautiful to me and I know it’s hard for you to believe given the girls I’ve dated in the past, but honey,” he pauses searching my eyes for any sign of understanding. “I am so in love with you. Every inch of your skin. No matter how much there or how little there is. You will never be too much for me.” More tears fall from my eyes as I process his words. “You don’t need to cover the mirrors with blankets because you don’t like what you see. That woman you see staring back at you?” He rises to his feet and holds his hand out for me to grab. Hesitantly, I take it and he leads me to the mirror before slowly removing the blanket and taking a place behind me. “You see her?” I hum in response not tearing my eyes away from the ones that stare back at me. “She deserves love too.”

“How can I love something like that?” Colby moves his hands from my shoulders slowly down my neck. I watch as he traces the crest of my breasts and moves down to the excess skin I try so hard to hide.

“The same way I do. I love every part of you.” He places a sweet kiss at the base of my neck before resting his chin on top of my shoulder. “I will love the parts you hate even more. I’m sorry that you don’t see yourself the way I do, but I promise I won’t stop trying.” I turn away from the mirror and face him. He grazes his hands along my arms pulling them with his to place them around his neck before moving his hands to my waist. “I love you. I will say it every second of every day if that’s what it takes for you to believe it.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” Colby chuckles and presses his lips against mine.

“I think the more important question is, what did I do to deserve you?” I shake my head and lean in again to catch his lips is a sweet kiss. “You’re beautiful. So beautiful.” He places a hand on my right cheek and gently traces the apple of my cheekbone with his thumb. “Now what do you say we go get a milkshake and you tell me about that new show you want to watch?” My heart flutters at the words and I smile.

“You really are perfect.” He laughs and kisses me once more before taking my hand and leading me to the door.

[meera000]

Crazy smells lately

day 1

Obviously i appreciate and cherish all of my senses equally but i feel like i overlook smell the most. i think for me it's a three-way first-place tie between sight touch and sound, and then smell and taste are a two-way second-place tie. if i had to rank them that is — i've been faced with that question a maximum of two times. that being said, the first time i got covid i was like if i lose my taste and/or smell i will kms. didn't happen thank god.

anyway. committed voluntary overstimulation by going into le labo this morning. now i am back in the hotel room and i smell like their paris exclusive vanille 44 perfume and it's giving me a headache. this is just like the time last spring when i put on my usual fragrance before going out — margiela replica by the fireplace … need to try something new i fear — and it gave me such a fucking horrid headache that i had to go to bed early. i like perfume just fine. sometimes it is totally too much though. and, like, i want to understand le labo, because everyone who is cool likes it, but i must have tested out like 10 of their perfumes (8 on paper, 2 on my skin) and i did not like a single one. the only way i can describe how i feel about it was that everything smelled wrong. too strong in an industrial way. i can't come up with a better word. i walked out feeling like i was covered in soot.

and like i'm not even trying to be contrarian here!! i tried so hard to like it! it just didn't do it for me.

tomorrow i am going to go to dover street parfums market. surprisingly i have never tried out any of the cdg perfumes, ironic bc it's my favorite. looking at the brand list on the site rn. little nervous but we will see how it goes.

a couple of my friends work at the aesop downtown which is near where i work, and i should probably go visit them. but i am worried that i just won't understand again. at least i will get a discount.

day 2

hit dover street parfums market. layout was crazy imo. it was like a very clean maze. i left overstimulated … surprise !

i don't have much to say. everything looked cool but i was overwhelmed. lowkey i blacked out. i have only a couple of formulated thoughts which i will share next.

guys i think there is something wrong with me … i didn't love any of the cdg perfumes either. i did like concrete the most, and cdg2 knocked me out in a bad way, but i was just like oh my god for most of it. i don't know what's going on!! i tried out the replica perfumes they had and those were the only ones i actually liked. have i been conditioned by maison margiela to only like their fragrances?! am i going through a phase??? is it ok to not enjoy perfume?!

ugh i need to get into perfume more because i have no idea what i'm talking about. i need to be able to recognize what smells i like-- in the winter i like to be warm and in the summer i like to be fresh, but i need to learn to pinpoint specific smells. hopefully i just smell good naturally too but my biggest fear, more than rejection and being forgotten, is smelling bad and i feel that i have to wear perfume to feel some sort of control!!

now i'm all like, why does it even matter if i don't like any of these dsm perfumes? obvi i want to signal to people that i know what i'm doing -- i am a bitch who loves fashion and has a coherent style whatever, and also a deep love of external validation even tho i am also confident in myself. so it shouldn't bother me if i don't fuck with a cdg perfume because regardless i still have my shit together. i can't let the perfume wear me just because of its brand! and yet here i am like nooo what's wrong with me. i need to take a nap

dspm

[soulmate-game]

This is an alternate ending for my Bio!dad Joker / Bio!mom Harley AU. Or really, the timeline itself will be entirely different starting from the moment that Marinette’s plane lands in Gotham. If you haven’t read the original, you can do so here.

—*—*—*—*—*

“He’s going to find out, Mom.”

“No he won’t, don’t be silly! I’ve been very careful about hiding you from him, Nettie-pie.”

“Mom… I just have a bad feeling. I don’t think we can hide who I am from him. If he sees me, I think he’ll know.”

The phone went silent.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. If I was crazy about him, Sugar, then I’m head over heels for you. Not even he can stop me from caving his skull in if he tries his usual tricks with you.”

“... My plane leaves soon, I’ll talk to you when I land. And mom?”

“Yeah, honeycake?”

“I love you.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette often hated how accurate her intuition tended to be. She had barely even stepped out of the airport before she had felt the prick of a needle in her neck and the sensation of being shoved into a small, dark space before her vision cut out.

Looks like her mom wasn’t able to hide her existence away as well as they thought.

And unfortunately for Marinette, her darling asshole of a father had apparently had ample time to plan his first meeting with her. If he had just used the much easier to acquire Chloroform on her, then Marinette likely would have woken up early enough to come up with a plan. Chloroform was unreliable and wore off fairly easily. But no, he had actually had the time to steal hospital grade anesthetic.

Which meant that Marinette woke up with her wrists zip-tied to heavy links of chain above her head, and her ankles connected to the chain below her with what felt like ten layers of duct tape.

Lovely.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Those were the high-pitched, dramatic words she heard when she came back to consciousness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know who the speaker was— she had watched enough videos online and not-so-legally obtained Asylum and Prison footage to immediately recognize the speech patterns and tone that was echoing around her.

Apparently keeping her eyes closed was not allowed, because it was only a few seconds later that Marinette felt a harsh slap sting her cheek and whip her face to the side. Oh, that would become a bruise without a doubt. Her teeth betrayed her, cutting into the inside of her mouth with the force of the hit. So, when Marinette opened her eyes to glare at the sperm donor responsible for half of her DNA, she aimed her bloody spit right at him. It landed on his shoe, which only a few seconds later slammed into her gut.

Marinette gasped for air even as the chain she was on swung violently, making her dizzy and upsetting her stomach. Too bad she didn’t have anything in there to throw up on him, she thought angrily. The chain links rattled loudly, ringing in her head alongside the electric pain of both of her newly forming bruises.

“Honestly, is that any way to treat your dear ol’ Daddy?” Joker cooed with false offense, one hand over his heart. Marinette glared at him as best as she could as she continued to sway in the open air, the chain she was tied to being the only thing keeping her from plunging straight down into a vat of sickly green, bubbling liquid.

Marinette didn’t need to be told what that liquid was. And joker knew that, the moment he saw her look down at that vat and saw the realization almost immediately cross her face. So instead of explaining, he laughed. Loud, high, and deranged.

“Good, good! That idiot Harley kept you educated, at least,” he said between psychotic chuckles. “Ah yes, and she somehow managed to choose the perfect name,” he glided over to her, as if he was some ethereal demon of chaos instead of a human. His paper-white hand reached out, grabbing her chin in a crushing grip and turning her face this way and that. Inspecting her as if she was a piece of china and not a living being. “So easy to adjust. Right now, you’re Marinette. Just like how, all those years ago, your mother stood here as Harleen. But just as she was dunked into acid and became my harlequin,” he stepped back and grabbed Marinette’s shoulders. He spun her like a top, making the metal chain creak and clink as it wound into a few weak coils and then released back out, trying to go straight again. It sent Marinette twirling through the air in a horrid half-spin, one-eighty degrees one way before sharply spinning to the other side. Joker laughed.

“Just like that, you’re gonna go from boring old Marinette,” he stuck out his tongue like a child, as if the mere taste of her name was bitter. “And you’ll be reborn as my new little Marionette. Aren’t you excited?!”

“Fuck you,” Marinette spat, even as she tried to blink and return her vision to normal. She was far too disoriented to even come up with a plan— but she was still coherent enough to register that the sky was dark outside the high windows of the factory she was apparently in. She had been missing for a few hours then, which meant that her mom and Momma Ivy would have called for help a long time ago. Maybe if she just stalled long enough, it would get there in time. “I’m not a puppet. Not for you, not for anybody!” She snarled.

Joker rolled his eyes, but his smile still widened. “Oh, that’s what they all say. In fact, your mother put up a good resistance there for a while, but her inner chaos couldn’t resist me. You’ll bend even easier, I have no doubt,” her ran his hand along her cheek in a motion that was so gentle that it felt foreign, wrong, to her coming from him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to whiplash her, take all her hope away before dangling the option he wanted her to choose in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Too bad he didn’t know her at all. She cringed away from his gentle touch, revolted by the mere feel of his skin on her’s.

“And your accent is a nice touch,” he cooed as if her reaction didn’t bother him at all. It probably didn’t. “Exotic. Just the thing I need to freshen up my usual act a bit, the Boston twang my old Harlequins had is just… stale by now, don’t you agree?”

Marinette clenched her jaw at the reminder that he had tried to pass off a cheap look-alike as her mom when she disappeared, back when she was pregnant with Marinette, to hide her baby from Joker. How he had discarded that woman like trash when Harley went back to him, only to replace her again when her mom left him for good.

No matter how badly Joker spoke of her mom, Marinette knew that Harley had been the only Harlequin of his to actually last. The only one he kept around, and there was a reason for that. Now, he was looking for another replacement. One that was more than a cheap knockoff, and he was hoping that a teenager with not only Harley’s genetics, but also his own, would be the exact kind of right-hand prop he wanted. An obedient little puppet of chaos, just for him.

But Marinette was nobody's toy. She had been used and taken advantage of enough back in Paris, she had spent her whole life struggling to escape the side effects of her parentage. To deal with the things she inherited.

The obsessiveness, the way she was so quick to get attached. She knew she inherited that from her mom. But there was also the rage, the anger that Marinette constantly had to stuff down. Hide below the surface before it hurt someone. Keep under a tight reign and hide away in the back of her mind, her own dirty little secret.

The constant reminder of just who her biological father was. Because that anger, that viciousness, could only have come from him.

She had spent her whole life trying to carve herself her own identity, to create beauty with the chaotic elements she got from her blood. And she couldn’t blame her mother, not really. Her mother at least did her best to help, and always leant an empathetic ear when Marinette needed it. But Joker?

Oh, she could, and would, blame him even long after he was dead and gone. Because he was the one who hurt her mother, he was the one who twisted her and drove her to feel unfit to be a parent. And sometimes, Marinette thought it would be better if Joker never existed. Sure, that meant she never would have been born. But wouldn’t that have been easier, too? To not ever have to experience the struggle that came with being his daughter, a title she never consented to?

But she couldn’t change the past. She was alive, and she would use her life to spite everything that the Joker stood for. That would be her revenge. He wanted a toy?

Joker had been monologuing, but Marinette drowned it all out as she kept her periphery vision on the windows above her. Shadows moved out there, with familiar bright yellows and shadowy blacks. The bats were there. She just needed to stall.

She opened her mouth. Joker pulled a lever.

Marinette dropped.

Wire whizzed through the air, knocking the breath out of Marinette as it wound around her torso. She was barely able to piece together what was happening; one of the bats shot a human-safe grapple to try and pull her away from the acid.

But the chain and her restraints were stronger, heavier, and just dragged the grapple down with her body.

The impact sent a large wave of sickly green liquid surging over the side of the vat, and Marinette was dragged from view underneath the surface.

It burned.

She distantly felt the tape around her ankles peel itself away from her skin, the combination of acid and wetness rendering it useless. She felt the chemicals burning at her, sending painful tingles across every last inch of her skin. It got in her mouth, she didn’t have any breath in her to hold and ended up swallowing some. It seared her throat and created a river of lava inside her. It hurt.

It hurt so bad, she just wanted out. Out. Out. Out!

Someone pull her out now!

The zip tie around her wrist loosened enough for her to pull herself free, right as something heavy slammed into the heavy metal bowl. The entire container sloshed, slamming to fall onto its side. Marinette’s body was pulled alongside the rush of liquid as it flowed out, and she was able to breathe air again. Sweet, cooling air.

And then she hacked up acid, spitting and spewing it in an attempt to purge every last drop she had accidentally ingested. Like a cat choking on a hairball, she coughed and hacked and her chest convulsed and contracted to try and help her. Her ribs ached, she figured that the grapple that had tried to save her had ended up fracturing or breaking a rib or two. But all she cared about was breathing and getting rid of the chemicals she had inhaled. She needed it out. All of it. Out. Out. Out of her!

“Try to take a deep breath,” a gruff voice commanded, soft but solid. Something stable for her to cling to. So she did as it asked, forcing herself to stop hacking and instead focus on inhaling. As slowly as she could. It was difficult, the first few breaths cut themselves off with more involuntary coughing, but the owner of the gruff voice stayed nearby. Repeated it’s request. “Deep breath. Steady, now. In. Out. Good.”

Marinette was just starting to calm down, just starting to claw herself out of the haze of panic and adrenaline, when that wretched laugh cut through the air again.

“There you are! Heheheheh! My cute little Marionette!”

Marinette froze. She could barely think, barely understand her own emotions. But she knew she was different now. She knew there was no way back, he had taken it from her. He had taken her normality, he had taken all of her years of hard work and burned them right in front of her.

He had won. The bats hadn’t been fast enough. But, if her foggy mind was correct, Batman was the one trying to bring her back to lucidity. Batman was the one trying to help her get air back in her lungs.

Not her so-called father.

If he wanted a toy, she’d be a haunted doll. She’d harass him, haunt him, until he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d come back, like a possessed porcelain doll refusing to be thrown away. She would make him regret ever awakening the monster that she had spent so long forcing down. Because she was her father’s daughter, yes. But she was also her mother’s daughter.

And most importantly, she was Marinette Quinzel-Isley. Her own damned person. The Chosen wielder of the Creation miraculous. And she would never bow down and be used by anyone, ever again.

Tikki’s words from so long ago echoed in her mind. Resounded even louder than Joker’s laughter;

“That’s all order really is, Marinette. The decision to take all the chaos and madness around us, and make it make sense. Make it do something good.”

And wasn’t that everything Marinette had ever done? It was a part of her now. Like a tattoo she had inked into her very soul.

She took the chaos she was given, and turned it into something beautiful. And right now? Right now, the most beautiful thing she could think of was Joker’s face when she slammed her fist into it.

“Easy,” Batman repeated, but for a different reason now. Marinette’s lungs still stuttered a little, but her breathing was mostly under control. Now, he was saying it because Marinette was forcing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled under her, threatening to lay her out on the floor again. But she was every bit as stubborn as Joker, which made for a terrifying combination with her all-consuming fury. The acid had broken the mental chains Marinette had been using to hold it back, and now it burned fierce and bright in her eyes.

So Marinette kept herself up right, cognizant of Batman’s hand on her shoulder but ignoring it. She grit her teeth against the burning light of the room, everything suddenly too bright and colorful. Too vibrant. But it did little to distract her. She realized that one of her hands still gripped the heavy chain that had sent her drowning in the acid, and sent a snarl at her darling, jackass of a father as she whipped it out right towards him.

“Marinette!” Batman yelled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. But he didn’t pull her back, which spoke louder than any words he could have said to her right then. He wouldn’t save Joker from his daughter, he knew the man deserved at least this much pain. And sure enough, the metal links slammed right into Joker’s side, winding around him like a crushing whip.

But that was all Marinette had the strength to do. As soon as she saw Joker’s body hit the floor, writhing in agony and painfully loud cackles, her hand let go of the chain and her body tumbled down. Batman caught her.

“Red Hood, Nightwing, get Joker back to Arkham,” Batman’s order faded in and out of focus. Now that her most pressing desire was taken care of, the effects of the acid reared their ugly heads with renewed ferocity. Everything was too bright, too loud, and her thoughts echoed in her head like voices wrestling for supremacy. “Robin, Black Bat, stay on alert. Harley said that she’s incredibly trained,” he warned his partners. Marinette didn’t begrudge him, the only other two people who had survived being dunked into those chemicals hadn’t exactly treated him with kindness and pacifism. But she could barely focus on them anyway, too distracted by trying to reign in the chaos in her mind.

But Joker would never stay silent, even as he was dragged away in chains.

“Hehehahahahaha! Paper white, paper white!” He jeered cheerfully. “That’s my girl! Violent just like Papa!” Red hood knocked him out with a harsh punch to the side of his neck before he could say another word. But it was enough— enough for Marinette to gasp in realization.

Her skin. It was paper white, just like his. Not even Harley’s skin had been bleached like the Joker’s after her dip in the acid. That had always been makeup. Her mom had a healthy, peachy complexion like anyone else. A complexion Marinette had shared— until now. Now, she was unhealthily pale. Just like him.

A painful screech tore itself from her already raw throat, and Marinette’s fingernails immediately began to tear at her own skin. Red. Red was better than white— she didn’t want to look like him. She couldn’t. White was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Marinette! Stop!” Strong hands clamped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from herself even as she wriggled and tried to keep clawing at herself.

“No! No no no!” Marinette howled. “I don’t wanna look like him! I don’t wanna be like him!” She managed to get one hand free and immediately tried to tear away at her face. Batman was able to wrestle her arm away before she could do any damage besides a few angry red lines. “I refuse! I refuse! I refuse!” She shook her head, not feeling as tears flung themselves off her cheeks.

“Okay,” Batman’s voice was solid again, soft and grumbly and stable. She grabbed at it again, drawn to anything that might help bring her stability. She needed his unflappable attitude right then, and he probably didn’t even realize how badly. “That’s good. But you don’t need to rip your skin off to do that, you know that right?”

Marinette hiccuped, finally sinking down to sob as the weight of everything she had lost pressed down over the chaos of deafening light and blinding sound that continued to jumble around inside her head. “He changed me,” she choked out. Batman nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He did.”

“Th-that f-fucking bastard,” Marinette managed a sad chuckle before devolving right back into sobs. “I wo-worked so h-hard. N-never hurt any-anybody. Never… never yelled. Ne-never hit… Not people who didn’t attack f-first.”

“I know. Your mom told me,” he confirmed calmly. Solid, tethering. Marinette swallowed another gulp of air, trying to calm down. But everything was too much.

“Mom!” She suddenly realized out loud, turning and grabbing at Batman’s chest, clinging to his uniform. She didn’t even care that she almost sliced herself on a batarang, she clung to him desperately with wide, crazed eyes. “G-get Mom and… and Ivy! They… they can help. They know—“ Marinette paused to breathe, then resumed. “Momma Ivy— she gave me—gave me a diluted… th-thingy, years ago, I can’t remember—“ Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to get her mind to calm down. To work.

“The serum she gave Harley?” He asked. “The one that made her immune to poisons, and gave her increased physical abilities?”

