#does not mean i have to like the violence. or be violent and hard all the time myself.

[magpie-come-east]

How do you think omen culture is like in the sewers? Family unit structure, belief systems, way of life (aside from How Shitty it was), interactions with wraiths and guards, etc

I’m so happy I got an ask like this even if it’s taken me ages to answer it!

I will begin by admitting that I think fandom as a whole tends to depict the Omen as very ‘animal’. I also do this- I love making the Twins a little more creature. But it does inevitably seep into how the Omen of the Shunning Grounds as a whole are depicted. The great tragedy of the SG is that the Omen are human beings. Their oppression is a horror, but in writing the Omen as beastly in nature, it’s almost like a concession that the Graceborn people were right: the Omen are fundamentally inhuman.

That being said, I think it’s better to highlight the humanity of the Omen of the Shunning Grounds. It’s important to consider that they likely had a society/community.

One thing that I genuinely believe is that there was some ‘osmosis’ between the sewers and Leyndell. Meaning, I don’t think the SG were wholly cut off from Graced people. There is an item that says that the SG were a secret to everyone (except, presumably, the nobility with Omen children). But I find it hard to believe. In the cut Shanehaight quest, he says people can just hear the Omen crying and moaning. If babies and children were cast in the SG, then they’d need to be fitted with their shackles as they grew up. There were Perfumers like Tricia that felt called to help them. Likely knights and soldiers that had to interact with the Omen. I sincerely believe there were families that visited their exiled relatives.

All that to say that non-Omen people likely had semi-regular contact with the Omen. For good or ill. Thus, I don't necessarily believe that Morgott was unique in revering the Erdtree. It is inevitable as Leyndell culture suffuses the SG. And I don't really think the Omen are being taught the 'truth' of the Erdtree's primordial form as the Crucible. Faith in Queen Marika's Order is widespread in the SG as the overwhelmingly predominant faith aboveground. Additionally, I don't believe Mohg was the sole worshipper of the Formless Mother. He was favored as a Demigod Prince, perhaps, but I could imagine his cult began in the Shunning Grounds proper amongst the Omen.

It is very difficult to imagine what their material lives and familial lives are like. Despite my assumed interactions with the surface, I don't feel they were ever sufficiently cared for. The Omen had to make do with scraps and detritus. Probably building 'DS2 Gutter-esque' communities where possible. Omen language is likely a mix of 90% the predominant Leyndell speech mixed with naturally developing Omen dialects over the centuries. I imagine they learned to read off of discarded books (or donated- often of a religious nature) and learned to speak from one another- as well as by listening to conversations through sewer grates. I think the trope of the animalistic grunting non-verbal Omen is not the best. They have animal traits, so animal communication is natural imo (purring/growling/baring teeth/etc). But I don't buy the idea that many, many Omen simply could not learn how to speak language at all.

As far as family structures go, I feel this varies considerably! I don't actually think all that many children are abandoned to their own devices! Omen aren't sexless beings. They begin their own families naturally and they adopt foundlings and abandoned infants. Disease and hunger and violence inflicted upon them from the 'blessed' people harm and kill more Omen children than other Omen do. But children can lose their guardians/parents to sickness (etc) and may struggle to be adopted by other Omen families if they themselves are struggling.

I hope I'm expressing myself well enough. I just don't think the SG was entirely a bestial, violent 'survival of the fittest' hell pit 100% of the time. The impossible resource scarcity and the intense trauma can cause instances of extreme isolationism between close-knit families and individuals who will defend their resources to the death. But there is definitely community. Because Omen are people in the end. They would do their best to care for their weakest and most vulnerable.

It's still a hard and lonely life. Rats, bats, crayfish, and refuse constituted much of their diet. They could probably collect seeds from trashed produce but farming much more than fungus and moss was a rare skill. Hunting is common for individuals and smaller families, but larger communities had the man power and space to have small farms and livestock from sewer dwelling animals.

I'll add more to this as I think about it! But for now I'll simply post. TLDR, It's fun to imagine Omen as grumpy cat-like people, but they are human beings trying to survive and help one another in a hellish and torturous environment.

[queerbeverage]

It takes a great many courage to be kind. To make yourself soft. To start having emotions again, open the floodgates, open the bottles you kept them in all this time.

Violence is easy. Throwing a punch is easy. It's hard to be gentle. To be empathetic, to yourself first and to others.

I will never accept calling someone weak for being emotional, or expressing their deepest desires, giving words to their feelings. To me, that is the most courageous someone can be.

It came only after allowing myself to shed pieces of that armor, that hard shell i built in the face of great cruelty and rejection and violence, that i began to finally get to know myself. I still have to peel off pieces, still have some sticking on my skin that can't be removed for now, because they're stuck so deep in the skin. It's a process, but it is so worth it. You'll find yourself in that shell, maybe miserable and small and malnourished, but *you* nonetheless. You can always grow from there, trust me. It's hard and it sucks so bad but it's so so god damn fucking worth it to let go and venture out and meet friends and make memories as yourself, not as someone you are pretending to be.

Be kind to yourself. i love you.

[scarletdreamers]

Can we, for a second, think about the fact that Hannibal dressed Will before he carried him home through the snow?

Will is naked when he's about to get the face surgery from Cordell. We see a scene of him in the operation chair where he's shirtless, lower body covered by a hospital blanket. Hannibal, who cut himself free from the ropes that were holding him captive on Muskrat farm, who then killed a large sum of Mason's staff including trained security and surgeons, saves him before Will's face gets removed. This all happens off-screen. The next scene is Hannibal carrying Will (bridal style) through the snow. In this scene Will is dressed, including a jacket for the cold and all that. Imagine Hannibal, the violent beast we saw when he killed Mason's men, blood probably still on his hands, finding Will there. Unconscious, and then dressing him. Dressing someone is a very intimate thing, especially someone unconscious. It requires care and gentleness. That, and knowing how to handle a body and loving someone enough to dress them while they don't need to be. He buttoned his buttons for him, tied his shoes, put him in a jacket to make sure he wouldn't get cold - I mean, Hannibal himself doesn't even wear a jacket in that scene. There's blood and wounds all over Hannibal's face, he's exhausted and probably the one in the most physical danger, yet he takes care of Will before he takes care of himself.

This hits even harder if you think about why they ended up in Muskrat farm in the first place. In Florence, Hannibal tried to 'eat' Will. He tried to split his head open with a bone saw. That intense violence, the grotesque and desperate nature of those actions makes a perfect and sharp contrast to him saving Will after outside forces try to take their lives, which is a heroically gentle and intimate action. He didn't have to dress him up like that, he didn't have to carry him that way, but he did. Hannibal fails to kill Will in Florence, and with that he fails his last attempt to get rid of his feelings for Will. Or at least, to make his feelings bearable. He thinks that he can control himself better when Will is dead, so he tries to kill him but he fails. Not because he's stopped, but simply because he can't do it. If Hannibal wanted him dead, Will would have been dead. Mason's men only interrupted his theatrics. They gave him a reason to put away the saw and act like it was purely their fault, but then Will is in danger at the farm and Hannibal does everything in his power to save him and get him home safe and well. At home he takes off his jacket, literally lays him in bed and tucks him in. He covers Will with a blanket, he tries to write mathematical formulas to reverse time and cleans his wounds. That's why Will's rejection when he wakes up is so tragic and hard to watch. It breaks Hannibal, unbreakable and inhuman Hannibal Lecter. It simply hurts him enough to break his heart. It breaks him enough to give up everything he ever lived for and surrender to the FBI, which he spent a lifetime running from. He does this because when he decided to save Will, he realised he would never get over the things he felt for him. In Hannibal's mind, the worst thing that can happen is never seeing Will again. He finally realised that, after everything, and that's why he surrenders to the FBI.

Hannibal honey, you don't want to eat his brain. You just wanted him to love you.

It's subtle details like this that always stick to me afterwards. It's just another thought I had and I felt like sharing.

[aleese1111]

ong please please please do three wolves, one flame part 2 if you want ofc! I need geum seong je he's so hot in this story (I hope we end up with him)

three wolves, one flame two | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: in a city where stolen phones and bruised egos collide, a tense standoff between two gang members threatens to ignite—but when loyalty, exhaustion, and unexpected tenderness surface, the cracks beneath their rage finally show. as fists unclench and defense fall, they begin to realize that survival might mean learning to lean on each other—even when it hurts.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, language, blood, bruises, mild angst, mutual pining, toxic communication, vulnerable moments, mentions of crime.

author's note: this is getting toxic pal .. making me cry and stuff . requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. three ??

the motorcycle garage reeked of sweat, oil, and burnt rubber—the kind of place where tempers sparked easier than engines. a dented workbench sat shoved into one corner, tools scattered across it like a graveyard of failed fixes. the overhead light buzzed with a dying flicker, and the air was thick with heat and fury.

“you’re fucking unbelievable,” she hissed, voice cutting through the space like a scalpel.

seong je stood across from her, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. “don’t start with me...”

“start? i’m not starting shit. i’m finishing what your idiot screwed up.” her voice rose to a full-blown yell. “you let one of your morons walk around with ten stolen phones like we’re not running an actual operation!”

“i didn’t let him do shit!” he shouted back, stepping forward. “he went off script! i told him to stash the haul. he got jumped, not my fucking fault!”

“then whose fault is it? mine?” her eyes burned, teeth grit. “you act like this is some damn street gang, not a business.”

“it is a street gang,” he snapped, voice heavy with sarcasm. “in case you forgot, none of us have fucking degrees or a retirement plan.”

“you know what i mean, seong je. we’re organized. we have rules. and your guy just cost us everything we pulled yesterday.”

“maybe if you weren’t so busy barking orders and being a condescending bitch all the time—”

she was on him in a second, finger jabbing into his chest. “say that again. say it again.”

he caught her wrist, hard enough to make her flinch—but just for a second. “you wanna hit me now? is that what this is?” his voice dropped into something dangerous. “you think i’m scared of you?”

“no,” she spat. “i think you’re scared of being fucking useless. that’s why you’re always trying to swing your dick around. to make up for the fact you keep screwing up.”

something snapped in his eyes—sharp, violent. “keep pushing me. see what happens.”

she didn’t blink. “already did. still nothing.”

they stood there, faces inches apart, rage vibrating between them like a live wire. neither moved. neither gave in. both of them breathing hard, jaws locked.

then, without a word, she yanked her arm free and stormed out of the garage. the door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.

@ . !

by the time she reached the bowling alley, her throat hurt from yelling. her boots clacked across the sticky floor as she passed the empty lanes, not sparing a glance at the clatter of pins echoing faintly in the distance.

she pushed the office door open without knocking.

baek jin didn’t look up.

“tell me again why we keep seong je around,” she said flatly, tossing herself onto the couch like a stormcloud ready to ruin the day.

baek jin wrote something on his notebook. “he does what you can’t.”

“like lose stolen merchandise?” she snapped, dragging a hand through her hair. “god, he’s insufferable.”

baek jin finally turned, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyeing her with calm indifference. “what happened now?”

“phones,” she groaned. “ten of them. gone. one of his half-brained cronies got rolled. didn’t even stash them properly.” her voice cracked under the weight of exhaustion and rage. “and he blames me for being too uptight.”

“because yelling solves everything,” baek jin muttered, returning to his notebook.

she flopped onto her side, legs draped across the arm of the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes. “he called me a bitch, jin. a condescending one. like he even knows what that word means.”

“probably heard it in a movie.”

she let out a tired laugh—just one breath of amusement. “he looked like he was gonna throw something.”

“you look like you already did.”

she pulled his jacket from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. “i hate him.”

“you don’t.”

“i do.”

“no, you don’t.”

silence.

then, more quietly: “...he scares me sometimes.”

baek jin didn’t respond right away.

“then don’t fight fire with fire,” he said eventually. “you’ll both burn.”

she stared at the ceiling, lips pressed thin.

and maybe she was burning. maybe she'd been burning for a while.

the minutes ticked by in a slow crawl, thick with that kind of silence only known between two people used to each other’s noise. she had cooled on the outside—no more fire, no more raised voice—but inside, the coals still glowed red. she hadn’t moved from the couch. one leg was curled underneath her, the other bouncing softly as she scribbled something into her notebook.

her phone sat to her right, flipped over. a math worksheet lay to her left, partially filled, and next to it was a half-eaten bag of shrimp chips. baek jin was back at his desk, eyes flicking between his work and the occasional glance at her page whenever she cursed under her breath.

“that one’s wrong,” he murmured.

“i knew it,” she muttered, erasing with unnecessary force. “this whole formula’s stupid.”

“no,” he said, typing lazily, “your distribution is stupid. the formula’s fine.”

“thanks for the confidence boost,” she shot back, but there wasn’t much bite in her tone.

“anytime.”

@ . !

they worked like that for another hour or two—sprawled in silence, occasionally interrupted by the click of a pen, the flick of a page, or a question about variables. it felt weirdly domestic. familiar.

until the office door creaked open.

she didn’t look up. didn’t need to. she knew the weight of that silence the second it walked in.

footsteps. slow. heavy. the scrape of worn sneakers on tile.

then something hit the floor beside her with a loud thud.

a duffle bag.

she looked up.

seong je stood a few feet away, breathing hard. his white school shirt was torn near the collar, buttons misaligned like he’d thrown it back on in a rush. his tie was missing. his lip was split and barely crusted over. blood had dried in a streak down his cheek, and his knuckles were red and raw—some cracked open, others bruised deep violet.

but it was the eyes that made her stop.

not angry. not cocky. not blank, either.

tired. steady.

he didn’t say a word.

she blinked, then glanced down at the bag. the zipper was half open—just enough for her to see the corner of a phone box. then another. and another.

all ten were in there.

baek jin stood up from his desk, slowly walking over. he opened the bag fully and confirmed it, counting silently. “you got them all back?”

seong je didn’t answer. just nodded, once.

“alone?” baek jin asked, quieter this time.

another nod.

baek jin whistled low under his breath, impressed.

she was still looking at him. not speaking. not moving. her hand, still holding a pen, trembled faintly against the edge of her notebook.

he looked at her once. quick. just a flicker. but it was enough.

she turned back to her worksheet without a word.

the room held its breath.

seong je wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and walked toward the couch. he didn’t sit beside her. just near. close enough that she could smell sweat, smoke, and rust on his skin.

he let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the wall, sliding down into a sitting position, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. the buzz of the overhead light hummed back into the space between them.

she kept writing.

but she didn’t flip the page again.

after a moment, without looking at him, she reached into her tote bag and fished around. pens, a folded test paper, a lip balm, gum—and then, her hand landed on the small emergency pouch she always carried.

she pulled it out, unzipped it with one hand, and tossed a small box of bandages and antiseptic wipes toward him. it hit his leg with a soft thump.

“try not to bleed out on baek jin’s floor,” she said flatly. “he’s too lazy to mop.”

baek jin snorted from across the room but didn’t comment.

seong je glanced at the box, then up at her. for the first time all day, the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

she didn’t look at him.

but her foot shifted slightly in his direction, brushing the edge of his.

and for now, that was enough.

the silence that followed wasn’t tense anymore—just tired.

seong je stayed slumped against the wall for another few minutes, wrapping a few of the bandages around his knuckles with surprising precision. he didn’t speak, and neither did she. eventually, he stood again with a wince and stretched his arms out until his shoulders cracked.

“i’m heading to the pc bang,” he muttered, brushing dust off his wrinkled uniform. “if you’re planning to keep sulking, do it quietly.”

she didn’t reply.

he hesitated at the door, one hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder. “...i got the phones back, you know.”

“i noticed.”

“you’re welcome.”

she flipped another page in her workbook. “i already said thanks.”

he rolled his eyes and left.

the door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

@ . !

the last of the arcade lights flickered off, followed by the clunk of the main door locking shut. the bowling alley was quiet now—emptied out, wiped down, and dark except for the faint blue glow of the vending machine in the corner.

baek jin pocketed the keys with a sigh, shoulders rolling back in the stretch of relief that came after closing time. “we survived another day of screaming kids and gutter balls.”

she slipped on her hoodie, tugging it down to her wrists. “barely.”

“come on. i’m starving.” he nudged her lightly with his elbow. “you ate yet?”

she shook her head. “didn’t have time.”

“perfect. my treat.”

she gave him a sideways look. “your treat is always eight thousand won and spicy as hell.”

