#knives out 3 pitch

[swiggidy-swagrid]

The hype's been over for a while now, but I had the idea so i'll just post it

Knives Out 3 pitch

Something Blue: A Glass Onion Sequel: A Knives Out Mystery

Blanc and Philip have been invited to a high-class wedding in the alps through an acquaintance. They arrive early at the hotel, with only a couple of the other guests already having gotten there. However, the death of one half of the couple throws a wrench into the whole idea. Now Blanc has to figure out what happened and clear his own name, as he was one of the last seen with the victim, while another famed detective tries to solve the case before him.

Daniel Craig as Benoit Blanc

Hugh Grant as Philip, Blanc's husband

Alfred Molina as Ludovico Maroni, the rival gentleman detective

Andrew Garfield as Jonathon Darcy, the main character and fiance of the victim

Ben Barnes as Lucas McDonnell, Jonathon's fiance and the victim

Sean Bean as Gerald McDonnell, the rich father of the victim and a right-wing advocate

Peter Dinklage as Ernest Joy, a good friend of Gerald and a famous politician

Gillian Anderson as Eleanor McDonnell, mother of the victim and Gerald's ex-wife

Oscar Isaac as Marco de León, a college friend of the victim

Angela Bassett as Isabelle Mason, the victim's boss

Tessa Thompson as Jessie Wallace, Jonathon's ex-girlfriend

Colin Farrell as Alexander Gardner, was married to Jonathon's deceased sister

Thomasin McKenzie as Lucy Gardner, Jonathon's niece

Antonio Banderas as Manuel Domínguez, the owner of the hotel

[timetravelingtoamess]

Ok my pitch for the 3rd knives out

Blanc is invited to a mansion in the mountains. He was called because he received a job, not about a murder that HAS happened, but because of murders that WILL happen

Once he gets there, he learns that a mutal colleague of the group has recently died, leaving a widow. They don't seem to be dismayed, however. It was just an unfortunate accident. As the movie goes on, the group of people are picked off one by one. Each with methods of death that may or may not be connected. Blanc is left trying to figure out who's the killer, while trying to keep those left, alive

Turns out, Blanc was invited by the original colleague. Who was murdered. By command of the group. The colleague, who is currently very much alive, and sitting at Blancs place. And who called Blanc because they knew their spouse would go and kill off the group themselves

But Blanc knows that the group tried to kill the colleague, so he's really just trying to find the spouse

The twist? The spouse never pulled the trigger on anyone. They were there, trying, but the group just hated each other so much they just took each other out for one reason or another

And the spouse and Blanc go back, and enjoy a nice cup of tea with their respective honeys

[piinfeathers]

literally haven't stopped thinking about this tweet where Benoit meets detective Pikachu

Knives Out 3 pitch right here, i'm dead serious 🔍⚡️

[wasawattpadkid]

Housewife

Part - 3

Summery: Billy and Stu have been planning these murders for quite some time. Everything is going to plan until you show up. What happens when they meet someone who is just as mentally deluded as they are?

Pairing: poly!ghostface x fem!reader

Warnings for this series: murder, blood, smut (will be more in depth on smut chapters), power dynamics, a dash of sexism, knives, stalking, perverse behavior, cheating, masturbation

Part 1

Billy normally did this sort of thing with Stu. He had a feeling his friend would be upset that he went alone. That's something he'd have to deal with later. Your room was on the second floor with no obvious way up to the window. If you were the only one home he'd find a way in. With current company that wasn't exactly possible. Binoculars, cellphone, and his trusty voice changer, were all he had to work with. Doing this sort of thing without a knife was unusual.

He positioned himself where he could see your bed and the posters adorning the walls. Rear window, The Birds, Vertigo, and Psycho. You were an Alfred Hitchcock fan. "And Stu said you didn't have good taste in movies." He scoffed. Billy shook his head the binoculars close to his eyes. He watched as you walked in the room towel wrapped around your frame. One foot closed the bedroom door behind you. You looked to the window as you slowly dropped your towel. Did you know he was out here?

That was impossible. It was pitch black outside with the exception of the moon. Billy watched as you pulled the dress from the bag. A smile lit up your face which in turn brought one to his lips. A sense of pride filled Billy's chest knowing he picked it out. Once again your eyes found the window looking out as if someone was right on the other side. Slowly you pulled the fluffy nightgown over your head, the frill dropping right under your ass. Billy's hand slipped down his abdomen resting over his zipper.

You grabbed the matching panties from the bag dragging them up your legs letting the elastic slap your skin. Moving away from the window you looked yourself up and down in the mirror. Billy and Stu knew what they were doing when they bought you the nightgown. You spun letting the dress drift around you. Air seemed to catch in your throat as you got happy. A smile so painful your cheeks hurt, was one of the many indications you were elated with the gift.

The only thing you could think that would make it better was some music. Walking to your records you grabbed the worn out 45 listed under M for Monroe. Lifting the wooden cabinet cover you sat the vinyl down placing the needle in the first groove. Within a second "I wanna be loved by you" filled the room. You mouthed the lyrics as you danced around. That giddy feeling only getting stronger. Your hands slid up and down your body as if you were the best stripper on a Saturday night. It was classy though and Billy took note. The dancing wasn't the best, if you could call it dancing. It was like you were in love with yourself and the world around you. Playing around with the air that filled the room.

Billy started softly rubbing the bulge that began to strain again his dark jeans. His eyes never leaving you as you danced for an audience of one. Your towel dried hair swug around sure to fling left over water. You were his own personal burlesque dancer. Billy's hips grinded up into his palm. The knuckles wrapped around the binoculars began to turn white with his grip. He had no clue what song could make you ooze with such lust but he needed to use it to his advantage. You were walking innocence. Something he lacked throughout his life. You weren't stupid, you were incredibly brilliant. Every move you made it was intentional. You were putting a show just for him.

His hips quickened as the pressure grew. Little whispers of encouragement fell on deaf ears. Billy needed your glossy lips around him. He needed the hem of that frilly little dress to fall over his lap as you bounced happily. He needed... You. "Fuck!" He cursed through gritted teeth. He needed new underwear. "Fuck." He dropped the binoculars by his side to assess the damage you caused. The mess you made. A small damp spot began to make an appearance through the denim next to zipper of his jeans. Ignoring the uncomfortable mess he picked the binoculars back up noticing you were now buttoning up your pajama shirt. "God damnit!"

Now that your little burst of energy was over you were ready to crawl in bed. You switched the record over to something more peaceful, one that would take longer to end. Billy put the binoculars down to focus on the phone number staining his hand. His finger tapped the buttons double checking the numbers before hitting call. He could hear the ear piercing ring all the way outside. Before you could answer he pulled the voice changer from his pocket.

Quickly you leaned over grabbing the phone off the receiver. Placing it right back down with a click. It was too late for anyone to be calling. Billy took a deep breath redialing the number. Once again the phone screamed for your help. "Hello?" You asked politely to Billy's surprise seeing as you were obviously upset at the intrusion. You hoped it was Billy. "Hello.." He spoke not really sure where to go with this one. Well at least you know who it's not. You picked up the phone sitting the receiver on the bed next to you. You got comfortable with the phone resting against to your face. "Hi what's up?" You spoke. No asking 'who is this?' or 'why are you calling?" Maybe you were a little dumb.

"Um-" Billy cleared his throat thinking of a quick response. "The sky." He squeezed his eyes closed in shame. His eyes opened to find you with a smile. A small laugh could be heard over the phone. "Okay smartass what's down?" This was stupid. You were supposed to angry at the caller, suspicious even. Who calls a girl all alone at this hour? "The ground." You laughed clapping your hands. "That's right! Not too bad mystery man. But what do you need? Why'd you call?" Finally.

"What if I just wanted to talk?" You scooted yourself underneath the covers thinking about the caller. "Okay but I'm not doing no weird shit. You can call one those sex hotlines for that." Billy smiled at your assertion. "Fair enough. Who might I be speaking to?" It was a test. You barley gave him a name when you first met he doubted you'd give it to a psychopath on the phone. "I would say we could exchange names but what's the fun in that? I don't know you, you don't know me. What's your favorite song?"

The question was out of left field so much so he wasn't ready for it. "What's yours?" He asked to your disappointment. Billy saw the sad look on your face. "Am I talking to Socrates right now? I asked first." Billy begrudgingly gave out his answer. "1979 by the Smashing Pumpkins. Now what's yours?" You nodded your head at the answer. It seemed fitting. "Oh gosh." You sighed. "I honestly don't have a favorite. And if I did it would change next week. Have you heard Landslide by Fleetwood Mac? It's really popular you probably have." You took a deep breath in. Sighing out the air in one go. "Anyways I really like that one. It's kind of sad though if you think about it."

Billy sat listening to every word you said. "Your turn." He always had the most important question on hand. Billy wasn't really sure if he wanted to ask knowing what normally happened afterwards. "Do you like scary movies?" Billy put down his binoculars focusing on just your voice. "I'd say I do. I like a very specific genre of scary movies though." Billy sat up listening closer if that was possible. "What do you mean by that?" The voice on the phone became lower sending a slight chill down your spine. "Everyone likes scary movies to be bloody. The more guts and gore the better. You don't have to have that to make a scary movie. Vertigo is scary but there's practically no blood and Rear Window is one of the best movies made about a murder with no body ever being seen."

"Scary movies should get inside your head, make the viewer wonder if they are next. Make them wonder if they are just as screwed up as the villain." Out of everything you could've said he wasn't ready for that. "You are very smart girl." Billy didn't intend for it to come off as sexual. However you definitely took it that way. "Has anyone told you that you've got a very attractive voice?" Billy smiled holding back a laugh. "Is that so?" You nodded as if he could see you. "Yep. Anyways it's getting late mystery man. I'm going to get some sleep. Sleep well okay?"

"Okay. Goodnight mystery girl." Billy whispered into the phone. For the first time he was the one to hang up. To end the call without screams on the other end. It made him feel surprisingly good. The light in your room turned off letting him know you were actually going to bed. Billy quietly packed up his things and started the walk to his car. He wasn't sure if this little talk changed anything for you but it definitely changed things for him.

Part 4

Taglist: @katie-tibo @danodoll21

[writingoddess1125]

Theater Brat pt. 3 🎭

Buggy x FemReader

Some more Angst then Fluff but still fun!

You felt like your head was pounding, groaning softly as you felt yourself come to. Was it the alcohol from the party in Tangerine town?.. but you don't remeber drinking that much?.. It wasn't until the image of Buggy's eyes on you that evening that everything came to and you snapped your eyes open finally.

It was almost pitch black but with a single spotlight on the ground about 10 ft from you, yourself seated on what could only be described as a wooden red throne. Sitting up you see you're dresses in a far too expensive gown, very similar to one from your favorite musicals but dyed a sky blue color as well as jewelry hanging down from your ears, neck and wrist. Even a ring placed on your hand which was gold with a sapphire in the center.

A sense of panic hit your chest as you tried to sit up- far too quickly as the ache in your head returned. Making you sit back down on the chair.

"Sorry, those Muggy Balls can cause drowsiness and headaches.. I thought I gave you the smallest one I had but- seems it was still too strong" You heard a all too familiar voice say, turning to see Buggy standing just to the side of the throne. Leaned against it as he used one of his knives to clean under his nails-

"B-Buggy what the hell? I agreed to go with you- why did you?"

"To make it easier, it's harder to sneak a person put instead of just kidnapping them while unconscious. Way quieter" He said with a crooked grin, Leaning back up and walking around the throne like chair. Looking you over like a predator who had finally caught their prey.

"And the costume?.." You questioned, swallowing thickly as you saw his eyes linger over your form.

"Just a gift, for your care of me while with the Strawhats" He said with a smile. His hands playing with your hair as he stepped to your left and sighed contently at the sight of you.

"Bring it here!" He yelled at some shadows in the corner, before a grand desk was brought out and set infront of you by two of his crewmates. The finest of pens, pencils, paints and paper also set upfront of you, as well as a bowl of fine sweets you had once expressed enjoying and even popcorn.

You couldn't help but feel both flattered and a little scared how much he had thought this threw. Your favorite snacks, your favorite drinks, he had truly listened to it all and you hadn't even realized it.

"I have prepared my best show yet, and as promised. No 'Gore' or anything to scare you Doll' He said teasingly, which surprisingly drew a chuckle from you.

"I hope you enjoy, and I do want to see what you can draw up for me" He said with a wink as he stepped back from you and into the waiting spotlight.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls here to witness the greatest show of all! Buggy' Circus of Delight!" He announced, the lights coming on all around you as flocks of different acts came out in at first a symphony of chaos. Before they organized in a perfect rehearsed fashion.

Act after act was done perfectly, from the dancing Lion, to Buggy's juggling act which even included his own head that made you laugh st your seams. Musical numbers of your favorite songs, Acrobatics, Contortionist and everything under the sun.

By the end of it you were Grinning ear to ear and applauding the group.

"That was absolutely wonderful! You all are very talented and lovely, I'm impressed" You praised, which earned received smiled from the crew. Buggy walked over to you and leaned against the chair again to see what you had made, Grinning widely at the drawing you had conjured up.

"Perfect-" He muttered, You looking up at him to see his eyes on you and not your painting. Blushing a bit as you smiled.

"I'm glad you like it Buggy! I wanted the highlight the diversity and talent of your show" You said, cheerfully, however you were surprised when Buggy detached his hand and gently grabbed yours. Looking to see you had removed the bracelets and ring-

"You took them off?" He questioned, raising a brow at said jewelry on the desk.

"Oh I didn't want to get ink on them or scratch the paper" You admitted with a calm shrug. He frowned slightly.

"If they were damaged or you don't like them I'd get you new ones" He said with a shrug, Acting like the jewelry wasn't that important or hard to find.

"(Y/N) I promise I'll give you anything you wish for. Nothing is too expensive for you" He said, his eyes glowing with that same emotion as before- one you didn't know until now... obsession.

"There is no need for that, I promise. Besides Buggy this stuff is lovely but far too expensive for me. This could cost most people a fortune and I have never worn expensive things" You emphasized, but saw Buggy smile and pick back up the ring and slide it back on your finger. Giving your hand a gentle squueze.

He waved over his crew members who brought his throne over- you realizing he must have had a second throne for you either brought up or made as his own was sat next to you, his hand still holding over yours. As if also rehearsed a large meal was brought out and set on open spots of the desk. You noticed how much this seemed to be planned- the show, dress, jewelry even the lunch and snacks gifted to you... it was perfectly planned.

"Say what did you think of the juggling?-" Buggy said quickly, pulling your mind from yout questioning thoughts like he could read you so openly.

You and Buggy talked for a while, eating lunch together and tlaughing. Buggy expressing delight in the artistic rendering that you had made and even flexing his arm to show that he was way buffer then most, laughing you to break out in giggles which he clearly enjoyed

"This has been delightful Buggy, But I must get back to my crew" You said with a happy sigh having enjoyed the day greatly despite the scary start, not catching the darkened look that grazed Buggy's eyes.

"Alright, But it has been a long journey and show for you. How about you take a bath and rest a little? I have a room you can use" He said with a kind smile, which seemed off in a way. However you nodded non the less.

After the very nice bath and having a few snacks you laid in the massive bed. Dressed in the nice pajamas that one of the crew members dropped off for you.

You looked around, noticing something you hadn't noticed before. The gold looking bolts on your window so it couldn't be opened, how secure this room was and separated it was from the crew quarters. Paired with something that immediately caught you eyes- painted directly above your head was a blue bird- around its closed wings golden lines wrapped around it..

"A golden cage..." You whispered, dread filling your soul as you looked around. The expensive clothes laid in the cherry wood draws, the massive sleigh bed that was filled with the finest of of pillows and silk blankets. All the art supplies and trinkets you could ask for.. This was your cage- He wasn't going to let you out.

Rushing to the door you try the handle, feeling the door not give way and the handle not budge. Locked.. from the outside. Rapidly you started to pull at the handle, feeling tears well in your eyes as the realization fully set in.

"Oh Gods..." You gasped out, fear running through your body as you stood back. Realizing what was happening to you- A prisoner of Buggy, his own personal friend that he would never let go of-

You started to bag against the door and cry out for release but your please were ignored. Instead silence only following you- As fear crept into your system you sat at the stool near the window looking out at the sky and crying silently.

It was a few hours before you heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Watching as Buggy stepped in with a large tray of food and drinks that was clearly ment to be shared, a smile on his lips.

"I see you're settling in well- a few of my Freaks mentioned you had started to bang on the door and rattle the nob.." He said, his gaze hardening a bit while his voice stayed jovial. Watching you as you stood up from the easel and a painting you had started after crying.

"Buggy why are you keeping me here? This isn't what we agreed to! You said I could go"

"Did I?-" He said with a amused smile. You couldn't tell if this was a punishment for his imprisonment or a reward for your presence, Clearly it was as clouded to you as it was to him- He simply smiled seeing the confusion and fear in your eyes and brushed it off. Instead walking to the record player in the room and putting on one of the records, slow music began to bleed through the horn and filled the room with song.

"You're my person (Y/N) I can't let you go that easily"

Stepping forward towards your shaking form he gently wrapped one hand around your waist and another holding your hand. Guiding you to follow him in a gentle sway-

"I promise, I'll make you happy. Happier then anyone else-" He said calmly, his hand holding your tightly as the two of you swayed to the music. A few tears running down your cheek and felt his lips kiss them away slowly. Smiling against your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes as the music began to come to a end.