“That!” Marinette agreed frantically, nodding. “I was too— too little, to give the real thing, so she diluted it,” she swallowed her spit and winced when it burned her throat. “It… I think it’s helping with the—the—the—“

“The chemical’s effects?” Batman suddenly sounded like he was paying much more attention than before, his shoulders a little straighter at her explanation. “You think it’s slowing down or numbing what it did to your mom and Joker?” Marinette couldn’t talk anymore, it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much, so she just nodded. “Good. That’s good, Marinette. Robin! Get Harley and Ivy down here, now!”

That was when the voices started. Sometime during the ten minutes it took to get her Mom and Ivy to her, they had apparently been waiting nearby anxiously incase the Bats had needed backup, the voices had built from ominous whispers to devious shouts, ordering her to do things like slam her elbow into Batman’s throat or see what happened if she splashed Robin with some of the acid that was still on the ground.

Her body didn’t move. She kept herself carefully still, focusing on ignoring her impulse to listen to one of the voices. She was still lucid enough to know that she would regret it if she did any of that. That the Bats were more on her side than any of the voices or the Joker were. But it was growing painful, and Harley and Ivy walked in to Batman trying to keep Marinette from hitting her own head. She had devolved to trying to knock herself out to get the voices to be quiet.

“Shut up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” She was clearly talking to herself, her eyes screwed shut as she continued to try and hit her head. Harley gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes watering at the sight. This was something she had hoped she would never see.

“Harls,” Ivy spoke softly, putting a gentle arm around her wife’s back in support. It hurt Ivy to see Marinette in so much agony, but she knew it pained Harley even more. And much more personally. “Come on. We can help.”

“Y-you’re right,” Harley agreed shakily, taking a deep breath to try and compose herself before they both approached their daughter. Batman didn’t let go of Marinette, but did lean out of the way to give them access to her.

“Honeycake?” Harley called out softly, a little unsure how the chemicals were affecting her baby’s personality right then. The first few days were going to be the worst, and she knew that. The Dunk never took it easy on it’s victims. Marinette gasped, stopping her muttering and raising her head to look at Harley with wide eyes.

“Momma?”

Harley had to swallow heavily to shove back the sob that wanted to bubble up out of her. She had to be strong for her baby. She couldn’t break yet. But Marinette hadn’t called her Momma since she was little, now she called Pamela ‘Momma Ivy’ and her just ‘Mom’.

“It’s me, sugarplum,” she assured her daughter, kneeling down and cupping one of Marinette’s cheeks in her palm. And that was when she noticed it, and couldn’t help but widen her eyes in shock. But Marinette’s senses were so sensitive that she noticed it right away, and stiffened.

“Wh-what is it?” She grew frantic when Harley didn’t immediately respond, only winced in sympathy. Marinette knew that wasn’t good. “Mom? What is it? What did he do? What else did he do to me?”

“Darling,” Harley started, licking her lips nervously. “My sweet baby girl, your right eye… it’s green now, sugar.”

Marinette’s world froze. She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and disbelieving. “No,” she somehow managed to breathe. “No, mom, I have your eyes. Your blue eyes. I love your eyes,” Her voice steadily got more and more panicked as she went on, not wanting to accept what her mother was clearly seeing. She watched as Harley’s face broke a little, a few tears escaping before the older woman could stop them. Marinette shook her head again, slipping her tiny wrist out of Batman’s hold and raising it to her eye. “No. It’s one of his tricks. He—he must have slipped a contact in my eye when I was passed out, that’s— that’s— that’s all—“ but her fingertip met her normal eye. No contact to be felt. Marinette’s hand fell into her lap limply. The room was absolutely silent as everyone gave her a few seconds to process just how much she had been changed, entirely against her will. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure whether she wanted to yell or curse or cry. Instead, her voice just came out in a very tiny, broken:

“...fuck.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette had gone mostly mute. She would say a word here or there, but for the most part she was doing a good impression of a vegetable. She stayed silent, as still as possible, and just stared at the ceiling of her hospital room.

She had been like that for the past two weeks they had been monitoring her in the Acid’s aftermath. Her ribs, which had turned out to only be bruised thankfully enough, had healed. Her cheek and torso were healed up too, only the barest hint of sickly yellow to show as a reminder of Joker’s hits on her. Sometimes the cameras would catch her talking to seemingly empty air, only for a nurse to rush in and see that Marinette had gone silent yet again.

Tikki was doing her best to help. She had been separated from Marinette, but Pamela had found Marinette’s purse and returned it— and subsequently Tikki— when they had gotten her to the hospital. She was the only person Marinette regularly spoke to, because Marinette knew Tikki understood. Tikki had been around since the Big Bang, she had seen worse things than a little insanity. Tikki had always been there to help her feel at ease with her mind and body. She shared a piece of Tikki’s soul, even, according to the tiny god.

But talking to anyone else was too hard. Too scary. She still had those damned voices at war in her mind, trying to convince her to do things that made her lock her joints and keep her body absolutely still before she acted on any of the coaxes. Possibilities she had never considered before came startlingly easy to her mind now— like how it would only take two seconds to tear her IV out and stab it into her nurse’s eye. How she could use her blanket to strangle Momma Ivy, or how she could fake jumping out the window and Harley wouldn’t waste a second trying to save her.

They were horrible thoughts. Intrusive, ugly, and far too loud. She didn’t want to act on any of them, but sometimes she found her fingers twitching only a second before she could follow through on one.

She spent a lot of time meditating, because of it. Which is why most people thought she was ignoring them. She didn’t mean to, she just needed to meditate. It was like her brain was a giant room filled with filing cabinets that held her thoughts and emotions. Her whole life, Marinette had carefully kept this room alphabetized, organized, and neat. Every file in its correct drawer. Until Joker had come along, and ripped the entire place apart. Tore certain files in half, broke her cabinets, ruined her filing system. And now she had to put the room back together, one drawer and piece of paper at a time.

That’s what the meditation was doing. She was getting reacquainted with herself. Learning what had changed in her mind and trying to adjust. She couldn’t be the old Marinette anymore, but she’d be damned if she let the Joker turn her into someone ugly like him.

So she needed time.

One day, towards the end of those two weeks, she got a visitor slipping through her window. Considering her room was on the tenth floor, she had it pretty narrowed down as to who it could be. Batman had visited her every night, a silent shadow in the corner, but he had already left for the day so it couldn’t be him. None of the other bats had dropped by after the second day.

She turned her head to see that that was now changed; Red Hood sat on her windowsill with one leg inside the room and the other bent on the sill itself. He looked the very picture of comfort despite being a stiff wind (or quick shove— no, bad brain) away from falling to his death. And then Hood took off his helmet, which was ugly enough to inspire some of the more violent suggestions in her brain and make them seem appealing.

“Ya know. Red Hood used to be what Joker called himself,” were the first words out of the vigilante’s mouth. Marinette’s eyebrows pulled down, and it was clear she was confused (and a little angry) at what he told her. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the domino mask on his face. “Eh. The bastard killed me, ya know. I was the second Robin, a lifetime ago.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at that, and the violent voices dimmed and seemed to grow muffled. Marinette couldn’t quite understand what they were trying to tell her anymore, which made her figure that she had better pay attention to what Hood had to say. She licked her dry lips, and spoke softly. Her throat was still damaged from the acid, so she couldn’t speak very loudly yet.

“Then how are you… you know, here?”

The man chuckled. “Another group of assholes happens to have a magic pit in their basement. It’s a glowing green lake, ten different types of bad news. But it brings people back to life, and they dunked me in it without even caring for a second if I even wanted to come back.”

Marinette’s shoulders relaxed all on their own. It seemed to sink into her brain all at once, a simple:

Oh. He gets it.

“I guess the water doesn’t take it easy on your brain, either?” She hazarded an educated guess. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I went off the deep end for a while, and killed a lotta people. They deserved it at least, but I don’t like how violent I was back then. Before I learned how to cope. Attacked people who were innocent. Red Robin almost died when I attacked him, back then, when he was just Robin.”

“Then why’d you keep calling yourself Red Hood?” She asked, tilting her head. He finally turned his head to look straight at her instead of just staring out the window. His grin widened, but it was lopsided. The grin of someone who was healed from some serious shit, but knew that it would always ache. A bittersweet expression.

“Cuz he doesn’t own that name. I made it into something that stands for at least a little good. Something that scares the assholes who don’t care about killing or abusing innocent people. Hell, some people take comfort in the name Red Hood now. And you know what that means?”

Marinette shook her head, and his grin widened into a shark-like smile.

“It means I stole it from him. The name Red Hood. He’ll never use it again, and now it stands for the opposite of anything he’d agree with. You can do that too, you know. Find something to steal from him, or use something he gave you, and make it your own.”

“Turn the chaos into something good,” Marinette said dreamily, clearly quoting someone. Red Hood nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not gonna be easy, but you got the choice here. You ain’t going back to who you used to be, but you can take the victory away from him.”

“... make him regret ever dunking me in that stupid vat,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes as they filled with determination for the first time since her body hit the acid. “He wants a puppet, an obedient little doll, I’ll give him Annabel.”

“There ya go,” The vigilante slid off the windowsill and approached her bed, holding out his hand for a shake. “I can help you get to that. What do ya say?”

Marinette was silent for a long minute, staring straight into his masked eyes. And then, a slow smile spread over her lips. “I got one question, Red Hood.”

“Shoot.”

“How do you feel about black cats?”

—*—*—*—*—*

This took four hours, holy hell. I’m actually happy with how this turned out. What do you guys think? I even got to max length on Tumblr 😂

[hollandgarden]

Drinking Game (TH)

Description: After Tom and his girlfriend are snowed in the for evening, unable to attend Harrison’s birthday party, he comes up with a brillant game. Each rounds leaves one of them with more or less clothing. Who will be the winner of the head on surprise?

Warnings: smutty af (if you’re under 18, maybe don’t read), alcohol use, swearing, stupid sexy Tom 

Word Count: 1,848

***

“Hey, babe?” I called. 

Tom came swiftly down the stairs, ready to go to Harrison’s birthday party. “What?”

I shot him a nervous smile as I pulled back from the window. “The snow is coming down pretty good. News says the roads are already slick.” 

“Damn, I’ll message H. We should not risk it,” he mumbled, pushing up his glasses, and crossed his arms. “No excuse to drink then.” 

“You need an excuse?” I snorted. “We both know that’s not true.” 

Tom tapped his chin, a subtle smirk crossing his face. “Let’s have our own drinking game.” 

“What kind?” 

I followed him into the squared off kitchen and watched him take out a whole twelve pack of Coors Light. This oughta be interesting. 

“We’ll have six rounds. First five the loser has to remove an item of clothing. The sixth round, the loser goes down on the winner,” Tom explained. 

I eyed him curiously. “Basically, we’re getting shit-faced and someone’s getting head?”

He bit his lip, then chuckled “Yeah, pretty much. Sounds good, yeah?”

The look on his face alone should’ve warned me what it actually involved. But I couldn’t argue that this wasn’t going to be better than going out with friends.

“Sounds fucking perfect. Let’s get started.” 

Both of us took off our winter coats and shoes before we settled into the living room. I pulled back my hair with the tie on my wrist. Who knew how this was going to go; it was a toss up honestly. But winning the last round would be oh so fucking sweet. 

“Ready?” Tom started as he popped his tab. 

“Steady,” I countered, popping my own. 

“Go!” we both yelled and started chugging. 

Oh, boy, this first round was not going to be good for me. The bubbles running down my throat made me cringe a little and slowed me down. I went as fast as I could though, yet Tom slammed his empty on the coffee table first.

I did get better the more drunk I was. We both knew that. 

“I say jumper,” he stated, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You didn’t say the winner chose the item,” I retorted, already holding back a small burp from the carbonation. 

Tom fully smirked. “I’m adding it now. Come on, make it more fun, my love.” 

He was right on that. I barely huffed as I pulled off the navy crew neck to reveal my black lace bra. 

“Look at those,” he whistled lowly. 

I rolled my eyes. “Tom, you’ve seen them before.” 

“But they’re yours and I love them every time.” 

I couldn’t stop the heat that filled my cheeks, and that was partly due to the one drink and heater we had going. 

“Second round.”

I struggled against the same bubbly current. I chugged the liquid through the tiny hole as quickly as possible. I eyed Tom from the corner of my eye and he was doing the same; a clint of amusement sparkled. I coughed at the little bit of alcohol went down the wrong tube and I had to stop. 

He threw his arms in the air. “I win!” He gestured widely at my bottoms area. “Skirt next. I want the skirt.”

“If you say so. You won’t win every round. I’ll get one and then it’s my turn to make the call.” I stood up before I reached back for the zipper of the black and white houndstooth mini. I inched it down, Tom enjoying every second until it naturally fell to the ground. I flicked it to the side with my foot. I did sway a little and after this third I would definitely be tipsy. 

Tom leaned over to plant a sweet kiss on my lips. “I look forward to it.”

We cheered to start the third. The time slipped by as it had in the others. Some of the beer splashed onto my cheek, but I managed to win this one. I had found my rhythm finally. No more stuffing my cheeks as much as I could before swallowing and doing it again; I went straight for a fluid stream. 

I ripped one to announce the victory. There was no way to stop the giggles that followed and I covered my mouth with the hand that held the empty to hide them. “Go ahead with... your button up.” 

“Cheers, I was gett-” he lightly burped and busted out laughing. “I was getting stuffy.”

I licked my lips as he barely fumbled with the buttons. He raised his eyebrows up and down, like an idiot, as he whipped it off to reveal his beautiful chest. There was no way to not linger on the collarbone area and biceps, and I had to swallow away the sensation. 

Get a hold of yourself.

I shot up and slid into the kitchen. “Eat. We need a s-snack!”

“Get the crisps!” he yelled. 

I dramatically opened the cabinet doors and crawled up onto the counter, which was immensely unnecessary but so fun. Then I scrambled the three different bags into my arms and hurried back to him, tossing the bag of crisps to him. I ate out of the already opened bag of popcorn. The saltiness and slight crunch was exactly what I needed; though chicken nuggets wouldn’t be a bad idea either. This would do. 

Tom leaned back against the armchair with his eyes closed and munched slowly. 

“Not done already, are you?” I giggled under my breath. “I-I think… that qualifies as an automatic win for the final prize.”

“Nope!” He shot his head up. “Just resting up, darling.” 

I popped another piece into my mouth. “Let me know when.”

“When.”

“Ha ha.”

He rolled up the bag and tossed it aside. “Seriously, let’s go.” 

I scooted back up to the table, letting my legs sprawl underneath it and rest up against his. “Okay.” 

Let me save you from the gory details of my horrid slurping. Tom won his third round. I knew the crisps would soak up some of his alcohol and sober him up enough to focus. Fuck. 

Slowly, he set the can on the table and tapped his chin, “How about.... Your underwear, but leave the tights on.

I furrowed my brows. “W-why?” 

He squinted an eye momentarily and shrugged. “It’s hot.” 

There was no way I’d admit to him that I agreed. Though, this meant I had to go through the hassle of taking off the sheer black material and pulling them back on. I’m sure that was unattractive to watch; embarrassing for sure. He was the only one I’d ever do this for. 

My vision was getting blurry, and if I attempted to use my phone it would definitely end in a disaster. But a hilarious moment in the morning. Alas, I tossed it somewhere on the couch to stop myself. 

We went straight into the fifth round and I practically spilled half of the beer on my chest. Well, that was one way to win. 

“Bott-ttems.” I pointed him up and down. “Take them off, Holland.”

I gazed in pure amusement as he tried to dance them off. 

“You’re such a dork.” 

He pointed at me abruptly with a serious look. “But you love me.” 

I rolled my eyes. “I do. More snacks or should we go straight into the next?”

“Straight!” He circled his hand and plopped down to grab his last can. 

I reached over for my last and it took me two tries to pick it up. I was basically drunk. If we were at a club and anyone asked, I’d try to convince them I wasn’t. I’m sure if he asked right now, I’d do the same. It wouldn’t be believable. 

This final round was the one that truly counted, though I wouldn’t care who won. It was pleasurable to give and receive in my opinion. 

“One,” I started. 

Tom cocked a brow, bringing the can closer to his mouth. “Two.” 

I also brought the cool metal to touch my lips. “Three!” 

I tiled my head back as far as I could to give leverage for a smoother chug. It was by far the best I had done all the rounds, though that didn’t matter. It didn’t take a scientist to see how slow Tom was drinking. 

When I finished, I slammed my empty on the table and whipped my arms out. “You cheated!” 

“I cheated?” he gasped and rested a hand on his chest. “You won!” 

I giggled. “You let me win.” 

“I…” He held a finger up. “I did not… Y-you won fair and square, my love.”

Tom crawled his way over to my side and left small kisses on my neck. “Get up-p on the couch.”

I couldn’t stop the short giggles. But I backed my way up onto the couch. I rested my legs on his shoulders and eyed him. His lips left sweet kisses on the inner of my thighs and trailed all the way up. We were going straight for it; that was fine by me. 

His mouth came close to the already throbbing at the thoughts. His breath left me cringing. The laughs couldn’t be controlled as he did a few more puffs of air on purpose. It tickled and he knew that. 

“Stop that.”

Tom looked up at me for a moment with a laugh before he slid his tongue up and down. It was hot against my clit and I swallowed. He wouldn’t get the satisfaction of pleasing me so soon. 

“Not yet,” I mumbled, tangling my fingers in the soft, chocolate curls. 

Tom licked his lips, pure determination in his eyes. His mouth disappeared and the slick warmth returned. He continued his slower teases, not missing a single area. Every inch was loved. His lightly calloused hands trailed up on my outer thighs and landed on my lips for a squeeze. It caused me to shiver. 

I found myself making small pulses and moaned as I closed my eyes. His lips left sweet kisses as well. That was torturing. 

His hands pulled down the tights, only halfway, and he used them to keep my legs at his sides; this was why he wanted me to leave them on, I knew that now. I whimpered as he leaned back in. His licks turned into numbing flicks on my clit. We should’ve put a towel down; this was not something I should be thinking about right now. 

“More, Tom. Make me cum.” 

I had to sit up a little as leverage when the burning sensation began and gasped. I gripped the throw pillow beside me with my final moans and clenched. I revelled in the following shudders. It was almost better than the actual high.

“Fuck,” I breathed. The only coherent thought I had after that drunken orgasm. “I… definitely won.” 

Tom crawled his way up to give me a peck. “We both won, darling.”

I laughed. “I say we play this again next weekend.”

“I agree…. Shall we eat and binge more Teen Wolf.” 

I clapped my hands. “Hell yeah!”

[Masterlist]

[anne-i-write]

promise

| requested by anon: “Hello ^^ can I ask about the reader Albert Xreader . How would Albert react if he saw that his younger brother (original William) and his mother did not like Albert's girlfriend because her family helps lower class people. What would Albert do if he saw that his brother and his mother were abusing his beloved. sorry for the hopless idea 🙏” |

albert james moriarty x reader

word count: 1107

tw: lady moriarty being lady moriarty and mentions of death

a/n: wow okay um,, i swear i had a plot in mind but in order for it to somehow work, i delayed the burning of the moriarty manor. i hope this is coherent enough to understand and that hopefully this was what you wanted!!!

Noblesse oblige was something that William James Moriarty and his mother took to heart.

They didn’t care about the happiness and gratitude that their deeds brought to the working class; if it made them seem like angels in the eyes of their social circle, then they would grin and bear it. But if they had to spend more time than needed around “filth,” they would simply turn their nose up and leave.