“and you always eat it like it’s nothing, so what does that say?”

she rolled her eyes but followed him anyway.

the streets were empty at this hour, just the hum of streetlamps buzzing above and the low whir of a passing bus in the distance. they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing in the narrow alley that led down to the backlot where the tiny tteokbokki joint sat—half hidden behind a metal shutter and marked only by a flickering neon sign that read 분식천국.

inside, it was warm and orange-lit, the kind of place where the plastic stools wobbled and the ajumma behind the counter always gave too much fish cake.

the tteokbokki shop was quieter now, the neon sign flickering softly as the last of the steam drifted from the pan. she poked at her food, her chopsticks moving aimlessly as she avoided looking directly at baek jin. she was still annoyed—still holding that edge—but not as sharp as earlier. it was always this way, after things had settled. tension dissolved, but never fully.

baek jin picked up a piece of soondae without looking at her, his movements smooth, deliberate. he took a bite, chewing slowly, while his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than usual.

“you know,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer than it had been earlier, “you could relax every once in a while.”

she made a face, her chopsticks still hovering above the plate, and shot him a look. “relax? that’s rich coming from you.”

he shrugged, glancing out the small window at the dark alley beyond. the streetlights outside hummed, casting long shadows that filled the empty space between them. then, almost absentmindedly, he reached over and pushed the plate of rice cakes closer to her.

“i’m serious,” he said, quieter this time. “you don’t have to keep everything in motion all the time.”

her fingers tightened around her chopsticks, but she didn’t respond immediately. instead, she stole a glance at him—eyes narrowing just a little, studying him as if trying to read between his words. but he was already looking away, a subtle tilt to his head, like he didn’t mind if she didn’t take the bait.

after a beat, she finally reached for another rice cake. her hand brushed against his casually, just the barest touch, but it was enough to make her pause, fingers still lingering against his. for a second, she almost didn’t pull back, but then she did, almost reflexively, as if she hadn’t meant to stay there.

his eyes flickered to her hand, but he didn’t say anything. he just kept eating, quieter now.

she took a deep breath, trying to shake off the discomfort that crawled up her throat. “i don’t need your advice, baek jin.”

“i didn’t say you did,” he replied, voice laced with something she couldn’t quite place. was it amusement? care? it was hard to tell, but he didn’t seem fazed by her harshness. his gaze was steady, like he was trying to understand her through the quiet.

another beat of silence passed. her foot nudged against his under the table—accidental, probably. but it lingered, her heel against the side of his shoe, the warmth of her body close enough that he could feel the weight of it.

for a moment, neither of them moved. the air between them was thick in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... full. heavy with things unsaid.

he cleared his throat quietly, shifting his foot away just enough for the pressure to break. she didn’t pull her foot back, though, and the moment passed without comment.

she didn’t look at him as she pushed the food around again. “you think i’m some kind of... control freak?”

“i think you don’t let people in,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, just a little too honest. “it’s like you’re always holding everything back.”

she froze for a second. his words lingered in the air, like smoke, and she could feel the weight of them, like the air had thickened.

her fingers tightened around her chopsticks, and she looked up at him, but she didn’t say anything for a long time. she wanted to snap back, to tell him he was wrong, but something in his eyes stopped her. maybe it was the way he wasn’t looking at her for a response, but just... waiting.

when she spoke, it was quieter than before. “i don’t need anyone to fix me.”

he gave her a quick, almost imperceptible smile, like he understood more than she wanted him to. “i didn’t say anything about fixing you.”

there was a beat of silence between them, but this time, it wasn’t awkward. it was just... there.

she grabbed the last piece of soondae, eating it in one bite. “i’m done. you?” she asked, her voice a little more like herself again—sharp, biting.

he smiled more openly this time. “you eat like a rat.”

she snorted, setting her chopsticks down with a little too much force. “and you’re a walking mannequin.”

when they stood up to leave, it was a little too quiet, but neither of them said much. she put her jacket on, pulling it over her shoulders with more force than necessary, like it was an armour she didn’t need.

@ . !

as they walked through the dark alley, the hum of the streetlights was the only sound between them, a quiet rhythm in the otherwise empty night. she kept her gaze forward, her hands tucked deep into her pockets, shoulders tense.

but then, that one small gesture—a simple adjustment of her collar—broke through the armor she had been building around herself all evening.

her breath caught for just a second. she hadn’t expected it. not from him. she hadn’t expected him to see her. not in this way.

his fingers barely brushed her skin, and in that moment, she felt the shift. it was like the weight she’d been carrying—unseen, unheard, but always there—just became too much to hold onto.

she didn’t stop walking, but her steps slowed, just for a moment. her heart hammered in her chest, too fast, too loud. the weight of her emotions, the ones she kept buried under layers of sharp words and brittle indifference, started to break free. slowly, quietly, without any warning. she bit her lip hard, the pressure doing nothing to stop the sting rising in her chest.

and then, just like that, she felt it. the quiet crumbling inside her. the tension, the anger, the sadness—all the things she thought she’d put away, forgotten or buried—spilled out in the form of a single, shaky breath.

she didn’t look at him. didn’t react. but something in her shifted.

then, without a word, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

she didn’t wipe it away. she didn’t speak. there was no need to. the weight of the past days, the anger, the fear, the exhaustion—it all sat heavy on her like a stormcloud.

he saw it. he always did.

and without hesitation, without asking or saying anything, he stepped forward and pulled her gently into his arms.

at first she froze, body rigid against him like she didn’t know how to be held. but then—like something inside her finally cracked—she melted forward and buried her face into his shoulder, her hands clutching the sides of his jacket.

that’s when the sobbing started.

not loud. not dramatic. just quiet, broken sounds pressed into his chest, like she was finally letting go of something she'd been carrying alone for far too long.

she was trembling.

he didn’t need her to say anything—he never did. he could feel the way her hands gripped his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her together. the weight of her against him wasn’t heavy, but it pressed into something deeper than he wanted to admit.

he’d seen her like this before. not often. only when everything else slipped.

and each time, it broke something in him he didn’t know had edges.

he didn’t ask what was wrong. he just held her tighter, like maybe if he stayed still enough, long enough, she’d remember she wasn’t alone.

that was enough for him. for now.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. three ??

[writingfics-passingtime]

Gentle

pairing: Loki x female reader

synopsis: You don't think you're ticklish. Loki offers to prove you wrong.

word count: ~3500

warnings: lots of swearing, sexual tension, suggestive jokes and innuendo, possessive!Loki, minor violence (training sparring)

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a sexually-charged relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: This fic is for all the people who aren't affected by rough and tumble tickling. Who know that gentle can still be ruthless. I see you.

Sam was grounded.

So while he was strong, fast, and stubborn, he didn't have his wings. No aerial advantage.

And you were sharper. You moved with practiced ease, letting him tire himself out as he swung and lunged across the sunken sparring pit, meeting his strikes with sidesteps, well-placed counters, and a smirk you hoped was infuriating.

He went for your ribs.

You caught his wrist. Twisted. Used that leverage to hook your legs around him, then used his thrown balance to send him down.

His back hit the mat with a solid thud.

For a moment, he just blinked up at you, winded and momentarily stunned.

You grinned, settling your weight on top of him, knee digging into his ribs just hard enough to remind him who the boss was. "Tell me," you mused, "who did you say was getting their ass handed to them today?"

Sam huffed, mouth pursing into something half-annoyed, half-amused. "Yeah, screw you."

You arched a brow. "Not much of an apology."

His jaw tensed, eyes narrowing. A second’s hesitation. You pounced.

Your fingers slipped under his ribs, pressing just enough-

"Shit!"

Your smirk quickly became a grin.

A choked laugh ripped out of him before he could stop it. He bucked violently, twisting beneath you as laughter tore through him like he’d been struck by lightning.

Your hand followed wherever he turned. "Something wrong, Wilson?"

"You demon-" He twisted again, finally using sheer force to throw you off. You hit the mat with a sharp roll over your shoulder, coming up to your feet in a fluid motion, laughing as he swore under his breath, breathless.

You two weren't the only ones laughing.

Thor chuckled, amused. Bucky smirked, arms crossed. Steve shook his head, exasperated. And Loki...

Loki was watching you like a cat watching a caged bird.

He tilted his head, eyes sharp, lips lifting in a slow, knowing smirk. "That," he said, "seems like an extraordinarily reckless tactic to introduce."

You dusted your hands off. "How so?"

Loki’s smirk widened. He took the bait. "Because every person in this room is stronger than you. And now you’ve gone and planted a very particular idea in their minds."

His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate. You crossed your arms, lifting that same brow in challenge. Giving him space to continue monologuing.

"I mean, really," he mused in a silken voice, "do you truly want to tempt fate by giving them the notion to simply hold you down and take their revenge?"

The air shifted, and you held back your confident smirk, just to play with him a bit. "They're welcome to try."

Bucky stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. "It's futile." He shot you a begrudging look. "We learned a long time ago - she’s not ticklish."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, and it’s annoying as hell. Not many ways to get her back for all that sass."

You shot him a sly smile.

Loki made a sound in his throat - amused, unimpressed. "You’re wrong."

Your eyes slid back to him, fixing him with a look. "Wrong? I'm not ticklish, Loki."

Loki’s lips curled into a smirk. “Yes, you are.”

Tense silence fell upon the room as the others turned to Loki, confused, silently hoping.

The moment stretched, electric.

Smirking eye contact, the crackle of something just shy of violent, just shy of something else.

You squinted. "I'm not lying. I've never been ticklish. Ask anyone in here."

“Hmm, I'm sure they have tried with their clumsy mortal hands,” he murmured, voice low, rich, laced with wicked amusement. “I, however..." His smirk grew downright devious. "I could take you apart without breaking a sweat.”

Your stomach did something sharp and treacherous. The heat in your face spread down your neck before you could help it.

Sam snorted. “Oh my god.”

Bucky shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Steve exhaled through his nose, clearly regretting his life choices.

You, however, refused to flinch.

“Yeah, right.”

Loki chuckled, slow and dark.

“I’ll gladly prove it,” he insisted, voice a lazy taunt, “as soon as you’re not afraid to submit to it."

The words pushed like a slow blade between your ribs. The challenge, goading you to agree to being pinned and tested, for him to catalogue your responses. It’s not like he was going to succeed in tickling you, but submit?

No way in hell.

Your mouth parted in a scoff, heat flushing your neck, your cheeks, something sharp already forming on your tongue-

“Okay, this,” Sam interrupted, pointing one hand at each of you, “is the one of most sexual things I’ve ever seen in my life, and I once walked in on Thor oiling himself up for battle.”

You lunged.

Sam yelped, dodging back, but before you could reach him, a familiar arm hooked around your waist, effortlessly hauling you back onto the mat.

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “Easy, killer."

Loki chuckled, low and pleased, as you pushed Bucky's arm away.

“I do so enjoy this part,” the god mused.

You exhaled sharply, still flushed, still coiled tight with something restless and unsatisfied. You took the bait. “What part?”

His gaze flicked to yours, amused, knowing. “The part where you pretend to be annoyed.”

The others snorted.

Your mouth opened, but before you could fire back, Loki winked, turned, and made to leave.

Something in you rebelled.

“Hey!" You called after him. "Come put your money where your mouth is, Your Highness."

Loki stopped.

He exhaled a low, dark chuckle, then, slowly, began rolling up the sleeves of his tunic, baring forearms lined with lean, deceptive strength.

“I didn't think,” he murmured, “you'd want an audience for what’s about to transpire.”

Sam made a strangled noise. “I hate this. I hate this weird foreplay.”

Thor’s booming laugh filled the room.

"Of course I want an audience," you hummed, ignoring the riffraff. "I want them all to witness you making a fool of yourself." You stepped back onto the mat, uncrossing your arms, opening your stance. "But I’m not submitting. If you want me at your mercy, you’ll have to earn it.”

Loki turned back, and - lazily, deliberately, with a smirk that was pure sin - prowled toward you. “Very well,” he purred with a tilt of his head. “Let’s play.”

But the moment his feet hit the mat, you got the sinking feeling that you'd just walked into a trap.

You’d never sparred with Loki before. Hell, you’d never even seen him fight outside of an actual battlefield, where his chaos and skill blurred the line between strategy and sheer fucking audacity.

But now, circling each other under the dim gym lights, with him as your adversary, you saw raw, precise power coiled beneath his deliberate movements, waiting to unravel.

His stance was fluid, deceptively relaxed. Beautiful, cocky bastard. Every shift of his weight, every flicker of his gaze, calculated. You could tell he was watching you, reading you, in a way that made heat lick at the base of your spine. And deep in your belly.

So you lunged first.

In the blink of an eye, he dodged, slipping around your advance like a fast-flowing stream through your fingers, barely exerting any effort. Your body twisted, adjusting on instinct, throwing your weight into a feint before coming back around, aiming for his side.

But again, he was faster.

Loki flowed around your strike like water, his arm shooting out with lightning precision. You barely registered the movement before his palm landed solidly against your ribs - not with brute force, but a firm, pointed push, sending you stumbling off balance.

You caught yourself, breath coming sharp through your nose. He stood there, utterly at ease, watching you with a glint of amusement.

Smug, infuriatingly hot, cocky bastard.

You exhaled. Steady.

Regrouping, you moved again, but this time, you were smarter - testing- feeling out the way he reacted. The next time he dodged, you anticipated it, twisting mid-motion and using his own momentum against him, catching his arm and yanking.

It almost worked.

The instant you felt his weight shift, you knew - he’d let you do that.

You barely had time to react before he countered, twisting with impossible grace, his body moving like an under-sea shadow. You felt it before you saw it.

His hands on you.

Turning.

Your feet ripped out from under you.

The mat met your chest with a harsh thud, your breath shooting out of your lungs in a rush.

Your wrists flexed, instinctively pushing to lift yourself up - except one of them wasn’t moving. Something heavy and warm pressed you down.

Your pulse jumped.

Loki was above you, his thighs caging your hips, one hand securing your wrist above your head. Your left side was left exposed, vulnerable. You snuck a glance at the rest of the team - on your... right - he chose to test the side they couldn't see. Why?

There were more important matters to tend to.

You struggled, but his grip was like iron, pressing your wrist into the mat, keeping your body still beneath his. The sheer weight of him was suffocating, and intoxicating, his lean muscle like warm steel.

The sound of your panting filled the space between you as you used your free hand to push against his knee, against the mat, to try and pry his hand off your wrist.

Nothing budged. Nothing. Especially not you.

So, finally, you gave up the fight, relaxing underneath him, letting your forehead fall to the mat as the others chuckled on the sidelines.

A low, satisfied, hum rumbled from his chest.

You clenched your jaw, ignoring the way the heat from his body seemed to sink into yours. “Yeah, whatever. You're a thousand-year-old god, of course you're gonna win."

Loki chuckled. And that sound - deep, smug, thoroughly entertained - was infuriating.

You scoffed, and gave a snarky chuckle, lazing your head to the side, not the slightest bit concerned. "Well, go on. Do what you need to do. All of these guys have tried, failed, and reaped the embarrassment of prodding my stomach while I stare them down. Your turn."

"My turn," he repeated in a low, heat, murmur that made your neck prickle. "They’ve all tried, have they?"

His eyes flicked toward the others - Bucky, Sam, Steve, Thor - still watching with rapt attention.

"I'm guessing they wrestled you, pinned you," Loki mused, "and I imagine they grabbed at your waist, or jammed their fingers clumsily under your arms, yes?"

Your stomach clenched at the cool, casual confidence in his voice.

His head dipped lower, lips brushing just past your ear.

"But no one's ever been gentle with you, have they?"

The implication landed hot in your stomach. With that tone, he definitely wasn't just talking about tickling.

"I don’t need gentle," you gritted out, feeling the heat creep up your neck.

Loki hummed again. And then -

A single touch.

Soft. Featherlight. Unfamiliar.

A slow, wandering drag of fingertips under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your side with aching delicacy.

An involuntary shudder rippled through you, sparkling sensation travelling up your neck, down your hip.

Your breath hitched.

Loki’s low chuckle vibrated against your back.

“Oh, my. Was that a reaction?"

You tested your wrist again, his grip didn’t budge. Iron.

“I-” You wet your lips, breathing out a nervous chuckle. Steady... “If this is tickling, why do people react to it so violently? Sam practically-”

The words died in your throat as his fingers slipped higher.

A slow, agonisingly light scratching at your ribcage.