"and I'll kill anyone who dares try to get in my way"

[peacelovepandora]

A Little Attention

Jake Sully x Daughter!Reader

ik i've put you all through an emotional hell with these last few fics, so I'm gifting you with something soft n sweet. just Jake playing w his young daughter.

forehead kisses to you all <3

enjoy xxxx.

Jake kept his gaze down as he sharpened his knives. The evening was young, but nocturnal creatures of Pandora were already beginning to make their presence known. As subtle noises echoed from the surrounding forest, Jake's ears twitched as he worked, keeping an ear out for foreign noises.

It didn't take long for a foreign noise to catch his attention. Jake sharpened his blade one more time before pausing. With ears flicked to the side, he listened sharply, trying to see if he could pick up the noise again.

Pat, pat, pat.

There it was. He took another moment to listen for it. After hearing it again, he saw movement at the corner of his right eye. Careful not to turn his head, he shifted his gaze to the side, only to catch a glimpse of a small body tucking itself around a corner.

A smirk pulled at his lips as his eyes returned back to his knives. He picked up his blades before resuming his sharpening motions. However, he only gained a minute of sharpening time before he caught movement in the corner of his eye again--this time on his opposite side.

Keeping his eyes trained on the moving figure, he waited until it tucked itself around the corner again before he moved. In one quick motion, he dropped everything and soundlessly sprinted away.

As you hid behind the doorway again, you bit your lip, struggling to keep your giggles to yourself. However, when you heard your father's motions grow quiet, your breath hitched.

Moving slowly, you peeked back into the doorway, only to be met with an empty room. After scrunching your small face in confusion, you allowed your curiosity to carry you farther into the room. Looking back and forth, you grew more confused by the second when you realized that your father was no longer there.

As you crept to where Jake had been working, you failed to notice the towering figure creeping up behind you.

Just as you reached his tools, Jake grabbed your sides before yelling, "Are you trying to sneak up on me?"

You screamed, turning sharply as he kneeled in front of you. "You tryin' to scare me, baby girl? Huh?" he growled playfully, holding you close to him as you giggled frantically, "Oh, you're nothing but giggles now, aren't you?"

He held you closer as he began wiggling his fingers all over your stomach and sides, making your giggles escalate to panicked laughter. "Aren't you? Aren't you?" he repeated, keeping you laughing as you squirmed wildly in his arms.

As weak as his tickles were making you, you still managed to keep your biceps pressed to your sides, preventing him from traveling any higher than your stomach and sides. However, Jake didn't miss a thing, and he smiled mischievously before trying to prod at the area under your arms.

Your laughter heightened in pitch as he struggled to wedge his pointer fingers in the spaces that you were so fiercely protecting. After switching between front and back angles, he paused as he threw his head back and laughed. You panted as you crossed your arms while nervous giggles spilled from your lips.

"You really don't want me to get to those pits, now do you?" he teased.

To test your strength, he gripped your forearms and tried to pry them apart. Though he was stronger than you by a long shot, he was highly amused by how diligent your resistance was.

After letting himself laugh one more time, he raised his hands to cup your head. Then, he pulled you in and placed a kiss on your cheek. Once he pulled away, he stood up before heading back to where he was working.

"What did you need, baby?" he asked, reclaiming his spot in front of his knives.

As you watched him resume his repetitive actions, you calmed your panting breaths before your face fell slightly. You felt the absence of his body warmth, which had been so uplifting when he was within close proximity to you.

When you didn't answer, he glanced back at you. "Hm? Or were you just spying on me for entertainment?"

As your cheeks grew warm, you quickly realized that you couldn't find the courage to explain that you simply wanted some attention from him. As of lately, he'd gotten a bit busy with Neteyam and Lo'ak--who were reaching their adolescent years and being more rebellious than ever. It had been a minute since you'd gotten your daddy all to yourself.

However, your young mind did little to hide this unease from Jake's paternal instincts. Jake stopped his movements before placing his knives down.

"Y/N?" he called, a concerned frown crossing his face, "You okay? C'mere."

When he reached a hand out, you walked over to him and allowed him to pull you close again. He placed both hands on your sides, leaning back to scan your face. "You okay, baby?"

"Yeah," you answered simply, making him tilt his head and eye you suspiciously.

"Y/N," Jake warned gently, "Talk, or I'm gonna coax it outta you." As he said this, his fingers began to threateningly walk up your ribs, making you giggle and slam your biceps to your sides.

"No, Daddy," you giggled, making him chuckle before stilling his hands. You waited a moment before finally answering.

"I miss you."

His smile faded as he processed your words. Then, he withheld a stunned gasp as you closed the distance and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Baby girl, I--" he began, returning your embrace with a few back rubs before pulling you back, "Hey." He cupped your face with his large hand. "You know I've been right here, right? I'm here whenever you need me, baby."

"You're always with Teyam and Lo'ak," you replied, dropping your gaze to his chest.

He began to answer, but cut himself off. As he reflected on the last couple of weeks, his heart dropped as he began to realize that you were correct. It had been a long time since he'd given you all of his attention--something you were so used to him spoiling you with.

"Oh . . . oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart," he apologized, gently pulling you closer, "Your older brothers are just such knuckleheads sometimes that I'm forced to give them more of my time."

As he explained this, you nodded understandingly, briefly lifting your gaze to meet his before lowering it again. However, he wasn't done, and was determined to redeem himself in your heart--a heart that he held so preciously.

"But I'll tell you one thing," he continued, gently wiggling a finger under your chin as he tilted his head down, trying to catch your eyes, "You'll always be my number one girl."

His words made a small smile tug on your lips, which brought relief to his heart. You kept your head down as he continued to tilt his head towards you, trying to catch a glimpse of the smile you were holding back.

"You got that?" he asked, nudging his pointer finger under your chin, "Hm?"

Hesitantly, you nodded, sucking in your cheeks as you struggled to keep a straight face. He smiled before crossing his legs around you, keeping you in one spot.

"Now, can I get a smile?"

Keeping your gaze down, you shook your head.

Jake raised his eyebrows. “No?”

His overly dramatic tone nearly made you crack. He leaned back, placing a hand on his chest before continuing.

“My baby girl refuses to crack a smile for me?” he asked before dropping his hand and gripping your arms.

The mischievous twinkle returned to his eyes, making your heart soar as anxious giggles began bubbling up again. However, you tried your hardest to suppress them and maintain a straight face.

“Oh, we’ll see about that," he growled.

Biting your lip, you flexed your arms as you crossed them in front of your chest, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. Your heart leapt within your chest as he easily managed to uncross them before beginning to coax them upwards.

You squeezed your lips closed as you fought his strength. Amused by your determination, he let you put up a little fight. He continued to gently push upwards while you struggled with shaking arms.

"Oh, she's fightin'," he teased, adding more strength to raise them a little higher, "She's fighting with every fiber of her itty bitty body."

The combination of the playful fight with your father, and his relentless teasing, made it harder for you to hold your ground. However, you held out, still refusing to give him the smile he so desperately wanted.

"Still nothing?" he gasped, tilting his head.

You shook your head, lips pressed tight as suppressed laughs shook your body. Jake took a dramatic breath before shaking his head.

"Alright, then."

Suddenly, he yanked you towards him before lifting you by your arms. In one quick motion, he laid you down and stretched your arms over your head. You screamed, shaking your head as he gasped dramatically again.

"No?" he asked, shaking his head with you as he imitated your desperate mannerisms.

"No! No! No!" you squealed, unable to hold your smile any longer.

"No? No? No?" Jake parroted, "Oh, we got a smile! We got a smile! Can we get a laugh?" He leaned down and blew a quick raspberry on your right hollow.

You jumped, letting out a squeal as you tugged desperately on your arms.

He smiled widely before moving his gaze to his grip on your wrists. He shifted your left wrist to his left hand, taking both wrists into one hand and freeing his right hand. Once you'd realized what he'd done, your squirming increased aggressively.

Jake raised his eyebrows at you before letting out a laugh. "What's wrong?" he asked, placing his large hand over your stomach, stilling some of your squirming.

You simply shook your head, finally beginning to release some laughs. Jake smiled before laughing with you. Then, he leaned down and placed a kiss on your forehead, soothing some of your laughter.

When he leaned up, he shook his head, endearment taking over his eyes. "I love you," he cooed, making you relax further, "and I love these giggles. But--"

You immediately tensed at his last word, making him smile again, "But, I don't think these are the genuine giggles I want," he continued, leaning in before releasing your stomach, "I think these are nervous giggles."

As he spoke his last two words, he used his free hand to poke each of your hollows, making you jump aggressively as helpless laughter immediately spilled from your lips.

"I think my baby girl is scared," he continued, reaching out threateningly as he emphasized certain words, but never making contact with your skin, "that I'm gonna attack her worst spot."

You jumped every time, laughing so hard that your cheeks began to grow sore. Jake leaned his head forward, collapsing it beside your body and shaking with his own laughter.

"God," he rasped, leaning back up, "I don't even have to do much with you. Your brothers were so hard to get a reaction out of."

Your laughter slowly subsided as you stared up at him, awaiting his next move. He released a soft breath.

"Alright," he finally spoke, "I think I'm almost done torturing you."

His words triggered your nerves, making laughter begin to bubble up once again. Chuckling, he shook his head at your instant reaction.

"However," he said, speaking over your laughter, "I wanna bring it home with your best laughs, baby. That means you gotta let me get these pits."

Your laughter heightened as you shook your head. He nodded his head, walking two fingers up your left side.

"Yes, yes, and then I'm gonna let you go, okay?" he teased, smiling as your laughter spiked when he finally reached your hollow, "Okay? I'm sorry, honey, the temptation is too much."

He only went on for about ten more seconds, knowing that you'd reached your limits. However, to you, those ten seconds felt like an eternity as he brutally attacked your most sensitive spot, wriggling his fingers against your skin.

He, then, released your arms and began using his other hand. You weren't quick enough when you lowered your arms, trapping his hands as he continued his attack.

At that point, you opened your eyes and screamed at him. He widened his eyes and playfully screamed back, mocking you completely. Then, he leaned down and blew one final raspberry in your neck.

"What in Eywa is going on in here?" Your mother's voice echoed, making Jake lift his head.

However, she didn't need him to answer as soon as she saw the position you both were in. Neytiri suppressed a laugh before forcing a stern tone.

"Ma Jake, you are going to kill our baby if you keep doing this."

"But she's such a cutie pie, watch." He blew a quick raspberry on your stomach, earning a fit of giggles from you. "See?"

Neytiri kneeled behind you, pulling you from his grasp. "Yes, she is, but I think she's had enough, don't you?"

Jake chuckled as Neytiri pulled you into her grasp. You leaned against her, obviously exhausted from all your laughing. After he stood up with Neytiri, he reached out and gently pinched your cheek.

"You ready for bed, baby girl?" he asked.

You nodded, giggling as he leaned in closer. "Yeah?" he asked, smiling reaching down to pinch your side.

"Jake," Neytiri hissed, leaning you away from him.

He pulled back, raising his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, I'm done."

Neytiri playfully narrowed her eyes at him before cupping your head and taking you away to bathe.

-

Taglist : @eywas-daughter @pturnersblog @bombshe77 @faatxma @scryarchives @gamorxa @222krn @ellabellabus07 @perfectprofessorloverapricot @raefoxi@egirl @vampxra @itssiaaax @tinkerbelle05 @brittclass-18 @missroro @aisylazzy @leomatsuzaki @joey-hoey @eternallyvenus @mae-is-crazy @nyotamalfoy @mashiromochi @theghostofshadows @httpsplanetmarsdotcom @cmfouatslota77 @laylasbunbunny @fanboyluvr @phxntomx11

[merakiui]

i just rewatched the 2023 hoyofair and i am now having an intense spy!scara brainrot,,, therefore do you have any hc regarding spy!scara? do you think he's best at long-range fights (using guns etc.) or maybe he's more experienced in close-range (knives, blade, etc.)? and do you think spy!scara will still try and pursuit a relationship with reader despite his head having a bounty due to his job (which might be dangerous for the reader's safety too)? please feed this hungry pigeon of yours (me), i am starving for some spy!scara ideas orz

SPY SCARA OMG....... I MISS HIM SO MUCH. Mentally I'm still living in 2023 Hoyofair and loving all of the Scaras we got from it. <3 especially spymouche!!! (the recent spring hoyofair is also very good... magic academy student Scara,,,,,, I NEED HIM.)

I like to think he's skilled in both long-range and close combat. He is proficient with knives and blades of various types, but then he's also an excellent shot. A very dangerous sniper once he has his sights on you. In my mind, he takes out his targets quickly and doesn't toy with them as much as others might (looking directly at Childe). He's so formidable!!! Imagining him going after you, his next target, but something goes wrong in the mission and he just can't kill you for some strange reason he's yet to understand.

Omg or maybe you're both paired up for a mission...... Scara who insists he works alone and pitches a fight about it, but his superior thinks this arrangement would be best considering Scara can be a loose cannon at times. ^^;;; Scara thinks this is by far the worst punishment ever, and he's quite huffy about it in the beginning. He ditches training and mission briefings, refusing to work alongside you. He makes things so much more difficult than they need to be, but you do your best despite his lack of cooperation.

He says you can go and die for all he cares. Just don't get in his way on the mission. But then things go awry and you do almost die, but Scara saves you. :) don't say a word about it. He'll huff and use the excuse that it would've been more work having to fill out paperwork in the aftermath of your death, so he's just avoiding extra work for himself. That's all that was! He didn't save you because he was worried about losing you. Definitely not. (He was.)

[bravetimetravellingaussie]

And it feels like home

Chapter 3

Summary: Peter's reached the casa de pool

Warnings: foul language as always, threats of violence

Peter was practically buzzing as he followed Dopinder up the stairs of the apartment block.

Dopinder stopped in front of a door with the number 69 on it and knocked. Peter glanced back. They'd passed 27 and 28, this door should be 29, but before he could ask, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Peter's spider sense sent him flinching back, flattening himself against the wall next to the door.

"What the fuck do you want, Dopinder? You better have a good answer or so help me God you will be eating through a straw for the next month," a voice growled, grumbled almost, it seemed just barely restrained, almost like he was trying not to wake someone up. All Peter could see was an arm, the hand gripping the front of Dopinder's shirt, a foot long blade extending from between the man's index and middle fingers rested against Dopinder's face.

Peter hadn't faced a real threat in a while now, just normal people, occasionally with guns or knives, but the apprehension was there now, whoever this was could really hurt him. As if that had ever stopped him.

Peter stepped away from the wall.

"I made him take me here." Peter finally got a good look at the rather large and muscular man threatening Dopinder. The man who was wearing a tank top and- hello kitty pajama trousers?

"And who are you?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm spider-man."

"Who?"

"Oh, uh-"

"And what's with the weird get up?"

"I-"

"Oh fuck- don't tell me your one of those wannabe vigilante types." The man chortled. "Your costume looks like it was put together by a blind person."

"I can still hear you, asshole!" came a voice from within the apartment.

"Says you, you look like you raided the closet of a teenage girl." Peter couldn't stop himself, it was right there. His stomach dropped though when the man shoved Dopinder out of the way and moved towards him.

"Jokes on you, I stole this from my boyfriend," the man growled.

"I'm pretty sure he got them as a gift from Yukio," Dopinder said, his hands already raised in a defensive position.

"Wait, boyfriend? You're this pool guy's boyfriend?"

All of a sudden an inhuman squeal sounded through the apartment. In a neighbouring apartment, a dog started barking. Even Peter found himself wincing at the pitch of the sound.

"Speak of the devil," the man in the doorway said with a smirk.

"I heard you call my name, baby boy, how can I help you?"

"I-" Peter couldn't really find the words, and no, it wasn't because the unmasked face of the man in red looked like it was plagued by a rare skin condition, but because he hadn't really thought this far ahead.

"While you think about it, come on in, make yourself at home, you don't mind do you, peanut?"

The large and scary man retracted his claws and let out a sigh. "Do what you want, but I'm going back to sleep." The man disappeared into the apartment but not before giving the unmasked man a peck on the cheek.

"On second thought, kid, why don't we go get some fresh air, the view from the roof at night is quite nice. I'll answer any questions you have."

"I'm not a kid, I-"

"Sure sure, let's go. You can go back to work, Dopinder, your work here is done."

"Always a pleasure, Mr Pool."

Once he'd waved goodbye to Dopinder, the man let out a sigh of relief.

"Finally, we can have a normal conversation. I didn't want to say too much at the McDonald's, protecting the secret identity and such-"

Peter's stomach went plummeting down the stairwell.

"H-how do you know who I am?"

"That's easy, Petey," the man stage whispered, " I'm deadpool."

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The Tragedy of Love, Death and Maggots part 5

Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

With that, we were up and at it again. Brett, our resident packmule, carried the waterskins and our four bedrolls. I had our pathetically small kit of iodine and gauze, and Mrin held on to the only other true weapon we owned: a honest-to-goodness cavalry sabre. It wasn't ideal, but anything was better than the vaguely sharp rock-knives Brett and I carried. 

We trekked through hallway after hallway, heading for the corner that the cultists called home. Down an elevator shaft we went, through the hallway that no sane human could have designed, up and over a random waist length wall that existed for no reason beyond making my life troublesome.

Even as time stretched on, nothing passed between us. On a normal day, I might have bantered with Mrin, or pitched in as she and Athena bickered. We might have passed around a protein bar, or took turns trying to snatch a flying ant out of the air. We might have done anything to ward off the oppressive misery, and whiled away another hopeless day. 