That’s why they despised you and your family.

It was when they first saw you at a tea party, your parents looked perfect, not a hair out of place. You, however, had lightly stained clothes and messy hair. It disgusted Lady Moriarty. How could a baron have the gall to have their child look like that in public?

It was at that same tea party that you met Albert James Moriarty. He had taken an instant liking to you after he saw your untidy state. He heard the whispers about your appearance and the disappointment you brought to your parents but he couldn’t help himself from approaching you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must smell horrid.” You apologized when you saw Albert coming closer. The boy laughed as he stopped in front of you. “No need for apologies.” He smiled and you let out a soft breath. “You smell fragrant if you ask me.” He said, referring to your extremely strong citrus perfume.

Your eyes widened before shaking your head. “I knew Mother sprayed far too much perfume on me,” You muttered before Albert laughed. “You seem disheveled, are you alright?” A light smile crossed his face when you offered him a chair for him to sit down.

“I was busy helping around town, I forgot to check the time and left in a hurry.” You smiled and Albert’s eyebrows raised. “I would have looked more presentable if I managed my schedule correctly.” Albert shook his head and watched as you leaned on the table, which would have gotten him an earful from his mother if he repeated your actions.

“You’re giving me the look.” He tuned back into your voice and he saw your uninterested face. “How old are you?” He watched as your lips quirked into a small grin and you leaned back. “Quick to the questions, aren’t we?” He rolled his eyes and you chuckled.

“I’m 11.” You caught the glint of surprise in his eyes and Albert huffed, an amused look on his face. “You’re quite testy, aren’t you?” You both leaned back, sly grins both on your lips, no doubt enjoying the unidentifiable atmosphere.

“You mustn’t be much older,” You quickly replied and his green eyes narrowed. “I’m 13.”

“So you aren’t much older!” His heart skipped a beat when you laughed. “I’m (Y/N) (L/N),” You said, sticking out your hand for him to shake.

“Albert Moriarty.”

And thus, your friendship began and quickly blossomed into what can only be called childhood love.

You two had often kept in touch through letters, much to the displeasure of his mother. Not only was she disgusted by your unkempt appearance, but there was no reason to entertain a family of a lower status. You and your family spent too much time around the “filth” in the town, and she refused to have Albert tainted by your nonsense ideals.

A few years passed and Lady Moriarty decided to hold a 16th birthday party for her eldest son.

Of course, by Albert’s wishes, she reluctantly sent out an invite to your family.

“Where are your parents, dear?” She asked in a sickly sweet tone as soon as you stepped into their manor.

Thankfully, you looked much more presentable in her eyes, but the stench of the working class was stuck to your clothes. “They couldn’t make it today, so they wanted me to send their regards.” You smiled, hands folded politely in front of you. You watched as her eyes turned cold and she moved to the side, her face painted in a forced smile.

“You might want to change your clothes, darling. It could prevent you from finding a suitor if you continue to grow up that way.”

The comments never stopped since then. Since Albert was around you most of the time, they never physically attacked you.

Of course, you being you, you caught onto their implications quickly. You had to persuade Albert that he should leave it alone, but it never sat right with him.

It was on one day your parents invited them over that Albert had finally had enough.

“You don’t have to hold your thoughts in about my mother, you know?” He muttered as you both sat in the library. You looked up from your book, a somber smile on your face. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, Albert.” He hated the way you were criticised, especially when you did nothing wrong.

“My father’s simply a baron.” You sighed. “If I complained about someone of higher status than him, I wouldn’t dare think about the consequences.”

Albert huffed, putting his book down. “They think they’re so powerful just because of Father’s name. The most he is is an earl.” He stared at you intently before a thought crossed his mind.

“I know we’re young, but will you be my spouse?” A strange noise came out of your throat and you quickly shut your book. “Albert!” You sputtered, face hot.

You had harbored a small crush on the Moriarty brother, but only your wildest dreams have you ever heard him utter those words. “We’re not even--”

“My mother wouldn’t make snide remarks anymore. You’ll be treated with the respect you deserve and I’ll make sure of it.” He was so sincere you almost agreed.

“Albert, I appreciate the offer, but we’re nowhere close to the age of marriage!” You exclaimed and he smiled. “Then I shall wait for you until you’re 19.” The genuine tone in his voice made a shy smile blossom on your face.

“You promise?” Albert smiled and his heart fluttered at your breathtaking smile. “I promise.”

He really intended to keep it. He promised.

But when he saw his mother and brother attempt to frame his adopted brothers, every little comment that they made about you and everyone lower than them filled his mind with a calm fury. It was when the Moriarty manor burned down did he realize that your promise would have to wait longer. He was heartbroken that he would make you wait longer than needed, but his mother and brother dying in that estate brought a sense of relief.

That was three fewer people that would no longer harass you anymore.

moriarty the patriot general taglist: @zoehanji

[kathonyxbee]

Wicked Game

Happy Day 6 of Kathony Week! 🐝🌷⛈

I know I've been a little absent the past 3 days, but I had to finish and submit my dissertation. Which I did, yesterday, so I wrote today's fic. I do have an idea for a fic for yesterday's prompt, so I'll probably post that, too when I do it, but I don't think I'll have one for each day.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this smut galore! 💕

Make me. That was how it had started, this wicked game of theirs. With two simple words and a yellow cap.

Day 6: "Make me"

Anthony hid Kate's yellow cap, so when she asks him to tell her where it is, his response is "make me" and Kate does like a challenge.

Or, when Anthony gives Kate a challenge, she decides to torture him and smut ensues.

Anthony let out a heavy sigh and took a sip of his scotch, taking comfort in the familiar sensation amber liquid burning his throat, trying to relax. Not that he really needed to. It was only his family coming to dinner, after all. He took another sip, downing his drink. At least not all of them were coming, but it was enough that Hyacinth and Gregory would be there. Dear Lord.

The door to his study burst open, and he sat up, alarmed, but relaxed upon seeing Kate enter, looking a vision in a yellow gown covered in jewels that sparkled as they caught in the light whenever she moved. And Kate always moved, always in motion. And she always sparkled. She’d clearly been getting ready, her hair pulled into a neat twist, a few curls escaping it, and she hadn’t yet put on her jewelry, save for her engagement and wedding rings which always resided on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Kate had been a ball of stress, of constant fretting and worrying for the past two weeks or so, ever since the two of them invited his family over for dinner. They’d put the event off, first because they wanted to wait until the season was over, then because of the accident and Kate’s leg needing to heal, and then she’d gotten pregnant with Edmund, and then they’d moved into Bridgerton House, and Edmund had been born and the past year had been a whirlwind. But they’d finally decided on a date, and even Kate had to admit that doing this dinner at Bridgerton House was a much better idea than at his bachelor lodgings. So, invitations had been issued, and Kate had been spending the past two weeks fully immersed in the preparations. And, Anthony hadn’t quite anticipated what hell that would be. He was surprised no servants had deserted, but then Kate wasn’t a monster, not like that horrid Araminta Gunningworth. Actually, Kate was always lovely and kind with the servants, who were quite devoted to the new Lady Bridgerton. Suffice to say, the past two weeks had been eventful at Bridgerton House. But, finally, the dinner was happening and Anthony could have his wife back.

His wife.

He smiled at her, and opened his mouth to greet her, but Kate beat him to it, coming to stand in front of his desk.

“Anthony, have you seen my yellow cap?” she burst out, huffing slightly, clearly annoyed. “You know, the one that matches this dress?” she added, giving him a pointed look, one eyebrow raised.

Ah, so that was why she was here. Well, this was certainly going to be interesting because Anthony had absolutely no intention to tell her where it was.

“Well?”

He smiled, “hello, dear.”

“Yes, hi. My cap?”

“I have absolutely no idea where it is,” he lied. “Have you tried asking the servants?”

Kate huffed and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, “well, of course I asked the servants!” she snapped. “I asked them, first,” she glared, rather pointedly at him, and he leaned back slightly, trying to appear relaxed, but concerned, not to give away the fact that he had the bloody hat. Or, why exactly he’d taken it. “But, then,” she drawled, rounding the desk to sit on it, closer to him, “I thought there is one person in this household I haven’t asked. And, he most certainly knows where my cap might be.” She smiled triumphantly, and he swallowed thickly. Even with the slight distance between them, he was suddenly assaulted by her scent, soap and lilies, leaving him dizzy, intoxicating with the scent of his wife.

“Humboldt?” he offered with a shrug, referring to their butler.

Kate rolled her eyes, “very funny,” she muttered acerbically. “You,” she said simply.

“Me?”

She nodded, “yes. You. You see, dear husband,” she said sweetly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, “it just occurred to me that you have a rather peculiar dislike for my caps,” she informed him.

“I do?” It sounded like a question.

“Indeed,” she nodded.

“Well, I do find them unnecessary,” he told her, shrugging. “Especially when a woman has such beautiful hair as you,” he told her, reaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Kate rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his answer.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Where is my cap?”

“I have no idea, darling,” he told her, emphasizing the term of endearment a little too much, and she tutted in response.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“We both know you know where it is,” she said, glaring at him pointedly.

“We do?”

“We do,” she nodded emphatically. His shoulders slumped, slightly, causing Kate to grin. “Tell me where it is?”

“No.”

“No?” She arched an eyebrow.

“No,” he nodded.

“Anthony?” she prompted, trailing her fingers along his arm slightly, causing him to stiffen.

“Yes?” he dragged the word out, trying not to succumb to the fact that Kate had quite the effect on him.

“Tell me where my cap is,” she said slowly, enunciating each word, leaning closer to him, so close he was enveloped in her scent, making him dizzy.

“Make me,” he muttered. And, as soon as the word fell from his lips, he regretted it because Kate eyes flashed with something. His wife, after all, did like a challenge. And, Anthony knew, without a doubt, that he was in deep trouble.

“Very well,” Kate pursed her lips slightly, and stood up to lock the door of his study. Anthony swallowed convulsively as she returned to his desk.

Slowly, Kate swung her legs over, so she was sitting more comfortably on his desk, as opposed to just leaning on it, but put some distance between them, designed only to torture him.

“Kate,” he gulped, “what are you doing?”

She grinned, rather wickedly, that gleam in her eyes making him feel rather heated, and then leaned forward, closer to him, but not close enough to touch. “Well, dear husband,” she drawled, “we are going to play a game,” she informed him.

“We are?” he uttered, unable to formulate anything more coherent.

“Oh yes,” she murmured, her voice low and husky, and all Anthony wanted was to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, but that was probably not the point of this game of hers. “The rules are very simple. I will try to guess where you’ve put my cap, and every time I’ve guess it right, you can touch me,” she informed him simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Touch you?” he muttered.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed out, and then tugged on the neckline of her dress slightly, revealing a little more of her breasts. Her perfect, perky breasts. Anthony reached for her, intending to help her, but she stopped him, her fingers gripping his wrist. “No touching,” she muttered, leaning closer to him. “Not now,” she smirked.

Oh. Good God.

“Kate, I-” Anthony swallowed thickly, cutting himself off, as Kate’s hands roamed over her breasts, squeezing them slightly, tugging the material of her dress away from them, revealing more of her perfect chest, but not too much, just enough to torture him.

She bit her lip, “so, is it here? At Bridgerton House?” she asked, still working to free her breasts, and Anthony wanted to reach for her, to help her. Up close, he noticed that her dress wasn’t simply a light yellow, but mixed with a light peach and pink fabric that made Kate’s dark skin glow. It was an odd sort of thing to notice, the specific colors of her dress, but there it was.

“I could help you, you know,” he informed her, licking his lips. She hummed, still smirking.

“Oh, yes. That would be lovely. But, first you must tell me if I’m right,” she told him. “That is how it works, dearest husband. You tell me if I’m right, you can help me,” she explained, her lips twitching. Oh. Good Lord, she was good, his wife. She was bloody good. Deviously so. She would win, either way. And, he had already lost. And, he found, that he didn’t particularly mind.

“Yes,” he grunted. “Yes, it’s here. In this house.”

She grinned, her eyes gleaming with glee. “Well, go on, then. Help me, Anthony,” she muttered breathlessly, motioning for him.

He didn’t need to be told twice, and immediately moved closer to her, reaching for her, his hands going to the three small buttons at the back of her dress, slowly undoing them. He didn’t need to see them to know where they were, and he much preferred to be staring at Kate’s bosom as he undid the buttons.

“Good,” she muttered as his hands rested on her shoulders, fingers grasping onto the sleeves of her dress, intending to tug it off, but she stopped him, seizing his wrists. “My turn,” she muttered as he removed his hands from her shoulders, pushing him back into his chair.

And then, she reached for the hem of her dress, her hand going underneath it, and Anthony knew where this was going to lead, what she was about to do, and she was going to use it to torture him. He reached for her again, but she stopped him with her free hand.

She tutted, “that isn’t how the game works, Anthony. I haven’t made my guess, yet.” She smirked, “no touching, or I shall have to tie you to this chair,” she added. He only managed to grunt his assent as Kate let out a small moan.

He didn’t need to see beneath her skirts to know what she was doing. After all, not only did he have a rather vivid imagination, especially when it came to his wife’s body, but he also knew her body, better than his own, even. He knew every inch of skin, ever crevice, her tickle spots as well as her pleasure spots, he knew all of her. And he knew her hand had trailed along her legs until she’d reached her maidenhead, and he imagined her rubbing her fingers against it as she panted slightly. He felt himself getting hard, wanting to get up and sweep her into his arms, lay her on his study desk and have his way with her.

“Is it…” he breath hitched slightly in her throat, “is it in our bedroom?”

He shook his head, and stood up to move closer to her, this time reaching for her corset, his fingers deftly undoing its laces as Kate let out another moan, her movements beneath her skirt becoming quicker. “But, you already knew that, didn’t you?” he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing against her skin, and he felt her shiver slightly.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, panting slightly. “Is it,” she paused and her free hand ghosted over her breasts once more, rubbing them slightly as he sat back down, “is it in the drawing room?”

He shook his head once more, but didn’t move.

Kate was looking increasingly flushed, her movements more rapid, “is it in the informal drawing room?”

Again, he shook his head.

“The dining room?” she asked, her breath hitching in her throat as she continued to pleasure herself.

“No,” he told her, his own voice husky as he stood up and rounded the table, and slowly began undoing her coiffure.

“Anthony!” she exclaimed, but he ignored her, removing the pins in her hair, letting her curls fall down, slowly, one by one.

“I did help you. Twice,” he whispered into her ear, and because he couldn’t help himself, he nipped slightly on it, teeth grazing it lightly. “And, it’s not in the dining room, either. Or, in Edmund’s room.” He smirked, “two can play at this game, wife. I’ve helped you four times, now.”

Kate gasped, and reached for him, her hand cupping the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as Anthony removed the last of her pins, her dark curls now falling freely down her shoulders. She stiffened, arching her back slightly, and he could see that she was reaching her pinnacle as her fingers continued to rub against her clit.

“The spare bedrooms?” she asked.

“Wrong again,” he muttered as his hands roamed her breasts, over the material of her dress, rubbing over where her areoles were, causing Kate to let out another moan. She arched her back again, tensing slightly, as he nipped on her ear once more while his hands continued groping her breasts. “I could tell you, you know?” he whispered into her ear.

“You forfeit so easily?” she quipped as she leaned against him slightly, her hands gripping his hair harder.

“You drive a hard bargain, wife,” he remarked. “Besides, I think I should much prefer helping you than playing this game,” he added, smirking slightly.

“I see,” she murmured.

“You do see, don’t you?”

“Well,” she trailed her fingers along his jaw, “where is it?”

“If I tell you,” he muttered, “I want a condition of my own.”

“And, what would that be?” she whispered as his hands trailed down to rest on her waist, and he could practically see the smug smirk she wore.

“I get to have my way with you,” he said simply, his voice a low, husky whisper. “On this desk,” he added, his voice hoarse.

“Well, I do like the sound of that,” she murmured, smirking slightly.

He merely hummed and pushed her dress down until it pooled on the floor before undoing the rest of the laces of his wife’s corset. And then, he picked her up and gently set her onto his desk, sweeping his things off in the process, but he could care less as he took in the sight of Kate lying on his desk, her curls a halo around her head, her skin flushed, her eyes dark with lust as he removed his tailcoat and cravat.

“So, where is it?” she whispered as she sat up slightly, helping him remove his waistcoat and shirt, her hands roaming all over his torso.

“Where is what, dear wife?” he asked, furrowing his brow slightly.

“The cap!” she huffed.

“Ah,” he sighed. “I’m not going to simply tell you. Where is the fun in that?” he quipped, and Kate glared at him as he positioned himself over her, ready to pounce. “You’re going to have to make me,” he told her, smirking deviously.

“What?” she gasped as her hands wound around his neck, fingers gripping onto his hair, tugging on it.

“Make me,” he muttered against her lips, the scent of soap and lilies enveloping him once more.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

Make me. That was how it had started, this wicked game of theirs. With two simple words and a yellow cap.

Kate had never considered herself a wicked woman, had never considered that what happened between a married couple was for any purpose other than making children. But, Anthony Bridgerton had changed all that. He’d taught her that it was as much about her pleasure as his, he’d taught her how to pleasure herself, he’d taught her how to be adventurous and, yes, wicked. After all, her husband used to be the biggest Rake of them all. Of course, he was now anything but dangerous and rakish, but the two of them did enjoy the occasional bedroom adventure. He’d made her wicked, only for him, of course, and she found that she did not mind. She rather liked it, actually. After all, she was the one who had come up with their little wicked game, pleasuring herself in front of him until he’d given in.

“Make me,” he repeated, breathlessly, against her lips. Kate smirked. Anthony’s brow furrowed.

Slowly, she tilted her head and pressed her lips against the crease that had formed between his eyebrows, a barely-there kiss, her lips merely ghosting over the spot before she cupped his cheeks, and captured his lips with her own as her legs wrapped around his waist, and she felt him move between her legs, rocking slightly.

Her lips moved slowly against his, but Anthony soon deepened the kiss as his hands roamed her body, fingers trailing along her sides before cupping her breasts, rubbing over her nipples. Kate didn’t shy from responding to his movements, her own hands roaming all over his body, fingers trailing along his back as her lips became more urging, more demanding against his.

Anthony briefly broke the kiss, and pulled back slightly, his nose rubbing against hers. “Kate…” he gasped, “I don’t think- I can’t wait, Kate, I-”

“Me neither,” she murmured against his lips. “I want you, Anthony. I want you now.”

That was all he needed to thrust into her, and he shifted them both around slightly, accommodating himself, and allowing her to be comfortable. She always was, her husband fitting perfectly inside her. The two of them fit, just right, as if they’d been made for each other, perfectly in sync. Slowly, he began thrusting into her, and she ground her hips against his, matching his movements.

“You feel so good,” he muttered. “So damn good, Kate…”

“Mm… Anthony,” she moaned as her fingers dug into his skin slightly. She needed him, needed him like she needed air. “Faster, Anthony,” she urged him, breathlessly, and he picked up pace, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic as their lips crashed once more, molding perfectly with each other, tongues tangled together. “Oh, Anthony…” she sighed against his lips as he broke the kiss.

“Kate…” he gasped before his lips brushed against her jaw, pressing a kiss there. And then, another one. And another one.

“Oh, Anthony…” she moaned, breathless and panting as he trailed kisses along her jaw before moving to her neck, his lips brushing against it, pressing kisses down the slope of her neck until he reached her collarbone and he settled on a spot, biting on it. He nipped, he sucked, she moaned, she whimpered.