Your body shifted before you even realised. Some strange, new sensation bloomed alive beneath your skin - an almost electric tingle, sharp and shivery, not... uncomfortable but not something you could control.

You winced, feeling your own muscles betray you, your arm instinctively trying to pull down. Your brow furrowed.

Silence from the others.

Your pulse pounded as you turned your head and met their confused stares and raised brows.

Loki’s voice dipped lower. “Tell me,” he whispered, dark and taunting, “what do you feel?”

You swallowed. Your breath was unsteady. “I don’t know, I-”

You barely got the words out before his fingers slipped higher, that damnably light touch moving quicker, scraping against your skin and nerves-

A sensation erupted.

Your body jerked.

A strangled noise caught in your throat - somewhere between a gasp and a sound you’d never made before - bubbling up.

No.

No fucking way.

Your fingers dug into the mat. Heat roared through your veins, panic flickering, because something strange was happening. Your body was reacting. Your breath hitching, catching, some kind of force simmering deep in your lungs-

“What the hell are you doing to me?” you demanded, voice breathless, confused, desperate.

Loki only laughed, dark and rich, and said, “Proving a point.”

And then he picked up the speed.

A choked, gasping giggle burst out of you before you could stop it.

Your eyes widened.

The others on the sidelines looked gobsmacked.

The sensation grew, intensified, as Loki’s fingers didn’t stop.

You twisted violently, struggling under him, but his weight was unforgiving, his grip relentless.

Your lips parted, a stream of breathless giggles slipping free.

Oh, fuck.

Your body shuddered as his fingers skimmed higher, up to the skin stretched over the centre of your ribcage-

Your head hit the mat as laughter was yanked out of you. Your legs kicked, trying to gain traction, but Loki only chuckled at your useless attempts.

“Wait- fucking- you-"

“Well,” Loki purred, so fucking pleased with himself, “Not ticklish, was it?”

The laughter ripped through your throat, unrelenting, spilling out in gasping waves as Loki’s damnable fingers continued their excruciatingly light torment. The others on the sidelines cheered in pure delight as you laughed and laughed and twisted and squirmed.

But there was no escape.

No amount of tensing, no desperate attempts to throw him off, could do anything against his sheer strength and control. His weight pressed you into the mat, keeping you exactly where he wanted, his hand moving with deadly precision - every stroke of his fingertips dragging something shivery and unbearable from your skin.

Bucky's surprised scoff cut across your struggling. "Well I'll be."

"All this time, huh?" Steve huffed a laugh through his nose.

"Oh, you are definitely getting it from me," Sam's chortling threat made you turn your head away, back to where only Loki could see your profile.

Gods, Loki.

This wasn’t the clumsy, forceful jabbing of a sparring partner trying to elicit a reaction.

This... this was deliberate. Skilled. Loki had found something new in you, and he was taking his time exploring it.

And the worst part?

The heat.

The deep, simmering pull in your stomach had nothing to do with his magic and everything to do with the way his body pinned yours, the warmth of his breath, the slow, dangerous way he was learning you.

You were done for.

“Now,” Loki called to the others, voice smooth and pleased and maddeningly composed over your breathless gasps, “what exactly should I be dishing out punishment for? As long as you all have tales of her misdeeds…”

His fingers fluttered along your ribs, light and delicate, dragging over the hyper-sensitive skin. Your body seized with a squeal, then a sharp, gasping laugh.

“…I’ll keep going.”

The traitorous bastards on the sidelines did not hesitate.

“How much time you got?” Sam called, laughing.

"She replaced the protein powder with flour," Bucky offered. "Had us all drinking sludge in our shakes for days until we realised."

Loki hummed in amusement. "Clever." His fingers never stopped - the feathery, unbearable strokes at your lower ribs making your body tremble under him.

"Last week she convinced Thor that the Alexa was not only a real person, but 'Midgard's Only Goddess.'" Sam snorted. "Had Thor trying to win her favour for hours."

Loki chuckled, shaking his head as though deeply ashamed of you. His fingers slid higher up your ribs, the change in focus so sudden it made your breath hitch violently - your body arching before you could stop it.

"Oh, that’s good," Sam laughed. "Keep her goin', we got more."

"She told the new recruits that I get my hair done at a salon called ‘Thunder Struck,’" Thor added, betrayal in his voice. "The rumours-"

"-are completely true," you gasped, still somehow defiant through the breathless laughter spilling out of you.

Loki sighed in faux fatigue. "A habitual liar, too. Unfortunate." His fingers shifted again, this time creeping into the soft space under your arm-

Your laughter folded into silence.

A sharp, breathless inhale was all you could manage, body seizing as your nerves exploded with sensation. Your free hand slammed into the mat, trying to brace yourself.

Loki noticed.

“Oh,” he purred, sounding far too satisfied. His fingers didn’t move, just rested there, as if savouring the way you tensed beneath him. “I see.”

Your eyes widened. Somehow, you knew what was coming.

“I believe,” he murmured darkly, “I’ve found the perfect place for my discipline.”

His fingers twitched.

A sharp, shuddering noise burst out of you.

Then he started moving.

Slow. Dragging.

Your body jolted before you could stop it, a sharp, helpless squirm beneath him. Your breath hitched violently in your throat, trying to hold in the laughter- you couldn’t let him win-

His fingers curled against your skin in a perfectly devastating way, grazing soft circles in the deepest, most vulnerable part of that untouched nerve space, and the laughter broke out of you in an uncontrollable rush.

Loki sighed, as if he were so terribly disappointed.

“What was it you called me last week?” he mused, tracing, scratching, slow, taunting circles over every tormenting inch. “Ah, yes - ‘horny Shakespeare?’”

You shrieked. Your trapped hand trembling into a fist, tears of mirth threatening hot behind your eyes.

The others roared with laughter.

“Or was it-” He shifted, pressing in closer, lips brushing against your burning ear, voice dripping with amusement, “-‘overgrown magician with daddy issues’?”

You shrieked again, laughter breaking apart into gasping, desperate protests.

“Oh, I rather like this one-” His fingers swirled, still unbearably light, sweeping quickly over the taut skin. “You said I ‘probably cry after sex.’”

“I TAKE IT BACK-”

Loki laughed, dark and dangerous, sitting back up as his fingers scraped gently, just enough to send fire through your nerves, to make your laughter break, to send your legs kicking uselessly against the mat.

"Ah, and my favourite," Loki continued, relentless, "-you looked me dead in the eyes, in front of the entire team, and asked me if my horns were, in fact, just overcompensation for something far more-"

He was cut off when his fingers stroked, just so, against the place just below your arm where your ribcage ended, and laughter tore through you, something wrecked in your voice, your body shaking against his.

"Oh, you didn't like that, did you?" he soothed in mock sympathy before his voice gave way to a dark, sensuous chuckle.

"Loki- PLEASE!"

You had never begged before.

But you'd never been ticklish before.

And Loki - Loki fucking knew.

His chuckle returned as his hand slowed to a stop, fingers still perched threateningly as your ragged breath expelled beneath him.

"Did you hear that, gentlemen?" Your chest heaved, body shaking from the sheer force of it all, something deeply unsettled in your bones as his palm smoothed down your side, lingering before his fingers tightened at your hip, his grip possessive. "I do believe our dear girl has finally learned some manners."

Your entire body burned.

Then, Loki pushed off, moving effortlessly to his feet as if the last five minutes hadn’t utterly destroyed you.

True to his word, he hadn't broken a sweat.

You barely managed to push yourself onto your knees, your body unsteady, your breathing still laboured.

"Wait, hold up," Sam interrupted, holding a hand towards you. "Loki, you gotta show us how to do that."

Loki stiffened. It was barely noticeable. A flicker. A shift in the air.

And then - smooth as ever, with an icy calm that sent a clear warning, "I used magic," he said, holding up a hand with fingertips glowing green. "You are not capable, and you should not try."

You looked up, saw the chilled death in his stare that bored into Sam.

Liar.

That's why he chose to test the side no one else can see; he didn't want anyone else knowing how to undo you.

And everyone knew it. The implication was clear:

Back off.

Sam held up his hands immediately. "Alright, damn. Not trying to start an intergalactic incident."

The tension in the room eased as you caught your breath, but the tension inside you only burned hotter.

Loki turned and met your gaze with something solemn in his expression, something dark and wanting... protective.

Something only for you.

And fuck, you were both done for.

.

.

[theredcuyo]

You know what i rarely see?

The demons treating Sqh and Sqq nicely, not just like, out of fear, but nicely

I mean, sure yeah, their husbands are not the nicest out there, but they have to be doing something aside from killing whoever gets in their way because clearly the do actually work (Although Sqq does say that Binghe tosses it away whenever he comes into the room)

And also, i think it'd be funnier if they held them to some grade of admiration? Because holy shit this two humans are able to order around the emperor and his right hand man

Also, Sqq made Binghe chill out (By getting rid of Xin Mo), and is the strategist of his sect mind you? I'm pretty sure that he's made his husband kill less people overall since they got together

And same goes for Mobei, hell, i'll argue is even more because what if him being violent scares Shang Qinghua and he runs away again? He's being really careful around him now, and the demons realize it

If you want to save your life just hide around the king's consort!

(Unbesknown to Mobei-Jun, Sqh finds the violence hot actually)

Anyway, my point is that it would be funny if the demons actually liked Sqh and Sqq, not enough to make their husbands jelous about it, but enough for them to notice, like Sqq goes around the demon realm searching for a very specific flower? (He wants it to prank Airplane)

There's at least five different stores that promise to help out while offering tons of similar other options and some that he doesn't even know what he'll do with but are surely interesting

Sqh is missing food from the modern world and he vaguely describes it as he complains, especially how hard it would be to make without being able to control the temperatures right? (He wanted a chocolate cake)

All the chefs in the palace are trying their best to recreate the "exotic" plate he wants and new artifacts to control the flames are being made

Idk, i just think it'd be funny if they got to be loved by the people

[kiefbowl]

wait ok genuinely kind of interested in your opinion on porn now......... if only because those big 3 you mentioned are always the reasons i see people throwing out so id love to hear a deeper take than that

I'm genuinely surprised anyone could follow me and not know my stance on porn, but that's okay. simplified and in no particular order and in no means exhaustive:

porn creates perverse incentives

porn normalizes the purchase of women as sexual objects for men to use

porn is often called "rape on tape" by feminists, which I mostly agree with in the sense that if a woman would otherwise not have had sex except that she is being paid, then she is not consenting. you cannot purchase consent, the consent is not meaningful then.

additionally, you can not verify if you are watching people be raped in any other way. porn sites are filled with stolen videos, coerced videos, actual minors, aggressive rape that was filmed with or without the victim's knowledge, and other videos of this nature. there is no way to verify this at all from videos that are somehow not these things. things like "amateur" are often just marketing by the porn company or pimp, or they're stolen videos.

porn creates a social script for sex. this social script is least of all - boring and predictable. it also reinforces the long standing conservative gender understanding (see 2). porn also reinforces ideas of homophobia and racism under the guise of "taboo." porn is literally so conservative, but because it's considered "shocking" to "puritans" (religious men watch porn all the time), people talk like it's this liberal fantasy. porn is constantly reestablishing the status quo in the most perverse ways.

it's been demonstrated that people who are porn addicts very quickly escalate to more violent porn, and that this plays out in their sex lives with their (often vulnerable) sex partners.

the violence that happens in porn is real. the idea that it's a "fantasy" is marketing by porn website and pimps. if a man slaps a woman across the face, that really happened. why does it matter if she says "yes" to it - that's her "job" so how can she say no? (see 3 and also 4).

there is so much evidence and testimony by porn stars of the absolutely awful and terrifying conditions in which they work, even in the quote unquote "real" industry. drugs, alcohol, violence, coercion, exposure to STIs, homelessness, pimping, prostitution, mental illness, suicide, lack of benefits. It's bananas that anyone would be surprised by this when it's pointed out, we're talking about an industry that films sex on video. The majority of people in the sex industry want out. It ruins their lives, and once in it's very hard to leave and lead a normal life. The idea that the industry needs regulation to be "fixed" is bizarre and just seems like pimp and porn industry marketing to get people to look the other way.

Poverty creates porn. Social welfare for the poorest of our women would prevent them from entering the industry in the first place. Women go into porn out of need, not desire. social media pushes that porn stars loooove their jobs is 1. porn site and pimp propaganda 2. literally marketing because men want to believe this.

I am not religious, I don't believe in god. I love sex and masturbation. it's the most natural thing in the world and people don't actually need to "learn" how to do it - it's innate within us. Porn is just one more way to humiliate women in a misogynist society that requires women to be fearful of sex and rape constantly, and uneducated in their own sexual desires and boundaries.

[mo-aiki]

The Beautiful Maiden, Who Turned into a Swan - Prologue

Summary: You were a happy princess, living in a carefree life, with your best friend in the entire world, until one day, he turned you into a swan. M. Yandere Prince x F. Reader x M. Yandere Sorcerer.

Notes: inspired by obviously, Swan Lake. And also childhood favorites, The Swan Princess and Barbie of Swan Lake.

Warning: obsessive love, erratic behavior, stalking, mentions of violence, violent behavior, I don't condone it, I just write it.

You lived your best life.

As a princess of a small, rather unknown kingdom, you were your most happiest being surrounded by those you loved.

Your father was king, your mother, although dead, had high hopes for you. Your brother was young and cheeky. Everyone respected you, calling you kind.

You woke up everyday in your bedroom, getting ready, and enjoying your days in the royal greenhouse and garden, when one day, you met a boy, around your age. You were 12 at the time you met him. "Hello, my name is (y/n). What's yours?"

He didn't talk. He looked at you like you were going to harm him, and by his body language of him scooting away from you. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

You gently got him to stand up, while you dusted the dirt off of his hair and clothes. "I'm (y/n). What's your name?"

The young boy mumbled. "...Roth..."

"Roth?"

The boy nodded as you smiled. "Roth. Would you play with me?"

You felt all alone when it came to the topic of playing. All your close friends were servants, who got tired once you played too hard with them. But Roth was around your age, right? So of course he would play with you!

For 5 years, you 2 were inseparable. Roth became a prodigy of a sorcerer. He was very talented. He could make bubbles into flowers, turn a toad into a beautiful swan, and was perfect in his defensive and offensive magic. So much so that if you didn't have guards around, he would assign Roth to guard you.

You spent your days, laughing and playing around with Roth, until one day, he had gotten more quiet than usual.

"Roth."

"Hm?"

"Do you think I'm pretty to you?" A question you would obviously ask your best friend in the whole wide world to.

"No, you are ugly."

You laughed. "Stop playing around. Am I really pretty?"

Roth closed his book. "Why are you asking?"

You laid your back against the blanket as you stared up at the sky. "Because father told me I am to be wed in a couple of months. After I turn 18."

Roth was a bit quieter than usual, but you didn't mind his quiet nature. You knew he at least listened. "Father said that the prince of another kingdom said I looked pretty in the portraits they sent of me. Apparently, the kingdom is run by one of father's bestet of friends..."

Roth opened his book back up. "Well then, he must have bad taste because you are ugly..."

You pouted in his face. "Goodness, don't be mean. He does not have bad taste. In fact, he's very handsome, and obviously, good-looking people must have good taste!" You laughed.

You didn't know that the comment you made would cause Roth to tightly grip his book.

On the early hours on the day of your eighteenth birthday, Your kingdom had burned to the ground. Running away throughout the chaos of the castle, you made it to the throne room, hiding behind the curtains behind your father's throne. Your father, there as well, donned in his armor. All you could smell was burnt, human ash everywhere. All you could hear was the curdling screams of people being burned alive from the many fires that donned the kingdom. All you could see was almost pitch black. Your father covered your ears as your eyes erupted in tears.

Mary, your maid who had cared for you like an older sister.

Aldus, the head butler, who was a kind old man, soon rearing the age where he would retire from his position.

Elric, the stableman who helped you ride your horse, Matilda for the first time.

Jocosa, the maid who seemed rather rude at first, but really cared for others, not wanting them to get hurt.

Emma, your tutor who was strict but kind and always loved you like a motherly figure.

And your little brother, Theo, who was so cheeky and mischievous.

All of them dead from burning from the fire. You could hear Theo's screams, calling out for you and your father, before it was too late.