But without a quarter of our crew, I didn't have it in me to get the festivities started. 

Brett, however, did have it in him to crack the ice that had built up between us. “Hey, Doc?" His voice was light as the contents of our stomachs. 

"Yeah, kiddo?" I didn't turn around, didn't look into those nervous, haunted eyes.

"Everything will be alright, right?" He sounded like Mrin, praying that good ol' Doc would reassure him, that everything would be a-okay.

I thought of Athena's eyes boring into mine, the two of us knowing better. I thought of Mrin's hopeless weeping that night, when she finally accepted that we would die in this endless nightmare. I thought of that bright little spark in Brett's heart being put out, as all beautiful things eventually were. And curse me, but I didn't want to be the one to do it. I didn't want to be responsible for being the one to sully his light.

 "Yeah," I lied. "We'll find 'thena, and we'll find some more cans of tuna or something, and then we'll all go cultist hunting." 

There was a long pause, as though Brett didn't truly believe me. It stretched and slithered and snuck into my chest, where it rested like a stone beside despair.

My joints hurt. My head hurt. My heart hurt. I didn't want to do this. My own thoughts had joined Brett's in whispering horrors to me, warning me that whatever lay in the near future would not be pleasant. 

Taglist:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[yanverse]

conrad my beloved 🥹 he’s not gonna win against the sheer force that is harley chicken man in the polls but he’s still number one in my heart <3

i think he’s been too uwu lonely russian boy from a small village in his tag lately from ur og blog so i wanna know what he’s like when he snaps hehe

like how would he hunt down and punish a darling who’s been affectionately biding her time to escape when he’s out hunting? cause idk if he’d be as scary as ilya but i would welcome it 👀

want scary conrad? i can give you scary conrad.....<3

hunted -- conrad dmitriev

(cws: DDDNE, yandere, stalking, kidnapping, violence against reader, blood, injuries, guns/knives, cutting/scarring, implied somno/noncon, manipulation, death mentions)

word count: 2k

Not even the pitch of the settling dark could mask the eyes that follow you between the trees. 

These woods aren't for the faint of heart. Those who live here were born here, survived here, and will inevitably die here. Considering there's only been one–at least in recent memory–who has escaped that curse, it's clear to anyone with sight that this harrowing corner of the world is meant for only two things; locals and wildlife. 

And trees, of course. Enough to cluster in scattered array, leaving only tiny clearings in between in which to get your bearings, though you can never really stop moving in this cold. The snow isn't so much a hindrance as it is a hurdle; glaringly obstructive in the way caution tape would be around a bloody car crash. It should be circumvented with great caution by those who don't wish despair upon their own selves, yet here you are in the thick of it. Cold, wet, and completely, utterly lost. 

Conrad warned you of these dangers, but you ignored him. Why would you possibly take the advice of someone who betrayed you? His whole story was made up of lies–why he was conveniently in the area the night you came across each other, what exactly he had to do with your car that seemingly sprouted an issue from nowhere, and who he even was altogether. Course, you could've been a touch more scrutinizing…you can't exactly imagine, at least not easily, that a man who lives almost entirely alone in an isolated forest of the country could live comfortably with his sanity still intact. He isn't just an ice fisher that sells his produce to the near-zero visitors of this confusing wasteland. Conrad is a killer. A killer for hire, no less. 

And right now, unbeknownst to you, you're his next target….well, unknowingly until your footsteps halt in the knee-deep snow for a breather, and the softest click sounds right at the base of your skull. You don't need to turn your head to see. Nobody else would make it this far without leaving footprints in this awful snow. 

“Malyshka.” That word bleeds into you with every syllable, puffed hotly over the skin of your ear from behind. It stirs up memories, good ones for once, of that loving nickname uttered in laughter and scorn and a teasing lilt as Conrad takes you by the hand and waltzes you through his living room. The tinny scratchiness of his cheap, portable radio gave the cabin a hum that still resonates in your veins, but you can't go back to that world even if you wanted to. That place will forever be tainted with the memories of Conrad's twisted fascination with you, permanently marred by deceit and thinly-veiled manipulation. 

It doesn't seem like that matters at all to your former lover, however. Because when Conrad grips your arm in that deathly squeeze, you get the sense immediately that he's betting on taking you back. He's going to walk you through the snow right back where you came from, and he's going to be so angry he won't sleep for days. That's what you think.

The butt of his rifle cracking you in the skull isn't what you expected, however. The crunch of bone under the varnished chunk of wood sickens you to the core of your soul, a warmth exploding out from your hair and splattering the ground as you immediately collapse forward. Your dead weight sinks you deep into the snow, but even then, and even in your dazed state, you feel it's much shallower here than before. Maybe that's why Conrad waited to corner you here–maybe it will be easier to pile the snow on top of your body when he kills you in his rage. 

Time slows to a tick all of a sudden. Conrad's boots crunching in the snow around you ripples a series of shivers through you, your warm body growing colder by the minute as he circles you like a hungry predator. Shiiing, click, thummp. The sound of his gun being slung over his shoulder catches your focus, and then the distinct slice through the sheath as Conrad pulls out his knife. You know the one. That thing is big. And sharp. You cut your hand on it once accidentally and he just about lost his mind with worry. Doesn't seem like he's all too concerned about that now, though.

Although his voice carries between the whispers and howls of the wind, you couldn't understand him if you tried. You've lost the privilege of Conrad speaking your language, evidently, because while he is addressing you not a word of it is in English. It's just another way to control you…another way to show you his love, if he were to spin it that way. 

A beat of silence passes without note. He's stopped moving. You can feel him, his body heat, hovering over you from above. The knife is probably just dangling in his hand, wondering if he should drop it or bring your life to an end with force, grant you some kind of small mercy as he takes you apart before finally slitting your throat like a hunted animal. Conrad stands waiting, watching you lie motionless and dizzy in the snow, and even once you feel him sink to his knees on top of you there's no strength in you to move. Blood pools at the base of your neck from the gash he's probably left in your head. I'm going to die. Your own voice ringing from within triggers you into a push, your fingernails digging into hard, packed snow as you try to lift yourself up–but even though he doesn't hit you a second time, Conrad isn't gentle as he grips your neck and shoves you back down. 

“Still.” He quietly mumbles amid the harsh breeze whistling past your ears. “Stay, malyshka.” 

Clearly, he wanted an answer. Your silence is more than enough of one however, and with a swing and an arc of the blade your lover is rrrrrrripping your clothes apart, knife cutting cleanly up the back of the too-thin flannel that you stole in lieu of a proper coat. Through the layers underneath he slices with practiced ease, catching patches of skin with the tip but not allowing the beads of blood to distract him from his task. Your eyes dart sideways to see his gloved fingers carving out a lump of snow from near your head, a few trickles of blood from your wound staining the purity of those white, soft haloes. He raises it quick and your arms tense at the feeling of that sting hitting your bare back–but it isn't the blade first, it's that clump of snow dragging down your flesh…the knife comes straight after that, piercing your aching skin as insult to injury, and his deep, sudden strokes that split you apart have you writhing and kicking out on the ground in agony. 

Pure, violent hatred spills out of you in those moments, your screams echoing off the trees with just the same tremor as the howling, squealing winds blowing through the mountains. Conrad only cares for your pain when it impedes his progress, his knee coming down harshly on your lower back to keep you from squirming away as he makes his cuts. He must be trying to dig your organs out, he's killing you, he's surely tracing out your most valuable spots with such aggressive stabs of unconscionable, burning, violent torment. Will he wait for you to die? Will he make sure before he leaves? Will he drag your corpse back home with him, frozen and stiff, or will he leave you for the wolves and bears and god knows what else out in these woods? 

As your blood drains into the snow, those thoughts become less and less urgent. As your willpower fades into numbness, the cold pressing into your back grows from a sting into a shaking, fragile numbness that spreads outward. You must be dying now, you can only imagine that your body will give out at any moment if Conrad doesn't stop. It hasn't even occurred to you yet that he has stopped, not until you catch a peripheral glimpse of his black-cloaked hand cleaning the blade in the snow. It's your blood that trickles down the handle…and there's so much of it you're on the verge of losing all hope. There's only the tiniest, faintest glimmer left, and it's fading just as fast as your consciousness. 

“...Look how pretty you are now, malyshka.” 

Those words will haunt you into death, you're most certain. They're the last ones to linger in your ears as the whiteness grows dark, and your eyes flutter closed while the sound of a drip, drip, drip echoes your dreamless sleep…

Drip, drip, drip. 

You'd know the sound anywhere. It's easier to listen to without that wind howling in your ears, but it's going to be harder to locate. This time, when your eyes open within the warmth of a closed-in room, gratitude isn't the first thing you feel for surviving another night in this dense nightmare. 

It's pain. Hot, unbearable, searing pain, violating you in senses inconceivable as it crawls in waves down your back; violent, stiffening, and like a hot iron being pressed up and down and up and down on constant repeat. The warm air of the cabin isn't helping at all as it hits your marked flesh, it's only drawing further attention towards the dripping of something warm down your legs, but at the very least you can tell by the pillow you've drooled on that you're not laying on the open wounds. No, you've been left exposed, with the ache in your hips something you hadn't noticed before, and the weight that's shifted the bed alerts you that someone is tending them for you…and he's singing. Gently. Some lullaby in his native tongue, no doubt, as his hands move quietly and carefully up and down the flesh he ruined. 

“Pretty thing.” You can just barely catch a glimpse of him looming from behind, the din of the cabin shadowing the expression on his pale face. Conrad's muttering puts you off at once, but there's nothing you can do about it now. He meant to kill you, but he changed his mind. He took you back to the cabin to rest, and…make up for lost time, if the stickiness of your thighs is any indication. Maybe that mind will be changed again…and you can only hope it does, because whatever he carved into your back, it can't be out of love. No matter how much he's going to try to convince you it is. “You are hurt, love. You want whiskey?” 

What hurts more is that you can feel the smirk in his tone. He's having a laugh at you. You tried to run but I caught you. I'll always catch you. You can never hide from me. That's what he's probably thinking. 

“No…” Somehow, from some deep well of power within you, your voice forms in a trembling resistance to his strength. Conrad's hands covered in balm and fibres of gauze he's tying round you pause, if just for a moment, and in the relative silence with those drip, drip, drips in the background you find the rest of your voice. 

“...I want you dead.”

How laughable. Conrad doesn't laugh, he merely tuts at you–a disapproving parent scolding a young scoundrel. If you weren't so appallingly special to him, he might punish that rejection of his help with a slap or an elbow right into those throbbing wounds that spell out his name. Instead, he dips his head low, and lets his deep, rough whisper creep into your ear and make a home in the deepest pits of fear that reside in your pretty little head.

“Then you just try to kill me, malyshka.” 

[dreadfutures]

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

Thanks, Brood!

I just want to say it's been really awesome to see everyone's self recs on my dash. <3 I feel like just a few years ago there was way more self-negging around all of us and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy when my friends and mutuals and acquaintances are proud of their hard work and creativity! I will be sure to spread that around in more inboxes too :)

My own five favorite fics that I've written are:

it ends, or it doesn't | A Felassan Fic written by youworeblue / @dreadfutures | illustrated by @adurna0-art Rating: T | Genre: Mystery | Length: 45k, complete

My favorite story I've written so far. Dragon Age with a Knives Out flavor. I can't give it a better pitch than @anneapocalypse did here, particularly: "Both a thrilling and tightly-paced murder mystery, and a moving and thoughtful piece about personal and cultural identity, confronting the past, and looking to the future." (Thanks, Anne 😭)

Chrysalid Rated: G | Cillian & Solas | Chapters: 9/9

An origin story for how Cillian, the DAI MP character who appears in like, maybe 2 war table missions, learned the path of the Arcane Warrior. A love letter to the monarch butterfly migration.

Death is an Open Door Rated: T | Male Mahariel & Nonbinary Mahariel | Length: 8k

Mahariel steps through an eluvian to begin the journey we hear about in passing during DAI. This was a gift for @ammoniteflesh about both of our Mahariels and how they are mirrors of each other.

the road seems too wild for mixing it with blues Rated: G | F!Lavellan x Solas | Length: 5k

Pure fluff, a happy ending for Lavellan and Solas in a world they're committed to improving together, on the ground, one interaction at a time. But in this fic? They just get to enjoy that world, together, without any pressures upon them.

And I debated whether to put Walkers of the Lonely Path or Comrades in Arms, Brothers in Broken Chains, or…my other favorites on this list... but DPDF is definitely in my top favorite fics I've written, so:

Dead Pasts and Dread Futures Rated: E | FLavellan x Solas, Gen | Length: 600k (incl. TBG: 900k, ongoing)

As the world ends, Ixchel is resurrected under mysterious circumstances and is sent back in time to the Conclave. Ixchel is furious, convinced of her own futility, and yet she cannot give up again. These are the stories of how she gets better.

more rambling about each of these...

it ends, or it doesn't | A Felassan Fic Stories about looking at the past (your own, in general, or in one's culture) and grappling with the good and the bad and trying to find the merit, strength, and identiy that resonates with you? They're my favorite to read, personally, and those themes find their way into most things I write. I feel like I really Did It in this one. And the inspiration for the story had me warm and fuzzy the whole way through: he environments had me looking at photos of the golden hills of my home as well as some of my favorite castles and temples across the world. I love writing a broken Felassan and his relationship to the ancient elves and to modern elves of all flavors. And the process of writing this in my own way and going back and forth with my artist partner for the fic was wonderful.

Chrysalid Cillian discovered the path of the Arcane Warrior by meditating in ruins; when the Breach appeared in the sky, he felt called to lend his skills to the fledgling Inquisition. That’s all we know of his path, as a background NPC in Dragon Age: Inquisition, who appears solely in a war table mission and in the Multiplayer addition. But how did he really get trained as an Arcane Warrior? Honestly. This was Divine Inspiration at its finest. It was summer; I was missing my college town, where monarch butterflies go as a colony on their migration, stopping there to rest. I kept seeing a few of them flying by my current location on their way south. And I had the whimsical thought: isn’t that magical? Then I thought: sure, magical butterflies would work for a story. But what do they lead to? I loved the experience of writing this, I love the idea I had, I love rereading it, and closing my eyes and thinking about the locations.

Death is an Open Door I was so excited to get matched with Faust for our fanfic server's annual OC Swap event, because any time I heard about Ghila Mahariel, I couldn't help but IMMEDIATELY think about how our Mahariels would interact together. Their relationships to Morrigan and Kieran; their different relationships to their Blighted blood and what the future holds for them; their different relationships to the Dalish religion; their different relationships to the possibility of a cure for the Blight. I really got a chance to dig into the dreamy, fairy tale quality that I love to write the most, AND both body and psychological horror which I also love. AND I got to write an actual Dalish fairy tale, basically, inside it all, which is some of my favorite stuff to write. And Faust liked it, and it always makes me feel so happy and warm and fuzzy to reread a fic where I know I managed to make someone (via their OC) feel seen/special in any way at all.

the road seems too wild for mixing it with blues PURE SELF INDULGENT FLUFF. I love building cities and cultures within them, and I was trying to capture a specific kind of summer getaway/stranger in a new place vibe that I love so much when I get to experience it myself. It transports me right to that: to the place I based Cumberland on, to the exact temperature of the nights, to the exact cafe that has that drink and those donuts. I smiled a lot while writing it and I smile a lot while rereading it. Appreciating each other, and every moment of living, and the world that they get to be in - that's what I want, in the end, for Ixchel and Solas.

Dead Pasts and Dread Futures People are probably really tired of hearing me talk about this one, and I feel the most self conscious about it, but. It really is one of my favorite things I've made. I genuinely love rereading it, I have loved writing it, I still love writing it. I think it comes across more shippy when it gets talked about but to me the core of it is Ixchel's relationship to hope, her own personhood, and to her friends (originally there were so many more & pairings before the tag limit was a thing, because man. They all have pretty big arcs with her) (like to the point where sometimes I feel bad for not being More Overwhelmingly Solavellan, as opposed to spending like 20 chapters at a time on Ixchel's relationship to a single other person, which it feels like I do a lot…). I started writing it as an outlet for feelings I couldn't contain or, what I thought at the time, survive. I was trying to tell myself a story that things could get better, at a time when I didn't really believe it myself. Hope is a choice. Belief is a state of being. - And I had the strength to find neither at the time. But since then I have managed to heal a lot through this fic, I have had lots of fun chasing down story beats that just interest me, incorporating teensy bits of lore and weaving them into the bigger tapestry of Thedas, and most of all, meeting so many people because of this fic. :)

[seasaltandcopper]

♠ Leaving them at the mercy of strangers in a public display (stocks, pillory, cage, chained to something, etc) for your vamp series!

-Lonesome

Set years before the start of the series, during Mal’s first week with the hunters. This swerved a bit off prompt, but I had fun lol

hopefully this is the series you meant. it's the one i mentioned in the tags when i reblogged the prompts, but I know I inconveniently have like three vamp-centric ones, so apologies if it's not

Vampire Hunter AU

Edit: this prompt now has a continuation here

Rating: mature

Warnings: torture, captivity, dehumanization, non-sexual nudity, stress positions, profanity, burns, implied (future) whipping, vampire whumpee, multiple whumpers

They strung Mal up by his wrists in the middle of the room, which was, if nothing else, a change of scenery. After spending who knew how long cramped in a pitch-black cell with nothing but his own thoughts keeping him company, this almost felt like an improvement.

Almost.