His hands didn’t stop moving either, continuing their ministrations on her breasts, rubbing her nipples, squeezing her breasts slightly, earning another moan from her, her grip on his hair tightening, her hips continuing to grind against his, matching his thrusts. They were completely in sync, their bodies completely familiar to the other. It was like they knew what the other was thinking, what the other needed. I burn for you. I desire you. I want you. It’s never been so good… Only you.

He kissed, he licked, she sighed, she groaned.

Her hands were in his hair, tugging on it, fingers threading through it before drifting down, hands roaming over his back, nails digging into his skin. His hands were cupping her breasts, rubbing her nipples, making her moan and whimper, and God, his ministrations on her breasts made her weak, dizzy with pleasure.

It’s fast and urgent and filled with need, and slow and loving all at once, each touch filled with a thousand affirmations, a thousand unsaid I love you’s, a thousand whispers of need.

One of his hands removed from her breasts, and he reached for hers, his fingers tangling with hers as he pressed it against the desk, as his thrusts became faster and faster, more urgent, and she knew he was close and so was she, and she didn’t mind.

Their lips connected briefly, another passionate and demanding kiss, all teeth and tongue, and she was sure her lips were going to be swollen afterwards, but she didn’t care. In this moment, with her husband, copulating on his study desk, she didn’t care.

He broke the kiss once more, “I’m so close… Kate… are you?”

She moaned, “so close, Anthony… I-”

He cut her off with another searing kiss, and his palm pressed harder against hers, his fingers tightening through hers, and she felt herself tightening, too. Anthony pulled away from her again, breaking the kiss, though his lips remained mere inches from hers. She bumped her nose against his and arched her back as he thrust again, harder this time, and she felt herself reach pinnacle, moaning his name as she held onto him. Then, he went utterly still and let out a loud groan before collapsing onto her, and she felt herself relax, too, slumping beneath him.

He rolled off her slightly, but still wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer.

“You are so perfect,” he muttered, breathlessly, and she blushed. He pressed his lips to her temple. “You.” Kiss. “Are.” Another kiss. “So.” Another kiss. “Bloody.” Kiss. “Perfect.”

She reached for him, cupping his cheek, tugging him towards her so she could look at him, and their gazes met once more.

“So are you. We fit perfectly, dear husband,” she murmured, her lips curving into a soft smile. “I know I have been a little crazy the past few weeks with the family dinner and all,” she admitted, biting her lip slightly.

“I know,” he nodded. “But, you have nothing to worry about, Lady Bridgerton,” he told her, pressing his lips to her forehead, and she relaxed in his arms. “You are the perfect viscountess, Kate. The right viscountess. For me. And, my family knows that. You have nothing to worry about,” he added.

She smiled, “thank you. I love you, Anthony.”

“I love you, too,” he told her, his voice firm, certain. His brow creased again, slightly, and she brushed her finger against it, smoothing it.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly because he only got that crease when something wasn’t okay, when he was worried, or concerned, or angry, or anything but content.

“Yes,” he nodded, his lips curving into a smile. “But, we should probably go and finish getting ready. We do not want to be late, do we, Lady Bridgerton?”

She grinned, “of course,” she muttered before she lifted her head slightly and brushed her lips against his forehead, right where that crease formed. “Now, quit worrying, Lord Bridgerton,” she added as he stood up and pulled up his breeches, buttoning them before grabbing his discarded shirt and waistcoat.

They helped each other get ready, Anthony lacing her corset as she tied his cravat before he helped button her dress as well.

“I should go upstairs and attempt to salvage my hair,” she sighed once they were both ready.

“You do have time,” he told her, checking his watch.

“Anthony?” she prompted, because she hadn’t forgotten why exactly she’d come to his study.

“Yes?”

“Give me my cap, please,” she gave him a pointed look.

Anthony sighed and opened one of the drawers of her desk, revealing the yellow cap.

“Don’t wear it,” he said softly as he handed it to her. “And, don’t put your hair up.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, “why?”

He came to stand closer to her and gently played with her hair, running his fingers through her curls. “Because your hair is beautiful, and I don’t want you to hide it. Especially here,” he said, his voice husky.

Kate’s lips curved into a delighted smile. “Very well,” she murmured with a sigh.

She did, indeed, pull it into a half-up twist, choosing to use one of her flower pins to adorn it, and when she caught her husband’s gaze, he gave her an appreciative smile. And, she couldn’t help but wink at him.

[tdpi-but-better]

alright, i finally got my shit together and managed to put together some coherent notes on the twins’ rewrite personalities!

this probably isn’t everything i have to say about them, but it’s all i have for now.

(here are the redesigns, in case you missed them)

before i say anything else, in this au they’d be on different teams.

something i see a lot in fanfics or other rewrites is sammy being smarter than amy, doing her homework and generally being the better twin.

so i thought, why not flip it around? let's say amy is smart, determined and ruthless, while sammy is creative, spacey and kind of a pushover. amy is rude to people she doesn’t trust and sammy has a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. amy is brash and stubborn while sammy is open-minded and easily persuaded. their personalities, realistically, should clash, but they make it work.

let's say amy and sammy used to be inseparable. they loved each other to pieces and were always joint at the hip.

however, even when they were young, amy was the golden child. her grades were better, she was more motivated, more athletic, more well-liked.

in contrast, sammy was more timid, she was sort of a loner, her grades were mediocre at best, and she never really had much motivation for anything but art. therefore, their parents obviously preferred amy. they berated sammy a lot about how unmotivated she was and how "art isn't a real job" and generally compared them a lot. on the flipside, their expectations for amy were through the roof high.

this kind of favoritism was the start of their falling out.

in school, amy was a lot more popular. sammy (i hc her with adhd) was always considered "weird", and she got picked on a lot.

amy was fiercely protective of her, and always made sure to tell ppl who bullied her exactly where they can shove their words. sammy appreciates it, appreciates her, but over time, she starts sort of resenting amy.

people tell her, on occasions they find her alone, how much of a coward she is, not being able to stand up for herself and needing her sister to defend her. her parents tell her that she needs to get her head out of the clouds and be like her sister. her teachers tell her they don’t understand how low her grades are in comparison to her sister.

and eventually, she starts believing them.

sammy hates herself. she hates the fact that she can't stand up for herself, and she hates how pathetic she is. she’s sick and tired of having other people defending her, but she’s not brave enough to defend herself. she gets angry at amy and tells her to drop it every time amy tries to defend her in school.

amy is just confused and hurt, she doesn't know what's wrong, why sammy is mad at her.

eventually this mutual resentment builds up, and they drift apart.

they stop hanging out at school. amy throws herself into cheer, sammy spends most of her time holed up in her room or in the art club. amy's friends remark how she's "so much cooler now that you dropped that horrid sister of yours".

when amy's clique start calling her sister 'samey', she doesn't defend her. sometimes she slips up and calls her samey, and immediately berates herself for it.

and then sammy applies for a show called "total drama", only to prove to herself that she doesn't need amy to protect her.

and then amy applies as well, knowing what the show is like and not wanting to let sammy get hurt, despite their issues.

the night before their flight, they have an explosive fight.

and that's the state they arrive to the island in.

mutual resentment, misplaced anger, and both believing the other hates them.

[machinesandman]

⏳ Shaska maybe?

For every “⏳” I receive, my muse will openly talk about a bit of their backstory.

"You would think it gets eaiser, rebuilding and repairing Robot Masters from mangled remains..." For a long moment the hybrid needed some time to think. How does she even go on about this? It's a sort of nebulous thought and subject that is easy to unfold within ones mind, but far more difficult putting into coherent and proper words. Language could become such a barrier sometimes, and she wished it would be easier to connect directly too someone. That unfortunately, was not an option at this time. "It doesn't, at least, not the mental or emotional weight of it, but the reflexes and knowledge does for the physicality. Each one has their own little quirks and nuances, just as much as each ones mind and personalities. You need to respect each and every single one."

Shaska tilted her head back slightly, staring at some inconsequential place at nothing. "... When I first started this endevor, I had been alone down there for so long. Then I realized the good that could be done. How robotics, or Reploids now, are better treated than back then. Not perfect, but, better... So, I went looking, tracking last known locations, fried out signals... Long story short, I found many thus far. Knowing full well the mental toll it would be taking one someones mind. but I wasn't prepared for the emotional backlash I'd get after each activation, let alon the... The... corpses, with a few of them." She had to shudder. Just untangling robotic limbs from organic remains and peeling patrts away... Horrid.

Time to move on anc change the subject. "While I've been working on them, I have found certain references and blueprints. Not just for them selves, or each other, but locations and... It's become a cycle, finding hidden places, personal hiding spots- where they used to be anyway. And recovering parts, data, computers, more robotic bodies. It's better than any of them needing to relive their trauma or agony, and what they know happened. all that matters if getting these Robot Masters a second chance at life, in a world they don't have to be at odds with. And have their family, their siblings back. Recover connections and their network."

"It's a wicked endeavor, I've always understood. That this whole situation? Won't bring me any good." The toll has completely changed the person Shaska is at her heart. A small price to pay really, feeling that detached and seperated, even in a full room. "Every now and then, for a moment, my heart starts beating faster than it should. An odd hopeful joy when one of them tries to understand. The DLN's especially... But, a part of me just- Can't let them in all the way. Even though I wish I could." That was the problem with Trauma and loss, rejection, the emptiness left behind. Terrified to fill the gap too much.

"Now, i'm not one to see people as means to meet an end. But some ventures require a sacrificial lamb." Her eyes blinked, and then looked back forwards again. Gaze steeled, yet accepting. "This world needs them more than one person."

[a-dorin]

forehead kisses

pairing: obi-wan kenobi! x senior padawan!reader

word count: .515k

warnings: angst, cursing, references to a master/padawan relationship

a/n: there’s not much to this besides i’m feeling very sad right now. this is about tcw obi because i am very much attracted to him. i hope y’all enjoy :)

summary: after a dreadful day, your jedi master puts in some effort to alleviate your sadness.

“now where do you think you’re running off to?”

his voice, so familiar yet so distant, rang through the hallway, so cool and crisp.

obi-wan stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded neatly over his cream-colored robes. one chestnut brow arched, raised in inquisition. he took a step forward, practically marching down the hall.

the clack of his boots as they connected with the marble floor echoed through the corridor. as he stridex towards you, the glow of coruscant buzzing through the viewports of the temple.

once he came to a halt, you were now face to face with your jedi master, his gaze searching yours, concern dancing within his depths. there was a trace of concern painted across his feathers, lips formed in a straight line, pressed tightly together.

“nowhere,” you mumbled, a frown etched across your lips, “i was just retiring to my quarters, master. it’s been a long day.”

“and quite dreadful too,” obi-wan nodded, his crystalline blue eyes glimmering with amusement, “don’t run from me, padawan. master skywalker and captain rex were quick to inform me about the mission.”

“the mission i fucked up.”

“oh hush,” obi-wan rolled his eyes, “that is so no sort of attitude to possess about this matter. think of it as a learning experience, padawan. there is no lesson to be learned through success. some of our greatest life lessons can be apprehended through failure.”

“i just feel so lost,” tears threatened to spill onto your cheeks, “i feel like a failure, master. i was the reason that-“

“hush.” obi-wan pressed a finger to your lips, his brows furrowed, “although i do appreciate your insight, padawan, you have to realize that you cannot carry along self-loathing. you are far too brilliant, far too radiant, to be carrying around this self-hatred like baggage.”

heat spread through your cheeks, dusting them pink, “you may say that but i do not beli-“

your words were cut short as obi-wan leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead. the action was tender, laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite describe. his beard grazed the bridge of your nose, the sensation scratchy yet it wasn’t anything horrid.

underneath his soft lips, your eyes fluttered closed, any coherent thought slipping away. bliss rippled through you, any lingering sentiment of despair or loathing dissolving completely.

“my darling padawan,” obi-wan breathed, “please, get some rest. i can sense your exhaustion, and if you keep talking, you’re only going to exert yourself further. rest.”

“i-i will,” you stammered, the rosy tint glowing in your cheeks, “thank you, master.”

“anything for my padawan,” obi-wan murmured, his voice so soft, so delicate, “rest up, we have an important assignment in the morning.”

he turned, strolling down the corridor. as he disappeared into the night, your heart skipped a beat as your fingertips brushed your forehead, relishing the gentle moment that only happened minutes before.

how you yearned to experience that feeling once more. how you ached to savor the way his lips felt against your skin. how you longed for him.

for him to stay.

[reki-of-the-valley]

Vent post feel free to ignore me. Just gotta exteriorize a bit

But like...... I'm tired. I'm just so tired. Mentally, physically, emotionally. Everything feels heavy. And I know it's just an episode, that I'll feel okay in not too long, or maybe it will take some time, maybe I'll be tired for months, but rn? Heavy. And you can feel it in my writing. You can feel how heavy I feel. I never hide how I feel, I put that on display rather plainly because it helps me take steps forwards. Writing is an outlet for me. But it's also a mask. A mask to all my feelings. One step forward is one step back.

Things are rough rn. And I know I'm fortunate in life. I'm in uni, I'm studying something I should love, but it's just... Heavy. It's the only word I have today. It's the only word that feels adequate. A weight I want to get rid of but that's stuck on me.

What do I mean should love? Easy: I love literature. Despite what I say about being illiterate, I do genuinely love reading. I love finding pretty phases and words. I love feeling emotions that aren't mine but that are nonetheless real. I love being touched by an idea. I love reading because I hope, i sincerely hope that what I write can make someone else love reading. And you know when Langa asks Reki if he can be the only one who doesn't know how to ollie and Reki says sure but you won't really get anywhere if you don't learn? Yeah. I tried to do that but with reading. Be the only writer who doesn't read. I quickly learned that it doesn't work like that and i quickly learned that I do love literature. So I decided to major in it. Because I'm supposed to love it.

But studying something you love is not always.... It's heavy sometimes. It's heavy and mixed with my heavy anxiety... It's not a match made in heaven.

I am an extremely anxious person. I don't think I've ever hidden that about myself. I've always been rather honest about my anxiety and how I can get these fits of anxiety very suddenly and I can spiral into a panic very easily. It's something I know I have to deal with, that I've learned to manage even if it is hard to get out of my head sometimes. Hell, just posting fics causes a great deal of anxiety because of that fear of "what if it's terrible." Pleasure and anxiety somehow go hand in hand for me and it's weird. Weird but in the end, my panic does vanish and the happiness I find in sharing my stories comes out on top.

But anxiety is something exhausting. It's exhausting when there is no counter to it. So while I feel anxious every time I post to ao3, the feeling of happiness associated to telling stories and sharing them with all of you far outweighs the panic I feel, the spiralling, the what ifs. There's that counter, anxiety vs pleasure. For school... There is no counter. There's nothing to balance out the fear, the panic, the spiralling. And that's when I know it gets out of hand.

It's been awhile since I've felt this bad. It's been precisely 5 months since I've felt this heavy. I've had 5 months with minor panics, minor attacks, but outweighed by so many pleasing moments that they didn't mean anything to me. I didn't let them hurt me. Because I was doing something that genuinely felt amazing, like i was flying. Especially in the past 2 months.

Now I don't want to be overly sappy, but the Sk8 fandom has done wonders for me. I feel far more confident, I'm passionate about the boys, I have nearly 150 of you guys following me, there's fanart done about my shitposts and fics (I love you so much you don't understand how much those mean to me), and my writing has touched quite a bit of people. And sometimes it makes me cry because I've never had this much attention on me. And maybe it doesn't seem like much, but to me, it means the world. You guys mean the world to me. (I remember going through stories on insta the other day and seeing my fics being recced by an artist that I really look up to. I sobbed. Or sometimes I get notifs about people bookmarking my fics and I recognize the names and I'm just there like ??? How did this happen???)

So I had months of feeling uplifted, but now? Yeah, all of this still makes me feel great, but real life? Not so much. Real life sometimes I just want to quit it. Not in a death way, not anymore, but in a "I don't want to do anything anymore" way. Because it feels heavy. Feeling sick every time I have to get up, it feels heavy. Feeling nauseous as hold a novel, it's heavy. Feeling like shit, that choked up horrid feeling of illness that never really comes every time I open my computer, it's heavy. Anxiety is heavy. Fear of not preforming properly, of stumbling in my act of the perfect scholar, it's heavy. And today felt like my breaking point. Today was the worst I've felt in a long time. Today, anxiety induced illness pushed me to the point where I felt like I was going to pass out.

I don't remember what my point was when I started writing this 20 minutes ago. Maybe it was just to vent. Maybe it was a no filter moment, put all my thoughts down and hopefully feel better. Maybe it was just a moment of heaviness that felt too unbearable for me to keep it to myself, hide it within me like I've been routinely doing for the past 20 years (ok, fine, probably more like 8 years but whatever. I don't know when the anxiety really started to come up. I wan to say when I started high school and felt the need to top everyone. Compensate for something I was missing. Praise? Was that what I wanted? Was praise all I craved? Validation? Are those the things I seek when I out myself out there? I should know what I want but I'm ignorant to my own desires.) There was a reason for me to start this, but the reason I do not remember. Maybe I've just been too engulfed in my own misery. Maybe this moment will pass, that I'll move on to a new moment, one where I don't feel like utter shit. Maybe this is a way of trying to move forward. Maybe this is just the consequence of me writing for 12 hours about how confessions allow the confessor to breathe, rid themselves of their shame and begin life again. Maybe that's what I want. Maybe I just want to get rid of the shame I feel about my anxiety.

I don't know of this is coherent. I broke down crying halfway through it

[chrisevansgoodgirl]

you’re screwed up and brilliant and look like a million dollar man

summary: murder gloves.

warnings: S M U T. sex everywhere. it’s violent sometimes. what’s a safe word? lol ransom wouldn’t know. (seriously, reader tells him to stop a few times and he doesn’t, so pls do not read if that is upsetting to you) and they’re annoying, legit can’t talk without fighting. and that daddy kink because y’all know me. a lot of choking. very vanilla bondage. spanking. fluffy feelings about sweaters.

word count: a bit over 8,000

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

a/n: lol and nearly THREE FUCKING MONTHS LATER 🙄🙄🙄🙄 truly, i am sorry. i hope that you picture a raccoon with creepy evil little hands when you think of me bc i am trash. and i have creepy evil little hands. you guys know how excited i got when i thought of this title, right?

It was your anniversary even though it hardly felt like one at all.

Six years today. Somehow, you had put up with all the shit. His horrid behavior at times. The family drama. The extravagant events Harlan planned that your high maintenance boyfriend never let you miss. Whenever you tried it, he either pouted or just fucked you until you wouldn’t dream of ever saying the word ‘no’ to him. At least not for a few days.

Six years.

Yet, you were sure he was still nowhere near proposing. That was a battle for the next anniversary, you had decided. This anniversary required much more pressing topics to be discussed.

You heard Ransom pull up in the driveway and come inside, but you kept your place at the counter. When he found you in the kitchen, you were in a thin robe, making him an Old Fashioned while your coffee brewed.

You glanced at him over your shoulder as he sat at the dining table. His eyes lingered on you for a moment but then he turned down to his phone, so you took your chance to stare. After all these years, you would think that the sight of him in a sweater wouldn’t matter to you, but it still did.