Today, was meant to be a day of celebration. A day of joy. A day full of fun and splendid memories. But soon you snapped out of your daydream when both your and your father heard footsteps approaching the throne room. Stopping your tears, you held your breath. Not wanting the man who burned your kingdom to notice you or your father. "I know both of you are here."

You squeaked as lightly as possible, as your father got up. You shook your head, tears flowing out your eyes while doing so. Your father kissed your forehead as he hugged you tight. "(y/n), don't worry about me. I will be back before you know it..."

Your father walked out from behind the curtain as you could only peak through an opening. "Your Majesty."

You recognized the voice and the silhouette of the man. 'Roth?!' you thought. "Rothbart! Stop this at once!" your father had commanded.

There was only a silence between them as your father yelled once more. "STOP THIS AT ONCE ROTHBART!"

You could tell that your father was scared. His fingers looked like they were twitching, trying to unsheathed his sword from his scabbard. "I, King Fredhelm the II, will stop you from burning my kingdom down to ash!"

Your father ran with his sword, as he was burned. Before you could see it, you held your mouth shut, and closed your eyes, feeling your tear rushing out. You heard your father's screams as you shut your eyes even harder and covered your ears. The heat of the fire felt close to you, until you opened your eyes, to see ash all over the place, turning your head to see Roth take you in his hand and dragging you out of the kingdom.

You struggled at his grip, as he took you on horse and rode, far away from your home, as you watch it fall into a sea of flames, with the sounds of screaming waves, fading the further away you were.

You cried on the horse as Roth tried to soothe you. He wanted you to know why he did this.

It's because of you

Afraid of you running away he turned you into a swan against your will. "Your beautiful like a swan (y/n)...too beautiful."

The process was painful. As the sun slowly rose from the east, your skin felt like it was being forcefully shedding, like it burned and soon you turned into a swan by morning.

Roth smiled bittersweetly. "I had to do this (y/n). Your too beautiful, and as such, nobody can see you."

A swan by day, and a princess by night. Those tales only come out of legends, and soon you were a legend when men noticed you alone on the lake at night in the moonlight. They died that same night.

Roth killing them, and then hugging you, tightly.

And thus for the next 10 years, you were nothing more than a legend, and were being used by Rothbart, to fulfill his desires to be complete.

A/N: IM BACK!!! I will take a millennium to update this story due to school. Thank you!

[preposterousjams]

My opinion on the Latino Jason Todd headcanon

While I do understand ppl's criticism of the latino Jason todd headcanon and how its kind of racist to make the kid with parents with drug problems as the latino one, to me its more of a reclamation BECAUSE of DC's racism.

Read any 80s/90s batman issue that covers gang violence and drugs, most if not ALL of the criminals are poc; black people and latinos visibly make up the majority in the poorer neighbourhoods in Gotham. Aside from the caricaturist way they r drawn/speak, its not THAT weird cause its a reflection of irl big cities where immigrants and marginalised ppl are often forced to live in such situations, (like most of my dominican family lives in the bronx... it aint racist to say dominicans tend to flock there), BUT...the weird part is when the second a sympathetic character comes from that area, he's white and has a name thats "too fancy for the streets".

Obviously, Jason was created to look like the old robin, so I can't say that the whole "diamond in the rough" situation was purposely a tad bit racist, but its still a lil weird (especially with bruce's comment).

If Jason were a part of the overwhelming demographic in his area, the good-kid-in-a-bad-area trope has less connotations. DC is currently trying to fix this trope is by making crime alley whiter, which isn't bad but they could've just yk... humanised the non-white residents.

I also feel like the messed up way Jason was treated post-death is what makes him so relatable to latino readers. His tragic story of dying while trying to save his only living relative is turned into a lesson for newer vigilantes. Jason's particular disdain for abusers on a few occasions was twisted (by both writers and characters) into him always being dumb, reckless, cocky, angry and disobedient, always violent, never having been able to get over his upbringing. None of those things were true (he was a normal level of reckless and cocky like every other robin, not more), but its an easier narrative to digest compared to how it was in reality; a kid who worked so hard and loved even harder, died to save a woman who couldn't care less about his existence. He was an emotional AND smart kid who wanted so bad to help others get better but was remembered as too emotional (in a bad way).

THIS is the reality for many latino diasporas in day to day life; Theres no question that Latino culture is passionate and emotive, but people from other cultures assume that it is followed by instead of logical. both can coexist. emotion does not mean u have no logic. Emotions can be irrational but they aren't inherently that way, and I wouldn't say that the moments where Jason lashed out as a teenager were irrational (in og runs, not rewrites post red hood), they were mostly done to protect someone (going crazy on abusers, disobeying batman to save sheila, that time he got into a fight at school to defend his friend).

A lot of euro-centric culture is OBSESSED with the idea that rationality is separate from feelings and emotions, but not crying at a funeral doesn't mean you're better than those who do. Emotions are the basis of human ethics and morals, they define the way we interact as a collective and ignoring them does not mean they are not there. Theres no winner to a contest of who can feel the less. And the way Jason's emotions are treated (pre-rh, hes definitely unhinged afterwards lol) is so in line with how white culture tends to punish those who aren't ashamed to feel.

I TOTES UNDERSTAND that some ppl who headcanon Jason as latino are doing it for the complete opposite of reasons, like "oh here some angry emotional guy with druggie parents, haha must be latino". Its weird. I dont like it. And its only brought up so he can swear in spanish in some rlly bad text post where his emotions are getting out. But to me there's so much potential for metanarrative and commentary on how latinos are treated in media that can be exemplified through the way his character is treated. Being latino would add SO MUCH DEPTH to his character and his dynamic with the others.

[strang3lov3]

Implication

Dennis laughs loudly, awkwardly. “No, I am not gonna hurt you!” he chuckles, his voice a little higher now. “Why would I want to hurt you? I mean, I could. I could. Anyone could, really. But that’s just - well, that’s just human nature, right, honey?”

Tags - dubcon/noncon, implication that things might go wrong for you if you don’t have sex with dennis, soft slasher!dennis /stalker!dennis? implied roofies, unprotected piv, fingering, cunnillingus, dennis typical sexism, threats of violence, dennis and his tools, implied age gap, both characters are adults. 4.2k words A/N - for the dennisfuckers ♡ I know Dennis is a loser who sucks at sex, but if I’m gonna write Roman Roy, another canonical loser who sucks at sex to be a fuckgod, I’m gonna do the same to Dennis. I am shamelessly attracted to Glenn Howerton and I need him to do evil, evil things to me.  Also, thanks for everything these past few days, with my blog. I love you guys ♡

You really should’ve gotten that headlight fixed. 

In the endless dark, with rain violently pounding on your windshield, you can’t see much of anything. Your wipers are moving as quickly as they can on their fastest setting, but the endless stream of rain keeps them from really being effective at all. It’s useless, with everything swallowed up by shadow and storm.

You’re really not one to drive through bad conditions. It’s just not worth it to you to take risks like this, so you slow down and ease your car to the side of the road, watching as the rain drums so loudly against it. You send a quick text to your friend, letting her know where you’re at and what’s going on, then turn on your hazards. 

It’s been raining a lot like this lately. But it’s April, so it figures, though it doesn’t help. It feels so…claustrophobic to be stuck in the rain like this, in the dark. You can barely see what’s in front of you. You can’t even hear your own thoughts. If you think too hard about it, it feels like it’s closing in on you. You’re staying calm.

But the downpour does slow, eventually. When the rain has slowed enough to be safe to leave, you put your car into drive and press on the gas, though you don’t move - the wheels just spin. You open your car door to check and yep - mud. You pulled off just enough to get caught in a patch of slick, cloying, slippery mud. And now you’re fucking stuck. 

Great. 

You’re about to Google a tow company to call when two lights appear in your rearview mirror, inching too close to your car. You’re on edge immediately, watching as the driver gets out and approaches you. The driver is a man, no taller than six feet. He walks with an umbrella in hand, then taps on your window. You roll it down just a few cautious inches. 

“Hey - hey there. Just checking to make sure everything’s okay.” 

You tap your overhead light, then squint at the man. He’s not in a uniform and he doesn’t have a badge, which makes you feel nervous. He’s just some guy. 

“Everything’s fine,” you say, smiling politely but remaining distant. 

The man - you’ll know him soon - looks around, noting your muddy wheels. “Doesn’t look fine,” he laughs, eyes twinkling at you. Even in the low light, you can see that they’re piercingly blue. The stranger is handsome, with his curly hair and sharp jawline. He wears a navy flannel, rolled up to his forearms. Veins spidering down to his hands. He’s maybe in his mid-forties.

“No, yeah. It’s fine, just - my car’s stuck, that’s all.” You smile kindly. The man smiles back at you. 

“Is there anyone coming to get you?”

“Um,” you hum, checking your phone’s screen to see no text back from your friend. “Not yet. I was about to call–” 

“Oh, don’t call. Yeah, don’t call.” The man laughs awkwardly, shifting on his feet. He seems a little nervous. Maybe not nervous, but…edged? Amped, even? “C’mon, look. Let me give you a ride, okay? The rain’s about to pick up again and—” 

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “No thank you, I’m gonna call my friend. I appreciate it anyway, sir.”

The man looks stunned when you interrupt him, when you go so far as to take out your phone in front of him. Already he thinks you’re a fucking bitch. A man is speaking to you. He hates the way you keep your window rolled only a quarter of the way down, fucking open it. He touches the glass and rests his fingers on the rounded edge of the window, wiggling them, itching…

His jaw ticks and his nostrils flare as he finds his composure. A deep breath in, and a deep breath out. 

“You’re not gonna get a signal out here. It’s a total dead zone,” the man says, watching as you scroll through your phone’s contact list.

“Thank you, but—”

The man interrupts next. “Go on, look. Look.” He uses a finger to gesture toward your screen, where a little SOS sign sits in place of the usual bars that indicate your phone’s connection. Stray rain drops splash onto your skin. “See?”

He’s right, unfortunately. When you check your messages, you see the text you sent earlier to your friend still hasn't been delivered. He swallows thickly, then speaks again,“And you’re very low on gas, too,” he adds, wiggling his finger toward your gauge cluster. “And that’s not great, considering.”

And he’s right about that, also. You didn’t notice you were close to empty, but you really don’t like that he did. You swallow nervously as you shut off your phone, heart beginning to beat a little harder. You feel a little sick inside about this. He’s just rubbing you the wrong way. 

“Why don’t you just come with me, yeah? It’s really—really no problem.”

“I really appreciate it, but I don’t know you, sir,” you tell him, and that should end it.

But of course, it doesn’t. It is smart, though. Very smart. He expects responses like this from young women like you. As he gets older, you girls get smarter. You’re not quite as…willing as you used to be. Not so compliant. It used to be that he could just tell you to come with and you would. But women nowadays, with your fucking safety classes and whatever. You’ve got no problem telling men like him when you don’t feel safe. Such bullshit.

“Oh, come on. Yes you do. You know me!” he says, smiling so big, whitened teeth on display. “It’s me, Dennis! From the other week? Paddy’s Pub, I was your bartender.”

You stare at Dennis blankly, then shake your head slowly. “No, I don’t think I do.” 

“No, no, see. You’re misremembering or something, sweetheart. Maybe in the dark you don’t recognize my face but just…come on. We’re really not far from your place at all, right?” Dennis rattles off your address then. “Short drive, right?” 

Your stomach drops then, and your gut begins to really churn. “You, uh…you know where I live?” you ask, feeling your palm perspire against the steering wheel. 

The man, Dennis, tilts his head, those blue eyes narrowed as he smirks at you. “Well, of course I do. I took you home when you were too drunk to drive, remember? God, you were a mess.”

You most certainly do not remember. You never, never drink to the point of being blackout. You stare at Dennis, trying so hard to place him. He does have a familiar face, or maybe it’s just that he’s handsome. Paddy’s, Paddy’s…

…it’s ringing a bell now. You remember some shitty, dingy bar, filled with strange people. Stopping inside to pee, maybe. Maybe having a drink? Yeah, maybe. You remember something tasting bitter…

The rain starts to pound harder on your windshield, startling you. Dennis waits impatiently, now with his hand on your car’s door handle. “I made sure you got inside,” he adds, “You said I was sweet.” He smiles at you in such a kind and disarming sort of way, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“So come on. Just a - just a quick ten minute drive, right?”

You pause, tapping your fingers along your steering wheel as you contemplate. You have that sticky, nagging, ugly feeling inside, but maybe it’s nothing. 

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing. How many times have you worried yourself sick only to be completely wrong about whatever you thought was wrong, right? Countless. And Dennis, he’s charming. He looks, you know - clean…and gentlemanly.

Your windows roll up with a soft whir, startling Dennis as he quickly jerks his hand away. He opens your door for you, holding the umbrella over you as he takes your hand and helps you out of your car. He walks you quickly to his, a dark green Range Rover, and ushers you into your seat, then slams your door shut. Dennis quickly rounds the front of the vehicle and then joins you. 

He runs a hand through his wet curls, mumbling, “Okay, okay. Perfect. You’re there, good, good…” He adjusts his rearview mirror, quickly tilting it down to get a look at the tools he keeps in the back of his car. All the seats are down, good. There’s his blanket back there - Dennis eyes you quickly, sizing you up in his mind. You’d fit, all wrapped up in the fabric. If it got to that point. 

A beat passes then, and he takes off in the Rover. You watch your car in the side mirror, how it disappears into the dark and the rain as Dennis drives away. He touches his hair again nervously, throwing you a sideways glance. “So you really don’t remember me?” he asks, voice chipper and forced/

You shake your head. “I don’t. But…you said you were my bartender?” you ask, studying his face. He has a handsome profile, a sharp nose. 

“Yeah,” Dennis answers. “Made you a cocktail.”  

You try so hard to place him. That face, that voice. “What was it?”

“Oh, it was a…Moscow mule, if I remember correctly.” 

You nod slowly, rolling his answer around in your mind. It is something you’d drink, after all. “Okay. Um, what was in it, exactly?” you press.

“Ginger beer, vodka. Lime. The usual,” he rattles off. Rohypnol. “Ice. I know how to make a Moscow mule, if that’s what you’re asking. Been bartending since you were in diapers, sweetheart,” he jokes, clutching the wheel a little tighter.

“Was any ingredient like, I don’t know. Expired, maybe?” You hope your tone sounds casual still. 

“Alcohol doesn’t expire,” he says flatly. “Why?”

“And it was only the one?”

Dennis nods. “Yep. Just the one,” he confirms. “It was a normal drink, babe. I could make you another if you wanna go b–”

“Actually, you can turn up here–” you interrupt, pointing at a familiar road sign.

“I know where to fucking turn,” Dennis snaps before you finish. In the silence, he shakes himself out of it quickly, then apologizes, voice a little softer now. “Sorry, god. I just know where to turn, is all. You…just relax, okay? That road’s closed.” Dennis turns the AC on cold and blasts it. He needs to cool off.

You’re really starting to feel sick now, because you know that’s a lie. Dennis drives past the next road too, and the next one. You’re on the endless, winding road for a long time, now thinking about that one episode of The Sopranos. Sil had Adriana in the car. And the road never seemed to end. 

Fuck, what do you even do here? If he…if he locked you in the trunk you’d at least be able to knock a tail light out and wave your hand, maybe scream for help. But who’s around on this road? You look at the floor, the dashboard, anywhere in the car to find…anything. You clutch your car keys - dammit. You were given a pepper spray keychain that’s nowhere to be found. It had fallen off a while back and you never replaced it. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Dennis keeps looking at you. Not just your face, but your body, too. Your nipples are hard, peeking through your shirt. No bra, hm? The image sends a rush of arousal through his body, cock twitching in his jeans as his eyes linger too long. “Are you cold?” he asks.

“A-a little,” you murmur.

You flinch when Dennis reaches for a knob on the dashboard. His hand is so big, so veiny. Strong. With his sleeves rolled up, you can see the muscles twitching in his forearms. How easy it’d be for him to–

“What, did I spook ya?” Dennis smirks.

Your mouth is dry as sandpaper as you search for a way to answer him. And how awful that feels. Like being picked on in class when you don’t know the answer or you weren’t paying attention. 

“I think I did. But you seem nervous, sweetheart, not really…spooked. Maybe - maybe you’re scared?” Dennis chuckles quietly, keeping his eyes on the road, acting like he’s not rock hard from your anxiety. He grips the steering wheel tighter, skin stretched out thin over his knuckles. “What, am I - am I scaring you or something? Are you scared of me?”