Mal tried to think positive. Instead of kneeling, bent double on a brick floor until his legs screamed in agony and the muscles in his neck and back cramped and seized, he got to hang, balancing on his toes so he didn’t dislocate his fucking shoulders, and enjoy a whole different set of muscles cramping up instead.

Variety—the spice of life.

Mal shifted restlessly, fighting a losing battle to ease some of the strain on his shoulders. An ache built in the joints, fiery knots that ratcheted tighter and tighter each time he let his arms take his full weight. A muscle in the back of his calf twinged.

Mal breathed. In and out, bare chest rising and falling, pale skin ashy under the stark fluorescents. Being so…exposed in front of a crowd also stirred up a nervous, squirming kind of shame Mal unsuccessfully tried to ignore.

Realistically, he knew a few flimsy scraps of cloth wouldn’t protect him from this; being tortured would suck whether he was naked or not. It was just one more attempt to humiliate him, to reinforce his “place” as something subhuman, that quickly chipped away at his remaining pride.

Across the room, one of the hunters grinned, tapped his buddy on the arm, and nodded Mal’s direction.

Great.

For the first ten minutes or so after hanging Mal up like a piñata, they’d just watched, joking crudely and laughing amongst themselves. Too many sets of eyes sizing Mal up, like a piece of meat.

Or sharks smelling blood in the water.

Now, it looked like they were finally ready to play.

Slowly, the hunter prowled closer. He pulled a small, folding knife from his pocket. As far as blades went, it was pretty tame. Something meant for trimming twine or nails—only a couple inches long.

Smirking, he held it up for Mal to see. Waved it slowly back forth so dramatically that Mal finally rolled his eyes at the display.

The hunter stopped and arched his brow, taunting, “Think that’s funny, leech?”

“Of course not,” Mal said, dryly. “You and that nail file are terrifying. Really.”

Egging them on was stupid; Mal knew it was stupid. And for the most part he’d bitten back the snark and profanity and played it smart. He watched. Listened. Looked for opportunities, openings, any weakness he could exploit.

But every now and then Mal’s mouth still got the better of him.

The hunter snorted. Glanced at the pocket knife and made a show of looking it over before shrugging and folding it closed.

“Yeah,” he conceded, mildly. “Never was a big fan of knives, anyhow. Not for this shit.” The man waved a dismissive hand, and turned back to the gaggle of hunters. “Hey, Niall, pass me the No. 3 Braided?”

A couple of the hunters laughed. One of the women whistled. Another scoffed, the sound almost lost to a louder protest of, “What happened to starting small?”, that kicked off another round of jeers and abrasive laughter.

Unease prickled like sweat on the nape of Mal’s neck. He swallowed, fidgeting and letting his gaze drift from the hunter to the crowd behind him. The other man, Niall, strolled forward a moment later, a length of something heavy and black coiled in his hand.

A whip. That was a fucking whip.

Niall passed it over and retreated back to the sidelines to watch. Tension settled over the room. Anticipation.

Given the floor again, the hunter hefted the tool, then tilted it to give Mal a better look. Against his better judgment, Mal did. Something in the pit of his stomach tied itself in queasy knots.

“This here is one of my favorite correctional tools in our kit. Sleek, got a bit of weight to it, feels real good in your hand.” He unlooped a single coil, letting the tip dangle. “Comparable to your standard bullwhip—little shorter, because we’re not driving cattle with it. But the craftsmanship is what really sets this thing apart. You got your standard woven leather cording, but then see that there…?”

He dragged a finger down the length, angling the whip again so it caught the overhead light. Dull shine Mal first mistook for well-oiled leather came into terrifying clarity, all at once.

Oh, god…

“Silver thread,” the hunter confirmed, enjoying the dawning horror settling over his captive audience. “All braided in with the leather, can barely even see them. But when it hits one of your kind—” Casually, the hunter pressed the whip to Mal’s stomach, just above his navel. “It adds a little extra zing to your swing.”

The reaction was immediate.

Pain sizzled across Mal’s skin as the interwoven silver burned on contact. He hissed through his teeth, and tried unsuccessfully to flinch away. Bare feet skimmed the concrete, yanking hard against the shackles anchoring his legs to the floor, a precaution to keep him from kicking.

Smart. Because without it, the asshole in front of him would’ve already been dead.

Grinning, the hunter held the silver-braided loop there for a few more seconds, watching his captive squirm. When he finally relented, a bright red line of blistered flesh marred Mal’s belly, like he’d carelessly leaned against a hot stove.

Shit.

Mal was breathing hard, now. Shaking, from more than just the strain of the position. Fear—real fear—danced around the edges of his consciousness.

Anger, too. Bone-deep, stubborn defiance Mal sometimes swore he’d been born with. It’d kept him going this long. Helped him weather things that were, theoretically, scarier than a ragtag group of human bullies.

In reality, he’d never faced anything like this before.

Ears ringing, Mal stared the hunter down, fangs bared in a snarl.

Face darkened with cruel glee, the hunter leaned in close. Just shy of Mal’s biting range, but enough the heat of his breath puffed against Mal’s skin, like he was sharing a secret between the two of them.

“Most of them scream by three.” The muffled thwick of leather hitting the floor echoed in Mal’s ears. “But I bet you’ll make it to five.”

Tag list: @whumpsday @writereleaserepeat @thecyrulik @lookbluesoup

[hollideon]

3rd place — pilots, sisters?, bullying, reminding her of her place, knives and blood are so intimate when you're used to mech combat

///

lightly armed and spindly limbed, your opponent's warsuit is designed for killing speed and little else. headhunters, they're called. assassins purpose-built for taking down other warsuits. tricky opponents, but you know the type. pilots that are impulsive and reckless at best, feral and bloodthirsty at the worst. you happen to know this pilot in particular — your 'sister,' as your squad's handler so often puts it. hellion 3. warsuit: coiled serpent. javelin-class, ganymede-pattern, further customized for speed and cqc. yours, on the other hand, is a more balanced frame bristling with explosives and loaded barrels. your warsuit, winter wolf, may not be as cutting edge as coiled serpent, but the jupiter-pattern II marauders shouldn't be underestimated. you'll show her why.

though it can outpace your gatling gun's hail of fire easily, the barrage corrals coiled serpent right where you want it. you jetison the heavy gatling gun — load lightened, you push your thrusters to their limits in a sudden burst of speed and, clearing a hundred meters in a near instant. grabbinf coiled serpent by its throat, you clamp the enormous fist of your warsuit down on that fragile neck joint. watching a 30-foot steel titan with a price tag in the billions flail desperately for freedom, claw uselessly at your warsuit's armored forearm... it's a sight that never fails to turn you on. the metal groans and buckles in your warsuit's fist. your fist. you bite your lip, your mind filling with the urge to simply bear down with all winter wolf's strength and tear coiled serpent's head off its frame. if only a warsuit could bleed.

"gotcha," you growl over the radio, unable to contain the sadism dripping from your voice.

"fuckfuckfuck okay, i give, i give!"

you can hear the warning sirens in coiled serpent's cockpit, and the panic in hellion 3's voice. fear. you give coiled serpent's neck a parting squeeze before letting go.

"match to hellion 2. nice maneuver, kid." a wave of warmth flows over you at your handler's praise. you can't help but feel even more superior.

"and hellion 3? don't get caught like that again."

you sit there silently, taking pleasure in your sister's admonishing and imagining her squirming with embarrassment in coiled serpent's cockpit. you'll have your chance to gloat later.

the time it takes to get unplugged from your suit only serves to build your urge to a fever-pitch. you practically rip the last slithering nerve splice out of your spine yourself; you'll deal with the migraine later. hellion 3 is exactly where you'd expect to find her — lurking in the rafters above coiled serpent's bay. your bootfalls echo in the wide open space; hard to hide your approach, not that you're trying to. she sits there, legs dangling over the side, looking spent and dejected, smoking a cigarette. you can tell she gave her all.

"the fuck do you want? come to rub it in?"

you sidle up to hellion 3 — your sister — hands in your coat pockets, and grip the concealed knife.

"actually, i think i'll finish the job."

before hellion 3 can react, the sole of your boot connects with her chest, roughly shoving the frail form to the ground, clanging against the metal platform.

"hey, what the fuck do you think you're–"

the appearance of the knife from its hidden place in your pocket cuts her voice off. her eyes are locked on the knife. fear to supplant the brattiness. you lean in, right down to her face, the tip of your knife pressing ever so lightly into her chin, drawing her eyes up to meet yours.

"what's the matter little sister? you talk such a big game in the cockpit. where'd your fight go?"

fear and anger. resentment. fury. she wants nothing more than to take that knife and gut you, but she knows you have her. she has such telling eyes.

"what the fuck are you talking about? that's a knife, you psycho! what do you even want?" you push the knife a little harder. grind your boot into her chest. she winces and the fear in her eyes grows.

"to remind you what your place is. beneath me. you're mine." you pull your boot and the knife away and she gasps for breath; short-lived before your boot comes down again, on her neck this time. "say it."

her hands wrap around your ankle, fighting uselessly against the weight. "i'm yours," she manages to gurgle under your boot.

you let the weight off, boot still against her throat but no longer crushing her airway. "again," you order, letting the knife dangle in her periphery. "

she gasps for air, coughing a little. "i-i'm yours."

"good girl." you drop to your knees, straddling her waist. the knife slips under her tanktop, slowly cutting it away. "we don't need this anymore, do we? keep still or i might cut something important."

she shudders under the knife, watching the knife make its long cut up the length of her shirt. finally cut apart, you brush the halves to the side. she can't help but let out a breathy moan. you've seen hellion 3 naked before of course, that's life in the barracks, but not like this before. she lays there naked, pinned beneath you, shaking and shuddering with abject fear in her eyes — eyes that are locked on yours. you can feel the arousal, the hardness in her pants pressing against you. you could just drink it up. your eyes trace along all the scars left behind by cybernetic implantation, and you find yourself tracing the knifetip along them too. you want to press harder, to cut her open at the old seams, to reach inside and prod that cornered animal, just to see what she'll do. you press the knife against a scar just below her ribs. you really just can't help yourself. the red wells up and she cries out and — fuck, she's just so pretty like this. you toss the knife away, fingers of one hand stroking that wound, other hand grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the floor above your head. face to face again, you lick her blood from your fingertips and — god it tastes good — push them into her mouth. you don't need to say anything for her to start licking and sucking like her life depends on it.

"good girl," you growl. she whimpers around your fingers. "you taste so good, right?" you finger that cut again. she cries out in pain and you wipe the blood across her lips. "i'm gonna eat you alive."

she barely has time to whimper before you dive down to meet her lips. you kiss her messily, smearing blood and spit across her mouth, tongue pushing into her throat. each time you pull back you can't help but bite her lips, bite her neck, bite her shoulders, before greedily kissing her more. a mess of blood on her face, you feel it on yours too. you break the kiss, leaning back up. she's a mess, breathing hard, twitching, eyes staring off in the distance, wet spot on the crotch of her pants.

"hey, you still with me, kid?"

"y-yes big sister," she half-moans. "never kissed anyone before... is all." of course she hadn't. loser.

you push yourself off of her trembling form and stand, wiping the blood from your face, letting her stew in that confession for a moment.

"want more? you know where to find me, pup." you pick your bloodied knife up from where you'd tossed it and walk off, leaving her to lay there a whimpering, bleeding mess. she'll come running as soon as she recovers.

[onthepyre]

Hi June! No.1 for the prompt meme if you feel inspired? 💖

hi calli!! thanks for dropping in <3 this is kind of loosely the "dirtiest white boy in america" period but honestly. fuck if i know. it's sad though

send me a number and ill write something angsty

1 - keeping things from the other to spare their feelings

Sometimes Dad had to bail, Mickey knew. When they were little kids, not smart enough to keep their traps shut, he and Mandy got dragged along, lying in the backseat, her head in his lap. Perks of being the youngest two, Mickey guesses. Seeing Indiana before they turned six. By the time Mom was gone, they were told to keep their heads down and wait it out while Dad fucked off to who-knows-where. It sucked, but it sucked less than having him home. It was tolerable.

When the pigs started sniffing around the Alibi, Dad got itchy. They were just around to "ask questions," but the proximity was enough. He had a bag packed in ten minutes, four loaded handguns tucked under dirty underwear and ratty cutoffs. It was damn near a rampage, but Mickey didn't have the sixth sense his siblings did that told them to get the fuck out of dodge. He didn't even realize the depth of shit he was in until Dad pitched a backpack at him and asked what the fuck he was standing around with his thumb up his ass for.

Arguing was useless. If he ran now, Mickey would be dead when Dad inevitably made it back to Chicago. So he took the backpack and stuffed it with a change of clothes and a handful of knives and cash, tucking his busted flip phone into a wad of underwear. In case he needed it, Mickey told himself. So he could contact Mandy if they were gonna be gone long. Not Ian.

That's what he told himself, at least, but when they were halfway to Dad's buddy's cabin in Minnesota and it slipped out that he was wanted for eight counts of trafficking, when Mickey's throat started to burn, he knew.

A nine hour drive meant sitting next to Dad all night. When they finally, finally made it, got out to stretch their legs deep in the woods, it set in. Mickey was very firmly stuck here, at least for the coming days, nobody to keep him company but Dad and the fucking raccoons.

Just about as soon as they set foot in the cabin, Dad was snoring. Mickey wasn't about to take his chances in the same room, only four feet of space between the twin beds. He crept to the bathroom, locked the door, propped a stepstool against it for good measure. He texted Mandy first, short and to the point: sos in mn.

Then there was the problem of Ian. He had, at best, one message to make sure he'd leave him alone. There was no telling how long it would take Mandy to figure out how the fuck to get him out of this three-room shithole, assuming he wasn't cursed to die in it. Mickey couldn't say nothing. Ian would get antsy, go looking for him. Say something he shouldn't. But he couldn't tell him what was actually happening, either, because he couldn't give Ian that false hope. Couldn't let him stay attached, pine, worry, wait for something that wasn't going to come.

He had to let him get over it like a normal heartbreak. Ian could cry for a week and then find some other South Side street rat to fuck instead, a thought that had Mickey gnawing on his bottom lip to distract from the pit in his stomach. Yeah. That was what he had to do.

cant c u anymore, he wrote. dont txt.

Mickey deleted both messages as soon as they went through. He allowed himself ten seconds to let it sink in. Knuckles pressed into his eyes, sitting on the toilet lit bent double, he sniffled once. Then, after a few shuddering breaths, he opened the door, and thank fuck, Dad was still snoring.

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK Extended Cut: CHAPTER 2

another bonus chapter to fill in the time between now and chapter 12!! this time featuring midna and fi, bonding over shared worries and shared joys. they are besties :3 this one is casual but still a lot of fun i think. around 5k words under the cut! enjoy!

ao3 mirror HERE!

Midna awoke to the sound of late afternoon bustle outside her tent. Immediately she was greeted with the stubborn burning of the aftermath from almost two weeks before. The scarring on her neck tugged with each breath — now without their stifling bandages, but insistent on bothering her nonetheless. For a moment, she allowed herself to sigh deeply, feeling the tepid air rush into her lungs as she closed her eyes, and lazily fluttering her eyelids back open as it left her. The ceiling of her tent was pitch black, shrouding the inside of her dwelling in the same shade, save for some endearing salt lamps gifted to her by the Gerudo refugees. Mere days ago, they arrived at the Eldin border in droves, having trekked from their desert home and across Hyrule Field to plead for safety with the Princess. Zelda, eager to receive any help, and offer any shelter that could be exchanged in these trying times, welcomed them with open arms. As she had done for every people that came knocking on the castle walls.

The thought of those women scattered through their camp, and how she’d fought for their safety, suddenly snapped her into panicked realization. She quickly looked to her side, before the icy chill of fear could sweat down her back, to find her Fused Shadow placed by her bedside. That loyal helmet proudly displayed itself there, its stone-hewn eye watching over her as she slept. She exhaled, the tension building up leaving her with that very same breath. Just looking upon it made her trace her fingers gently over the bubbly flesh of the scar that now spanned from her upper lip to her cheekbone. If it hadn’t been for her helmet deflecting most of Ghirahim’s knives, that encounter would certainly have cost her a lot more than bits of skin. The camp was safe, for now, but such a priceless artifact could tempt even the purest of souls into getting sticky-fingered. 

Just as she was starting to drift off again, the sound of a chime twinkled through the air outside her tent. One of her guards, who was hushing in idle conversation with her colleague just earlier, announced a visitor. Midna welcomed them in.

A presence, or rather, a lack thereof, gently parted the curtain of her tent. Purple, wing-like flowing drapery peeked past the dark blue fabric. Soundlessly floating inside, the curtain fell back into place again, blocking out the flash of outside light that overpowered the gentle glow of the tapestries for just a moment. Herself now shining a luminescent blue, Fi, Spirit of the Master Sword, had entered.

Midna gave a crooked smile with only the right half of her face. It must have looked a bit strange, but with the scabbed-over gashes pulling at the skin on her face, she took up the habit. “On sick call again, huh?”

A soft sound of chimes emanated from her as she hovered closer to the bed, looking down at her with her big, glazed-over eyes. “Greetings, Princess Midna,” she said. “Your scarring looks favorable. I foresee a 79% chance of your recovery.”

The Twilight Princess snickered a bit solemnly in response and cocked a brow at her. “That’s funny. Yesterday you said 81%.”