You’d met him in a sweater, several December’s ago at a ski lodge where you had bonded over unfathomable resentment toward your respective families and an inability to ski—something he still wouldn’t admit. I can ski, I just wanted to fuck you. You were practically begging me. Was I supposed to say no? That wasn’t exactly how it happened but when Ransom pouted, that often meant no sex, so you let him lie. Regardless, he was beautiful then and you swore he got more beautiful by the day.

He lifted both hands onto the tabletop in front of him, phone set against his palm, showing off those stupid leather gloves that were starting to make you question your sanity. You thought about those gloves too much and in the most depraved ways.

“Did you get the house?” you asked, a distraction for yourself. No sex, not until he gave you an answer. Hell, he was gone most of the day with Marta, so he damn well better have some success to report.

He narrowed his eyes, lifting his gaze from his phone screen. “Why are you so dressed?”

Normally, he liked you walking around the house in nothing. A bodysuit, maybe. A bra, panties, and thigh-high socks. He liked you as naked as you could get. You liked it as well, it reminded him that even though, most of the time, he was in control, there were times when it was you. You who had final say, you who would withhold sex as some deranged power play. Sure, you needed Ransom like you needed oxygen or money, but he needed you just as much.

The robes were for occasional visitors. He knew that, he was just trying to prolong this conversation. He was trying to bait you, actually. If you were feeling…playful, you would have lied or refused to tell him. Then, long story short, you wouldn’t have been able to walk or sit right for a week. It wasn’t that he even needed such an elaborate reason to start this game, this time he was just trying to distract you.

“Joni stopped by.”

He gave you a flat look. Nothing confused him more than you sincerely getting along with Joni.

“She brought some crystals for us.”

“Rocks,” he corrected. “And they’re damn ugly and they’re not staying in my house.”

“Tiger’s eye for mental clarity,” you explained, voice level. It was your house too, and if he wanted to play this game, well, you had no problem throwing a chair through the window. Again. “Amethyst, for protection and stress—and intuition! It’s great for the third eye chakra—”

“Don’t start all that bullshit with me—”

“You’re just mad that I’m psychic—”

“No, you are not,” he snapped.

“Scared I’m going to find out about whoever else you’re fucking?” Okay, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. If you truly thought that, you would have been so far out the door the second you had a suspicion. Ransom was good. Even though he liked to pretend he wasn’t.

He glared. “It’s a god damn scam—”

“Your family specializes in those.”

“She’s not family.”

“Meg is,” you pointed out. It was left unstated but blatantly clear that that did, in fact, mean that Joni was family also.

“Joni thinks you have money, she’s trying to play you.”

“They don’t need to play me, Ransom. I like Meg, she’s nice…and she’s finishing her degree. I’ll make sure of that, with or without your help. And I like Joni, you know, she was the first one who was nice to me. Other than Walt, I guess—”

“Yeah, he was nice because he wants to fuck you.”

“You think everyone wants to fuck me.”

“Joni does, too.”

“Oh yeah, your whole family?”

“My grandfather included.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not be so…you, right now? Please, he’s fucking dead, Ransom.”

“He was a fucking perverted bastard. He always stared at you, tried to get you alone as much as possible. And don’t even get me started on that time he had you on his lap—”

“It wasn’t like that,” you argued.

He arched an eyebrow.

So, you were sitting on Harlan’s “lap”. It was Christmas, Harlan had dressed up as Santa. Ransom liked to pretend that Meg and Marta weren’t in the picture with you. Okay, maybe it was that you were trying to make him mad. You remembered that to be around the time you discovered that angry sex with Ransom was something else, something you truly weren’t sure how you had lived without.

You walked his drink to him and you watched as he downed the entire glass.

“Make me another. Please.”

You returned to the counter to oblige. You weren’t much of a cook, neither was Ransom, but he had the strongest desire to see you acting domestic for him. Sometimes, that just meant you making him drinks or bringing him a beer. You didn’t mind, so long as he watched you the entire time.

You once again set the glass in front of him. “So, your mother wants to fuck me?”

He eyed you, lifted the glass to his lips, took a small drink, set it down, then he nodded once. Instead of speaking, he went back to texting on his phone.

“Donna?”

“Not family, but yes.”

“Jacob?”

He scoffed. “Yes, he would fuck you. Also, possibly tie you up and dismember you after that—”

“Nana?”

Again, his eyes narrowed at you. He knew you were up to something now. He lifted one of his hands, smirking when he saw how intently your eyes were following it. He pulled at the tie of your robe; it was such slinky material that it slipped off your shoulders just after it was loose enough.

Your bodysuit was lace because Ransom loved you in lace. It was a tiny white scrap with thin straps and cups that your breasts spilled out of when you bent over. You were never one for modesty, but there was always something that made you want to cover up whenever Ransom was looking at you—even though his eyes were always full of lust and appreciation.

He let his hand return to the table and he looked at his phone.

Seriously? That was it? You shoved his phone away, it clattered to the table a few inches over, and you sat down on top of him. Your arms around his neck, your knees pressed to his hips, hovering over his soon-to-be hard cock. “And what about your dad?”

“Excuse me?” he demanded.

“Does he wanna fuck me? Because maybe I should ask him to get me that house and maybe fucking him would be all the motivation he needs, motivation you clearly are not feeling—”

You heard his arm brush across the table and then his glasses were shattering to the floor. Before you could scold him, his hand tangled tightly in your hair and he jerked you down flat to the table. He abruptly stood, leaning over you, his face mere inches away from yours.

You should have been scared; you knew that. He was so strong and he rarely ever stopped to think, he was fast actions and apologies later. But this was Ransom and you couldn’t be scared of Ransom.

“Wanna try that again?” he challenged. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“I would love to sit on his face,” you stated. “And I would love to feel his m—”

He gripped your jaw with his free hand and you utterly melted. You couldn’t explain coherently how much you needed that cold leather against your skin. Despite what you knew he had done with those gloves. Hell, maybe that was why you liked them so much. All of his scheming and malice, the killing. But then he would come home to you and he was so soft and so sweet, until he wasn’t, until he was fucking you, spanking you, choking you.

“You. Little. Brat. I got the fucking house for you—”

“You did?” you blurted out.

You suddenly realized, of course. That was why he hadn’t answered you. He knew you were getting impatient and he knew you would act out. Now, he would get to punish you. You would have been mad but the Thrombey house was the most beautiful house you had ever laid eyes on. The idea of building an actual life with Ransom there, in a house that he loved even though he wouldn’t admit it to his parents, only made you happy.

“I did,” he promised. “And now, you have to earn it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Brats don’t get houses.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” you accused. “I’m not earning anything. Every day I fucking put up with you, I earn that fucking house.”

“You just made a comment about wanting to fuck my dad—”

“No, I said I wanted your dad to eat me out. There’s a difference.”

He pressed his fingers into your jaw harder and yanked a little on your hair. “Say you’re sorry, baby doll.”

“Fuck. You.”

He narrowed his eyes, hand snapping from your face down to the clasp of your bodysuit that lay between your legs. He yanked it open, settling his hips against your knees to hold you open for him.

He never moved his eyes from yours and you, if only to meet his challenge, did the same. “I swear, you better not be wet.”

He was in a fucking sweater, what did he expect? You figured voicing that question would do nothing for you, probably only make him even more conceited. No, silence could damn you if that meant Ransom was knocked down a little.

“Or you’ll have to be my father’s latest mistress because I will fucking throw you out.”

“Well, maybe he’s better than you,” you pointed out.

Instead of a verbal response, his leather-clad fingers smacked your cunt.

Pleasure was right on the tail of pain, so close that you weren’t sure what you were feeling. Yes, it hurt, but wow—it fucking hurt. Half of you wanted to retract from the pain but as it settled, you immediately wanted more. If you weren’t wet before… Your body was vibrating with your undeniable need for him, but still, fuck him. He’d been an ass since he walked in and you didn’t feel like just giving in.

“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you?” you demanded, only because he was smirking at you and staring with knowing eyes. “Get the fuck off of me.”

He snorted at what you both knew was a sad attempt on your part.

You began to struggle against him, attempting to push him back with your knees. “Ransom, let me go.”

He forced you into a sitting position with the hand still in your hair and let go just to grab your wrists. His other hand grabbed quickly at the scarf around his neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you warned.

He shoved you back down, forcing your arms above your head.

“Ransom, I swear—”

He cut you off with a rough kiss as he wound his scarf around you in some complex way that he probably wouldn’t even be able to get you out of when this was all over.

You turned your head away, and he moved his mouth to your neck. “If you do not untie me, I am going to leave and never come back!”

He bit you hard enough to leave a mark before pulling back to set himself onto his forearms. “And live where? The street? Or you wanna go crawling back to your fucked-up parents?”

“Tell them I finally came to my senses; they’d take me back.” Long story short, your parents fucking hated Ransom. They thought he would never do anything for you or give you anything.

It didn’t help that you sort of cut back on work once you’d met Ransom. He was possessive, he just didn’t want you flying all over the world if you couldn’t take him with you. And you couldn’t because his family was beyond demanding and Ransom still had to show up now and then at whatever theatric event Harlan could think up. And as a model…taking pictures with men sometimes, or other women, wearing very little? Well, Ransom would never ask you to quit but he was always so insecure afterward. You still had your campaigns, a few projects you did with friends, but you were hardly a model anymore.

But well, your parents were obviously fucking wrong. He got you the house. The first time he had taken you there was to meet his grandfather—which was huge because it was the first time Ransom was letting you get that close to him. He hadn’t anticipated Joni and Meg being there but you hadn’t complained. He had, non-stop. Still, it was something…special. He’d shown you his old room and fucked you. Took you out to the woods and fucked you against every awful statue out there. Then took you to his parents’ room and, of course, fucked you there.

They were meant to show the next week, you’d left before that. Much to his pleasure, his mother left him a screaming voicemail or two or seven once she’d realized what had been done on those silk sheets.

You’d fallen in love with the house and you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it to an outsider. At the will reading, when it was announced that it belonged to Marta, you nearly fainted. Ransom had been so damn calm though, up until he was laughing like the god damn psychopath that you’d always suspected he was.

That was five days ago and things between the two of you had been…unconventional. When he had shown up that night—after ditching you, no less, to do whatever he was doing with Marta—you immediately started fighting. You had to get a fucking Uber! And he refused to apologize because, according to him, you were “having an attitude”. Things were thrown, insults were traded, and it was the longest night of your whole relationship.

It was only two days ago that you admitted to the root of your hostility. The house. He couldn’t lose the house. It wasn’t like you thought you were going to be living in it any time soon, but when he did finally propose, maybe things would work out that way. The following morning, he apologized with a diamond necklace and the promise that he would get the house back from Marta.

“Or you could just apologize,” he pointed out.

See, he never did, and in all your time with him, you decided you never would either. It was a good relationship. The sex was amazing, you guys never lied, never cheated, but there were a few communication barriers that neither one of you wanted to mend. Who really needed the word ‘sorry’?

“Seriously, Ransom, fuck you.”

He sighed, but that did little to hide how thrilled he was that you wanted to fight today. “I try to be nice to you, you know. But you don’t want nice, do you?” He jerked you up higher on the table by your arms and crawled his way over you. His forearms were on either side of your head and his leg was coming up to settle between yours.

The table had been freezing, but with him over you, and his heavy coat caging you in, you were just hot. Too hot. The snow-covered back yard seemed the better option at that moment. Anything to get away from him.

“Ransom,” you sighed. “Enough, stop—”

He pressed his knee against you and you shuddered. It hadn’t been long at all, so why you were so desperate was beyond you. Since Harlan, Ransom truly had a new outlook on life. He was impulsive and selfish before, but after the death of his beloved grandfather, there was nothing that could stand in the way of what he wanted. And what he often wanted was you, not that you were complaining.

“Get yourself off, baby.”

You glared up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Yes, you heard, but what the fuck?! You didn’t get yourself off. He was controlling enough to need to dictate every single one of your god damn orgasms and if it wasn’t because of his mouth, his fingers, or his cock, it wasn’t happening. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to let you finish at all,” he explained. “I suggest you do it yourself.”

You theorized that if you complied now, then maybe he would forget he was so angry and just fuck you. That had happened a few times before, he did always tend to pout when he remembered, though.

Despite your pride and the burning you felt on the tip of your tongue because you sincerely wanted to yell at him, you rolled your hips. It was tentative almost, which made him scoff. The material of his pants was too soft and with no assistance from him and your awkward angle… You figured he was enjoying making you work for this so much.

After what you said about Richard? There was no way you were going to be able to convince him to help you. You supposed he didn’t need to. Hell, you didn’t even need to finish. He just had to think you did. You turned down to watch, moved your hips faster, started making just a little more noise—

“You’re faking.”

You stopped altogether with a huff. “I am not!”

“You are. You wanna know how I know? Because for the past few years, every orgasm in your life has been because of me. You don’t know how to get off without me.”

“You are such an ass.”

“You don’t just want to ask for some help?” He looked down, one hand lowering slowly. “You know I can be very helpful when I need to be.”

You watched, gasping just when he pulled his hand away. “Ransom.”

“Let me just take the gloves off—”

You whined an incoherent protest. You knew that he knew.

He pretended to be confused, eyebrows pulled together. “You want me to keep them on?”

You frowned at him.

“Why?”

“Fuck off, Ransom.” You didn’t know why! Your only theory was that you were just as messed up as him and that you needed to make an appointment with a mental healthcare professional!

He smiled widely, and you hated how that made your heart skip a little. He always smirked, rarely ever smiled, so when he did, you were screwed. “You want to hear about it again? About how I murdered my grandfather?”

You snorted. “Oh, is that what happened? I thought Marta murdered Harlan—”

“She didn’t.”

“She’s the one who gave him the medicine,” you pointed out. “You didn’t have to do anything except switch a vial.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“Are you going to kill me, too? Oh, correction, are you going to get the help to kill me, too?”

“I might.”

“God, you are disgusting.”

He finally released your wrists to grab your jaw again. “Keep your arms up, I won’t tell you a second time.”

You were already moving them down, stopping right when you heard his threat. With a soft sight, you settled back against the table.

“Good girl.”

You wanted to hit him.

His thumb and forefinger pressed hard against your cheeks until you opened your mouth. He took that as his chance to slide two fingers inside your mouth until you gagged. You closed your mouth anyway, refusing not to meet one of his challenges.

They tasted even worse than you had imagined but you weren’t going to stop. You started to grind against his thigh again. It was better now, like maybe this was going to be enough to get you off.

He set his forehead to your temple, lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “You don’t want to hear what happened after we left the party, after I fucked you in the car so good you couldn’t stand?”

Oh, that night. Where to begin with that night. It was Harlan’s birthday party, you’d been to all the ones before that and they’d gone off without…okay, well, there were definitely hitches, but nothing you hadn’t come to expect. Nothing that lasted too long. Yes, this family was all kinds of fucked up, but they never stayed away from one another for too long.

You had assumed Ransom’s argument with Harlan was going to be just another one of those cases. You’d been talking to Walt and Linda, the latter trying to ignore her husband’s attempts at pulling her into an argument he was having with Joni. Walt was talking about the company again; it didn’t bore you or Linda like it did everyone else.

Ransom’s voice carrying out from Harlan’s office startled everyone silent. He stormed out just to grab you and drag you outside, all while his family watched from windows at the front of the house. You told him to stop, which he didn’t. You told him your heels were a hazard, which he ignored.

When he started driving, you were honestly scared. Ransom was hardly a cautious driver generally, so when he was angry? And god, he was angry. You were sure you had never seen someone else get to him the way that Harlan had.

And he was ignoring you. He wouldn’t tell you what they fought about, but he always told you. It was, very simply, too much, and you were not going to put up with it. It was dark, cold, and Ransom had been drinking. You directed him to stop the car, and as firm as you hoped you were being, you were stunned when he listened.

The way he looked at you was so unlike any way he had ever done it before. You were more than just confused and you were a little worried, there was realization in his eyes. You could see that his mind was moving and you had known him long enough to know that that never meant anything good.

He demanded that you get out of the car and you did, even though part of you was worried he was going to leave you there. He followed, coming around to lead you into the of the car. He wrapped one hand around your throat and pinned you against the car door with his body, his chest to your back. His free hand was working his clothing out of the way, then fumbling to open the door.

He wordlessly shoved you against the seat, shoving your dress out of the way. Before you could say a word, he was inside you, his body covering yours. His hold around your throat was tight, and you knew that meant that he didn’t want to talk. That didn’t shut him up, however.

He just kept saying he was going to take care of you, and he didn’t loosen his hand until he asked you if you wanted him to take care of you. You said you did. He asked if he had taken care of you up to that point. You said that he had. He asked you if you trusted him. You said you did.

He left you in the backseat, covered in his cum and reddening marks on your neck, hips, and breasts, wrapped in his coat. He turned the car off and you echoed with just about 100 questions, none of which he directly answered. He said you couldn’t come with him because well, you honestly couldn’t walk.

The following morning, you woke up in bed while Ransom was making breakfast. Well, okay, you hadn’t actually seen him make anything, but since you didn’t find any restaurant containers, you couldn’t throw that accusation at him. He brought you pancakes to eat in bed and you guys had an amazing morning together.

By noon, the family was calling both of you with news of Harlan’s death.

He pressed his free hand over your face, covering your nose, and shoved his fingers deeper down your throat. You were choking and that didn’t frighten you like it should have. Some of the best orgasms you’d gotten from Ransom were when you were choking on his fingers or his cock.

You didn’t stop rocking your hips until you were finishing and you never once looked away from him. He stared into your eyes the entire time because it was undeniable at this point, Ransom had a kink for murder, and this was as close as he was going to get to it with you—some minor breath play.

He pulled away from you completely, stepping back onto the floor. He glanced down with a self-satisfied smirk, admiring the mess you had made on his pant leg. His amusement only grew as he watched you try to catch your breath.

You were still coming down when you felt Ransom leave the space between your legs. Glancing around the room, you found him at the counter. His back to you, you heard him pour some bourbon in a glass. You weren’t much of a bourbon person but whenever you tasted it on Ransom’s tongue, you never minded it too much.

When he returned to you, it was with a knife from the block on the counter. A large knife, you wondered what he would do if you made a comment about him compensating for something. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He smirked. “You scared?”

You snorted. “No.”

Arching an eyebrow, he pressed the blade down just barely against your thigh, dragging it upward toward your soaking center.

You had to bite your lip as he touched you there, just a tease because he didn’t truly want to cut you. The cool surface made goosebumps rise on your legs and your heart began to pound with excitement. You often wondered if you would be this fucked up if you had never found Ransom.

He lifted it to your chest, eyes bright as they followed the knife. He pressed down just slightly harder and led the knife to your shoulder. Your heart dropped the second you realized what he was doing.

“Ransom—”

“Shut up.”

“This is a piece from Megan Fox’s collaboration with Fredrick’s—” You felt the snap of your bodysuit’s strap and your jaw dropped.

He smirked down at you, proceeding to the next side to do the same.

“You fucking psycho!” you reprimanded. You thought dating a man with too much money and a narcissistic concern for his appearance would have given him at least some respect for clothing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? You’re the one so wet over a god damn knife.”

“You can’t just destroy my clothes!”

“Well,” he shrugged, “just did. The fuck are you going to do about it? And consider your answer carefully, you know, if you want that house so badly.”

“It’s already my house,” you declared. “You got it for me. Stop pretending—”

“Pretending what? That I couldn’t find someone to replace you in a second? I bet Marta would be up for it.”