You force out an awkward laugh, feeling around or the car’s door handle. Dennis notices this. His lips twitch and he exhales, shaking his head a little. “You’re scared or you’re not, honey. Can’t be both.” 

“I’m uh - honestly, I am a little scared, yes.”

Dennis clicks his tongue. Not disappointed, but not surprised. Like he expected that answer, or maybe…maybe he even hoped for it. “Mm. I mean, that makes sense, though. The right setting can make anyone feel…well, vulnerable.” Dennis throws you a sideways look, eyes tired and dead as he does his best to smile warmly. The mask is slipping. It always does around this point. “And in a storm, well. That’ll do it, huh?”

A flicker of lightning and a booming clap of thunder has you jumping hard enough to make the seat belt lock against you.  “No, it’s good that this happened,” Dennis continues. “I’ve been following you around, you know - in a good way, of course. And I knew there was something wrong with your tires. They’re bald, so - so that’s why they’re spinning in the mud back there. And I recognized your license plates.” 

“How did you–” 

“Don’t worry about it.” There’s another bolt of lightning, long and windy and spindling, lighting up the sky. “God, how about this weather? You’re lucky that I found you tonight. Wouldn’t wanna - wouldn’t wanna leave you stranded out there in the thunder and the lightning.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, watching the speedometer’s needle rise and fall, heart pounding so hard you can feel it behind your ribs and in your throat. Your voice is starting to wobble, too.

“I love storms like these, honestly. We’re out in the middle of this quiet road. Nobody could see us, or hear - hear much of anything, really.”

His words hang heavily in the air as he waits for you to speak, tilting his head. “Right?”

Your throat feels dry. “...Right…” 

Dennis grins. “You know, I think we should pull over,” he says, checking the rear view and side mirrors of the car. “Yeah. Yeah, we should pull over. Before something…happens. The rain…”

His fingers flex against the wheel, and you swallow hard as Dennis applies the brakes, and the car starts to slow. He knows where he’s going, like he’s done this before. You can make out two parallel lines in the grass, worn deeply down to dirt. He has done this before.

“Where are we going?” you ask. Dennis doesn’t answer. You try again, and he still ignores you. “Are you–” you swallow hard, “Are you gonna hurt me?”

Dennis laughs loudly, awkwardly. “No, I am not gonna hurt you!” he chuckles, his voice a little higher now. “Why would I want to hurt you? I mean, I could. I could. Anyone could, really. But that’s just - well, that’s just human nature, right, honey?” 

Dennis puts the car into park, then exhales heavily and unclicks his seatbelt. He turns to you, eyes all dark and lidded. “I am going to fuck you,” he tells you, unblinking. “I mean, I would like to. I want to fuck you. You’re very beautiful, you know. Very clean.”

Desperately, you pull on the door handle, though it doesn’t open. “Been meaning to get that fixed,” Dennis lies softly, watching you desperately search for a way out of this. What can you do, though? He’s thought this through. He’s so practiced, perfected his craft.

“And you’re not going to say no, are you?” he adds, taking in your terrified expression. “No, of course not. Because - I mean, look around, right? All these woods. Do you think you know your way out?” he asks.

“I’d follow the tire tracks,” you whisper.

Dennis laughs. “Oh, sure. But with what lighting?” He sniffles then, and twists his neck to crack it. 

 This is usually the part where girls like you start to scream. Not all, though. Some freeze up and go quiet, and that’s nice too.

“Do you think anyone would hear you?” Dennis asks. “You know, if you screamed? Because I don’t think they would.” 

You stammer some incoherent answer, voice so wobbly and terrified. Dennis opens his window and yells then, screaming as loud as he can. When he’s done, he smiles calmly and shrugs. Your ears are ringing. “See?”

You jump when Dennis reaches for your seatbelt and unclicks it. “So with all of that in mind, why don’t you head back there?” Dennis nods toward the back of his car. “And take your clothes off, hm?” he adds, touching your thigh, feeling the fabric damp from the rain. “You’re all wet. That can’t be comfortable.” 

Dennis licks his lips, watching you tremble as you slide out of your seat and crawl into the back. Only one bulb lights up when he presses the dome light, and tilts his rearview mirror to get a nice look at you as you slowly peel off your clothes. “All of them,” he reminds you. “Underwear too.” 

“You know,” Dennis says, meeting your eyes through the mirror. “I think this is romantic. The storm, the trees…it’s kind of nice, huh?” 

“Y-yeah,” you whisper. “It’s very romantic. Um - I really, I like the woods,” you tell him nervously, voice shaking. “My dad and I used to go on h-hikes in the woods, and bike rides. He named me after–”

Dennis chuckles. Humanizing yourself. Smart. He grunts then, swinging his body around the driver’s seat to meet you in the back. He looks like an animal as he crawls toward you, sitting on his heels as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing a toned chest, his hair neatly trimmed. His body is slightly muscular, and so fucking attractive for as awful as he is. Isn’t that just something. And he’s got a pretty cock, even at half-mast. Long, a little on the slender side, with a perfectly pink tip. Trimmed, just like his chest is. 

You look around yourself, seeing a plethora of items he keeps back here. There’s duct tape, rope, a case full of what you can assume are a variety of blades. Very Dexter of him. Your breaths turn short as your heart pounds loudly in your ears. Is he gonna cover the car in plastic wrap, too? 

“Don’t - don’t look at that shit. It’s nothing, alright? Just lay.” Dennis says with a wave of his hand. “Lay on your back,” he repeats impatiently.

When you do, Dennis pulls you back by your hips. You gasp at the feeling of his strong hands on your body, angrily grabbing at your flesh. He spreads your legs wide and pushes your knees toward your chest, your cunt now on display for him. You hiss when he drags two of his long fingers up and down your seam. Dennis clicks his tongue, “You always this fucking dry?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he spits onto your clit and watches his saliva drip down, lips twitching. Dennis dips his head lower then, and licks you from bottom to top, humming at the way you taste. Somehow, girls like you always taste better when you’re scared. 

He kisses you a little, then begins lapping at your cunt, savoring all of that sensitive flesh, where you’re growing wetter just for him. There’s no art to it, no special technique beyond simply using his tongue to get you wet enough to fuck. And not only that, but he eats you for himself and his pleasure, not yours. 

Dennis adjusts and pushes his ring and middle fingers into you, curling them repeatedly. God, he loves this. Being inside a person this way. Feeling the heat of their warm, wet guts. It’s beyond satisfying to him. He growls against your cunt, sending vibrations through your core. Scruffy cheeks and jaw scratching your inner thighs. 

You find yourself rocking against his tongue - when’d that happen? Dennis snaps his fingers and points at you with the hand wrapped around your thigh, “Sit still,” he commands, then continues licking you. “Sorry, just - I need to do this my way. Okay? You’re fucking with my rhythm when you do that shit.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Oh, of course not,” Dennis mumbles in between kissing you. He licks you a little more, then sucks your clit between his lips and teases you that way. It makes you shake and tense up, then Dennis releases you with a chuckle.

He pulls back and rests against the door of the Range rover, eyes half-lidded and heavy as he lazily pumps his cock, head tilted. Dennis pats his thigh twice, urging you to come straddle him.

You crawl over, putting your hands on his broad shoulders as you hover above him. From this position, you can get a closer look at every one of his tools - maybe you can even grab one. You measure the distance in your mind, considering the move you’d have to make. “Hey, what did I fucking tell you?” Dennis snaps, reaching for your jaw to pull your attention back to him.

“I was just looking for condoms. Don’t you have condoms in here?”

Dennis laughs, putting one of his hands on your hip, and with the other, lines his cock up with your entrance. He notches the head inside you quickly, then pulls you down, bottoming out with a moan. “Oh, you’re cute,” he says. You whimper at the stretch, squirming away from him and the way his cock bruises your cervix. “No, I don’t use condoms, babe. Gonna have to take my load.”

Dennis palms your ass cheeks, slowly moving you up and down his length. “Birth control is a woman’s problem, anyway. I hope you’re on the pill. It’s just…well, irresponsible not to be. Anything could happen to you,” he says.

He thrusts up into you, guiding your hips to match his pace until Dennis has found something that works for him. Him, not you. If it were up to you, you’d slow it down a little more, have him roll his hips. But this isn’t about you, is it?

“Touch me,” Dennis rasps as you ride him. You slide your hands up his neck and touch his jaw, where Dennis then sucks on your thumb. He could bite you. He could.

He notices your eyes are closed. Bitch. You should be so lucky to be in his presence, fucking look at him. “No, no, no. Eyes open. Yeah, look at me. Look at Daddy,” he tells you, forcing you to stare into his eyes. “You’re very pretty, aren’t you? Not the prettiest I’ve ever seen, but…close.” You should thank him, he thinks. You mumble out a moan that could be interpreted as such.

Dennis fucks you from beneath, his once measured thrusts turning a little sloppy now as he pushes himself into you over and over again. He’s so warm, with beads of sweat rolling down his temples and neck, pooling at the dip between his collarbones. 

He’s annoyed at how quiet you are. “Louder, sweetheart. I said louder. I need to hear you, right?”

Dennis smiles when you moan for him, too deluded to hear how fake it is. Or - is it? Maybe not. Could be real, could be a vocalization of your fear. Of your upset. He licks his fingertips and wriggles them between your bodies, searching for your swollen clit. He rubs it in circles as you fuck yourself on his dick, coaxing along your orgasm. 

And he recognizes the way you try to stave it off. You dread your release - they always do. But it has to happen. “Hey, hey - c’mere and listen for a second. No, don’t stop. We’re not done here,” he pants. “You need to cum for me. And if you do not cum for me, I am going to hurt you. Okay? And I mean it - I will hurt you, with - with all of my tools in here. Okay?”

Dennis watches your brows knit together in worry, your bottom lip wobbling a little. 

“Shit, sorry. I mean - I don’t want to, of course. Yeah, I don’t - don’t want that at all, do I? I know you certainly don’t.”

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t.”

“So do the smart thing and fucking cum,” Dennis says.

The threat works almost immediately. You change the rhythm, fucking yourself on his cock in a way you find most pleasureable. His tip reaches all those places inside you that you can never seem to find on your own, and kisses against your cervix just how you like it. With the pressure of his fingers on your clit, you cum on Dennis’ cock in seconds, whimpering his name. 

With the rapid pulsing of your cunt around his cock, Dennis cums too. He blushes the most delicate shade of pink and moans your name loudly, clutching you against his chest as he spills into you, rope after rope of his spend. 

When he’s done, he settles against the car door once more and smiles, all self-satisfied and sleepy and blissed out. It’s so eerily quiet, save for the sounds of your shared breaths. “Sounds like the storm blew right past us” he laughs. “Well, let’s get you home.” 

reblogs, asks, all that good shit would be great ♡ love you all.

[nightcolorz]

why do so many people act like lestat has better morals or is nicer then Armand in some way? there is nothing in the books that suggest this, Lestat and Armand have committed like the same exact crimes (even the sexual ones.) have fairly similar philosophies on murder (lestat tries to only kill criminals cuz he doesn’t want to take innocent life, Armand tries to only kill people who want to die and would otherwise take there own lives bcus he doesn’t want to take the life of someone who wants to live) Lestats moral stance on killing is more brutal arguably then Armand’s bcus he chooses to kill criminals cuz he likes chasing down his prey and tormenting them it’s fun for him, and Lestat finds maintaining his criminals only rule very hard bcus he “loves innocent blood it tastes better” which is fun. Armand sometimes brutally kills or hunts too and definitely drinks a lot of innocent blood but more often then not tries to make his killing as sparse and merciful as possible. Literally the only evidence at all that Lestat is a better person then Armand is the fact that most of the books are narrated by Lestat who is always informing the audience of his perspective while committing his crimes while Armand never explains anything he ever does even in his own book. But taking “we know more about what lestat thinks” to mean “lestat is a better person then Armand cuz he’s easier to understand” is shallow and biased imo.

show only fans who think Lestat is a better person then Armand make even less sense to me bcus there is even less to suggest this in the show, in fact there is significant evidence to suggest the opposite 😭? But again, Lestat and Armand both torture people, they both are physically violent and scary, both are abusive, both are highly motivated by histories of trauma and being crazy, etc. they are like the same amount of bad 😭 did I miss the thing that told everyone that lestat has a kind heart and Armand doesn’t 💀. I think people just sympathize easier with Lestat in the show bcus he has a really sad backstory we r informed of, but idk bcus we r also informed of Armand’s very sad backstory that In my opinion is easier to conceptualize as capable of breaking someone’s brain to the point where they casually enact torture and live in a constant state of violence. the worst of Lestat’s trauma happens to him when he is like (in the show) 37? 💀 which is still terrible, obviously, but man. I don’t see how he is more sympathetic then Armand😭

[animeyanderelover]

I don’t know where I was going with this. But that doesn’t matter. The power of simping is simply too strong. I left out Finn because he died pretty quickly so I have no way of characterising him really well. I also know that apparently there is another sibling but I haven't watched The Originals so that's that.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, stalking, overprotective behavior, intimidation, threats, blackmailing, manipulation, violence, death

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Elijah Mikaelson

✞Elijah doesn't love easily. It speaks volumes that throughout his entire life as a vampire he has loved very few times only for that love to slip through his fingers like sand. Whether that loss has been his fault or the fault of the woman that he has loved, he has long since realised that he has never been innocent yet still he desires to maintain the image of the logical and rational man amongst a family filled with violence, impulsiveness and overflowing emotions that so quickly spiral out of control. If there is one person he wishes to be what he deep down isn't though then it is without a doubt his darling. Whilst he will never truly be the man standing on the morally high ground at the very least he wishes to uphold that image whilst he is with you. He values the love existing between the two of you deeply, his one firm pillar in between so many other shaky bridges that he still attempts to rebuild and keep with his siblings. No words could ever convey how deep his appreciation and his love for you goes for the sense of peace and calmness that you provide in his life yet still Elijah does what he can do to give back as much as possible for everything he receives simply by having you by his side.

✞There is no shortage of presents, trips and luxury in a relationship with him. Elijah truly embraces a romantic spirit now that he has you all to always let you know just how much you truly mean to him. Bouquets of red roses, letters expressing the thoughts and feelings he may not be able to convey spontanously as he crafts each sentence carefully and special dates when the circumstances have forced him away from you for more than a few days. It never feels like excessive spoiling though as each gift and each date has a thought behind it that goes beyond the simple luxury and price of it. With you Elijah is always the thoughtful gentleman he believes that you deserve, each action and confession crafted to the closest perfection that he can reach. That never means though that all violence has simply disappeared. It's hidden away from your gaze, the ruthless side Elijah doesn't wish you to see. Perhaps he aspires to be better for you, an act of mercy for all those who threaten you or the relationship as they receive one chance to turn around and to never return. Bloodshed has never been his signature yet should a fool choose to be a fool it cannot be helped.

Niklaus Mikaelson

♕Klaus is something and that can be interpreted in a good or in a bad way which applies both to him. His love is intense and coupled with so many thoughts and feelings that he has a hard tome controlling it all. There's a lot to unravel but the deeper you dig, the more Klaus becomes undone in front of your very eyes which only heightens all his emotions in return. Paranoia, abandonment issues, a sharp fear to forever be alone and a love that burns so intensely that it threatens to not only hurt the both of you but everyone around. Once such obsession has taken a hold of Klaus he is determined to never let you leave his grasp yet he is so used to being left that his hands clutching your life so tightly threaten to shatter it. So many things could go wrong and many things will go wrong as he struggles to deal with all issues and fears that have resurfaced so violently due to his feelings for you. His possessiveness runs high, his jealousy runs deep and the control he tries to force into your life runs wild. All because deep down he genuinely believes that otherwise you would never love nor accept him for the horrible person everyone hates and wants so desperately dead.

♕It's a long and difficult process to untangle the mess of feelings within him until he eases his body and mind. That isn't to say that moments of tenderness are nonexistent. An entire gallery filled with paintings of you, sketches neatly kept on his desk of your face and beautifully wrapped presents placed on your bed. Flights to Tokyo, Italy and all the places you wish to see with your own eyes and confessions of adoration and love that are so rare coming from his lips. All of it can be so easily shattered though in the face of your fear and horror all directed against him. Klaus retaliates whenever you reject him, covers his pain and vulnerability behind the rage and cruelty so many fear him for, becoming the monster you believe him to be. It's likely that he has hurt you once or twice, his feelings bursting out of him as agony and anger and leaving him drowning in the horrible feeling of guilt and a renewed fear that you will never accept him afterwards. Niklaus kills easily. He has left hills of dead bodies behind him throughout his long life already and now with his obsession for you in play new corpses start littering his path all to preserve you for himself.