Fi did not respond. Her pale expression did not change, but her head tipped slightly downward, avoiding her gaze. It seemed that even the cold and calculating weapon of the Goddess was familiar with the delicate art of lip service. Midna knew very well that she did not look all too good. Her cursed form aside, Ghirahim and Zant had done quite a number on her in their last battle. Demon Blade Ghirahim, with his devious tricks, tainted her face with a barrage of daggers. To make matters worse, that worm of a Usurper managed to leave her with broken ribs and a nasty concussion. Much to her wounded pride, Princess Zelda forbade her to even set foot outside her tent, with her grocery list of injuries. 

The loophole of “I don’t walk, I float,” didn’t do her any favors, either.

So here she lied, every day, condemned to bed rest. Her sole fortune was the frequent visits she got from her fellow lieutenants. She knew none of these people — not truly — except for the young girl they had enlisted as a mage and scout. Little Agitha, one Princess to another, dropped by every other evening for tea, to prattle off about some little insect she’d found in the fields to her ‘Miss Kitty’. Something about it made her nostalgic for a time she shouldn’t be too keen to look back on.

One unexpected comrade she found, was Fi. Technically, the two had traveled together once before, they simply weren’t aware of the fact at the time. To see the mighty Master Sword now hovering by her bedside, her statue-like face in the approximation of a pout, was as jarring as it was endearing.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, I get it,” Midna sighed, her expression softening. She reached out with her tiny, clawed hand, waving it at Fi’s wing. “Hey. Why don’t you come sit with me? Let’s talk.”

Fi glanced down at her hand, tracking its motions until it slumped onto the mattress. For a moment, Midna thought her request had fallen on deaf ears until the sword spirit twirled in place, and weightlessly sat down on the mattress, like a feather touching down on water. 

“What do you wish to discuss, Your Grace?” Fi inquired, tipping her head to look down at her.

Midna snickered, batting playfully at the cloak that now draped on her mattress within reach. “First things first, drop the formalities. When it’s you and me, I’m just Midna.”

A pause. Fi turned her head to look out in front of her, as if processing something, and then turned back to her. “As you wish. Midna, what shall we talk about?”

So she had to compute that real quick, first? How amusing the sight was, to see a data input happening in real-time, with a real-life automaton. Though the Twilight Realm was filled with pseudo-conscious machines, none were as sophisticated as Fi. Curious, given her thousands of years lagging behind her own time. Or maybe she was not truly a machine at all..? Thinking about it, Midna realized she knew very little about the workings of the sword spirit sitting by her. 

“… Tell me how you met your Link and Zelda,” she asked, looking up at her with a smile. “We have that much in common, right?”

Fi met her smile with her own, though hers was gentle. Timid, almost, uncertain like butterflies deciding upon a flower to perch on. “The art of storytelling in a way that is pleasing to you was not bestowed upon me my design, but I will relay our tale to you to the best of my ability.”

Fi recounted her stories in greatest scrutiny, speaking on and on about scorching arachnids beneath the volcanoes, endless spans of sand wastes, and ships lost at sea. Glassy eyes turned to the black fabric of her tent, she prattled on for what must have been an hour. Still, Midna found herself not minding in the slightest, and simply curled up against her pillow. As contented as she could be, at least, straining against the pressure of her injuries. With the scenes she described almost projecting from her eyes and onto the cloth before her, the peculiar way Fi viewed the world was evident in how she spoke of it. Incredibly specific attributes were carefully logged in her mind, treating every little environmental detail with the same weight as she would the many riveting battles.

“The entrance gate to the next room was forged of steel with curious properties, resisting temperatures of at least 1.100° Celsius…”

As she spoke, the Hyrule of Old seemed as familiar as it seemed strange. Midna knew of the Eldin Volcano, of Faron Woods, but not of the ancient structures she described. 

“A humanoid cephalopod, defying any known taxonomies through its leg-count of approximately thirty-six…”

Fi spoke as though reciting a captain’s logbook, or the research notes of a long-lost scholar. Youthful as she may have seemed, with a face no older than that of a girl in the springtide of her life, her way of speaking betrayed wisdom as old as time itself. Whereas others spun their yarns into warm, if not slightly sloppy scarves, losing stitches and weaving in colors for the flair of it all, Fi constructed a veritable tapestry. 

“… decorated with a central votive statue of a human, deconstructed into a head, torso, and four arms. Its frescoes consisted of patterns depicting the Nymphaea genus, which grew throughout the central pool…”

Such methodical recollections continued on and on, but her tone changed entirely when speaking of the people she’d met along the way. Fi understood material properties, and the angular features of architecture, but in her centuries of isolation, she didn’t come to understand the complexities of mortal lives. But instead of surface-level analyses, when she told Midna about those candid little anecdotes, she described their words and expressions with careful fondness. As if uncertain of what to do with it, or waiting for permission, she cradled and cherished that feeling of friendship as if her very speaking of them could turn those memories to dust. 

As she got to her tale’s end, she turned to Midna again, as if physically shutting out one part of her mind, and turning to the next. It was subtle, but her expression changed, then, a warmth cast over her sapphire complexion. 

“… And as we stood before the Gate of Time, I realized that our mission had come to an end. I said my goodbyes then, to our Link, our Zelda, and parted from them as their Servant. I am certain, however, that I have stayed with them as their friend, even if only in memory.”

Almost exhausted by this extensive tale, Midna cocked her head, meeting that innocent face with a smile. Fi looked back at her, a touch puzzled, as if thinking she’d missed out on some sort of joke. Assuringly, Midna reached out to pat her on the tip of her cloth wing, but retracted soon after the bruising nagged in her ribs. 

Such a veritable tale, with all its twists and bends, yet its fateful, epic ending. A journey crossing continents and threads of time to meet one noble goal, and sealed with the dawn of Hyrule itself. With all the chaos and gloom she herself had endured, something troubling bubbled up in her.

“Honestly,” Midna sighed, resting her head on her hand. “The way you describe your journey makes it sound all clean and plotted out. Completely destined to happen the way it did, yeah? It makes my own journey seem so messy in hindsight. Even stumbling into Link was more of a chance encounter, if anything!”

Fi looked at her once again a little confused, but soon her posture straightened. “Our own quest was not without its perils. You may be mistaken. Simply because it did not appear like it at the time, does not mean the Goddesses did not smile upon you in your efforts to save Hyrule.”

Midna nodded a bit absentmindedly at her words. She wondered if indeed, those residing in the Sacred Realm had any hand in delivering her resolution to her. Would They be so bold, after Their descendants cast her very people into their own prison? Somewhere, she wanted to be convinced that the peace and tranquility the Twili had built there was their own making, even if she herself carried no grudge toward the Golden Goddesses. Fi’s words, forged by Hylia Herself, knitted themselves into unease in the back of her mind.

Right as she was getting lost in thought, the Sword Spirit continued to speak. “… And, even if it was not destiny… The Hero always needs a friend, and I believe you to be a fine choice for a companion, indeed. He was fortunate to have met you.”

Midna found herself tongue-tied for a moment. Even as she spoke, Fi did not part her confronting, azure gaze from her, and she grasped onto it with her own wide-eyed stare. Her words bloomed into a warmth in her stomach, spreading to behind her collarbones, tickling up to her cheeks that split into a wide, toothy grin. A laugh escaped her. 

“Right you are! That idiot would have been toast if it weren’t for me,” she cackled, humming and examining her nails with a smug glee.

Something inexplicable crossed Fi’s expression. Something made the polished surface of her eyes turbulent like the ocean itself, but the emotion lurking between those deep blue mirrors remained but a vague shadow. At least, until she spoke. “I am conflicted. Has Link’s carelessness truly not faded between Cycles?”

Midna scoffed. Faded! What a joke. To decide which of their Links was the most whimsical would have to be decided by coin-flip, and with their luck, the thing would land on its side. “As hare-brained as ever, I’m afraid,” she responded, picking at her teeth with her pinkie nail. Despite her lack of lungs, Fi sighed exasperatedly.

By all means, their merry exchange of pleasantries should have confused the guards outside her tent by now. Fi, by no means, had a reputation of being particularly social, though even Midna had to admit this was for a good reason. It was excessively difficult to smalltalk with her. The sword’s short, matter-of-fact responses essentially fashioned every topic with a ball and chain around the ankle and pushed it off the pier. Still, Midna enjoyed a challenge, and after having dwelled in the realm of queendom for the past years, getting to just chat with someone was a refreshing change of pace. She needed to think about something that wasn’t the crushing burden of war for just a little. By now, Fi had scooted to sit next to her, back to the pillow and one leg swung on the mattress. Her reclining pose was stiff, like a mannequin’s, but this was perhaps her first time ever in a resting position that didn’t involve being embedded in a pedestal. Head rested on the sword spirit’s shoulder, she decided to cut the poor girl some slack, and refrain from commenting.

A yawn escaped her. She was getting drowsy. The dark shrouding her tent reminded her of home; perhaps a little too much so. Such tranquility made (most of) her people mellow, but she wasn’t quite feeling up to heading back to sleep yet. 

She nudged Fi’s waist with the back of her hand.“Actually, can you part the curtain a bit? I want to see what’s going on out there.”

Not turning to look at her, Fi kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall as she spoke. “Midna, that would be unwise. The sun’s light will impede your recovery.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. So long as I’m out of direct light I’m good to go,” Midna drawled with a wave of the hand. “Besides, it’s almost evening, isn’t it? They don’t call me the Twilight Princess for nothing.”

Fi nodded, raising herself from her seat through sheer defiance of gravity, and bobbed through the air to open the curtain. A pillar of light split the darkness inside the tent into perfect halves, casting colors on the opposite wall, but left the Twilight Princess untouched. The world was already a drowned, pale crimson, dusk settling comfortably as the sun placed itself upon the horizon like a golden helmet. Fi lingered a moment there, peering outside, before curtsying politely at some unseen group outside the tent.

As the sword spirit returned to sit at her bedside, Midna could now see who was lingering out in the camp. Princess Zelda was accompanied by her most fateful knight, Link, discussing pleasantries with King Darunia, who braced a massive hand on her shoulder in sympathy. No matter the incarnation, it seemed the Princess was doomed to be burdened with trials of calamity. Midna almost seemed ashamed to be laying there so casually, within view of the group, but they soon turned to face her. Shame turned to a chilled comfort as Zelda smiled at her, nodding warmly with her hand crossed over her chest. Link and Darunia, unburdened by such formalities, simply grinned and waved cheerfully. Midna found herself mimicking that very same lightheartedness, rather than the royal, dainty wave her advisors back home tried so hard to imprint on her. Even now, that blond goofball sparked silliness within her, no matter how grave their outlook.

Her hand lowered as they turned back to their conversation. She sighed, her hearty smile turning to bittersweet somberness. “… Hey, Fi. When you look at them, what goes through your head?” Midna asked, speaking without taking her eyes off the group outside. “You’ve been through a lot with them, too, back in your world. Don’t you feel weird around them? It’s them, but… It’s not.”

Fi’s peering at their old, yet new friends, did not linger. Instead, she turned straight to look at her. “What I think of them is not relevant. It is my duty to aid them,” she said. Something about the cold tone in her voice made Midna’s eyelid twitch. After spending all that time telling her about her adventures, did truly nothing strike her, ripped into this strange future world as they were? To be confronted with those same voices, those same smiles, yet to see not a blink of recognition in return?

“It is relevant!” Midna snapped, but quickly faltered. Stonefaced as ever, Fi did not even flinch at the raising of her voice, yet something in the way she stared back at her made guilt drop into her gut like a lead ball. “… I’m sorry. I just want to hear what you have to say. There’s nobody else who can hear me out.”

For a while, Fi was silent and averted her gaze. Figures, Midna thought. Recollecting details from her journey in her own verbose and analytical way suited the Sword Spirit fine, but to ask her opinion on a social matter… From what she’d told her, her Link was her only conversational partner in thousands of years. Maybe it wasn’t right to assume she was comfortable talking about those kinds of things yet. A little remorseful, and about to retract her offer, Midna looked up at her, only to realize just what it was Fi was peering at so intensely.

She had her eyes right on the Fused Shadow.

With her lips curved into a gentle smile, Fi looked to the helmet for just another moment, before turning to Midna again, seemingly having decided exactly what to say. “They are incarnations. Not exactly the people we knew, but not entirely different, either.” 

Fabric brushed over her fingers. Fi had laid her ‘hand’ on hers. 

“They may not be the same, but they retain some memories. Enough to know that they can trust us, Midna.”

She looked at her lap again, her blank expression cracking just a touch. Whatever thoughts and observations she had in mind, she was weighing them off with great care. “When I last saw the Princess, I… Cannot say I am sure, but all her vital signs pointed to a deep worry. She cares for you, Midna. She is not your Zelda, and he is not your Link, but they will fight with you. In this War Across the Ages, nothing is more important.”

Finally, Fi sat up straight, and her wing retracted from her hand. “That is all I have to say.”

At a loss for words once again, Midna stared at her companion, mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t simply the information she’s dropped on her — the incarnations, the retained memories — it was the implication. She didn’t realize how she needed to hear from someone else that something was wrong, that it wasn’t the same, and that there was a disconnect. She didn’t realize how she wanted the comfort of being trusted by those descendants of her dear friends, and how they thought of her fondly despite being near perfect strangers. Above all, she didn’t realize how much she wanted to hear it from Fi, of all people. If even a tool, forged specifically for the mission she undertook, could feel conflicted, yet finally, comforted, by all this, then…

“… Fi?”

Fi’s eyes widened somewhat, having not even flinched for all the time Midna spent staring at her. “Yes?”

Midna sat up slightly, wincing at the slight ache it brought to her ribs, and settled somewhat gravely. “When you get back to your own time, can you do me a favor?”

“That depends on my ability to fulfill your request,” Fi replied, as bluntly as she expected she would.

“Before you return to your slumber inside the Master Sword, or whatever,” she began, fingers curling together in her lap as she sought the right words. “Can you just… Go see your Link and Zelda? Just to see what they’re up to now, and to say goodbye again,” Midna offered, smiling somewhat bittersweetly.

Once again, the intricacies of sentimentality were lost on Fi. Her blank expression was once again truly empty, a state she reverted to whenever her comprehension of mortal matters failed her. “… I apologize. I fail to comprehend your request. I have said my farewells to the Chosen Hero and Incarnated Goddess already, before my reawakening. Furthermore, I do not see how this benefits you. You would not be there to see it.”

“The favor isn’t to benefit me, it’s for you. After all this, you’re going to want to go see them. Trust me.”

Fi cocked her head curiously. That empty expression brought Midna to frustration – or rather, desperation. The weight of being tossed through time and confronted with her friends under threat of the very same force tore at her foundations, and her many walls crumbled. Hiding herself from those incarnations outside behind Fi’s veils, she felt choked by her yearning for her old friends. If she could not, then maybe…

“… Fi, you can go do something that I have no hope of doing ever again. When I crossed into the Realm of Light, the worlds we loved withered before our very eyes. Zelda, Link, and I, we all gave our lives for one another to save it,” Midna started, her hand insistently clutching the fabric of Fi’s wing, as if she could squeeze the understanding into her through her fingers alone. Her voice faltered. “Now, I can never see either of them ever again, and if I were to try to, I’d just risk another maniac like Zant trying to cross over to hurt them and their land. So I beg of you. Please fulfill my wish in my stead. You’ll be glad you did it.”

Fi stared at her wordlessly, empty eyes not parting from hers, until they were no longer empty at all. Instead, that glossy blue suddenly seemed all-encompassing. Midna could only break away from the contact when a light, fluttering feeling cast down upon her hands, and she glanced down to see Fi had placed her other wing to cover hers. A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up at the sword spirit again, who had leaned in with a nod. For the first time, she almost looked somber as she spoke. 

“I understand.”

The room grew quiet. For the past hour, the air was stirred by the constant flow of words, making it feel all the more stagnant when silence did fall. Curiously, Fi also seemed bothered by the tension left by the heavy words they’d just exchanged, and rose from her seat. Fearing she would leave, Midna stammered for a moment, about to extend her hand to halt her, until she noticed Fi simply floated across the tent, idly observing the various knick-knacks she’d displayed around the place. Did boredom make her a touch nervous? 

Midna took the opportunity to reel her back in and relieve her from her shared antsiness. “… So what were you planning to do when you get back otherwise? Just head straight back to sleep?”

Attention captured immediately, Fi hummed thoughtfully, staring down at the floor. She appeared almost giddy, like an adventurous child plotting to sneak away to do something they hadn’t the permission to do. The sight of it almost made Midna want to bully her a bit. “When I turned to my slumber without end, the plans to settle the Hylians back on the surface were not yet underway. If I return, the progress on this development would be fruitful for my logbook, indeed. Though, its proper chronicling will have to be left to the Hylians themselves…”

Midna scoffed and waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly with your ‘if’s. You’re the spirit of the Master Sword, you’ll be fine.”

“Indeed. As the Master Sword, I shall prevail,” Fi nodded. She turned fully back to her now, hovering at the foot of her bed. Staring down at her like this, the sheer nobility of that metallic being stirred a feeling of awe inside her. With the rays of the sun shrouding her in a golden veil, Fi truly looked then like the ancient, wisened being that she managed to hide behind a youthful countenance and an odd speech pattern. “The root of my uncertainty lies not with myself, but with our allies. Even if I live on, were we to lose Lana, I would be trapped in this time. As would you.”

Still, one arcane being wouldn’t be moonstruck by another just like that. She leaned her cheek on her hand, considering her words. Lana… She ought to have more words with that woman. It was that blue-haired mage that assisted her in doing away with the then-revived Zant, back when the Twilight Realm was freshly ripped into this future world. That baseline of trust could use some expanding upon. “… I see. You got it all plotted out, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Our chances are not hopeless, but they seem to dwindle with every battle.”