You shut up immediately, just staring at him. You knew Ransom liked it when your anger was quick. And truly, the last thing you wanted was to give him anything he wanted. You weren’t trying to be jealous in any way, but you’d always wondered how he felt about Marta.

He seemed to like talking to her—albeit, he also liked talking to Meg…just to get a rise. But he also liked getting a rise out of you, clearly. You just wanted to know. And he wouldn’t answer you, any time you asked him how he felt about someone else, he just fucked you.

“Now, don’t pout—”

“Fuck you—”

“Don’t be such a baby—it was a joke.”

“I don’t care,” you proclaimed. “You know, you can fuck her if you want.”

“Oh?”

You nodded, humming. “Please do. Then I’ll follow up with your dad.”

He snorted. “That’s getting weak.”

“You think he wants me to call him daddy?”

He took your neck in his hand. “If you say that again, I’ll fucking…”

“What?” you demanded. “What the fuck are you going to do, Ransom?”

Suddenly, he was kissing you. You’d blinked, then he was over you, hand tearing down your bodysuit as he held you by the throat. He stood to toss the bodysuit out of his way, eyes tracing your body.

He didn’t seem to care that you were completely out of breath by the time he’d pulled away, you didn’t either. This was something you both had in common. In moments like these, nothing mattered. You both did and said whatever you wanted, but by the time he was inside you, it was all forgotten.

“I’m moving out,” you announced.

He snorted. “You’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m going back home; I can’t stand another day with you.”

“You ever try to leave me and I will drag you back. Every fucking time, Y/N.”

You scoffed weakly. “Learn to hear the word no. You’ll need to. Now that you’re poor, especially.”

“You think that’s what this is?” He still wasn’t looking at your face, just your naked body as if he’d never seen it before. “You think it’s because I’ve never been told no?”

“What else would it be?”

He snorted. “Try to be less transparent. Is this your way of asking what we are?”

You knew what you were. To an extent. It was just that sometimes, Ransom wasn’t the most traditional, and you were okay with that. But well, it had been 6 years. You were waiting on the future to start, the engagement, the ring, changing your last name, possibly starting a family. But well, Ransom hadn’t even told you he loved you. You knew he did, love wasn’t just words, and he definitely showed you, but it would be nice to hear. Still, that was not what you had been asking… okay, maybe it kind of was what you were asking.

“No, I couldn’t care less. I won’t have to stay with you much longer anyway… I would never date anyone poor.”

“Baby, call me poor one more time and your ass is going to be so sore.”

He was in such an odd mood. You didn’t know exactly what he wanted. It had sounded like he’d wanted to fight, then he started getting…well, sappy for him. Now, he was threatening to spank you for stating fact?

“Look at that,” he taunted, smirking at your silence. “You can be such a good girl when you try.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I should give you incentive to shut your mouth more.”

“Excuse—”

He shushed you as his free hand pressed to your pussy.

You quieted only because you forced your mouth shut. You hadn’t been sure how the leather gloves were going to feel, if you should like them… But well, you did. And maybe you didn’t want him to know that.

But he did, that much you could tell from the arrogant look in his eye. You closed your eyes, letting your head roll back against the table. Whatever, you might as well get an orgasm for all this trouble he’d given you.

He traced small, gentle circles around your clit and you couldn’t even remember what you’d been arguing about. You knew he was watching you; you knew you shouldn’t be giving in so easy. That was why he was a dick; he knew you would let him be because he knew how to fuck you well. Two fingers easily slipped inside you—at least you thought it was two, you couldn’t tell.

You were caught off guard. It had been years since you’d felt something inside you other than Ransom*.

Was it supposed to feel good? What you liked was that these gloves were not supposed to be inside you, yet there they were. Ransom didn’t seem to care that they were close to a thousand dollars. You remembered glaring at him when he showed them to you, sent to him by one of his few friends, a designer (🙄) You had lectured him. They were real leather! You did not believe in killing animals for fashion. It was your one rule. You’d never participated in a campaign or contract if there was an animal harmed in the making.

But now, here you were, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers as he wore those sickening gloves. It was a strange sensation, maybe not good, but not bad. He started to crook his fingers against that spot that he could now locate in record time, and so it didn’t matter what it felt like anyway.

He leaned over you, grabbing one of your arms to pull you into a sitting position. “Watch, baby girl. Watch your pussy take my fingers.”

You turned down and at an agonizing speed, his fingers disappeared inside you. He crooked them twice before pulling them out almost completely. The gloves were embarrassingly wet and you could feel your cheeks heating because of it.

“Can you take another?” he inquired.

You weren’t capable of forming thoughts. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to want an answer. He pulled his fingers back, pushing three back in.

Your head dropped back and you closed your eyes. “Fuck, Ransom, please—”

“Keep watching, baby—I’m only going to tell you once.”

You hurriedly turned back; struggling to keep your eyes open and your hips still. Watching made you anxious because you knew exactly when you were going to feel what and you were simply not patient enough for your tease of a boyfriend.

“You hear how wet you are? Your pussy is so desperate…I bet it could take all four of my fingers. What do you think?” He took your jaw, turning your gaze up to him. “Hmm?”

You began to eagerly nod. “Yes.”

He pulled his arm back and let his pinky join as he moved it forward—once more, you felt yourself blushing at how easily they all slipped inside. It was a delicious stretch that was already driving you crazy. He rarely ever got to four fingers, by the time he was three in, that usually meant he was ready to fuck you. He always tried though, mindful of his size and how difficult it was to take him sometimes.

You sighed his name and whimpered a plea, you did not know what for, but he did. His free hand wrapped around your neck and he leaned in to kiss you, the fingers inside you still curling skillfully. His lips were soft against yours, a notable contrast to everything else he was doing.

“What is it about these gloves that get you so wet? he pressed. “Huh? Let me tell you, my love, about all the bad things I’ve done in them.” He seemed completely detached as he recounted all those events that you had missed because he’d wanted you to miss them, you wondered if he’d decided to that just so he could bring it up while he was fucking you.

Everything was calm and slow. Then he said Fran’s name and his hold on your neck tightened, and he started fucking you with his fingers, relentless in pressure and pace. His stare was locked on yours and you noticed how he brightened when tears finally filled your eyes. You would start turning a terrible red soon, you knew because he’d choked you enough times in the mirror. He always liked it so much so you never complained.

You had run out of air several long seconds ago and that was why your finish was coming so harshly. You just hoped he couldn’t tell because he would undoubtedly make you wait.

“I liked killing her,” he told you. “I would do it again. She was standing in the way—our way of the future I want to give to you. I’d fucking kill anyone for you, baby, you know that?”

“Yes,” you coughed. You didn’t think he killed Fran for you. Maybe, maybe on some low level, but it was ultimately for him. You didn’t mind that, though.

He smirked. “Say my name.”

He loved it when you were choking but still so desperate for him that you wasted what little oxygen you did have on saying his name, letting him know that he was pleasing you. You obliged and his hand instantly fell away from your neck. You took a deep breath in, coughing as you tried to blink away your tears.

He grabbed your hands and put them over his pants. “You feel how hard you’re making me, baby?”

Your pussy clenched around his fingers in anticipation, you couldn’t wait for him to be inside you. You hurriedly searched for the button on his pants until he shoved your hands away.

“No, not yet.” He grabbed your neck again and then crouched down, immediately burying his lips in your pussy.

A strangled yell came from your parted mouth, pure nonsense. You grabbed his forearm, a pathetic attempt to keep yourself sitting up, not that he would have let you fall if he didn’t want you to.

He tilted his head back to look up at you as his fingers kept working you. “Keep saying my name, baby.”

You did so three times before he finally placed his mouth back on you. You were shaking as he flicked his tongue over your clit repeatedly. Your end had built up to this impossibly high place, you were sure it was because your last orgasm was so unsatisfying.

Regardless, he’d barely been on his knees long at all when you knew you would come soon. And fuck, you needed to come. “Ransom—I—I’m—”

“You’re close?” he spoke against your hot, wet flesh, humming as he started sucking your clit gently. “Hm, baby?”

“Yes!” you sobbed.

And you couldn’t so much as blink before he was standing, pulling you off the table by your hips. You came crashing down hard, collapsing onto the table as you realized what was happening. You had been confused for only a second, but then, this was Ransom—why would you expect anything else?

That fucking piece of shit.

You were leaned over the edge of the table, legs shaking so much that he had to hold you up. Your bound arms were in front of you, unable to offer you any assistance. You wanted to push him away or kick him but you worried about your physical safety if you tried. The only thing that could make this situation worse was falling on your ass in front of Ransom.

The dick probably wouldn’t help you up.

You rested your forehead against the table, that was when you realized you were crying. Your cheeks were hot and lined with trails of tears. “I fucking hate you.”

His hand came down on your exposed ass with no warning at all.

You yelped, attempting to pull away from him.

He held you right where he wanted you with one hand closed around your hip bone.

“You’ve been acting like a brat this whole time, what the fuck did you expect?”

“Absolutely nothing from you!” you hissed. “You can’t fucking do anything right!”

And that rewarded you another slap on the opposite side of your ass.

You grit your teeth until your skin stopped stinging. “If you hit me again, I’m going to kill you!”

But hell, even you knew that was only going to get you another one. “You’re going to apologize.”

“For what?!”

“Everything—your attitude, talking about my father, and hanging out with Joni—”

“Oh, fuck you, Ransom! You’re a fucking psychopath with serious possession issues. I’m not a god damn object—”

His hand cracked across your ass, maybe a little more forceful than he intended but he hadn’t expected you to put up so much fight today.

Your mouth was clamped shut and more tears had gathered in your eyes. You weren’t sure what you were crying about anymore, sheer frustration or because he was hitting you so hard.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“No!” Was he out of his mind? He had never made you apologize like this. He let you suck him off or he just tied you up and you were “sweet” enough that he just forgave you. He had never tried to force you to say those words.

“Do it, now—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” you decided.

“I will give you one more chance,” he informed. “Then I’m done talking.”

“That sounds like the best idea you’ve had all day.”

He smacked you again. And again, you were finally starting to realize that the leather hurt more than his bare hand. Again, and your legs buckled. He quickly scooped you up, setting you atop the table.

“Ransom,” you pleaded.

Instead of responding verbally, he spanked you again. You only took three more before you blurted out those dreaded words. He paused but you knew he wasn’t going to give you more opportunities to make it right, you would have to do that on your own.

“I’m sorry for my attitude.”

He hummed and you were stupid enough to think he was going to let the rest go. Not a blink of an eye later, he smacked you again.

“And I’m sorry for what I said about your dad!”

Yet again, he struck you without a word.

“Ransom, please, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry—”

“Sorry…what?”

“What?” you breathed back. He didn’t say ‘for what’ because that much he knew; you’d said that much. Then what the fuck did he mean?

He tsked and you knew what was coming.

You flinched before he even touched you. “S-sir? I’m sorry, sir!” He’d tried to start that but it was awkward at best. Sir did nothing for either one of you. You were running out of logic though and seemed the best bet.

He snorted. “No, baby. Not ‘sir’.”

“Daddy!” you realized, nearly crying tears of joy. Of course, after that joke you made about Richard, Ransom just needed to assert his dominance. Then his temper tantrum would be over. “Daddy, I’m sorry—”

“Now I don’t think you’re being sincere; you’re just telling me what I want to hear—”

“No, daddy, I’m so sorry—”

But he hit you again.

And okay, fuck him—you had just been telling him what he wanted to hear. You were done. “Stop!”

“Or what?”

“Ransom, I swear—”

He wrapped his arm around you, grasping your neck so he could yank you up. His forearm was pressed hard between your breasts, his elbow digging into your side where he held you tight against his chest. “You made a mess of my gloves, clean them.”

Before you could argue, he shoved his hand into your mouth. You were refusing to obey, however, which he realized when your mouth was completely still. His solution was to force his fingers down your throat until you were gagging violently.

When you realized he wasn’t going to give, you started sucking. You could feel his sweater against your back. It shouldn’t have been able to calm you down, but fuck…this was Ransom. This sweater-wearing asshole was apparently the man you loved—how fucking stupid could you be?

He began dragging you to the sliding door. Ransom’s house was pretty secluded and the only other people that regularly showed up was the help. Three weeks prior, you had pointed out that there was no point in having a sliding glass door if you didn’t have a dog. That was your subtle hint that that was what you wanted.

He flat out refused and you guys had ended up screaming at each other until he held you against the glass and fucked you silent. He had enjoyed it, but you couldn’t relate.

Once more, he pressed you into the glass, lifting your arms over your head. You tried to recoil the second you felt the cold surface against your breasts but he just pushed you back harder. You began turning your head pointedly, his fingers were still in your mouth but you knew he would take the hint.

Finally, he pulled them free and began brushing your hair away from your face. “What do you need, baby?”

“You are such a fucking asshole, Ransom!”

“And you are disrespectful.”

“Why the hell should I respect you?”

“Keep it up, baby, we already have a long night ahead of us. You really wanna let this go on tomorrow, too?”

You couldn’t, you knew that with total certainty. Your body was worn out, the only thing that was keeping you going was the anger you felt. You dreaded imagining how sore your muscles would be when you woke up the next morning.

“Now,” he sighed, feigning patience, “Try not to make a mess of my gloves again, or I’ll make you clean them again.” He reached between your legs and began rubbing his fingers quickly over your clit.

“Ransom!” you cried, attempting to push your body back against his. You could not keep doing this. “Stop, please!”

“No.”

That was all he said, the last thing, in fact, even though you didn’t stop talking the whole time. The whole nine almost-finishes he gave you, that he would stop in the middle of because you kept “making a mess”.

He had to know when you were truly almost spent because that was when he tore his pants out of his way and without even a teasing remark, thrust into you. It took a mere two thrusts before you fell apart.

The glass was stained with streaks from your skin, sweat, tears, and probably other bodily fluids, and you hated that the housekeeper would know why. God, he was the fucking worst person on the planet.

He never gave you a moment, he just kept fucking you through your orgasm and then after because now he needed to finish. “Tell me you’re not going to leave me,” he ordered.

You were more than just confused, wondering briefly if you’d even heard him correctly. “What?”

He let both hands grasp your hips and he pushed into you harder. “Tell me that you’re never going to leave me.”

You turned your head back, attempting to be coherent through the whining and mewling. “What—the fuck—are you talking about?”

“Even if this shit all goes wrong,” he explained. “Even if I get caught. Right now, tell me that you’re not gonna fucking leave. Say you won’t leave me.”

“Of course, I’m never—going to leave, you fucking idiot.” You turned forward, eyes shutting because you didn’t want to be looking at him when you said this. “I love you.”

His hips stuttered and he froze buried inside you, but you weren’t going to acknowledge what you’d just said. He pulled out just to turn you to him, lifting you so he could properly fuck you against the door.

Your legs hung loose around him but your tied arms could successfully hold around his neck. And just like that, the fight was over. Neither of you would probably ever bring up a single thing said during this disastrous night. He just kissed the side of your face as he told you how good your pussy felt.

[robbyrobinson]

When the Wind Blows: Alternate Ending

When the Wind Blows. That was a title I hadn’t heard in a long time. It was just obviously a British animated film based on a graphic novel by Raymond Briggs. You know, the guy who did The Snowman? It centered around an elderly couple then one day, word came out that war would break out in three days. The graphic novel was written around the height of the Cold War. The threat of nuclear war was as high as it is now.

I’ve always had morbid affection for dark animated films. Watership Down; The Plague Dogs; Felidae, you name it. When the Wind Blows fit snuggly in that bubble. Having watched it religiously on YouTube, the film was ultimately removed most likely because of it violated the website’s terms of service with its objectionable content. My thirst for the darkness of the animated feature was unquenchable and I hadn’t watched it sense.

That would all change one day. While I was browsing the internet, I came upon an online forum dedicated to dark, more obscure cartoons. It must’ve been my lucky day because one of the users happened to discuss When the Wind Blows. It was boring at first with just him elaborating on how he was immensely disturbed by the film when he saw it at 7. Then the discussion took a swerve.

After he explained what he considered the most horrid aspect of the film, he added an interesting tidbit. Apparently, it was an interview with Briggs himself. In the interview, Briggs explained that what contributed to his penning the graphic novel was the reality of a nuclear war and how virtually impossible it was for anyone to survive a nuclear holocaust. As such, there was a secret ending embedded in the home releases of the movie. To further his point, the user left an link to download the movie.

Curiosity overwhelmed my reasoning. For all intents and purposes, he may as well might’ve fabricated the whole thing. But, if it was in fact real, it would prove a good nugget of knowledge. So, I clicked the link. As it loaded, I was growing concerned that I was hoodwinked and that some sort of virus would crash it. I glanced back at my computer screen seeing that it was finished.

The film surprisingly started off without a single lag nor freeze. David Bowie performed the title song per usual followed by the real-life footage and Jim returning home from reading the newspapers in town. He lived with his wife in his country home in Sussex. He conversed with his wife again without issue. I felt a building dread. This was likely the third time I’ve seen the film so I already knew how everything would play out. Its saccharine mask would crumble away exposing its sinister underbelly. I hadn’t the faintest idea as to why this was the case. If I could put money on it, I’d have to guess Jim’s tone of voice. He was voiced by John Mills and yet rather than his jovial, more informed self, he had a forlorn expression on his face. Hilda immediately took notice.

When she asked her husband what the matter was, he informed her about the likelihood of war being inevitable. After she went through her tirade of war being wicked, the radio shuttered to life announcing that war could be expected in three days. The film segues to Jim preparing the house for the nuclear missile such as by painting the windows white or making a makeshift bomb shelter all according to the Protect and Survive pamphlet the government handed out. He called his son Ron only to become disheartened with his son's seeming ignorance. Ron's laughter could be heard over the phone. A mixture of humor and melancholy. He quoted famous songs much to his father’s chagrin. To me, it was clear that Ron was aware than he was letting on. He was losing what little sanity he had left by partying his troubles away.

The film progressed with the couple mentioning previous world wars and D-Day. Hilda was making a cake while her husband further desecrated the house in accordance with the pamphlet. The radio sounded again, the announcer explaining that an ICBM would arrive in three minutes. Jim became more hectic, and shoved Hilda underneath the door after calling her a bitch.

The screen turned to symbolize the missile dropping. A deafening siren blared through my headphones nearly sending me sprawling on the ground. Violent images of civilians' bodies littered the scenery. Fire rained down from the sky and engulfed the bystanders.

A school bus full of children was hit by a wave of the flames; each child’s body bloated up from the blast and ruptured like water balloons. Their skin melted off gorily. Imagine placing a stick of butter being placed in a microwave. Other people were glued to the streets due to their legs fusing with the concrete. Faces burned off as buildings and houses were leveled by the onslaught of chaos.

The sound wave struck the couple’s house, decimating it. Miraculously, or rather unfortunately, they survived. Hilda in typical fashion wanted to tidy up only to be held back and told that she couldn’t leave until the fallout subsided. In a new addition, Jim assured his wife that they would be fine. Another voice spoke out one that Hilda could not hear. Jim reacted in disgust becoming further unsettled.

“Old boy, while are you sentencing your wife to death?”

The conclusion I drew was that it represented Jim’s innermost thoughts, or more directly his conscience. It was a monotonous voice bereft of any emotion nothing there but a cold, pure logic.

The two attempted to survive as long as they could off what little rations they had left or whatever survived the blast. Their water bottles were disintegrated and subsequently, their water lines were cut off. The couple were immeasurably famished. Throughout the week, they made offhanded remarks about how people lost in the wilderness resorted to drawing lots and sacrificing the weakest member so the others would live. The thought they were so hungry they'd be willing to eat each other was horrible.