Kol Mikaelson

🂱Kol is a true wild card as his actions are unpredictable and all guided by his own hedonism. By all means, he actually knows that his feelings are quite disturbing together with all the things he does as a result of it but he doesn't seem to feel an ounce of guilt. It's much the opposite instead as Kol actively revels in it. All the emotions coursing through his veins make him feel very alive to the point where he almost feels drunk on ecstasy and he decides to completely indulge in everything that this obsession has to offer. Known for loving the games though, Kol has a quite wicked way of treating you, the unfortunate victim of his obsession. His approach is quite two-faced as he wastes no time to get to know you during the day and present himself as someone quite cocky yet still quite charming only to haunt you at night and induce paranoia within you. He doesn't feel guilty though instead he finds it quite cute to see the visible effects his stalking has on you as you flinch at every noise, always turn your head over your shoulder as if afraid that someone is following you and start growing more unfocused as a result of the lack of sleep. So he will continue until you break.

🂱There is a different side that often reveals itself to you too, one far more enjoyable than the mindgames he so often puts you through. As he is neither as uptight nor as paranoid as his other siblings, Kol expresses his love much like the adventurous spirit that he has within him. Often he spontaneously whisks you away whenever he's in the mood, no matter what time of day it is. Kisses out of the blue, unpredictable and playful accompanied by some very corny pickup-lines that he has either come up with himself or has heard somewhere and cuteness aggression too. There's nothing that Kol really bothers to hide from you as he is the one who is the most open with his emotions, be it the good ones or the bad ones. Instead he basks in it all freely as he even indulges in the violent urges that arise when someone gets on his nerves. It's genuinely gruesome and evil though how he plays with his victims. He's taunting, he's tormenting and he likes to dangle a piece of hope in front of their noses and watch them running like frightened bunnies only to snatch it away right in front of their faces and enjoy the sheer look of horror and hopelessness.

Rebekah Mikaelson

❀Rebekah loves blindly and recklessly which spells a disaster in the making as her obsession quickly consumes her. She has been hurt far too many times over the centuries and every time she was betrayed by someone that she loved. It's understandable that she wishes to be wary yet deep down she is very much like Klaus in the way that she longs for someone to love her unconditionally and for someone who will always choose her no matter what. She fears being backstabbed by even you and it doesn't even matter how long the two of you have known each other at that point. All of those fears and insecurities combined result in this awful mixture of possessiveness, pushiness and control that can and will be overwhelming very quickly for you. Rebekah seems to have you under constant surveillance as if she is just waiting for the moment where she catches you cheating on her or plotting to have her put back in the coffin again. For that reason she even compels the people around her all to always know what you are up to and to always have someone watching over you and report back to her. She wants to trust, she really does, but she doesn't know how to do that after everything that has happened.

❀Still she is a girl who wishes to be happily in love and that shows in the way that she treats the relationship. In general the two of you are always together and seen as a pair with matching outfits and matching jewelry all chosen by her. Frequent dates, constant hand-holding and excessive mails and calls when she isn't with you at the moment. Rebekah wants her own happy lovestory and she wants it with you which is why she works so very hard to ensure that everything is exactly how she has always wished it be be. However, she has an extremely bad temper and that becomes apparent very quickly as you watch her. Her jealousy threatens to consume her on a daily base the moment you pay attention to someone else that isn't her and she gets spiteful and mean very quickly as that horrible feeling within her stomach wriggles around until she feels nauseous. She lashes out and she does so quickly as her emotions tend to get the better of her and in her rage even you will not be spared from her bitterness. It's that horrible temper of hers which makes her prone to hurt, torture and murder people she sees as threats to the happy ending she so sorely deserves.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 50

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Minors DNI. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

50. last woman standing

You dream of John, swimming in a wine dark sea. He smiles for you in that enigmatic way, leading you further and further away from shore. You try to catch him, but he remains just out of reach, looking at you with those sad dark eyes. 

When you can no longer see land he finally reaches for you across the waves, water pooling in his cupped hands. 

“It was always going to end this way, kitten.”

Only then do you realize, you are swimming in a sea of blood. 

You wake violently with a gasp, bolting upright. Every cell in your body hurts, but it is nothing compared to the ache in your chest. 

John. 

Caine fucking shot John. 

Desperately you look around, clawing at the sheets tangled about your legs. You have to go. Somewhere. Do…something. 

Where the fuck are you?

In your manic desperation to get up at first you don’t even notice the elegantly dressed man sitting next to your bed. 

You freeze, fists clenched. 

Friend or foe?

He holds up two hands in a gesture of peace, dark hazel eyes crinkled at the edges in an expression of what you think might be sympathy. 

“Where am I?” You finally look around, taking in your surroundings. Pastel painted walls, high ceilings with opulent mouldings crumbling a little at the edges. Hand carved wooden furniture. A warm breeze whispers through the gauzy drapes of tall windows. 

“The Cartagena Continental, señorita. You are safe.” His voice is deep, accented. In a different circumstance, you might have been soothed. 

A thousand questions whip through your mind, yet somehow you are frozen, unable to voice any of them past a sudden and gripping sense of doom. 

Finally you settle on: “Cartagena, Colombia?” 

“Sí.” 

“How?”

“Señor Caine brought you. He asked that I look after you. Now that you are awake…I would like to call for the doctor?” 

You shake your pounding head, a high-pitched ringing sounding in your ears as adrenaline surges through your veins. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I have to go…I have to find him.” 

The older man looks at you apologetically. “Querida…there is nothing to find out there. It is all gone.”

“How do you know?” you demand hotly, not meaning to be rude but jesus fucking christ it can’t be true? 

“I have my sources,” he assures you.

“Who are you?” You narrowly avoid cursing at this man. How can he be so calm? Who gave him the right to look at you like a kindly grandpa while your life is going up in flames? 

“I am César, the Manager.”

You nod, trying to think past the hurricane that is happening between your ears. “Ok. Great. Can you arrange a boat for me? A guide? Winston Scott is my dear friend, he can guarantee any expenses.” 

Finally you manage to get out of the bed–and you fall right down, your legs not working at all. You have a sharp pain in your ribs. Broken? The tile floor is cold, and hard on your bare legs. You are wearing a t-shirt, and maybe not much else. 

“My dear, you have had a great ordeal. Please, you need rest.” He reaches out as though to help you back up, but you hold up your hands in the universal gesture of stop.

“I have to find him, señor.”

“I am so sorry, so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but John Wick is dead. When señor Caine sets out to take a life…he does not come back empty handed.” 

“You don’t know that. You don’t know John.” 

“I did know him, querida. I counted him a friend. Which is why I will keep you safe here, and see you back home. I am told…you were his world.” 

You look up at this man, drowning. He’s so damn certain. There is not an ounce of doubt in his tone, or his expression, and you break. The tears waylay you like a freight train, wretched sobs that rack your whole body. You hug yourself, rocking as you are thrashed by this storm of grief, and a part of you wishes that you could die from a broken heart. You would like to curl up on the cool floor, and just not feel anything anymore. 

How can you go on living, without him? 

You are grateful that the Manager does not try to touch you, though he hovers, clearly worried. You’re not sure how much time goes past as you spill your grief on the floor. You were so strong through all of it, you fought so hard, and for what? 

It all came to nothing. 

Finally you look up at him again through eyes swollen from crying, a terrible headache now splitting your skull. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a floor length mirror; you are cut, and bruised, and look like death warmed over.

Still, you ask, “Would it be possible to charter a boat? I need to see.” 

Maybe he can tell that you will do something even more drastic, if he does not agree to help you. Though he obviously thinks it’s a fruitless endeavor, he nods gravely, and picks up the bedside phone.

**************************************

Don César was right, unfortunately. 

Nothing remained in the spot where two multi-million dollar yachts had been anchored, and handfuls of speed boats besides. When the sea swallows the dead, she does a thorough job of it. 

This does not stop you from insisting your guide take you to all the nearby shores, looking for anything that might have washed up. You find debris…but no bodies. 

The kindly old man who pilots your boat, a personal friend of César’s, speaks low under his breath to his assistant. You catch the word tiburón, and you know he is certain the remains have been devoured by the sharks that ravenously patrol these warm waters. 

Again, you start to cry, though you are quiet about it now, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you pull your hat low, pretending the sun is in your eyes.

There is a tiny village nearby, and don Ronaldo takes you there, helping you question the locals when your Spanish fails you through the lump in your throat. No one saw anything, or found any survivors. The story is so consistent that you do not think they are lying out of fear of Cartel violence. There was simply…nothing to tell. 

You have run out of places to look. Despair spreads like black rot inside you, and as you return to Cartagena the overwhelming urge to throw yourself into the sea aches in your bones. 

You don’t, and not just because it would be a nuisance to don Ronaldo and Miguel to fish you back out. 

You don’t, because you know John would have wanted you to live. 

In one last Hail Mary you check the most obvious place, the hospital, but he is not there either. 

“Why didn’t Caine kill me?” you ask don César over a dinner you only poke at with your fork, in the opulent dining room of the Continental. 

“He said it was a last favor to an old friend, and that he expects the matter to end here, with you. Does that make sense to you, querida?” 

You nod sadly, pushing rice around your plate. “It was never my world,” you echo Caine’s last words to you. “I’m done.” 

John was your world. 

What is left to you, now?

***

As it turns out, the answer to that question is everything. 

As executor of his estate, Winston informs you that all of John Wick’s worldly possessions pass to you. He breaks this news as you are staring at the wall in the library of the Continental, Dog laying with his head in your lap. 

“But we were only engaged, Winston,” you say disinterestedly. Funny, that once you had to scratch and slave to make ends meet. Now that you are, apparently, a wealthy woman…you don’t care. You’re so fucking empty you don’t care about anything, really, except for Dog. 

“It matters not. He arranged for the change to his will the last time the two of you stayed here. He loved you beyond measure, y/n.” 

It occurs to you that maybe even back then, John suspected that ultimately he would not make it out of this last disagreement with the Camorra alive. For the umpteenth time, you start to cry, though you are getting stealthy about it these days. Tears roll, but you make not a sound. 

“I see.” 

“You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need, y/n.”

Perhaps Winston fears you might harm yourself, without his watchful eye upon you. He’s been so kind, and you suppose it is a comfort for him too, to mourn together. The elderly man showed you a tattoo of an Orthodox cross upon his hand, explaining that he had come from the Ruska Roma a lifetime ago, and that he had considered John Wick the closest thing he had to a son. 

“Thank you, Winston.” 

Though he is an exceptional conversationalist, it turns out that Winston is an excellent companion in silence too. You sit together on the couch, staring at nothing, but remembering a man for whom you both thought the world. 

*** 

Eventually you return to your home on the mountain. 

You feel like a wraith in a castle on the hill, rattling around the empty rooms, longing for a man who can never return to you. You feel his presence in every room. You sit with his books, and upon the furniture where you made love. You go to the kitchen, unable to believe he will never make another nourishing meal for the two of you there again, stealing kisses between chopping ingredients and stirring the pans. It feels cold, and bare, like every other space in this cabin turned mausoleum. 

You could sell it. You could sell it all, and make a clean start anywhere you want. You could travel the country with Dog, see all the things you’ve never seen. 

You can't do it.

It is the place where you loved each other, through better and worse, in madness and in health, and you cannot let it go. 

Your loneliness and your longing stretches on without end. It seems unbearable, this interminable sense of loss, but then you wake up, and do it all over again. 

You will never know another love like John Wick’s. The way that man loved you...it wasn't always right, but God, it had been fierce. 

Nothing will ever compare to it. 

You would give anything, pay any price, to have it back again. 

Helen's wisdom echoes even still. No matter John’s last wishes, without Dog to care for, you can't say you wouldn't have done something to end it all, just to have some relief from this crushing pain. 

Maybe no one will ever love you the way John did, but Dog does love you, and he needs you. It's no secret to you, that the only reason you wake up in the morning is to care for him. You try to be a good companion to him, though some days all you want to do is sit and stare at the wall. Loyally, he sits with you, waiting. 

You know that he misses John too. 

You should probably seek out some kind of therapy, but instead you turn to the outdoors. You and Dog hike all over the mountain, up and down, there and back again. It doesn't help you to forget, but it does help you to move.

Now you are the battered grouch who descends from the mountain in the Rover for the occasional cup of artisan coffee. Now that you have it, sometimes you leave a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar.

You still wear your ring. You don't intend to ever take it off. You don't intend to ever love again. 

Who could compare? 

What you would give, for that man to come out of the woodwork and kidnap you again. You wouldn't even complain. You wouldn't fight. You wouldn't throw books or sass or try to escape. You didn't even know how good you had it. 

You cycle through four of the five stages of grief like a cd changer on random. Denial, Bargaining, Anger, Depression… Everytime Acceptance seems like a barely visible speck on the distant horizon, you start all over again.

You read through the book you made together about Hades and Persephone again and again. Then you begin a new fixation with the myth of Cupid and Psyche. You feel for Psyche, for after she is whisked away to an isolated palace and loved by a mysterious stranger in the dark, is infected with inconsolable love and embarks on a series of trials to recover him. If you knew the way, you would march straight to Hades to snatch John from the River Styx, and you would fight anyone who got in your way. You’re pretty sure Dog could take Cerberus, for John.

Months go by. His scent has begun to fade from his clothes in the closet, and his shirt from the hamper you never could bring yourself to wash. 

You never drive the Mustang, but sometimes you just sit in it, and remember the rides he used to take you on (on the road and on his body). You do ride his motorcycle, and when you hit the straightaway at what feels like light speed somehow you feel close to him. 

Winter comes with a vengeance, driving you back inside once more. 

One day in December you are looking through the mail, sorting the junk from the bills, when something catches your eye. It's a travel brochure in glossy color. You've never received anything like it before. Curious, you flip it over to read the front. The title urges ‘Visit Argentina!’ in a sweeping font.

Something about this makes you pause, your pulse suddenly thundering in your ears. 

You open it up, finding colorful photos that could have come straight from your Pinterest travel board. The Grand Splendid bookstore, The Japanese Garden, the tree-lined streets of the Barrio Palermo, the Casa Rosada and the Plaza de Mayo, the Sunday Market in San Telmo… All things that you'd wanted to see someday. Things you'd talked about wanting to see…with John, while he’d smirked and rolled his eyes at you while absolutely indulging your excited rambling as you lay in his arms. 

You sit at the island and stare at this flyer, a strange feeling creeping over your skin. 

It's surely just a coincidence. The product of Google selling your search history, maybe, back when you used to think about the future with excitement and optimism, the whole world your oyster with John at your side. 

And yet. 

You sit, and you stare, and you think. 

You’ve replayed that night in your nightmares a million times over. Your memories are not clear; between trauma and your concussion, and it all happened so fast. But you saw him get shot. You saw blood spray. How could anyone survive that in the merciless ocean at night? 

Even John Wick had his limits–but he’s cheated death before.

What if?

It’s a question that surely can only lead to madness and heartbreak for you, but still, you ask it again and again. 

What if? 

You do not move until Dog nudges your leg, ready for your daily walk. 

Later you hike on autopilot down the wooded trail, but your mind is racing.

What if it’s a trap?

What if…it’s a message?

What if you are losing your fucking mind, seeing possibility where there is nothing.

You lay awake that night in bed, clutching the brochure, searching every line for some clue. There's nothing seemingly coded in the writing. No symbols that would mean anything to you. The travel company is legit; you look it up. But there is just this nagging little voice in the back of your head chanting: What if?

By the next day you are sleep deprived, possibly unhinged–and ready to pack your bags for Argentina.

TBC...

-----

-all chapters -cartagena travel collage

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

Ok, I just read your sweet yandere post and would like to add something.

I love the idea of like a mafia boss yandere or someone who is usually cruel (like maybe a Hades sort of character) but is an absolute sweet heart to their darling. One of my fave tropes

OOOOOOH I LOVE THIS TROPE! I have a character who's just like this actually, a total sweetheart to whoever he's with but has a very low tolerance for most other people.

Sorry, this is a long one lol

I'm gonna make headcanons now because you've inspired me lol.