Midna looked up at her and frowned. Once again, the people she swore to protect were dropping like flies, and once again, she was powerless to do anything against it. “… Yeah, and here I am, laying in bed. Doing nothing at all!”

Fi leaned closer to her, face blank, yet her sheer energy buzzed with something stern. “You are recovering. Without your full strength, you would simply perish. Focus on your rest, and join us again at the battlefield at your full potential.”

For a moment, Midna pouted, her fang protruding defiantly from her lips. But then, she peered back into the eyes that hovered so close to hers, and she realized something. 

“You’re sounding just like Zelda,” she grinned.

Fi nodded dryly, fully intending to take her words as a compliment at face value. “She is wise beyond her years. I’m honored to be influenced by her.”

Midna let out a laugh, squinting her eyes shut and smacking her hand on the mattress. For just a moment, she could ignore the deep ache that burned through her ribs, completely overshadowed by the fond company of her friend. “Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything!’

After all the time they’d spent, one giggling, and the other intrigued, eager to understand, yet not fully capable of it, it had to come to an end. The rattle of metal and stomping of feet outside alerted the pair of someone of certain esteem approaching the tent, and indeed, heavy footfall stopped outside the tent, shy of entering through the parted curtain. An imposing shadow was cast inside, but Midna had grown far too familiar with the figure it belonged to, to be even slightly intimidated.

“Lady Midna,” spoke a voice like the cracking of a whip. “May I enter?”

Midna perked up. Impa was inviting herself in. “Oops. That’s your cue, bluebird,” she giggled, fondly patting on the wing that was laid by her. “Our General wants to interrogate me, I’ll bet.”

Fi looked down at the contact, and cocked her head. “I understand,” she spoke with a nod, and slowly levitated to rise. “Then, I wish you luck. May Lady Impa be merciful to you. I thank you for your invitation to converse with me. It was… Fun.”

Though her eyes did not move, the sword spirit’s lips, smooth like polished tourmaline, cracked into a gentle smile.

“Hey, Fi. Before you leave,” Midna interrupted her before she could float away, a hand extended. Fi looked over her shoulder. “Think about what I said, yeah? You won’t regret it.”

Fi nodded. Time and time again, people around camp have hushed whispers about the sword spirit. How she was off-putting and robotic, lacking any kind of emotion. Midna believed not a shred of it. In her own way, Fi told the world how she felt, even if she did so in ways organic beings wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t like she had put up walls for people to break through. Midna was taken aback, then, by how incredibly open Fi was, and how easily the two confided in one another. She just had to know where to look to understand what the odd girl wanted to convey. Between two strange, otherworldly beings, a chord had been struck. Midna was rambunctious and loud, while Fi was decidedly more reserved, but in a way, both wore their hearts on their sleeves. An odd warmth sprang into her chest as she saw the blue spirit glittering in the light of the setting sun, her own sapphire glow drowning out the golden hue cast upon her. The light went straight through her when she looked back at her, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“I foresee my likelihood of fulfilling your request to be… Favorable. Goodbye, Midna. May you fulfill that 79% percent with strength and grace.”

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 3 (Storm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gun-play, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Måneskin - THE LONELIEST

Note: You can find pictures of Vash's household here.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Nails scratched the hardwood, and a creak roused you from the deep slumber you'd been wading in for what felt like years. In a cold sweat, you startled awake, disoriented and confused. All you saw was blackness. As it was yesterday, and the days before. The only sound that could be heard belonged to the pounding of your heart and the faint whisper of your breath. With an overwhelming urge to save your sanity, you tried to scream, but the voice got trapped in your throat, and the fear gripped your limbs, making it impossible to move.

You felt like someone was watching you. Oh, Gods! They must be trying to kill you. They must be doing it on purpose. To torture you, to torment you, to keep you from sleeping ever again.

Gradually, you sat up, squinting as you struggled to make out anything in the darkness that had nested around you. The truth was, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten here. All you remembered was fainting in the fucking dungeon of Knives and waking up in this pitch-black abyss, your hands restrained by cold, metal handcuffs.

Despite the haze of confusion and fear capturing your mind, you had managed to recall fragments of your recent past. You could still remember being tended to by a bald doctor while you were unconscious, his skilled hands repairing the wounds and bruises that marred your body. You could remember your father not discovering your whereabouts and that … you had cried a lot.

Time had lost all meaning in this black hole, leaving you feeling disoriented and alone. But despite the uncertainty, you knew you had to remain strong and find a way out of this nightmare.

The haunting melody of a piano drifted once more through the cold, unyielding walls, its mournful strains reaching you from some unknown location above. You gazed up at the ceiling, captivated by the heart-wrenching yet undeniably soothing notes that flowed from the keys. In this wretched place, you couldn't fathom how anyone could find solace in music.

Despite the bleakness of your surroundings, the music provided a small measure of comfort, a reminder that even in the depths of despair swamp, life could flourish. The pianist's nimble fingers danced across the black and white claviers, conjuring a bittersweet symphony that stirred something deep within your soul.

As you listened, you were transported to a different realm, one where the harsh realities of your current existence faded away. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be swept up in the pure, unadulterated emotions, finding solace in your imagination.

The crack of thunder jolted you from your thoughts, reminding you that the world outside might be engulfed in a storm like yours. The bright, yellow ball of the sun might be obscured by thick, gray clouds that carried a sense of forlornness and empty promises of reliving old memories, reclaiming lost dreams, and indulging in comforting breakfasts of fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup. Even in a hellhole like this, you couldn't help but reminisce about the time your mother's warm smile could light up a world that seemed lost forever.

Perhaps the day was gloomy and damp, with a piercing wind that would sting the bones of the bastard twins. The temperature could drop to freezing, and hail could pelt down to a hurricane threatening to transform into a tornado just to rip those mother fuckers' bodies apart. It would be amazing if the earth could tremble and split open, creating a gateway for your escape from this oppressive reality.

Deprived of any external sensory input, you could not gauge your surroundings. With no window or view to the outside world, you were trapped in perpetual confinement. The walls seemed to close in on you, leaving you gasping for air as the weight of claustrophobia bore down on your chest. It was clear that hiding from this stifling existence was beyond your reach.

Looking around, you realized no one was in there —at least not the one you could see.

Had you taken up residence in cloud-cuckoo land? Goddammit! You cursed under your breath, frustrated at how your mind had turned into a traitor. Because your deepest fears had crawled out of you with darting eyes, sweating palms, and nervous giggles that sat in your chest, built in your chest, threatened to burst through your chest.

The pressure was mounting relentlessly, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter around you. Was it a panic attack? No, you could still breathe, and your limbs were still functioning. But you felt paralyzed, unable to find the right words to express the turmoil within you. It was as though all of your pieces had shattered irreparably. Your brain had stopped functioning properly. Nothing would ever be able to glue you back together. The notion of optimism felt like a cruel deception in the face of such overwhelming melancholy.

Slapping your forehead, you reminded yourself that you were alone, but somehow you couldn't shake the sensation of eyes boring into you, leaving your skin tingling as though a searing hot iron was burning a silky dress.

You tried to speak, shaping your lips around the familiar words that felt foreign to your mouth. "W-ho's the-re?" you whispered, struggling to get the words out. Your throat felt parched and unaccustomed to use, making it difficult to form even a simple sentence.

Silence greeted your whispered inquiry, and you turned to the door. Carefully feeling your way towards it, your fingers sought out the tally marks you had etched into the wood to keep track of the days. Twelve marks, a testament to the times they had deigned to slide a bag of cold sandwiches and water bottles through the narrow opening.

How thoughtful of them to keep you from starving to death, even as they left you with nothing more than a filthy toilet in the corner to serve as your bathroom in this unlimited void of darkness. Fuck them! The frustration and anger bubbled up inside you again, directed at the fuckers who held you in this wretched place.

You let out a resigned sigh, realizing that another day had passed. Determined not to let the dizziness overtake you as it had during countless other waking hours, you reached out and scratched a new line onto the cheap surface of the door. The soft wood yielded easily to your touch, marking the passage of time in this godforsaken place.

As if misery could have an end, your stomach started its symphony, a reminder of the hunger that plagued you constantly. Based on your endless sleeping hours, you couldn't shake the suspicion that they were drugging your food, and you knew you could refuse, but what was the point? After all, there was no way you could escape if you were weak from starvation and dehydration. Also, you'd found you didn't mind swallowing whatever poison they might be feeding you. There was no need to keep yourself awake and suffer more.

Another soft creak from the corner of the room caught your attention, and you turned your head toward the disturbance. "Who're you?" you asked, though the words didn't come out any better than the first time. Holding your breath, you strained to hear any response from the darkness.

Several stilted seconds passed before you heard another faint creak, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to another. The sound emanated from where the old and dilapidated wooden floor had been eaten away by bugs, leaving jagged edges that had sliced your bare feet open on more than one occasion.

"What do you want?" you called out, feeling a hand reaching towards your breasts. Before you could react, a jolt of electricity coursed through your body, causing you to fall backward and land painfully on your tailbone. The shock left you gasping for breath and unable to scream for help, too consumed by terror to do anything but kick your feet frantically and scramble toward the wall.

There, you pressed yourself against the rough surface, your chest rising and falling. Welcome to the freak show!

As the pounding in your ears continued, you felt your nails digging into your palms as another low creak echoed through the room. Could they see you now, tucked into the corner of the room? Sucking in a deep breath, you held it, waiting for something to happen. It felt as if your head was shoved into a guillotine, trapped in that heart-stopping moment of anticipation for the blade to drop.

Watching the planks, you waited for the sudden appearance of a frightening demon, bent on its hands and feet and crawling towards you at an unnaturally fast pace. The thought of it would have been amusing under different circumstances, but in this place, you were anything but safe.

The door opened suddenly, flooding the room with bright light and a loud crack of thunder. You flinched, expecting to see the creature staring at you, but found nothing.

A sound slipped free from your throat, a mix of a wheeze and a laugh, as you felt like you were losing your mind. You had to be going insane.

Trying to shield your eyes with your hand, you climbed to your feet, your knees nearly clacking together from your fried nerves. The pain in your body momentarily faded as you thought about how foolish you were to believe someone could be hiding in that corner. However, your smile disappeared as a sobering realization set in.

Right! You were going crazy.

Your loud creaks emphasized each step as you cautiously tiptoed around each corner of the room, the person by the door watching you with widened eyes. You needed to be sure that no one was lurking and watching you like a creep if you ever hoped to sleep again.

Apart from you and the man standing in the doorway, no one else was present. You placed a hand on your chest and let out a choppy, uneven laugh. Making your way back to the bed, you realized that the person was still there, not carrying any food and not appearing to be leaving anytime soon.

You stood frozen, staring at the man in the gray suit with silver hair tied back into a bun, his eyes burning like fiery suns. As you stepped back, even the imaginary monsters in your mind began to retreat, afraid of what might happen next. Fear licked your nerves, and you tipped your head back, taking a deep breath through your nose.

Another man, older than the previous one, suddenly appeared by the door and announced, "The boss wants to see you." His words hit you like a bullet, striking your chest and knocking the breath out of your lungs. It seemed like this was to be your final, glorious end.

The silver-haired man aimed his double Colts at your chest, leaving you petrified and forgotten to inhale.  Despite feeling like you should be screaming, you remained frozen like a stone. "HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTH SHUT. FOLLOW THE ORDERS, AND I WON'T SHOOT YOU," he commanded.

You heard him, yet you remained still in place. You knew you should move, lift your arms, spread your feet, and remember to breathe, but you were unable to do so.

The one barking orders slammed the butt of his gun into the corner of your brow, causing your knees to buckle and hit the floor. You finally tasted oxygen, along with a metallic tang of blood. An acute agony ripped through your skull, unlike anything you had experienced before. You were utterly immobilized and unable to move.

"What part of 'follow the orders' don't you understand, you filthy Gasback spawn?" The intensity of his animosity was such that he spoke with a venomous tone, as though you were responsible for something awful, despite having no prior acquaintance with him.

You squinted to the side and saw the barrel of the gun mere inches away from your face.

"GET UP."

You were swallowing nothing but strangled gasps, which were choking your body. You were unable to cry out or make any sound.

Get up! Get up! If you don't, he'll shoot you.

You heaved yourself up onto your knees and fell back against the wall behind you, stumbling forward in an attempt to catch your balance. Your head was throbbing like a bitch, making you feel nauseous. Even lifting your hands was unbearable torture. Your body felt lifeless, your bones were cracked, and your skin was a canvas for the sharp pins and needles of pain.

Looked like the boss finally wanted to kill you. That must be why he wanted to see you. Perhaps he had made a mistake by not killing you earlier, or maybe your moment had simply passed. Your years on this earth had been too heavy for this world, and now he was going to end your life. Since the day you opened your eyes here, you had often wondered how it would happen and if it would bring happiness to your father or if your mother would be waiting for you on the other side. The thought of leaving your sister, Amelia, behind made you feel the saddest.

Someone was laughing. "Well, aren't you a little shit?"

You were unsure if they were even speaking to you as you struggled to keep your arms raised. Your mind was hazy, and you could hardly focus on anything.

"She's not even crying," the other one added. "The girls are usually begging for mercy by now."

The walls were starting to blend with the ceiling, and you wondered how much longer you could hold your hands up. You couldn't discern the words spoken or understand the sounds around you.

The blood rushed through your head, and your lips felt like blocks of concrete that you couldn't open. With a gun pressed into your back, you stumbled forward, feeling like the floor was falling upwards. Your feet dragged in a direction that you couldn't comprehend.

"Walk behind me." The other man's voice was thick and deep. Your feet moved forward on their own, and you remained silent, knowing no words could describe this moment. You blinked against the brightness of the light that you hadn't seen in so long, but it didn't matter. You were nothing but numb, a world of nothingness, and a little blinding light wouldn't kill you.

As the guard opened the door at the end of the murky corridor, a chilling draft greeted you, causing you to shiver from the freezing sweat still clinging to your skin and the cold, stale air.

The house's interior was mainly cast in shadows, with only dim light filtering through the large windows. The sunlight had faded away with the storm clouds gathering in the sky. As you looked up, you frowned at the sight of the black ribbed ceiling made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. Above you, a grand chandelier hung like a tree with multiple branches, its bronze design intricate and adorned with Rhodolite Garnet crystals that dangled from the tips. It was so stunningly beautiful that it almost made you feel sorry it had to get dusted in this slaughterhouse.

The brown walnut floors led directly to the black grand staircase, which was large enough to accommodate a royal black piano sitting sideways. The staircase flew into the living room, and your bare feet squeaked against the parquet floor as the gun barrel urged you further inside.

The open concept of the floor made the house feel like a monstrous entity that could swallow you whole. The living area was located to the left of the staircase, and as you looked around, a sense of loneliness hit you straight in the gut.

In the center of the living room, on the far left wall, was a large black stone fireplace flanked by two sizable mirrors, and leather couches were arranged around it in a square. An ornate wooden dining table sat in the middle of the room, with several unlit white candles atop its dark wooden surface.

The walls were covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy maroon curtains. The large bay window at the front of the house provided a view of the forest beyond the manor. The parquet flooring extended into the kitchen, which boasted beautiful black-stained cabinets and marble countertops, with a massive island standing in the middle. The kitchen's windows reminded you of a church with its Cathedral glass. It must be heavenly and delightful to cook and hum songs here on a sunny day.

You were walking mindlessly, not knowing where to stop, until a blow to your back crippled you. Your eyes began to tear up as you squinted against the bright lights of the abatjours, illuminating the Persian rug beneath your palms.

"Here she is," someone announced, and a heavy boot pressed into your back. Your outcry of anguish seemed to slow down the world for a moment. The sounds became muffled, the colors blurred, and the floor appeared to be tilting to its side. You thought to yourself that you were actually going to die, that you were going to drop dead then and there.

Then, you saw him, standing in the corner of the big room, watching silently as you writhed in agony while he did nothing. He just stood there and watched, pursing his lips as he ended his phone call.

The thought was so simple when it slipped into your head.

So calm.

So easy.

So, so easy.

You were going to kill him.

Once again, his was shrouded in darkness, but you knew the devil. You had met him personally before. He widened his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his pocket and pulling out something you couldn't quite see. As he walked closer, you noticed a glint of silver in his palm as he put it around his neck. A cross? Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn't believe that he was pretending to be a man of faith after all the evil deeds he had committed.

As if he could hear your thoughts, he stopped and hid the cross beneath his shirt. Then he stared at you, and you didn't look away. Later, you would question why the gods made you the way you were, but right now, all you could do was keep your eyes fixed on his chest and allow yourself to register the defined muscles under his shirt. You knew that only a psycho would focus on that right now, and you might be one. The behemoth of a man didn't move an inch. He didn't speak, react, or do anything. He just stared at you, and it felt like a silent battle.

Your whole body began to vibrate from anger and fear, but also from something so disturbing that you refused to put a name to it. He didn't speak, but he did grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sent sparks skittering down your spine. With deliberation, his tongue darted out and licked his bottom lip. Your eyes followed the movement, and the act felt primal, animalistic, and fucking terrifying.

Your heart started to claw its way up your throat, but you swallowed it back down, narrowed your eyes, and opened your mouth to yell at him. Before you could, however, he started approaching you, and you immediately lowered your head.