Jim once found a meat clover and walked over to his life as she laid on the couch sleeping. He contemplated his options but got cold feet when Hilda was stirring awake. He quickly hid the weapon away, instead telling her that she was hearing things because of her age.

One day while they were walking in their yard, Jim smelled something in the air. Hilda followed him also smelling it. Roasted pork, she thought. Her stomach was so barren, she’d waste no time gorging on the pork.

They walked over a hill, their thoughts immediately turning to sorrow. A family of four was huddled together tightly and were roasted dark by the blast. They were the remains of a husband and wife and their two small kids. Hilda and Jim looked at each other then at me with that thousand yard stare. The camera focused in on Jim’s beady eyes. Fire danced in them. He knelt down and ripped off an arm from one of the kids. Hilda prayed over the bodies before digging in as well.

"The Powers That Be will get to us in the end.”

A few weeks passed by. The couple were somehow still alive. The camera panned to the fridge showing scraps of flesh that were left of the family. Around that time, Jim had also collected the rain water, unaware that it was radiated and unsafe regardless of boiling it. Their water supply had vanished again. Rat carcasses were thrown all over the floor. It then segued to Hilda vomiting into the toilet ranting about hating the taste of rat meat and blood. Boils were all over her body and Jim’s. They were skeletal in appearance with their leathery skin barely being held together.

“I just hope that Ron and Beryl made it out okay,” Hilda weakly said.

As she said this, a jump cut of Ron popped up. He was animated with clay alongside his wife and children. They were melded together in a fleshy blob with their limbs conjoined together. Jim assures her that their son's family would always stick together. Hilda's hair began to fall out by the time she suggested to Jim that they should return to their bags because another attack could come. Jim agreed to her suggestion still assuring her that help would arrive.

The voice from earlier returned now violently criticizing Jim on withholding the truth about their situation. Hilda got into her bag and waited for her husband to join her. It felt like hours before he returned, and when he did, I was taken aback. In his hands was a rifle. He cocked it, and pointed it behind his wife’s head.

“Dear, are you there?” she asked.

Jim choked back tears as he tried to speak coherently. “Recite the Lord’s Prayer for me, would you?”

She obliged. Hilda recited the prayer louder as if hoping that her prayers would be heard. A single tear rolled down Jim's face. A loud gunshot is heard when the camera panned to the outside of the house. Jim looked at the gun in horror and tossed it beside his feet. Kneeling down, he clutched his wife as she laid dying. Tears dropped on her bosom. He remained in that position until the film faded out. The voice reappeared after the Morse code spelled out MAD.

"Old Jim died clutching his beloved wife to his dying breath due to radiation poisoning. But what he ultimately learned was that when you die…nothing happens.”

I was speechless with what I had witnessed. The film was dark, but never would I have thought that Briggs had a more sinister ending in store for the elderly couple. I took a flask and hard copied the download so I could watch it every now and then. Good too because the user’s account was terminated with the only indication of its existence being the other responses that the users gave.

Briggs said it himself that the wanted to show the utter hopelessness of surviving a nuclear war, and he succeeded.

[azenta]

Can you explain more what the reaction formation thing is like?

Reaction formation is that weird ass bitch defense mechanism that makes you react the opposite of how you feel. Very basically described, that's it. But it doesn't tell much on it's own why it acts this way.

Reaction formation happens when what you feel goes againt your beliefs or even values, especially in relation to yourself. Simply put, it's like emotion vs mind. When this happens, your ego is fast to pick up there is a contradiction in what you are feeling and what you believe is right. Your ego's job tho, is to protect your sense of self, and it does so by assuring coherence and logic with what youthink is right and true (core beliefs, fears, etc.). So, for that, it will thus make you act in a way to be coherent with your belief/value, to kinda balance out that wild "incorrect" emotion.

Example: Karen is a woman who always valued children and desired one. She always has been extremely caring and mothering with children or even with her closed one, as being caring is central value for her. If you love your closed one, then you'll care for them no matter what, is what she believes. So come the day where she finally got a child. Proud and happy, she is convinced she'll love her child like no other mother does. But as some may sometimes forget, it's not easy to take care of someone who entirely depends on you and do require you to make some sacrifice. 

It's been 6 months, it's 3 am, wednesday, it's the second week baby John keeps waking up at those impossible hours and won't shut until 4:30 am. Of course, Karen takes care of baby John. She is a good mother, and her husband needs sleep, because he works tomorrow while she doesn't. But Karen is exhausted. She barely have slept since those last couple of weeks, when she usually have a strict sleep schedule since years. It has been totally overthrown since Jonh is born. Actually, Karen feels angry, she is pissed and surprise herself swearing and getting mad at her baby. She wakes up her husband and ask him to take care of the baby or she "will throw him up the fucking wall". Karen's husband is not a selfish manchild retard and willingly offer help (🙃)

Morning comes and Karen is filled up with guilt. How could she, the most loveful mother of the whole planet, could not succeed to take care of her precious child?? How could she even dare think to throw her child on the wall??? This is where Reaction Formation happens. This thought is "Unforgivable" in Karen's view, even tho it totally speaks of how much her limits were crossed and how much she needed rest. The thought was extreme, but so were the urgency of her needs. It was a desperate way for her brain to tell her to STOP. But, Ego had another opinion, and Reaction Formation makes her do the complete goddamn opposite.

The next few days, Karen fully take responsibilty over the child, barely allow her "poor" husband that still works to get burdened with the child's "caprices", and even go as far as losing all remaining of sleep she had. She dedicates herself twice as more as she did. She totally sacrifice herself in other words. Because, "if you love your closed one, you'll care for them, no matter what". This includes her husband. She makes him breakfast, diner and supper, all while dedicating her whole self to the baby. Her husband is concerned and tries many time to offer help, or at the very least, to make the meals for them. But Karen strictly refuses, because she is a caring loving mother and wife. Karen keeps having more and more outburst of emotions and the cycles go downhill. She ends up suffering from depression which lead her to be incapacitated in taking care properly of baby John. Exactly because her beliefs are this much devastating, she ends up fulfilling her fear of being a bad mother ; uncaring for her loved one. 

She totally went against her feelings, even went against all her needs to an harmful extent, but respected what she believed right. This is what Formation Reaction can make someone do. The exact opposite of what they need.

This example is extreme and formation reaction can happen for more minor things or doesn't become always that destructive. But in 1s, 2s and 6s (superego type), this mechanism gets the most destructive, especially 2w1s and 1s overall (because of their overlap). As a fix, they'll also tax you and incline you more to this mechanism.

To make it much more simple, here is the list of the most to least likely to use Reaction Formation, regularly and at great length:

2w1 (image core kills you on sight)

1w2

1w9

2w3 

6w7

9w1

6w5

3w2

3w4

9w8

5w6

5w4

4w3

4w5

7w6

8w9

7w8

8w7

Tho, take this list as approximative, your fixes will make it vary considerably. An 8w7 with a 2w1 6w7 fix will be prone to formation reaction despite having a core that goes against the Formation Reaction principle.

A more minor example could be this: Elsa values harmony and tend to avoid conflict the most possible. She tends to dismiss things that can irritate her since she thinks she should "pick her fights" and so, not get reactive over everything she finds inappropriate. However, what she defines as conflict is more "disagreemets" than actual conflict, so she avoids disagreement the most possible. She believes staying unaffected and neutral is one of the best way to avoid any disagreement and that in general, when her needs cause those disagreement, it's basically wrong, since she should know "better" in how to manage her needs. But, she also highly care about her integrity and would not tolerate anyone disrespecting her. 

Andrew, her friend's roomate, noticed her coming out of her room and found her very beautiful, but he is socially awkward and therefore catcall her while winking clumsily at her as a way to make her know he finds her gorgeous. She gets extremely mad, even disgusted. She decides to remain cold, but make a weird smile at him even if uncomfortable as she doesn't want to make things too "conflicting", and also because "it's wrong to get mad over something so "minor" ", she is someone "calm and wiser than that". Therefore she represses her feelings of anger. She does something totally against her feeling, but that totally fulfill her beliefs.

Some of you can tell me all they want that: "Isn't that normal to dismiss some things like that?"

My answer is: If you dismiss your feelings and act at the opposite of it, like Elsa or Karen, then grats, you use reaction formation my dude. If you feel uncomfortable, you should communicate your discomfort. What matter is *HOW* you share it. The problem is never about "what" need or emotion you share, but rather how and when, because the other person might not be receptive. What tells you use reaction formation is the fact of doing something exactly the opposite of what you need, when you actually felt it. Like, Elsa smiling despite actually feeling uncomfortable. Or Karen needing rest but stubbornly denying it and doing twice as more. Because your beliefs tell you that the way to go is opposite to that feeling of yours.

The solution on the last example could be as simple as to ask Andrew wtf he is trying to do, because she is uneased, even mad by that. It would 1. tell Andrew his message really doesn't went through 2. It would therefore allow Andrew to know this wasn't socially wise and allow him the opportunity (that he might or might not seize) to learn a more appropriate way to communicate his own feelings (so more social skills) 3. And allow Elsa to respect her feelings(/herself) and so, her boundaries, all while remaining calm, without actually picking up a fight. 

Also, one of the insidious consequences of this mechanism is that your feeling is still quite loud and will come back at you even louder, as briefly mentioned in Karen's example. Therefore, it will reinforce the cycle in a negative way, like for Karen making her crash. While for Elsa, it is far less worse and she might draw a line more so in those cases because she also holds a belief about respect. But, Elsa might start thinking men are even more gross instead of actually taking up her space, and Karen that she is a failure for being unable to do anything anymore.

This mechanism is easier to understand when you experimented it, and if your type is low into the list mentioned above, it might still be confusing or eluding you. Tho, know that horrid shit exist and if you know someone with those types, then keep it in mind and validate their feelings and needs. And if you noticed that shit in you, then the key to it is to go against what you believe is right, because if it requires you to go against your needs, then it is FALSE AND WRONG.

Last thing at my @id type, your desires and your needs are two different things, learn the difference because that's why you acting on your """needs""" always end up wrong. Because it was a mere fucking desire.

[comic-brew]

In my arms

@whumptober2020 days 4. Collapsed Building, 7. Carrying, 8. Punctured (Alt), 25. Blurred Vision | Ringing ears and 30. Internal Organ Injury

Summary: The final stand, the final touch. It was always going to end, and this is good enough. If only they had more time.

Notes: A Jaytemis drabble. You would have gotten a happy ending if yours truly had the tiniest bit of time management skills. Sorry I guess :)

Reading Time: 10 mins (1.4k words)

Warnings: major character deaths, blood, injury, angst

Ao3

***

Jason is inside a building. Details don't matter. The only thing that matters is that he notices the dreadful ticking of a bomb far too late, and that when he does he freezes up in panic.

No. This can't happen again.

A hand grabs his and drags him along, urges him to run. Faster and faster.

It's not fast enough.

They almost make it outside.

Almost isn't good enough.

Through the blinding flash of light and booming sound defeaning his ears, the hands still holds his tightly. The warmth of foreign skin against his own quells the panic rising up to his throat, so he clings to it, in a hopeless search for something solid.

The entire building shakes and starts collapsing on itself, faster than Jason can comprehend, faster than any idea can cross his mind and lead to their salvation.

It's okay, Jason thinks.

And though the time truly isn't enough for any coherent thoughts to form, it is enough for feelings.

Jason's heart is filled to the brim with regrets, but also relief.

This time..

This time, at least he won't die alone.

***

Jason wakes up to a burning ache coursing throughout his flesh like electricity. He winces as soon as his mind associates with reality enough to register the million sirens ringing in his ears, sounds perpetually high to the point of shrieks, piercing through his eardrum.

His vision provides no help amidst the darkness, only the blurry outline of what he supposes are the shattered remnants of the building piling up above his head. A small opening from where gleams of fiery light manage to seep through highlight the point where two large pieces of concrete have been slammed against eachother, shielding his head from being utterly crushed beneath the baptism of wreckage.

It hurts to breathe in nothing but dust, it hurts to try and move, when perhaps tons worth of weight -and intense strain of pain- render his muscles useless.

"Shit" he breathes out. Jason can't hear his own voice in his ringing ears, so he guesses he might've simply thought the word silently in his mind. He tries to remember something, anything, cause his mind is empty like a blank slate. His efforts only contribute to the head bursting headache building up inside his scalp.

Shit, he repeats, before unconsciousness drags him right back under.

***

Jason blinks, and strong arms are pulling his limp body out from underneath the rubble. If the arms struggle in vain to retrieve his still dwelled in corpse, Jason doesn't know. His spine and really every single bone inside him feels encased in a veil of pain, a bond blurring all other senses while its pressure builds up to the point where he can barely stand it. He knows methods to help deal with the pain but it's nearly impossible to concentrate what with the wicked gorgons screeching in his ears.

Jason is reminded of the arm securely latched around his torso in its attempt to free him of the wreckage. Trying to fish the name of the person offering help out of his memory's hazy embers proves feckless. The edges of his vision begin to fade and Jason gladly gives in to perhaps dangerous, but pleasant numbness. The sharp nails scratching his drums wither out.

Good.

He's fought through one death already. If this is truly his time to return then… well.

Jason wants to leave in peace.

***

Jason blinks and the arm is around his shoulder, trying to pull him to his feet. In blurry pixels he catches glimpse of red. Beautiful red, nothing like the horrid hue of blood, although the later still appears in sight.

Artemis.

He recognises the arm to be the Amazon's in a rare moment of clarity. Some of the knots in his brain are untangled, but the pain feels to be spreading to every single piece and bit of his being, he can barely breathe in short and sharp intakes of air that don't quite fill up his lungs.

Artemis is still trying to get him to stand upright by supporting his body and letting him lean onto her but putting even the slightest pressure on his legs is impossible.

Artemis sends him an as always perfectly composed look, expertly hiding all the uncertainty and worry right beneath. She tells him something. Jason can't hear her words, his ears refuse to welcome any other sound other than painfully high pitched ringing.

Yet if he has to guess, she's asking whether he can walk.

Jason doesn't need to question it twice.

He can't walk, he can't even stand. His legs don't respond to his demands.

So he gathers all his strength. He tells her exactly that through gritted teeth, and passes out right after.

***

The next time Jason regains consciousness he wakes up to a warmth spreading all over his left flank, a pleasant change to the constant reminder of excruciating pain.

It soon registers that he's being carried in someone's arms strong arms, and those arms can only belong to Artemis. Honestly, he'd be lying to himself if he insisted that he hasn't fantasized of feeling her taut muscles on his skin, he just wishes the circumstances were a little more… ideal.

He chooses to revel in her comfort for a bit, as it does wonders to soothing the ache in his flesh and bones. Saying he doesn't feel well would be an understatement. Jason feels as if his spine is in the process of being ripped out of his back, yet no mercy is shown in letting him sleep either.

He'd much rather drift off again, where the tremors of pain are duller. But he can't. Artemis might need his help.

He has to wake up. Fully.

When he opens his eyes he's blinded by the unyielding midday sun, as it's reflected on the gigantic sand hills of the desert. He doesn't think he remembers which desert they're crossing, or why.

As he tries to rely more and more on his senses, he notices how Artemis' walk isn't steady, and how she stumbles regularly in the short time he's conscious.

He begins to hear her silent grunts, and how she's panting while carrying him in her arms. He wants to speak to her and tell her to lower him down until she regains her strength.

He can't, because every time she stumbles forward he can only concentrate on the excruciating pain tearing open his chest. When she abruptly shifts him in her arms to not fall, Jason begins coughing and the force grazes and bruises his shattered bones even further.

Along with bile and phlegm blood rises up to his throat. The bitter taste of iron floods his senses and when the sharp pain of being lowered to the ground registers he struggles to roll to the side, so as to not choke in his insides pouring out of him.

Jason's not exactly well, to understate the issue. He supposes he has many broken or fractured bones and he's most likely bleeding internally.

Artemis collapses next to him, just as his esophagus stops guiding fluids that should have stayed inside, to his mouth.

Jason can barely breathe. Artemis is clutching her side, and he sees with an apathy that only the inevitability of death brings that she's bleeding out next to him.

A sharp piece of shrapnel is embedded in her flank.

They both don't have long. Nobody's going to find them in time. They're living the last moments of their life.

"Princess" Jason mumbles. It's the best he can do. Jason kinda likes the thought of it being the last thing he'll ever say. Not ideal. But acceptable.

Artemis turns slowly to face him. Perhaps they have just a little more time. She smiles dizzily and bitterly, but even so Jason is content with it being the last sight his eyes ever see.

His vision begins to fade as they hold eachother's gaze for what feels like eons, sharing every unspoken word that will forever be concealed beneath their ribcage.

Right before the end, Artemis leans in, and plants a tender kiss on his lips. Jason melts into it, savoring its mellow warmth.

Death finds them in eachother's arms.

Night comes, and the wind blows the sand over their bodies, slowly covers their entwined hands.

For Jason, she was the best last thing he could have ever held.

[justimajin]

A Lone Wolf’s Howl ☾ Part 8

⇾ Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

⇾ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Action, Eventual Smut

↳ Werewolf AU

⇾ Words: 4.6k

⇾ Warnings: mentions of blood 

⇾ Summary: Jungkook and you have been like two peas in a pod for the majority of your lives; whether it was going through the ups of downs of the horrid teenage change, to transitioning to the racing world of attempting to be adults. Simply put, you’ve been inseparable and glued to each other’s sides longer than you can remember. But one fateful day seems to completely change everything you had faith in and you begin to wonder if there was ever a time where you and your best friend even knew each other’s true colors.

⇾  Moodboard Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

“Y/N.” 

A smile is on your lips, turning to view the wide expanse of the training camps over the horizon. Majority of the members are female, training in black armour and bursts of orange flashing through the bright blue sky. From a distance you can see them, and an ancient smile carefully watches them from afar, fascinated by their range of progress. 

“They’ve improved.” You note it down, drawing out her thoughts already. 

A deep chuckle resonates from the bottom of her throat, “Of course, they are trained by the best.” 

A small smile arises on you from that, feeling the slight breeze against your cheek as you sit down on the flourished grass. “Why do you only watch them? Why not fight alongside them?” 

Although she smiles, it doesn’t capture the melancholy look residing in her eyes, the way they spoke of a tender story filled with too many sorrowful words, “My time to fight has come to an end.”

The slim fingers reach out, cold against your cheek but still filled with a gracious amount of warmth, “Go on now, do not keep your sisters waiting.” 

You nod, hurriedly getting up and mummering words before casting your sword, rushing towards the other children practicing. For the briefest of moments, you turn – you know she will be there, like she has always been, carefully and cautiously looking after you. It's foolish to even doubt, but it brought down the uncertainty brewing inside you. 

She smiles; dressed in hooded black robes and old silver eyes watching you run away. You instantly beam, drawing your sword out as a sign of respect before bowing, but when you lift your gaze a swirling breeze passes by. 

She vanishes into thin smoke and you’re only left behind staring with torn eyes, the silver now shifted to gold.

***

Uncomfortable silence rests within the four walls of the room, a sense of defeat mixed in with utter disbelief spreading across. No one dares to break the tense silence, instead, Hoseok and Namjoon continue to hover over the gray bed as Namjoon cuts white strips of cloth at the speed of light and hands Hoseok any necessary supplies he needs. There is no exchange of words, only the shared need to keep going. 