(Banner/divider credit goes to @cafekitsune)!

Tw: Kidnapping, mentions of violence, stalking, drugging

Mafia boss! Charlie who is no stranger to violence. He's lived his entire life surrounded by it, in fact. Having a mafia boss for a father will do that to you, he guesses.

Mafia boss! Charlie who's spent his whole life working for the mafia, being trained to kill, smuggle, and deal ever since he was a child. He grew up living a life of crime, rising up the ranks (thanks to his father), before taking over as the boss when his father was killed by an unruly client.

Mafia boss! Charlie who's a cruel, ruthless man. He's killed dozens of people, injured many more, and runs his organization with an iron fist. He may be young, but he's learned enough to know that any show of trust, any display of kindness is a show of weakness, a show of vulnerability. He can't afford that, not when he's the head of the mafia, so he makes sure to make it so that no one will question or challenge his authority by any means necessary.

Mafia boss! Charlie who has very few real friends, keeping those he does have at an arm's length. He'd rather die than admit that he craves real relationships, that he desires to make genuine, true connections with others. But he can't, so he pushes his wants to the side, reminding himself that his only purpose is to keep his business running smoothly, nothing more.

Until he sees you, that is.

Mafia boss! Charlie who meets you out on a grocery run one day. Your interaction is nothing special, at least to you, but Charlie can't help but marvel at how easily you make conversation with him while ringing up his items, how seemingly unfazed you are by his snappy attitude and unapproachable appearance. It's been a long, long time since he's met anyone unafraid of him, and those people are usually rivals who are too cocky for their own good. So this, this is new. He knows it's stupid, he knows that your tiny interaction shouldn't have mattered much to someone like him, but he can't help but feel giddy about the connection he's sure he felt.

Mafia boss! Charlie who, against his better judgment, wastes no time in trying to find out who you are. It's not hard, he has an entire organization full of trained trackers, stalkers, and informants at his disposal, and by the end of the day, he has your full name, address, social media accounts, family tree, medical records, and much more safely in his welcoming hands. He knows this is a bit overkill considering he only met you today and your interaction lasted five minutes at most, but now that he has a taste of real human interaction, he's addicted. He needs more.

Mafia boss! Charlie who quickly becomes awestruck and obsessed with you. His whole life, he's been surrounded by the craftiest, cruelest, most violent people imaginable, so to see someone, especially someone as precious as you, live a completely normal life, naive to the dangers he faces everyday? It's captivating! Of course, he can't follow you all day, he is a mafia boss after all, but he has enough people following you around and recording your every move that he doesn't need to! He's never been happier to be who his is than now.

Mafia boss! Charlie who thinks you're the most beautiful person in the world. You're a sweet little thing, too gentle and too unaware of the dangers around you for your own good. He loves everything about you, no matter how weird or embarrassing. He's content to watch you carefully for a couple months, but as time goes on, his need to feel our touch, to talk to you, to see you face to face is too much. He needs you. He needs you NOW. It doesn't help that you're so vulnerable and weak compared to him, with no knowledge of weaponry or stealth to keep you safe. What if someone were to try and hurt you? Of course, his goons wouldn't let that happen, not if they wanted to keep their organs, but he would feel so much better if he could keep an eye on you personally. Not to mention, every mafia boss needs a spouse, and some of his higher ranking associates have been hinting that it's about time he found someone...

Mafia boss! Charlie who immediately starts planning your "transfer" to his house, meticulously drafting out every last detail to secure your safety. He chooses his best, most skilled employees to carry out his plan, only the best for his darling, and sends them out to bring you "home". That day you come home from work, completely unaware of the people in your apartment, completely unaware of the sleeping pills dumped into your water while you weren't looking.

Mafia boss! Charlie who's ecstatic to finally have you with him, to finally have someone to hold, to talk to, to love. He brings your unconscious body to your new room, laying you softly on the bed while instructing his employees to pack up all your belongings and bring them to him. He doesn't tie you down or chain you up, he has enough security measures in place to make sure you won't be able to escape. You won't even be able to leave your room without him being notified.

Mafia boss! Charlie who watches the camera in your room as you wake up for the first time in your new home, confused and disoriented. All of your stuff is here, but this is NOT your apartment. Where are you? He watches as you start to freak out, guilt flashing through him for the first time in his life. He doesn't want you to be scared, he just wants to keep you safe!

Mafia boss! Charlie who sends one of his gentler employees into your room to explain everything, too afraid of scaring you even further by showing up himself. He waits a few days before revealing himself to you, when your terror has calmed down and you've become more familiar with your surroundings. He kind of just stands there, unable to formulate a sentence, which is extremely unnerving to you. You've been told you're to be married to a highly respected and violent mafia boss, and here he is, just...staring. When he opens his mouth to speak, your surprised at how soft his voice is, calmly explaining to you that you're safe, you won't be hurt. He reaches out his hand to touch you, but recoils when you flinch, not wanting to push you.

Mafia boss! Charlie who does everything he can to make you more comfortable and less afraid of him, getting you anything and everything you've ever shown interest in, giving you as much space as you need, and letting you roam the rather large house freely. All you can't do is leave. He doesn't understand why you're still so scared, sure he's a criminal, but he promised he would never hurt you!

Mafia boss! Charlie who gets more desperate for your love as time goes on. He starts appearing in whatever room your in, softly talking to you about his day or about whatever you're doing, trying to get you to be more comfortable with him. Once you've gotten used to that, he starting slowly initiating physical contact, holding you in his arms like he's never going to let you go (because he won't). He tried his hardest not to push your boundaries, but eventually his need to be near you becomes too great. Rest assured though, he would never, ever dream of hurting you or purposely scaring you.

Mafia boss! Charlie who can't get enough of the feeling of your skin on his. He starts hugging/cuddling you whenever he can, holding you like you'll break if he presses too hard. He's always near you, cuddling up to you while telling you about how much he loves you, adoration shining in his eyes. He's the clingiest at night though, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you fall asleep, him watching over you until he succumbs to his own tiredness. And his kisses? They are the softest, fluffiest thing you've ever felt. He cannot get enough of your lips, and he always kisses you passionately, like you'll disappear once he separates from you. With how loving and gentle he is, it doesn't take long for you to start loving him back.

Mafia boss! Charlie who starts giving you more privileges the farther you fall into stockholm. He'll even start taking you out in public on dates once he thinks there's no chance of you trying to escape him. He'd be able to find you if you did, he has many, many connections, but he trusts you won't. He loves going out with you and doing normal, coupley things with you, it's a nice break from his usual, violent life.

Mafia boss! Charlie who is insanely protective of you, never leaving you alone in a room with anyone except for himself. He knows how dangerous it is to be associated with him and now that he has you, he refuses to let anything happen to you. Any rival who attempts to hurt, kill, or kidnap you is met with Charlie himself, who enacts the most brutal, torturous death he can possibly think of on them. Nobody will come close to hurting you, he'll make sure of it. But no matter what happens, he'll always make sure you're far, far away from the violence. He never wants to subject you to the horrors he's seen (and done).

Mafia boss! Charlie who feels awful the first time you hear him raise his voice. It wasn't at you of course, he would never, ever think of yelling at his darling, you just happened to be in the room when he was meeting with one of his associates. It's scary seeing him yell, threatening brutal acts of violence on his own employee, and for the first time you realize how different he is with others than he is with you. He's quick to shut the meeting down once he realizes you're there, spending the rest of the night apologizing to you and assuring you he would never speak to you like that. This'll be the first time he truly opens up about what his job is like and why he has to be as cruel as he is, trying to help you understand why he behaved the way he did. It's difficult for him to make himself vulnerable, but he'd gladly to it if it meant easing your mind. From then on, he makes absolute sure you aren't around whenever he has to take care of business. He refuses to let you see him like that ever again.

Mafia boss! Charlie who never lets you forget how much he needs you in his life. You're the only thing keeping him from devolving into insanity, he wouldn't know how to handle himself if you were gone. He'll give you everything and anything if you listen to him and stay by his side, so please... please don't try to leave him.

Not that you would be able to, anyway.

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction: Part 3

Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!traumatized!reader Overall Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam sends Bucky to guard you in a remote safehouse. You clash instantly, but in the growing tension, something more fragile begins to take root. If you can learn to trust him in time. No Thunderbolts spoilers!

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Reluctant Attraction, Forced Proximity, Yearning, Protective Bucky/Reader.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: trauma response/disassociation, general violence, bombs, gun mention, kidnapping/experimentation. Reader is hard on herself for a bit :,)

You wake up with a headache and a heartache, legs twisted in the sheets and eyes closed from sleep.

The dreams you get when you’re asleep are horrible, but the reality of being awake is just as bad. Even with the hangover drowning out your thoughts with pain, everything from last night is crystal clear. The bar. The seedy man whose arm snaked its way around your waist. If the alcohol hadn’t numbed your world, the whole night would have blown up then. Your wrists feel heavy with the memory of invisible handcuffs.

And still somehow, the worst part was Bucky. The thought of him, watching from whatever dark corner he melts away into, then coming to your rescue. The fact you needed it is shameful.

Weakness. A word you know too well. One that you know you don’t want to show, especially not to him.

Then, of course, the car. ‘A shield, not a bomb’. How deadly ironic. How sweet. Why did he have to say it then, after you already humiliated yourself?

‘I would do that again for you in a heartbeat.’ He’d said it like a promise, but he doesn’t know what he’s promising that to. All he sees is someone pitiful and small, not the person that’ll hurt him if he gets too close.

And that’s the worst part of it all. You’d take the cuffs if it meant it kept you away from him. It would be easier if he hated you, but the new fact that he doesn’t is worse. That means he’ll try to connect.

Your body is a trap waiting to spring. Why does he insist on keeping with you, as if he’s looking to be caught?

Creaking from the top of the stairs breaks you out of your whirling thoughts. You slow your breathing, trying to sound as if you’re asleep.

Thankfully, the landing creaks again, and you hear the low thunks of his footsteps going down the stairs. Letting out a sigh, you finally open your eyes to the dim room. Time to seize the day.

It takes you ten minutes to get up. Your headache gets worse once vertical.

As you get downstairs, Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, newspaper open in his hands. His clenched jaw softens as he looks you over. You wave a little, feeling a little silly but not wanting to speak. The corner of his mouth flicks up.

“Hey, party queen. How you feelin’?” He chirps.

“Ugh.”

“To be expected. Have some coffee.” He waves a hand towards the steaming cup on the table next to him. After a moment you go over, standing on the other side of the couch as you take the mug. The heat from it easily warms your cold fingertips, and you rub your thumb on the handle. He glances up from the paper, then fully looks up at you before folding the paper and tossing it onto the coffee table.

He looks back at you, leaning back and resting a metal elbow on the armrest, rubbing his stubbly beard with the same hand. He says nothing, just watching you as you drink, using the coffee to stop any words from bubbling out. You know what they would be. Either small pitiful things to make yourself smaller, or barbs to scare him off. Maybe he would take the bait, leaving you alone. Maybe that would help the pit in your stomach.

You look over him, avoiding his stormy blue eyes. Instead, you look at the rest of him, scanning his shirt, his pants, his tanned hand resting on the seat of the pleather couch and playing absentmindedly with the seam. He has a scar on his knuckle. You sip and wonder where he got it from, if it hurt. He scratches his throat and breaks the silence himself.

“You hungover?”

“Nah, I usually wake up with a pounding headache and an aversion to sunlight.” You say dryly. The corner of his mouth tugs up.

“You sound like a vampire.”

“I am. If you aren’t careful, I’ll suck you dry.”

“Hmm. Really? Didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”

You blush lightly, bringing the mug to your lips longer in an effort to hide your cheeks. He still must see it, with that never-ending gaze of his, because he flashes a wolfish smile that makes your chest flutter horribly. You cough before you answer.

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it. All you, doll.” He says, like it’s nothing.

Nicknames aren’t new to you, but this one is different. It lands differently when coming from him. You’re not sure why it comforts you. Maybe it’s the roughness of his voice, or the slight twang of an old accent coming through. It sounds distinctly like him, a piece of his inner voice given briefly as an offering.

He stretches as he gets up, letting out a quiet grunt as he raises his arms above his head. His thin t-shirt clings to him, tanned skin peeking out from between its hem and his jeans. His metal arm glitters in the sunlight creeping in through the closed blinds. As he lets go of the stretch, he sighs, the tension in his shoulders melting away. You look away quickly enough that you can pretend that you haven’t looked, distracted instead by coffee and the dregs of sleep still left in your eyes.

He steps towards you and your body reacts first, backing away from him quickly. He pauses, showing his hands, palms open towards you as if surrendering.

“I’m just going to the kitchen.” He says quietly, as if speaking to an animal crouched in the corner. You get onto the couch and fold your legs against your chest, making yourself unobtrusive. He sidesteps you, keeping the distance you’ve made between you both. Once he leaves, you stretch out, rubbing your feet on the rough rug on the floor.

“I gotta fix somethin’ in the car today. Tried going out this morning for coffee and it wasn’t working. So, I’m sorry, but this is the last cup until I can get that going again.” That piques your interest. You quickly turn on the couch to face him. He glances over at you and his brow raises a little, quizzical. “You that addicted to caffeine? It’ll just take me a few hours, I promise.”

“No, no. What happened to the car?”

“Brakes weren’t responding like I’d like them to last night. We were slipping a bit.” Your brain whirs through a million possible reasons, the engine and body of the sedan outside opening in your imagination.

“Common. It was shuddering, right?” The rumbles of the car beneath your legs last night was an afterthought in your drunk mind, but the information comes quickly to the forefront sober. “Sounds like the rotors are warped. 2012 Honda Civic parts come cheap, at least. Still got to wait for them.” You sip again, glancing up at him. His eyes are wide, and you stop mid-drink.

“What?” You ask. Then, he chuckles. It’s a low rumble that washes over you like fireworks.

“You know all that? You’re a mechanic now?” He asks. You bristle, but the look in his eyes is true, admiring instead of accusing. You shrug a shoulder, relaxing and putting the mug down. Bracing yourself on an elbow, you half-turn towards him.

“Nah. Civics are some of the easiest cars to repair.”

“Done it often?”

“Not on 2012’s. Not really even on cars. I’ve mainly worked on pieces of them. Some basic machines, too. They’re all parts at the end of the day; you just have to know how each one works.” Your gaze is firmly on him, but anywhere other than his eyes.

He’s leaning against the counter now, the small of his back pressed against the lip and his arms crossed over his chest. He leans into the room like it belongs to him. Either that, or its a farce. Covering discomfort with confidence. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re avoiding him, he’s curled in on himself. Bent over the table with his arms on either side of his head, as if he’s a boxer defending his face. Now, he’s free and open.

“Wanna come help?” He asks, breaking your thoughts, and your heart leaps against your ribs.

“Really? Help? Or do you just wanna make me do it?” You joke, but you ask.

“I won’t make you do anything, doll.” You match his gaze. You say nothing for a moment, and neither does he as he waits. For you to talk. The words stick in your throat but you force them through anyway.

“Yeah. I’d like to.”

-

“Can you hand me – yeah, thank you.” You place the wrench he needs in his outstretched metal hand, being careful not to touch him. Even with him under the car and you on an upside-down bucket a couple feet away, you feel too close to him. He wheels back under the chassis on the repurposed skateboard you found in the old garage the car is sitting in to keep you both away from the sun.

It was small in here, dark and dank with the smell of gas, grease, and the sickening wisps of cigarettes from the inside of the car. Hot sun streamed through the open garage door. You let your head loll back into it, closing your eyes in a moment of rare relaxation. Both good and bad memories are associated with this smell, but this is a new experience altogether. You can get up and walk back inside if you want to. You’re not chained to the floor, scraps of exploded metal at your feet, cigarette smoke turning the room to haze and confusing your parts together. If you left, Bucky wouldn’t care at all.

“You were right. Rotors were shot.” Metal tings against the stained concrete as he tosses one out by your feet. You pick it up, grease covering your fingertips. It’s bent to hell.

“Lord. How much have you hit the brakes?” You quip. The car muffles his chuckle.

“It’s one of Sam’s cars. I’m pretty sure he abuses them all.”

“I guess if you could fly, being trapped in a tin can on the ground makes you frustrated.”

“Then he needs to fix his cars as much as he fixes that damn red spy-pigeon he has strapped to his back.” He throws out the other rotor, wheeling out after it. His short-cropped hair glitters in the sun, sweat beading at his brow. You flick your eyes back to the garage.