You were wholly immobilized beneath his stare, unable to move or even think straight. You could only imagine the look on your face when you saw him standing close to you, waiting for you. He sat down on the armchair a few feet away from you, and the boot on your back added more pressure, forcing you to lower your head even further.

Not a single word was spoken. He didn't offer any explanation or even acknowledge your presence. You were kneeling in front of the devil himself, hoping he would retreat and return to whatever portal from hell he crawled out of.

Having nowhere to look, you stared at his dark matte shoes, the dim light offering you enough chance to get a clear view of him. He was fully clothed. No boots today, yet his black pants still wrapped tightly around his broad thighs, and a dark crimson shirt that looked a size too small with the way he filled it out. You couldn't dare to see much of his face.

What the fuck was this? A fancy lamb-sacrificing ceremony?

You began to contemplate if you really had lost your mind and if you were just imagining the whole thing. Indeed, your imagination would never put you in such a scenario, trapped with a lunatic, but maybe it went out of its way and created a hunter licking his lips at you as if he was planning to feast on you.

Oh no, what if he was going to violate you? The thought made dread sink into your stomach like a stone in a lake. Your heart was back in your throat, and you pressed your lips together to hold back the fear that threatened to consume you. The situation was getting more and more terrifying by the second, and you didn't know what to do or how to escape.

His tone was collected, like a blanket thrown over a fire. "Such a delightful scenery," he said, leaning back in his armchair and rolling his neck, the muscles cracking loudly.

Your heart cracked, and your eyes flashed with anger, horror, humiliation, and raw indignation. It was like a fire was raging within you, a wildfire of decimated hopes, and you wanted to crush his spine in your hand. You wanted him to know what it was like to wound, to inflict such unbearable agony on others. You wanted him to feel your pain and understand the depth of your suffering.

"I understand you're mad at Gasback, Livio," he said. "But it wouldn't benefit you if your foot stays there!" His command was superb and strong like steel, dangerously calm and effortlessly assertive. The imprint of the boot was still carved into your back, but it was no longer pressing into your spine. The man called Livio walked a few steps back, and you dared to lift your head and look up at him.

The boss's left arm was covered in tattoos like those on his neck. With his sleeves tatted to his elbows, you could almost see lines of another tattoo on his right elbow. His eyebrows were thick and dark brown, his eyes a deep mountain lake blue. He had blond hair, a beauty mark beneath his left eye, and a lean frame. He was undeniably gorgeous, but, at the same time, dangerous, terrifying, and horrible.

Despite his beauty, his crooked smile was calculated and evil. He sat on what he imagined to be a throne, but was nothing more than an armchair, and his eyes were illuminated with a type of evilness that you would only find in Satan's Bible. It was clear that he took pleasure in your fear and suffering, and the thought made your blood run cold. You knew that you were in the presence of someone truly malevolent and needed to find an egress before it was too late. Because humans didn't need to decorate themselves in gory makeup and fake blood to be scary. It was the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, the evil that they carried within them, that was fucking terrifying.

Unlike you, he looked amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He shook his head, patted his shirt, and reached for the holster around his chest, pulling out a gun with a silver hilt that glinted in the shadowed room. You took a sharp breath, fearing he would use it on you. He inspected the gun in a way you wouldn't understand, presumably to check whether or not it was ready to fire. He slipped it into his hand, his forefinger poised directly over the trigger. But instead of pointing it at you, he placed it on the side table next to the glass of water. He turned and finally read the expression on your face, almost laughing. "Don't worry. It's not for you," he said, holding himself down enough to see your face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He grinned. "Not yet."

You would never believe him, and he must have guessed it because you heard his irritated exhalation of breath. He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face, already growing frustrated. You knew that it wasn't your fault, and if the roles were reversed, he would also be freaking out and questioning his sanity.

His eyes never strayed from you, and he kept them fixed on you as you sat beneath his feet. He ran his hands through his spiked hair, and his shoulders probably started to burn from his hunched-over position. His eyes grew bleary from keeping his gaze on you, and you could see the moment's intensity taking a toll on him too.

A new headache bloomed in your temples, worsening your vision. Several seconds later, he tucked his hand into his pocket and slid out a cigarette from a pack. You saw him flick the lighter, enunciating his impossibly sharp jawline with a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He puffed on it, and then the flame went out, leaving nothing but his disgusting silhouette before you. You could tell he was a chain smoker. Gross!

He snorted as you looked away and scuttled your eyes. "Princess doesn't like smokers?" he said.

You flinched without intending to, and he looked unexpectedly entertained, which only added to your mortification. So many thoughts were tangling in your head that you couldn't untie the insanity knotting itself together. You didn't know what to do or how to react.

His eyes scanned the map of your structure, and the slow motion made your heart race even faster. You were wearing a thin, dead cotton gown on your limbs, and you caught the rose petals as they fell from your cheeks, floated around the frame of your body, and covered you with something that felt like the absence of courage. The moment's vulnerability made your skin crawl, and you wished you could just disappear.

The tilt of his head cracked gravity in half, and it felt like time was suspended. You blinked and bottled your breaths, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He shifted, and your eyes shattered into thousands of pieces that ricocheted around the room, capturing a million snapshots and moments in time. Flickering images faded with age, frozen thoughts hovering precariously in dead space, a whirlwind of agony that sliced through your soul. His body was erected 6 feet of perfect, well-shaped muscle, and his profile strong and steady. What the fuck?!

One sharp breath and you were shocked back to reality. No more daydreaming!

"Why am I here?" you asked, your gaze trying hard to avoid his perfectly crafted face. The area around you was suffocated, and your hopes were all exhausted. Your eyes were unfocused and aching, and your finger traced a lazy path across the patterned carpet that smelled like smoke, gunpowder, and blood.

He was sitting across from you, his legs folded, and the tip of his shoes was just a few inches away from your face. You could feel his presence looming over you, filling you with nothing but emotions you had never experienced.

"You're afraid of me." His voice had no shape.

Your fingers found their way into a fist, and he laughed, the sound echoing in the dead air between you. You didn't lift your head or meet his eyes; instead, the taste of smoke lingered on your tongue, wasted oxygen, and you gulped it down. Your throat burned with something familiar to you, something you had learned to swallow recently, and you didn't know how much longer you could keep it in there.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Bugger!" The words escaped your lips before you could think them through, and suddenly someone's gun slammed into your spine. You fell to the carpet with a broken whimper, wheezing into the antique carpet. The pain was excruciating, and you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you. You knew you had made a mistake speaking that way, but it was too late to take it back now.

"That wasn't necessary, Livio." His voice was saturated with mock disappointment. "Enough is enough!" A pause. "All. Of. You. Get. Lost. NOW!"

Without an iota of hesitation, you heard the sound of footsteps and the closing of the door. Your heart sank as you realized you were alone with him once again, left to deal with your actions' aftermath. The pain in your spine was still throbbing, and you could feel the anxiety creeping in.

You were past the sickening feeling that stirred in your gut and made you want to vomit—you were seeing red now. The red of his blood, leaking from his throat as you sliced into it. The red flowing from his mouth as he slowly suffocating. You saw so much red. "What do you want from me?" you hissed, clawing your fingers into the carpet, trying to abate the shaking. You didn't know how much more of this you could take and needed answers.

It took him a few seconds to answer you. "Can you please get up and sit on the sofa across from me?" he said, pausing for a moment, presumably to take a long drag out of his cigarette. "My spine gonna hurt from looking down at you."

Fucker cracked his neck, probably enjoying the feeling of his bones popping. Tension was released, and you could see his shoulders relax.

Without protesting or paying attention to the pain that was about to cripple your body, you slowly backed away and sat on the couch, trying to hide as much skin as you could under your loose gown. You knew that you needed to be careful and keep your guard up, but at the same time, you didn't want to provoke him any further. The ache in your spine was blossoming new buds, so you tried to calm yourself down, knowing that you needed to stay focused and alert to survive.

The house was the court of darkness, but you could see the smoke drifting in the still air. His eyes were distant and unfocused, and he seemed lost in his thoughts, a man caught in his own private hell. You remembered how his face was a mask of tragedy and sadness in the dungeon, too, as if he had seen more than his fair share of suffering. It was a sobering thought, making you wonder what had brought him to this point.

He took his final drag and gently put the cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The red embers faded and disappeared among the gray ashes. He raised his head, and his eyes locked with yours briefly. Then, an empty smile bloomed on his lips. One that made it hurt to look at him as if he was hurting and grinning just to bear it.

What the fuck was wrong with you? Why were you looking for traces of humanity in this monster?

You pressed your lips together and turned to look out from the big window. The rain outside had grown stronger, droplets slamming into the window with a ferocity rivaling your heartbeat. The cigarette was gone, yet that smile would stick around your memory forever.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, and you turned your head to see his fingers grazing the revolver on the table, the gun glinting as if to mock you. Any courage you felt dissipated like butter in a hot skillet, and instead, all the fear you'd been feeling tripled. You couldn't help but feel like you were walking on thin ice, and any wrong move could lead to a deadly outcome. But then, to your surprise, he grabbed the glass of water instead of his gun and handed it to you. "Drink slowly," he instructed.

You hesitated momentarily, unsure what to do, but slowly took the glass and sipped the water, feeling the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Now that your brain had calmed down a little, you noticed how he could probably see the evidence of how cold it was here through your gown. You felt exposed and vulnerable and couldn't help but feel deeply ashamed for being in this situation. You tried to cover yourself up as much as possible, but it was useless.

Noticing where your eyes were trained, he spoke up. "Don't worry about your clothing. I have no interest in your perked-up nipples," he said, loud enough for you to pick up on through the near-constant fear swirling in your bones. Your heart thundered in your ears as you tentatively looked at the glass, inspecting it as if it was a Magic 8 Ball that would reveal a murder plan.

You faced the window again, the beginnings of the storm rattling against the glass. In a few minutes, it'd be a downpour. Thunder would roll and build to a crescendo before a loud crack shook this house's foundation. It would match your mood perfectly.

Suddenly, you realized he was standing before you, his strong perfume tickling your nose. You gulped and kept silent, watching him walk around you. His stare sharpened as he spotted the ugly bruises coloring your neck and collarbones. They were everywhere, and you had a sickening feeling he was going to make it his mission to find every single one. You raised your head, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when he spotted the large gash on the corner of your brow.

"Stupid boy," he muttered, and you wanted to turn your eyes down on his black shoes, but you couldn't look away from his blue eyes, swirling with anger yet an apologetic expression on his face. "Did Livio do this to you?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard as another crack of thunder tore through the atmosphere. With the uncertain consequences of your answer, you chose not to respond to his question.

Two tips of gloved fingers grazed your cloth-covered shoulder for less than a second, and every muscle, every tendon in your body was fraught with tension and tied into knots that clenched your spine. You closed your eyes. You stayed very still. You didn't move. You didn't breathe. You could feel his breath on your neck, and you knew that any sudden move could prove fatal.

"Are you hungry?" His voice was lower now, a little worried.

Your lips trembled as you mistakenly opened your eyes, and you saw him staring at you, studying you. His mouth was barely parted, his hands on his waist, his lashes blinking back confusion. Something punched you in the stomach, and you couldn't help but feel like you were walking on eggshells.

God! His face was unlike anything you'd seen. That was the thing—you had seen him before, in the fucking dungeon, but you were coughing blood back then, and now that you could see his pieces as a whole, he was devastating. Despite the fear and danger you were in, you couldn't help but notice how striking he was. It was like he was carved from marble, and his features were chiseled to perfection.

His eyes. There was something about their droopy shape that was both alluring and intimidating. They were the perfect shade of cobalt, blue like your blossoming bruises, hues that could tell tales of the sky and angels hiding behind the clouds. You couldn't look away from them. You didn't want to. And then you noticed the scar starting from the middle of his chest, slashing straight down through his torso to the middle of his abs. Despite the ugly scar, it only served to heighten his utter beauty. His lips were full, and his sun-kissed blond hair was long enough to run your hands through.

WHAT?!

This was wrong. So wrong. You shouldn't find this beast attractive! But his presence was so overwhelming; it felt as if he was ten feet tall with a shadow crawling up the ceiling, slithering toward you. This giant floor felt tiny with him in it, and you couldn't help but feel small in his presence.

He stepped toward you, a smirk remaining on his face—just the slightest curl in his lips. Your shoulders sagged back. Finally, your instincts weren't completely thrown off, and you made your first smart move.

"Cat got your tongue, love?"

You felt goosebumps as his voice washed over you. The sound was as deep as his ocean eyes. Another swallow nearly caused you to choke on the very muscle. You didn't know what to do, as if your tongue had swelled to double its size.

"What do you want from me?" you choked out. He prowled towards you. Despite the gallons of fear pumping through your heart valves, your spine tightened, and you stayed still. You'd bite him if he got too close.

All thought escaped you as your eyes locked with his. As his thumb brushed your lips, he forced it into your mouth. No shame. No shyness. No, let me buy you a drink before I play with your tongue with my dirty gloved finger. Astonished by his boldness, you nearly slapped yourself.

"I see you still have a tongue, a poisonous one as well."

It took several seconds for your body to unlock. Before you could think about what you were doing, you pressed your teeth together with all your might but met no scream of pain.

Confused, you looked up only to see a satisfaction waving on his facial features. Blood pooled in your mouth, a small trail heading straight towards your chin. A gasp escaped you, your eyes widening and snapping back to his. They were devoid of any hint of pain. Not even a glimmer.

The room was quiet. The static of silence was broken only by your heavy panting. A vortex of his presence slowly drained the oxygen from the room and your brain. Maybe that's why you couldn't think straight with him so close to you. The force of the fear coiled tightly around you, turning your body stone.

You were useless.

Powerless.

The inability to fight raged in your head, your survival instincts told you to spit his finger out, but your body refused. It wasn't until he did it himself that his bloody hand wrapped around your neck and brought your head close to his. You cringed as you felt the essence of his life dripping from his hand. Blood crawled down your spine like menacing fingers, staining your skin as if to mark you. Your horror was heightened when he leaned his forehead against yours and pressed his hand around your throat. 

With his bitten thumb pressing against your air hole, he forced your chin up further. Your breath stalled at the slightest curl in his lips. There was something intimidating about the act. Something condemning. "You're a savage one, aren't you?" he murmured, his sinful eyes devouring your face.

A scowl etched onto your face as you placed your hands on his chest, disregarding the unyielding steel beneath his skin, and tried to push him away. However, he defied your effort, resisting the force and curling his lip into a snarl.

Tears rimmed your lids as frustration grew. "Please, just let me go. I-I don't want to be here," you begged, your voice trembling with fear. It felt like someone was reaching into your chest, yanking out your pride, and throwing it onto the floor. But you couldn't afford to give a fuck about it in this situation. All you wanted was to be away from this man.

He leaned closer, his taunting words cutting through the air. "Are you going to cry, love?" he asked, his voice laced with malice. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palms as they remained pressed firmly against his chest, revealing his pulses. Despite his words, you couldn't help but feel that he was not as unaffected as he appeared to be.

"No," you lied, refusing to show him any more weakness. It was none of his business whether or not you were going to cry. Of course, you absolutely had no problems crying your eyes out after he left, but you wouldn't let him see you break down in front of him.

He released his hand with a feral, toothy grin, allowing you to break free. As he stepped back, you experienced a mixture of relief and coldness. However, he promptly grasped your arm and lifted you to your feet. His intense gaze held you in place while his body brushed against your arm, emitting a fragrance of leather, smoke, and something familiar that was utterly mesmerizing. Fear had a distinct flavor: an acidic, burnt metal that numbed your entire being, not just your tongue. Despite feeling extremely frightened, you were inexplicably… drawn to him, consumed by his presence.

You maintained a steady gaze, keeping him within your field of vision. He drew nearer, pressing his body against yours, but you didn't yield. Instead, you seemed to meld into him, resisting his strength and succumbing to his closeness. His warm breath caressed your skin as his lips approached the edge of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

In a hushed tone, he uttered, "I bet crying would suit you." His words caused your lip to quiver, but you quickly bit down on it, determined not to reveal any vulnerability. As you stole a glance at him, you noticed his gaze was fixated on your lips.

 "Are you here to kill me?" you asked in a low voice. Despite your efforts to conceal the tremors coursing through your body, you were unsuccessful.

Slowly, he shook his head. "Why would I do that?"

You were not sure how to answer that.

"That would be a waste, love," he replied, his forefinger tracing your collarbone. "Moreover, losing such a pretty face would be a shame. I want to keep you," he added, his words dripping an unsettling possessiveness.

"What if I don't want you to?"

He smiled. "Nobody asked for your opinion."

"You're a maniac," you spat out, attempting to wrench yourself away from his grasp. However, he caught hold of your hip bone and gripped it tightly, causing you to suppress a scream.

"Don't struggle, love. You'll only make things more difficult for yourself."

Despite the anger welling up within you, your voice remained eerily mild as you spoke, "Your poor mother." your words were soaked in venom.

He almost choked, his eyes wide, alarmed. "What did you say?"

Your stomach churned with mixed emotions as you watched the man's expression shift. There was an unguarded strain, flinching terror, and sudden apprehension etched on his features. You were trying to mock him because you felt sorry for his poor mother, who had to deal with such a pathetic son.

He seized your arms roughly; his gaze locked onto yours with a sense of urgency pulsing at his temples. "What did you mean?" he demanded, his tone insistent.