Yoongi and Jimin stand off to the side, watching the two work together diligently with stern eyes and silently hoping to themselves that the unconscious wolf doesn’t remain in such a battered state. Taehyung is nowhere to be seen, resting in an adjacent room after pushing himself past the limit and needing his own recovery.

A series of footsteps draw them out of it, both of them turning to view Seokjin joining them before he quietly whispers among the dead silence. 

He keeps his eyes trained on the wolf as well, not invested in giving Jimin any eye contact at the moment, “How is he now?” 

“Not good.” Jimin states, crossing his arms with a sigh when he watches Hoseok wipe the sweat trailing down his forehead, “They’ve been trying to stop the bleeding, but the wound is too deep.” 

Seokjin hums, eyes still latched onto the wolf who doesn’t seem to be waking up anytime soon. “I wasn’t expecting them to be so powerful, let alone put on such a fight. To think they would injure Jungkook…”

Jimin stiffly smiles, “Seems like he wasn’t the only one injured during the fight though.”

Seokjin raises a questioning brow at that, but Jimin’s eyes trail elsewhere, locking onto a certain individual currently huddled on the floor in a fetal position. 

He’s taken aback a bit, not quite expecting you to be watching the wolf get treated just like the rest of them but from a farther distance away. He carefully observes you, noticing how your knees are brought up to your chin level and how your eyes are cracked with streaks of red. However, you don’t even turn in wonder when he’s blatantly staring at you. Instead, you keep your eyes trained on Jungkook only, like a shadow in the background. 

Hoseok’s coarse words drag him out of it, causing him to redirect his attention over to the attending pair. “It’s too much.” He wipes his forehead again, this time shaking his head at Namjoon, “The bleeding is too much.” 

It’s almost as if Hoseok looks towards Namjoon for answers, a solution, anything that could possibly help, but the blank expression the man gives him in return only serves to cause his desperate one to fall even more. He clenches his teeth, stepping away from the bed with remorseful eyes and Namjoon lets out a deep exhale, scrunching his brows and setting his lips into a firm line. 

They both back away from the table, a helpless sight dwelling in their eyes when they left to simply watch, watch as there’s nothing else they can do. 

From behind the shadows, you see the whole ordeal play out and you abruptly rise from the ground, exiting the room with a vicious swipe of your sleeve against your eyes. 

***

It’s just like a tug of war. 

A part of you is screaming on the inside, telling you to go back and watch something that deep down, you never even wanted to see unfold. However, there’s another part that’s seemingly dragging you away from it all, completely evoking something else you didn’t even realize was inside you. 

Fear. 

Fear of losing Jungkook. 

Despite everything, your training, your upbringing, your chosen path – there was a part that truly didn’t want to see Jungkook becoming the final end to it all. 

Deep inside the whole twisted scenario, you were silently wishing Jungkook would be alright. 

Your hand rests against the wall as you force yourself upright, coming across the same window that you had witnessed countless rays of orange. That same day, Jungkook had left you with a hug, a silent message that there was a chance he wasn’t going to come back. 

But you wanted him to. 

You always did. 

“Y/N?” 

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts, not hearing their light footsteps trail after you once you left the room. What throws you a bit off guard isn’t the fact that he followed you, but how for the first time, he seemingly looks at a loss. 

“What?” Your voice cracks just as another wave resurfaces in your eyes. Bringing your arm up, you attempt to quickly swipe them away again, but this time it isn’t as easy. 

An arm comes around you and you’re taken by surprise when Jimin encases you into a hug, but it only serves to have it all hit you at once and the tears drench your cheeks at an alarming rate. You don’t mean to, but you cling onto him desperately when you can’t keep yourself upright anymore. 

“Shhh.” Jimin whispers, placing a gentle hand on your head, “He’ll be alright Y/N, I know he will be.” 

“How can you say that?” You suck in a harsh breath and your shoulders shake within his grasp, “There’s so much blood and he isn’t waking up, h-how can you s-say that…?” 

Jimin holds onto you tighter, “He’s strong. Much stronger than he looks. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.” 

“But it’s the first time it’s happened because of me.” You choke out, “I was so angry at him about everything that the thought of losing him…” 

A rush of tears hit you again and your words are silenced, clinging onto him again. The list could on – what you wouldn’t have said, what you should have said, what could have been. In that moment, you were void of any anger you had against Jungkook when all you felt was anger towards yourself. 

“Y/N…” Jimin separates from you, holding onto your shoulders and somberly looking into your wet eyes. It’s odd, you had never established any type of relationship with Jimin for you to be pouring out all the chaos havocking inside you right now, but there was something, something that made you feel almost at ease being with him. 

Your eyes widen, truly getting a closer look at him when somehow the pieces begin to come together. 

The silver-blue hair, the way he approached you with the hug, the way he held you in his arms an- 

The look in his eyes. 

“You…” A shaky finger points to him, “You saved me…” 

There’s grief reflected in his eyes, watching you with bitter tenderness, “You remember.” 

He smiles at your blatant confusion, stepping closer to you and it’s when you notice that there was something pleasant about having him near you, like it was almost reassuring. You can only freeze in place when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, hovering his hand near your neck before stepping back completely, “And you can sense it too.” 

He whispers it so quietly that you barely catch it, but you press onto the question you want an answer to, “Why did you save me?”

Your expectation starts off with a range of answers, perhaps he didn’t know you were a slayer at the time or thought you had needed help from being caught in the crossfire of the hunt. However, he simply replies with a collection of words that have you shaken to the core.

“You’re my mate Y/N.” 

You take a step back, any coherent words stuck in the base of your throat, “I knew it was you from the moment I first saw you.” A hopeful smile laces on his lips, yet its paired with dark eyes, “But I was too late.” 

Your hand automatically reaches out and touches the faint tracings of Jungkook’s bite, now completely healed with only a scar remaining on the skin. Jimin’s eyes follow the movement and it strikes you at how contrasting emotions his eyes hold. On one hand, they hold such tenderness and comfort, but at the same time they’re twisted with reality, a reality that can never happen. 

“When Jungkook bit me…” 

“So that I wouldn’t be able to get to you first.” Jimin regretfully says, “He knew I would have claimed you as my mate if I did.” 

“But why?” Your hands fall down, not being able to follow along as you take a step closer to Jimin and raise your voice, “Why did he claim me?”

Jimin’s words silence your thoughts completely, “Because he loves you.” He looks at you straight in the eye, “And decided to choose you. Wolves only mate once in a lifetime, you know that Y/N.” 

Your mouth falls agape, “I-I…” 

“You’ve chosen him too, whether you know it or not.” Jimin states it as a fact, causing you to look at him in more disbelief, “If I was currently on that bed right now injured, I know I wouldn’t have caused this same reaction.” 

He gestures to your red swollen eyes and frenzy appearance, causing you to stumble even more on generating any possible words to counteract. It drops onto you like a brick; why Jungkook didn’t choose to tell you anything, why he was fighting to keep you safe. 

He chose you even when you didn’t think to chose him. 

However, that doesn’t mean his way of choosing was right. “Jimin… “ 

He raises a hand and smiles, “Don’t. What’s done is done.” Narrowing his eyes, he looks down, “But I do think you should at least give Jungkook a chance Y/N.” 

You nod, being able to come to terms with yourself more. Although you hadn’t been expecting Jungkook to be hiding such a thing from you, it can’t overshadow that you do care about him, no matter how many times you tell yourself you don’t. 

And Jungkook cared about you through the silence. 

Raising your head, you’re about to thank Jimin for letting you know the truth and helping you, but the words are caught in your throat when you notice the slumped figure against the door, holding onto it for dear life as he smiles through his exhausted expression. 

“Jungkook!” Instantly you rush over and notice the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, his wet hair sticking to him and the dark circles underneath his eyes. 

His eyes brighten when you come closer to him, but then they trail over to the person standing behind you and he settles down onto that field of vision. You’re not sure if its perhaps because he was injured, but Jungkook isn’t able to maintain the contact when his gaze falters, fixating itself onto the ground inside of looking straight at Jimin. 

It takes you a moment to decipher it, but it clicks in right away when his entire stance is too recognizable. He sucks in a deep breath, his grip tightening on the door, “You told her everything…didn’t you Hyung?”

Your eyes turn wide and you wonder how long Jungkook had been standing there when you were conversing with Jimin. 

Turn to view Jimin’s expression, you can see the surprise wash over his features too until it contorts into something else, like he was swaying into acceptance gradually. It’s strange for you – how it was almost like you were dangling in between both of them, so close to the whole situation and yet so incredibly far away. 

Jimin sighs, taking light footsteps closer to the door until he stops completely in front of it. From your view, you notice how his expression is now absent of the same hints of resentment and detest conjured up in it prior, sharing the same stance that Jungkook holds. 

He reaches out, placing a hand on the younger member’s back before he pats, “It’s alright.” 

Jungkook instantly looks up, tired eyes growing in size and flickering over the blue-haired man’s face. “In the end you chose each other and I’m not going to stand in between that.” 

Jimin smiles, perhaps the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile and Jungkook’s shoulders sag down, as if he had just let go of a breath he had been holding in for far too long. “You’re still like a little brother to me after all.” 

You stand to the side when you can clearly see the water surfacing in Jungkook’s eyes and you find yourself smiling when Jungkook nods and Jimin’s pats his shoulder again before leaving. He sends you a look before doing so, the same one he had given Jungkook as a way to settle that everything was going to be okay. 

After Jimin leaves, Jungkook attempts to stand up straight from the door frame and instantly you rush over. You let him loop his arm over your neck, resting some of his weight on you and limping himself over to your bed. He plops down with a sigh and you stand in front of him, watching him occasionally wince as he tries to readjust himself. 

After a moment of silence, you softly speak up, “How are you feeling?” 

“Tired.” He manages to get out, swiping his sweat-drenched hair back and rubbing his half-awake eyes, “And sore.” 

You hum, eyes trailing down to notice that his entire torso was soaked with sweat and the light traces of crimson started to peek out from under his shirt. Reaching out, you plant a hand against his forehead and the heat isn’t drastically high, making you let out an exhale of relief. Jungkook watches you, his doe eyes carefully watching every single one of your moves despite still being in pain and you find it hard to ignore his gaze. 

“Were you worried about me?” 

You nod and Jungkook can’t take his eyes away from how vulnerable your own eyes look, like they were faced with something they didn’t want to see. “Namjoon and Hoseok had given up.” 

“Seeing you…like that, I thought…” You exhale, your orbs suddenly filling up water and threatening to drop down your cheeks, “I thought you were going to die.” 

Your voice cracks at the end and Jungkook immediately reaches out, interlacing his hands with yours, “Hey.” You look up with glossy eyes, looking into his tender ones, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“I know, I just- “You sniffle, the words dying out in your throat when you hastily pull up your sleeve to wipe the falling tears. However, Jungkook doesn’t allow you to when he pulls you closer to him and wraps his arms around you. 

You don’t realize you’re trembling until your hands come around his back, watching yourself crumble in his arms when you didn’t even think you would have gotten a chance to see him again. At the thought of that, you press yourself tighter against him and Jungkook flinches, making you realize that he had just woken up after being injured. 

You immediately detach from him, noticing him holding onto his wound carefully but still offering you a genuine smile, “Sorry…” You whisper and he shakes his head, as if it didn’t even matter because he was holding onto you. 

Sitting down on the bed next to him, you face the doorway, “Jungkook.” 

“Hmm?” He pushes himself back a bit, relaxing his shoulders. 

“Before you came, I…I talked to Jimin.” You attempt to bring your eyes over to look at him, but they falter and land onto the ground instead, “He said, well,” You take in a deep breath, “He said he was my mate.” 

When he remains silent, you continue, “If he was my mate, then why did you mark me Jungkook?” 

He doesn’t speak, not a single word and it starts to eat you up when the seconds keep ticking by. From the corner of your eye, you can see him frowning already, like he was attempting to put his thoughts into coherent sentences. You know Jungkook isn’t the greatest at explaining and that he needs time for that, but the amount of time he takes just makes your heart sink further and further down. 

When it becomes too much, you turn yourself fully around to view his expression and you’re taken aback by what you see. 

It’s something you rarely see cross Jungkook’s features, only arising in the tensive of situations, such as discovering earth-shattering news. 

Fear. 

His eyes are blown out and his jaw is tensed, but his expression changes when he notices you staring at him. 

“Y/N I- “ 

“Do you love me?” 

If you thought Jungkook’s eyes were wide before, they stare at you in pure horror now. 

“Well I-I, when y-you put it like that, I-I-“ 

“Jungkook.” He immediately stops his broken rambling, growing silent as he turns to you, “Real words, please.”

Jungkook sighs, his head falling down as if he had just lost a battle he knows he can’t win, “Yes.” 

If you had thought learning of this news from Jimin was bad enough, hearing Jungkook directly admit it has the air knocking out of your lungs. You can only resort to simply staring at him, in a mixture of both awe and confusion. 

“Since when?” 

“Since forever?” Jungkook looks up, appearing so similar to a child being discovered of doing something wrong, “I don’t know what to tell you Y/N. I’ve loved you for as long as I can even remember.” 

“But I’m your friend, and you had so much else going on. Those girls-“ 

“An attempt to forget about you.” Jungkook bitterly chuckles, “Really, a bad choice.”

Your jaw drops down and you freeze. The fact that Jungkook, this whole entire time, was harbouring feelings for you while you were fixated on him being in a good relationship for his own sake, leaves you with no words. 

“Y/N…” Jungkook’s hand faintly touches you and draws you out of your impending thoughts, causing you to face him with the same guilt-stricken expression, “I had always hoped that maybe,” He sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut before looking at you more determined, “You’d be willing to give me a chance?” 

You stare at him with wide eyes. 

“But I do think you should at least give Jungkook a chance Y/N.”

Jimin’s words ring in your mind like a bell and you attempt to process all this, process how your best friend was in love with you for so long. You look up, meeting Jungkook’s expectant innocent eyes and a part of you really wants to give in, knowing how much you love your best friend and can’t stand anything ever happening to him. 

However, something sparks in your mind, an image of two people lying lifelessly on the ground and an image with a roaring fire before your eyes. An image filled with only blood and left with remainders of tears, an image that seemingly rips your heart out when you can only stare at Jungkook with broken eyes. 

“Jungkook.” He leans forward instinctively, eyes growing in size and intent on your words. You sigh, planting your hand over his, “I-“ 

The door comes bursting forward, a mop of brown hair flashing before your eyes at the doorway, “Y/N!”

You and Jungkook both jerk away, staring at Hoseok when he heaves a breath, “Namjoon needed to talk to you, something about the woman you were fighting on the grounds?” 

You instantly get up, but then turn around when you see Jungkook still seated on the bed. You meet his eyes and he gently shakes his head, slowly rising with a hand pressed against his wounded side and sending a nod in Hoseok’s direction. 

“Take us to him.” 

***

Although you had just gone through a tsunami with discovering Jimin’s identity and the rise of Jungkook’s feelings, electricity buzzes you at the prospect of knowing more. It was as if it was a load sitting on your chest that you couldn’t quite shake off, a prick in the back of your brain that was constantly bothering you. 

Jungkook was injured. 

By no one else, but her. 

The door to the library is thrown wide open when you enter, Jungkook slowly trailing behind you and coming face to face with a Namjoon lost in thought. He jerks when his ears pick up on the sound of the door, turning to see you enter and a satisfied smile crosses on his lips. 

“Please,” He gestures to the couch, “Have a seat.” 

Nodding, you sit down and a deep breath escapes your lungs. You had been in that room many times to know that Namjoon wasn’t going to dangle around the topic, but rather he has a strict and direct motive. 

Information. 

You can feel a thousand nerves buzzing over you when Namjoon sits in front of you, his Alpha presence already being overwhelming. A hand softly touches yours and you turn to see Jungkook right beside you, sending you a reassuring smile that you are honestly grateful for in that split second. 

“Now that Jungkook is alright,” Namjoon begins, glancing over at his youngest member before bringing his attention over to you, “There are some questions I have, if you don’t mind.” 

You stiffly smile, knowing that Namjoon was going to extract answers out of you whether you liked it or not either way. “Jungkook tells me you had referred to the person that injured him…as your mother?”

You nod, catching a flash of confusion on Jungkook’s face from the new topic and knowing that although you needed to give Namjoon an explanation, Jungkook deserved one too regardless. 

“She isn’t my mother, well, biologically speaking. I refer to her as one because she’s like a mother to me.”

“The Elder.” Namjoon states, leaning back down in his seat as he crosses his legs and presses a thoughtful finger against his lips, “The leader of the Crimson Clan, correct?” 

You hum, “I was trained by her.” 

“I see…” Namjoon stares at you intently, but then his eyes swing over to Jungkook who is simply listening to you speak. “Do you know anything else about her? We weren’t expecting her to easily overpower us, let alone injure our youngest.” 

Nodding, you pursue your lips and wrack through your mind. Truthfully, you weren’t sure if they needed to know the exact information, but you do wonder what their reactions would be, especially the reaction of the person currently sitting right beside you. 

It’s not the type of details that you ever wanted to throw upon them, but Jungkook was injured and you believe you too need some answers now. 

“The Elder is the leader of the Crimson Clan and very powerful. She’s been extremely kind and caring towards me…especially when she needed to take me in.” 

Namjoon frowns at that and you attempt to steady your breathing, well aware that you were starting to walk into a place you had long forgotten. “The Elder took me in…after my parents were killed by werewolves.” 

The room drops into an eerie silence when Namjoon can only stare at you and Jungkook visibly reacts, brows furrowing at the mention. You look up to meet eyes with Namjoon and you notice, despite the calm composed manner he sits in, he too does seem taken aback with the new piece of information. 

He clears his throat, attempting to contain himself as he sits up in his seat, “Your parents were killed by werewolves…” He repeats it to make it sound like a confirmation, but you know he was just trying to allow the new fact to sit in better with him more. 

You’re expecting a lot from telling them this – remorse or even worse, pity. Pity that they had done this to you and pity that they had taken away something so dear and precious to your heart. 

However, when Namjoon finally speaks up again, it’s like someone struck an arrow through your heart instead.

“That’s not possible.” 

You stare at him with wide eyes, “W-what? What do you mean?” 

“Y/N…” Namjoon faintly smiles, seeming amused, “I’m not sure as to how much you were told, but werewolves would never go out of their way to attack a family like that.” His eyes turn serious, leaning forward as they bore into your own and throw a dash of the truth at you, “Slayers and werewolves have been enemies for centuries, but slayers were originally made to control werewolves after the population went rogue.” 

“Werewolves haven’t been rogue for years, the only way for them to exist is for the population to be recreated somehow.” 

“So what you’re saying is…my parents weren’t killed by werewolves?” 

“I’m afraid not.” Namjoon speaks, “That’s not something I would ever allow my pack do, or any other pack for that matter.” 

Namjoon leans back and you are frozen in your spot, breathing rapidly when it feels like a ton of bricks had just been dropped on you. You turn to face Jungkook with blown up eyes and he seems just as shocked as you are, mind spinning as he can’t believe what he was hearing either. 

Namjoon slowly rises, grabbing a book from his shelf before leaving the room and letting you have some privacy. 

You lean forward, planting your hands against your face and shaking your head, “This…this doesn’t make any sense Jungkook…” 

Jungkook leans over, attempting to see your face among all your fallen locks of hair, “Namjoon is right though Y/N. Me or any of the other members wouldn’t do something like that.” 

“B-But it happened Jungkook.” You stare at him with tear-filled eyes, “I saw it with my own two eyes.”