“I think he likes the more finicky things. Cars are big, cumbersome.” You say, shrugging a shoulder. Bucky sits up, going to run a hand through his hair but pausing, looking at his greasy hand. You toss him a rag sitting on the tool bench, him murmuring his thanks. He’s methodical as rubs his hands, going over every inch as if scrubbing in for surgery.

“And you?” He says, breaking your trance.

“And I what?”

“What do you like to fix? Or do you not like getting your hands dirty?” He’s looking up at you.

“I get my hands dirty all the time.” You scoff.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Good to know.” He says, smirking.

You bite the inside of your lip, quickly looking away from him.

“I’ve mainly fixed power generators. Some engines, but they were cobbled together from other engines. Like a Frankenstein of car parts.” You rush.

“Hmm. So you know a lot about a lot, then?”

The compliment heats up your cheeks, and you turn towards the sun, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I guess you could say that. It does make it difficult when I see a fully assembled engine. It looks too perfect. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, usually with the broken part.” You look back at him and roll your eyes. He gives another wolfish grin, making your stomach do a flip. The sun shows off more of him, bathing him in a glow you can’t find in the house. Maybe you should open the blinds more, let more of the sun dance around the dark corners. How much more of him would you see?

“I was gonna do some basic maintenance too. You wanna see this engine? I can give you a tour.”

“Is that your idea of a pick-up line?” You ask, faux innocently. Might as well play with him too. He stills before smirking again.

“Only if you say yes.” He says solemnly.

“Such a gentleman. Just show me the engine, Bucky.” You snort.

He stares up at you for a moment before getting up in one fluid motion, picking the car up off the jack with his metal hand. You quickly kick the jack away and he lets the sedan down gently. Every time he shows his strength, you marvel at it. There’s knowing he’s a super soldier, experimented on, serum flowing through his veins, and then there’s seeing it. You’re split on whether it makes you feel protected, unsafe, or less alone. You settle on an unsettling mixture of all three as he moves around to the front of the car, opening the lid of the engine and beckoning you over. You follow suit quickly.

His shirt brushes against your arm as he leans over to point at something, and your neurons crackle in response. You tell yourself he doesn’t notice the way you lean into him.

“You know what that is?” He asks, and you can feel his eyes on the side of your face as you study it.

“Oil dipstick.”

“Good, you’re right.” His praise makes your stomach flutter again. The air between you starts feeling electric, and you take a small side-step away. He doesn’t seem to notice as he motions to something close by again.

“And that?”

“Uhm...” You stare at it, but all you can think about are the little zaps you feel between your fingers. “Brake fluid reservoir?”

“Close. Clutch fluid reservoir. Over there is the brake fluid.” He waves a hand at some other part, then leans back and crosses his arms. You let out a little breath that you didn’t think you were holding. “If you really want to impress me, show me where the blinker fluid is.”

You examine for a minute, before rolling your eyes again and looking up at him. He looks bemused but holding it in, biting the inside of his lip and smirking down at you.

“Did you really think you’d get me with that?” You scoff, and he laughs. It matches the warmth that comes up to your cheeks. You haven’t blushed this much in your life, but now all it takes is a few nice words and some laughter from him and you’re a mess.

“No, not really. But I thought I might as well try.” He says.

“Blinker fluid isn’t real, muffler bearings aren’t real, and elbow grease comes from hard work.” You say. He nods slowly.

“Alright, alright. I won’t haze you anymore. Check the oil for me, and I’ll check the tire pressures.” He says, tossing you the rag and walking around to the back of the car.

You take your time, taking out the dipstick and running it across a clean part of the towel, watching him from the corner of your eyes. He’s looking at you too, and when you match gazes, electricity crackles up your spine.

This is all getting to be too much. The smell of grease and sweat, heat against your back, tools all around you. Mixing that with the closeness of him, the easy laughter he’s sharing with you, the way he talks with you as if you’re his equal. His friend, even. The war in your head is growing louder and louder, and you count wordlessly. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 1. 2. 3.

“Tires are fine. Oil?” He’s suddenly next to you again, and you almost drop the stick.

“Could use some, I think.” Your mouth is dry.

“Alright. You know how?”

“Yes.”

“You want to?”

“Yes.” You say it too quickly, rushing around him to the side of the sedan. He comes over and lifts the car again, and you kick the jack underneath.

“You know, I could just hold it up.” He says as he puts it gently down onto the stand, and you shake your head.

“I’d rather not be crushed if you need to sneeze.” You say, and he laughs again.

“You really think I’d let you be crushed?” He says gently. Your brain shorts for a second.

“Not on purpose.”

“Never on purpose. I’m not that mean.” He kicks an old tray to you as you lower yourself on the skateboard, and you bring it with you as you wheel under.

You both sit in silence as you concentrate, unscrewing the drain plug quickly, but not quick enough to get your hand out of the way of the oil. You watch it for a moment, trying to calm down, but not managing to before it finishes draining. Your heart still beats fast, especially when Bucky bends down and smiles at you.

“All done?” He asks, and you nod, pulling yourself out from underneath after re-screwing the oil pan shut. You wipe some sweat off your cheek with the back of your wrist, taking a deep breath. He’s already gotten to the engine to pour new oil in. You stand up to go near him, watching from one side of the engine bay. He looks up at you, smiling at first, but then his brow furrows slightly. He beckons with his free hand.

“C’mere.” Your skin crackles. You hesitate, but he beckons again. Some tiny part of you steps forward as if Bucky is tugging on a fishing line. You have the sinking feeling this will end up bad, but the bait is too tantalizing. The risk that makes your heart flutter and the logical part of your brain scream.

Then, it happens.

With his metal hand, he reaches up to your cheek, thumb wiping a spot under your eye. His fingers curl slightly around your jaw, pawing your face. The combination of the soft touch with his gaze, and the smell of pervasive grease and nicotine from the inside of the car mixing with memories that feel too close to the surface, the numbers are useless.

The warmth of his eyes. The care. The way you want to nudge your face into his palm. Trust it not to grip hard. Trust yourself not to bite back.

You can’t. It’s not safe. You aren’t safe. You can’t be, you can’t-

Boom.

White clouds your vision as Bucky’s hand gets ripped away from you. Heat crawls over every inch of your skin as the ripple of the shockwave tears from you like horses out of a starting gate. Metal tears and screeches against concrete. Things shatter and crack, filling up your nose with the fume of smoke and oil. And the memories. Oh, the nightmares come crashing through. Thick, heavy sobs hit your chest as you’re back in that little room again, chained to the ground in an effort to keep you still amidst yet another chaotically forced explosion. Left to lay there as the data points come rolling in that damned computer, waiting another round. Here, now, you can feel the cuffs on your wrists, weighing you down as your lungs struggle to breathe. Somewhere far away, there’s a thud and a groan, snapping you back to reality. The heat around you diminishes, the wind from your shockwave dying down to nothing, letting the buzz of the cicadas in the summer air come back to the forefront.

Worst of all, Bucky is getting up at the other end of the garage, looking directly at you with a look you can’t decipher. The concrete wall behind him is cracked from his body being thrown against it but he still stands easily. He steps towards you but you back away and he does too, staying near the wall. His jaw clenches as his brow knits together, looking you over.

It almost looks like worry, but that’s not possible. That would be hope. You already know what hope is, the words branded on your heart.

Hope is the worst hurt of all.

He’s holding his hands out towards you, palms out again, and your nails dig into your hair. You both stay in that moment, examining each other.

He blinks slowly, opening his mouth to say something but closing it again. The possibilities rush through your head at once. Too many of them hurt your heart before you hear them.

You both stare at each other wordlessly, neither of you moving a muscle.

Before he can break the silence, you turn on your heels and run back up the road into the house, throwing the door open and running upstairs to the small bathroom. You slam and lock the door, shutting off the light and getting into the tub, bringing your knees to your chest.

1231923124.

1326183.

172631.

The air tingles as you dig your nails into your skin, trying to tamp down the residual energy building up again through useless counting. A sharp knock on the door makes you jump.

“Hey, please tell me you’re alright. Don’t worry about the garage, it’s barely messier than it was before.” Bucky’s words come out rushed, like he can’t say them fast enough. You don’t reply, and he talks again. “If you’re hurt, I can help you.”

You almost laugh, a bitter taste on the back of your throat. You wish he could help you. But you’ve proven you’re not trustworthy. He touches your cheeks once and you lose control? What happens the next time he’s close to you? A blast in this old house would cause it all to come crashing down around him.

“Go away, Bucky. Please.” You choke out, but the shadow in front of the door doesn’t move an inch.

“Do you need help calming down?” He says. Still painfully gentle. You can almost imagine him on the other side of the door, running a hand through his hair like he did the other night, when your nightmare shook him awake.

You pause. A voice in your head continues to spout off numbers, a never-ending river of confusion. Another one lectures you, shows a slideshow of him in the garage, standing away from you like you’re an animal waiting to attack him. A third one screams at you, kicking you into a corner even in your own psyche. The shockwaves always seem to make your brain explode too, splintering it into a chaotic mess.

In that chaos, your racing thoughts throw out a question that comes from the one voice you don’t let speak.

Why is he here, if he’s scared of you?

“Just...just follow my voice, alright?” He murmurs through the door. In spite of yourself, you find yourself yearning for his voice above the others. You take a shaky breath.

“Say five things you hear. Out loud, please. So I know you’re alive in there.”

You take a moment.

“The faucet dripping, the wind against the house, the creak of the foundation settling, a hawk outside, and y-you.” All of them come out in a rush of words, and you add a sixth to the list; him letting out a deep breath.

“Alright. Good, you’re doing good. Name three things you can touch.”

“The tub, the shower curtain, the soap.” Your fingers trace each item as you say them. They’re all cold to the touch, and you dig your nails into the curtain, making it crinkle in your hands.

“And one thing you can see.”

Some half-formed instinct pushes you forward to the door, numbly unlocking it. Pulling it open slightly, you’re met with Bucky’s gaze towering above you as he leans against the door frame. You flinch away but he doesn’t meet you with anger, or pain. Only a quiet, pensive look that you haven’t seen before on a person you’ve hurt.

“You. I see you.” You breathe out. His jaw clenches and relaxes and he runs his metal hand through his hair again. He’s jittery but won’t look away. You can’t either.

“Are you alright?” He whispers. You nod. “Are you sure?”

You nod as you wipe a tear off the same cheek he held before. Will never hold again, if he knows what’s good for him.

“I’ll clean up the garage.” You say.

“Don’t worry about the garage.”

“It’s all fucked up. I think the car-”

“Don’t worry about the garage or the car. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, that’s the only car we have, and if I broke it then we can’t go into town, or get out of town, or-”

“What happened?” He interrupts.

Any explanation you can think of turns to a stone in your throat.

“What did I do? Did I hurt you?” He whispers and look up at him. His eyes are frenzied, almost panicked as he looks over you, but he keeps himself on his side of the doorway. His metal hand is clenched into a fist at his side, but at your glance he relaxes it, rubbing his thigh with his palm.

“No Bucky, you didn’t hurt me.” You murmur. You almost reach for him before remembering you’re the one who threw him into the wall at the first sign of a kind touch.

He studies you as you study him. Your defences are back up but the familiar adrenaline rush dies down quickly.

“Bucky, I’m...sorry. I can’t...” You trail off, closing your eyes and rubbing a temple. The storm of your thoughts has died down but the rain lingers, drowning out everything you try to say.

“It’s alright.” He says softly.

“I-”

“I’ll be downstairs.” He turns quickly, footsteps thudding quickly down. You stare at the empty doorway. The faucet drips beside you, beating out the seconds in the silent hallway.

When you finally rip yourself away from listening to the subtle sounds of him below, you go to your bed and fall on it.

When sleep comes, it’s not a comfort. Just an escape from yourself.

----------

A/N: This was a cathartic chapter for me to write, but I'm thinking that'll be a trend for the rest of the fic, lol. But it took me a while to get it out, so I apologize. When I started writing this, I didn't realize how hard-hitting it would be for me get everything out. Next chapter is already outlined, so will be quicker updates from now on :)

If you're struggling with C/PTSD symptoms, you are not alone. People care about you.

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[ebbyhell]

WARNING: CONTAINS VIOLENT DIPICTIONS OF BODY HORROR AND MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

To be Raphael is to hunger for love....

Raphael the ever dutiful angel, ask God so be and i shall bloody my hands for you...no need to dirty your hands in the blood of the sinfull and wrong people, I shall be your beloved blade right God???? All the deaths and the torture and even the blood is for you!!! As i created to be loved by you!!! Your beloved Seraphim!!!

He was created by God to love him, worship him and to carry out his dirty work, cause he is loved by him right?? To deliver this pain and hurt is God will.....then why does he fells empty? Why does is not enough? His loved by God?

That human is with God, but it does not matter!!! I am created for God love!!! That human is meainless!!!....but why God keeps him close like that?? Why he laughs with him like that?? That dumb fool human smile....

And the doubt fester...the self distruction of the nature of the Angels blooms as he works on punishing the sinfull, and the distance gets larger as the more he tries to prove God loves him he ends up just making he want more space, and his belly ache he must be hungry even if he just eated...he must feed for the hole on heart is just getting bigger and now God is not there anymore.....disappeared along with that human...

God...is not here.....no nonono NONON NO!!!! I wont accept these!!!, THAT DUMB HUMAN MUST HAVED STOLE HIM!!!! YOU MUST WANT ME TO KEEP DOING YOUR WORK RIGHT GOD?!? I SHALL DO IT!!! I SHALL CLEAN ALL THE SINNERS!! THE DEVILS!! TH3 HUMANS!! ALL PUNISH AND FEAST ON THEY FOR YOU GOD!!!

The last bit that Raphael has left of God is only his so called will, an Will of violence and punishimen filled with the desperation of the being who was must desperate for God love, and so desperation turns into anger, and the unholly shall be punished!!! Of course is they at fault!! Not the angels who only loved you!!....right?? The angels who keep pushing and fighting and killing only to prove your love for you right??? No it must not be they......after all loving God is not an sin. But look spite all the hard angels work God is not back...the hole is still empty spite of the piles of bodies filled in the stomach....

oh dear look....It apears Lucifer also left....

Why Lucifer Hyung left????? WHY WHY IS HIM IN HELL??? IT MUST BE AN PLAN!!, HAHAHA OF COURSE!!!! MICHAEL SHALL BRING HIM BACK!!!! HE DID NOT LEFT US!!!! HE SHALL BE BACK JUST AS GOD WILL BE!!!!

But Michael did not bring him back, an fight maybe happend, name calling, blood everywere but in the end! No Lucifer and no God! And his belly keeps grumbling....as he walks away fury in his heart to go deal more of the God will and feast so the hunger can go away, so the pain of the loss go away even for seconds,...such painfull existencie for God beloved creations...but it does show the nature of angels to self distructe.

Look, that bastard human left decedeants...how dare him, and the anger and hunger goes up again...but someting new what this?....

THAT HUMAN!!!! THEY TOUCHED ME!!! WITH THAT DIRTY EXPRESSION!!, I WANNA CHOKE THEY TILL THEIR FACE TURN PURPLE! I WANNA SCRATCH THEIR FACE TILL NOBODY CAN SEE THEIR JOYFULL TEARS!!!I WANNA DESTROY THEIR BODY TILL I THE ONLY ONE LAST TO TOUCH IT!!

And so he has tasted, the pleasure, the afection, the emotion, Raphael finnally feels full...but shold he not hate it? It not God!! They have the blood of that bastard human in their veings!!,But the belt opened, it must mean it Gods will!! Yes, Yes, God wants him to expirience that!! IT MUST MEAN GOD IS REWARDING HIM!!, AFTER ALL HE IS DOING HIS WILL!!! HIS WILL OF PUNISHIMENT!, MC must be God gift.

So why shold he share it with the other lowelifes devils??? MC shold be in heaven, close to him, they shold only die by his hands and live to seek pleasure only on him, so he shall capture they and bringthey to heaven.

To Raphael who hungers for love and ressuarince the simple tought of MC leaving to the human world is devasting, the most violent angel shall never let they leave for they feed his hunger.

By God i shall feast.

(the second image is by @domreaderheadcannonscenarios,i had these wrinting on my notes for an while, Raphael is an caracterer very fun to analyze we can see so much about angels nature when reading his content)