Your temper had gotten the best of you, a new feeling that had arisen since your recent circumstances. Typically, you were not a reactive person, but you could not control the emotions that were now surging through you. "N-nothing," you stammered, your voice breaking in half. "I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't—it was just a—"

He released your arms abruptly, as though they had scorched him, and walked away. You took a tight breath, attempting to compose yourself, but found it difficult to even look at him. You tried to explain yourself, but the words that tumbled out made no sense in the vast room. Your fingers clenched your gown as you thought about how your time here had turned you into a person with a foul mouth and degrading behavior. It was humiliating to disappoint yourself more than anyone else.

You glanced over at him, but he had already folded his arms and turned his face towards the tall windows, to the raindrops streaking down the glass. "I know this must be difficult for you," he spoke, his voice devoid of any empathy. "But, I have no fucks to give." His callous words stung, reminding you again of your captor's cruel and indifferent nature.

You desperately took a deep breath and tried to stifle any words that threatened to escape. He turned towards you, pretending not to notice the red rims around your eyes and your nails digging into your almost bare dress. His gaze carefully avoided your face, and he cocked his head in your direction, although it seemed like he was staring at a spot behind you. "Do you know what your father has done, toy?" he asked, his lips wet as he circled your body before disappearing from view. The question hung in the air, leaving you to wonder what he was getting at and what your father's actions had to do with your current predicament.

His sudden disappearance made you even more nervous, and your mind raced as you tried to anticipate his next move. The uncertainty of the situation was torture in itself, not knowing if or when he would strike. "Don't call me a toy," you snapped, seething with anger as you sensed him standing behind you. Your body was tense, ready to react to any sudden movements.

He circled back to the front, and you felt slightly relieved as your shoulders loosened. "Then why don't you tell me your name, love?" he asked, leaning forward towards you. You froze, unsure how to respond, as the man's proximity was both welcoming and unsettling.

You thawed. "You know my name."

He raised a brow. "When I ask a question, I demand an answer, not bullshits."

You gulped down the lump in your throat and whispered your name. His lips softened into a smile that made your stomach churn. He repeated your name, savoring it as if it amused him, entertained him, and delighted him all at once. In all your years of living, none of your past lovers had ever said your name like that.

"Now answer my question, toy," he pointed out, deliberately using the name. You snarled at his defiance, but didn't reply. "Don't make me ask again," he warned, his voice lowering to convey his seriousness.

"I don't know what you want me to say!" you shouted, frustrated. "Why don't you stop being a pussy and solve your problem with him personally?" The words burst out of you in a fit of anger, fueled by the stress building up inside you.

His laughter filled the room, and you braced for what he might say next. "Bold one, huh?" he chuckled. "I can't wait to break you apart, shatter you into pieces and then arrange those pieces in the most fucked up way possible to suit my taste. And I promise, I won't care if they don't fit. I'll fucking make them. You're too feisty for your own good."

"You can't touch me," you spat through clenched teeth, your voice shaking with fear and anger.

"Wrong," he chanted, his tone mocking and cruel.

"My dad will cut your arm!" you countered, hoping to intimidate him with the threat.

"Oh, really?" he said in a conspiratorial whisper, his words cutting through your bravado. "Then why hasn't he done it? You being here is not a big secret with all the men swirling around this household."

The truth of his words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your skin turned cold with sweat. Your fingers trembled, and your lungs struggled to draw in air as you realized the reality of your situation.

"See, he has left you alone with us to skin you alive and play with your bones till you beg to die," he said calmly.

You couldn't believe that your own father had abandoned you to this fate. Honestly, you couldn't help but wonder why you had been stupid enough to expect him to act differently. The memories flooded your mind, and you closed your eyes in a subconscious effort to block them out. But the effort only backfired as the memories grew more vivid. The fights, the screams, the curses, your sister's cries, the hits, the pain, and you begging your father to stop. The vivid images of the blood. Dead, dead red, burgundy and the richest shade of your mother's favorite lipstick all smeared on the floor. You had deceived yourself into thinking that your father, a man of numbers and benefits, would have any incentive to rescue you.

You waited in silence for him to speak, your mind still reeling from the memories that flooded your consciousness. As he began to speak, you struggled to focus, his words bouncing around in the haze of your head and fogging your senses. A sense of hopelessness and helplessness pricked your thoughts. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to pay attention, knowing that any information he might provide could be crucial to your survival.

"Technical bugs don't allow me to confront your father," he said. "Also, death would be a gift for him, don't you agree?"

You looked at him, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, and you struggled to maintain your serenity.

"I have a proposition for you."

You managed to lift your head since you weren't sure you heard correctly. "I don't understand," you told him.

He took a deep breath and began to pace the length of the room. "You are kind of a pet project of mine," he said, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. You couldn't stand the sight of his smug, arrogant demeanor, and the urge to break that grin off his face was almost overwhelming. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face you. "I want you to help me," he said, his tone insistent.

"What?" A broken whisper of surprise.

"You are in my possession," he said a little impatiently. "Maybe you can put the pieces together."

"I don't—"

"Don't pretend dumb! How about you reveal some of your dad's dirty laundry so I can force him out of his hiding hole?" The following pause was filled with a deafening silence, and you felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. "Yet, I would like to give you an option." He offered you a smile that said you should be grateful for the chance he was offering. Someone must be ripping your skin off.

"And if I don't accept?" you asked, catching your voice before it cracked in fear.

He looked genuinely disappointed, and his hands clasped together in dismay. "Did I give you any impression that you have a choice?" he asked, his tone cold and menacing. "If you stand by my side, you'll be rewarded," he continued, his words filled with a sense of threat. He pressed his lips together, and you could feel his eyes boring into you. "But if you choose to disobey? Well...I think your little sister, what was her name? A-m-e-l-i-a, hm? She looks rather lovely with all her body parts intact, right?"

You were breathing so hard that your frame was shaking. "You're threatening me with my sister? What has my father done to you?"

"You'll find out if you manage to survive." He raised a brow.

"And you want me to willingly help you take your revenge?"

His face broke into a brilliant smile. "That would be wonderful." The world was bleeding. You didn't have time to form a response before he started talking again.

"I would never be your rat!" you snapped. "Your men beat me! You keep me here like a slave! You threaten me! You give me no freedom and say you want me to help you hurt my family?" You were about to throw the glass of water at his face. "Why are—"

"Nothing your father hasn't done already to you." His voice was tight, just like his lips, and you were shocked to learn how much he knew about your relationship with your father. "You, if you are insinuating that I am an evil being, I would recommend you take a closer look at your own family," he said the last few syllables with a little too much emphasis, a little too much fire as if it was reminding him of something from his own life.

He spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You knew it, but the anger you felt was like a living thing, a raging inferno that threatened to consume you. You felt it wrapping around your fingers like you could fling it at his face. You felt it coiling around your spine, planting itself in your stomach and shooting branches down your legs, arms, and neck. It was choking you, suffocating you with its intensity.

You wanted to scream and lash out at this man who seemed to enjoy opening your old wounds. The anger inside you needed release; it needed relief. "You," you told him, and you could hardly spit the words out. "You're not any better than my father! You are a monster!"

A dangerous smirk tugged at his lips when he heard his new nickname. "You do not want to upset me, love." His voice was far too calm to match the storm in his eyes. He turned away, so you were staring at his profile. He changed his mind, clasped his hands, and touched his lips. "You're so ungrateful. I was trying to make your stay pleasant."

"Liar!"

 He seemed to be considering that. Nodding, he said, "Yes. Most of the time, yes."

"I don't want to be here. I don't want to be your toy. Let me go!"

He didn't answer right away. His finger played around his tattooed neck. "Don't underestimate me, love. If I wanted to have toys around this house, I would do that," he said, his tone cold and calculating. "Wait! Actually, people would volunteer for me to play with them. I'm very good at it, and certainly, I don't need someone as boring as you to entertain me. Just keep this in your mind," he continued, his words filled with arrogance and entitlement. "I need information, love, and I have my very own ways of taming pretentious brats like you."

You could see how he knew that this hard look was only your front show and that his desires were interested in what you had hidden under your brittle shell. He wanted something you didn't have, but you knew he wouldn't believe it until he broke you and found out.

Feeling sick to the stomach, the thought of being in this man's presence for another moment made you want to kill yourself. So, you started laughing, stopping the tears from falling. "You're disgusting!"

The emotions swirling inside you were like a raging storm, and you felt like you were about to break under the weight of it all. It was like you had been stuffed full of twigs, and all it would take was a single bend to snap you in half. The guilt, anger, frustration, and pent-up aggression inside you needed an outlet, and it was getting out of control.

What were you thinking?

This was all your fault. It was your fault you were here. It was your fault you were in danger. It was your fault this man-whore wanted to use you for his sick purposes, and his brother wanted to perform some new torture rituals on you. FUCK THIS SHIT! If only you had grabbed your sister's hand and walked away from your father years ago, you could have been safe and far away from these psychopaths. But you didn't, and now you were paying the price for your mistakes.

All you could do was try to keep your head above water and hope you wouldn't get drowned.

Because, after all,

It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault.

*

He had been standing by the window for an hour now, his gun back in the holster, looking out at the rain falling softly outside. He had said nothing; his back turned toward you all this time as if you weren't even there.

You tried to control your emotions, holding back tears even though you were overwhelmed by the sadness and grief building up inside you. It felt like you were in the presence of a predator, and the thought of being at his mercy was almost unbearable. You didn't know what he was planning but knew it couldn't be anything good.

You felt completely alone and lost in the emptiness of the giant house, and his presence only made you feel more isolated and disconnected than ever before. You could still feel eyes on you, as if someone was watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake.

You glanced at him. He seemed to be patiently waiting for you to gather and get your shits together, but you could tell that his patience would wear thin very soon. He would demand your response to his proposition.

You took a shaky breath and started taking inventory of your new surroundings, trying to distract yourself from the uncertainty that was choking you. The acceptance of your situation was starting to set in, and you couldn't help but feel sorry for yourself.

He walked toward you one hour and forty-five minutes later, waiting until you finally looked up at him. You could still see that lingering glint of delight as if you were a mouse trapped in a cage with a cat, and you knew that it was only a matter of time before he pounced.  

He cocked his head for you to follow him.

And you did.

He was walking ahead of you, jerking his head towards the stairs, signaling for you to walk behind him like a well-trained pet. The thought made you want to cry. He was sure with your injured body, you could barely stand upright, let alone attempt a funny business. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn't respond immediately, and you fell in step behind him, feeling the urge to cry deepening as you made your way further into the belly of hell. It felt like a bungee cord was strapped around your waist, pulling you back towards the exit, and the longer you walked, the stronger it became.

He shot a look over his shoulder. "Your room."

Your mouth went dry as you realized that you were heading downward, into a basement. You guessed you shouldn't be surprised because… well, where the fuck else were you expecting him to lock you?

As you descended the stairs, the darkness seemed to swallow you whole, the air becoming musty and damp, the thud of your footsteps on the stairs echoing. You tried to keep your breathing even, but it was a struggle. The weight of the new information had suffocated you.

Through blurred eyes, you clung onto insignificant details. He was leading you to an unfamiliar location through dark, narrow corridors that seemed to grow darker and more oppressive as you walked. Eventually, you found yourself at the base of steep wooden steps that creaked ominously under your weight. Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be secrets hidden behind locked doors and shadowy corners, but no answers to be found.

"Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. This means you'll be punished if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct."

You averted your gaze before he could see the emotions churning within you, feeling as if they were spitting out like grease in a hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in your throat, you choked out, "Yes, Master." You hated yourself for submitting to him in this way, but you had no fight left in you after everything you had gone through. And you knew that it was only the beginning of your ordeal.

He made a sound of aversion. "Never call me that. Reminds me of my brother," he snapped, muttering the last part.

Summoning your courage, you looked up and met his gaze once more. "How would you like me to address you?" you asked, making a conscious effort to keep any hint of anger out of your eyes. Deep down, you knew exactly what the fuck you'd like to call the evil creature, but you held your tongue for the time being.

He trained his narrowed gaze on you, seeming to contemplate something. "Just call me Vash," he responded, though his tone implied that he didn't expect you to comply. "Although judging by the hatred in your eyes, I doubt you'll call me by my name. Will ya?"

Your heart shriveled when you realized he could read you like an open book. You weren't sure why you were surprised, but the knowledge sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through your bloodstream, twisting your gut painfully. The feeling of hopelessness was deepening.

"Yes, I'll do whatever you want me to," you forced out, your body hunching forward under the weight of the intense emotions coursing through you. It felt as if they were powerful enough to disintegrate your spine and send you crumbling to the floor at his feet.

Despite the temporary nature of your compliance, the man appeared pleased with your response.

"As long as you promise to stay away from my sister," you added and stared into his eyes.

He dipped his head, staring at your sad eyes, studying you in an entirely new way. “My promises aren’t worth much, love,” he whispered. “Or have you forgotten?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m an exceptional liar.”

Realization slammed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be making deals with him. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere as he led you through a series of metal doors, each guarded by his henchmen. Their eyes followed you everywhere, appraising you with fear and something else you didn't want to consider. You wanted to rip the carpets and curtains and sew them to your skin.

The men were all armed to the teeth, their guns slung around their necks, while others were strapped to their belts. You couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as you saw the weapons, knowing that any of these men could end your life with a single pull of the trigger.

Yet, they all betrayed a look of terror when they saw their boss's face — a flash of fear that was quickly replaced with a mask of obedience. You could see it in how they gripped their weapons a little tighter as he walked by — they were afraid of him and for good reason.

He was proud of himself. "Their fear will work in your favor," he muttered while walking by your side.

"Why?" You no longer had the energy to think.

He stopped abruptly, his eyes calling you an idiot. He closed the few inches between you, and your words fell on the floor. "You really are naive, aren't you?" he said, his voice harsh and low, the words a grating whisper against your skin. "If they don't fear me, they'll hunt you. Your father is not very popular around here." He backed away from you, his laughter mirthless and chilling. Then, he resumed walking down the hall, but you found yourself rooted to the spot. The realization hit you like a bucket of ice-cold water emptying down your back.

As he noticed that you weren't following him, he stopped, and a strange glimmer appeared in his light eyes. "I am not the one you should be concerned about," he said before walking back towards you until his lips scarcely brushed across your nose while hot breath fanned against your cheek. "Better hope Kni's goons don't come looking for an easy meal," he whispered, adding another fear to your collection.

A pool of emotions constricted your throat, leaving it clogged. Disgust, anger, and terror churned within you, at the thought of men taking advantage of your body while you were injured was sickening. Your stomach twisted in response, and it took all your self-control to hold back vomiting. "You would let that happen?" you whispered, your voice hoarse and strained.

He retreated an inch, observing your expression closely. You stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his soulless eyes. "Why should I stop them?" he asked, pausing for effect as a vicious grin spread across his lips. "You're just a leverage; soon enough, you'll be nothing."

You clung tightly to your composure, but your body shook with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. A tear slipped loose as his gloved hand brushed your jawline. "Stop crying," he ordered quietly. You obeyed, knowing that your survival depended on appeasing him.

"Good girl," he praised. Your rage boiled to the surface, but you bit your tongue. Fuck you.

As he brushed a finger lightly down your spine, leaving a trail of chills in his wake, you couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion. You were trapped in his clutches.

"Don't worry, love. I'll be taking good care of you when they come sniffing," he murmured, offering a shred of hope you refused to cling to.

You snarled and glared at him through blurred vision. "And you'd be any better?" you hissed, challenging his twisted sense of morality. His values were as opaque as frosted glass.

Slowly, he straightened his spine and shot you a cryptic grin. "I guess there's only one way to find out. You want to try me?" he said before turning and walking away from you. The second the distance between you two grew, several more tears escaped, and once those were set loose, a flood followed. You couldn't bear the thought of staying in this place, of being used as a pawn or a plaything by the man and his associates. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried to stifle a sob, but it broke free anyway. You knew that you had to escape, that you would rather die trying than be passed from hand to hand like an object.

So you turned and started running.

You bolted down the hallway, your feet pounding against the cold, hard floor as you ran past the doors. You didn't know what you were doing or where you thought you could go, but all you knew was that you had to get away from this place, from this man and the perverts around him.

Your heart was racing, and your breath came in short gasps as you ran, fueled by adrenaline. You didn't know what lay ahead of you, but you knew it had to be better than what you left behind.

With no clear plan in mind, you pushed yourself to reach the front door, hoping it would provide an escape route. The only thing driving you forward was the hope that you could find a way out and away from the danger that lurked behind you.

His commands echoed off the walls, exploding in your eardrums with a deafening force. He didn't need to chase you. He had his men do the work for him. They were lining up before you, beside you, and behind you, forming a wall that seemed impenetrable, trapping you in this place of terror. You were surrounded, with no apparent outlet.

You couldn't breathe. You were spinning in a circle of your own stupidity, panicked, pained, petrified by the thought of what he was going to do to you against your will.

"Catch her," he said softly. "Don't you dare shoot her!" Silence had stuffed itself into every corner of this house. His voice was the only sound in the room.

One of his men stepped forward. Your eyes were flooding, and you squeezed them shut, then you pried them open and blinked back at the crowd. Every inch of your body was covered in pang. Your bones began to buckle, snapping in synchronicity with the beats of your heart. You crumbled to the floor, folding into yourself like a flimsy crepe. You felt so painfully exposed in this ragged gown.

"Don't—" you held up a tentative hand, pleading with your eyes, staring into the face of the man. "Please don't—" Your voice broke.

You were defenseless, with no protection. The man grabbed your arms, and your body tensed in response. "NO, NO, NO!" you gasped, struggling against his hold. Like a raging river, your blood surged through your veins, with waves of heat lapping against your bones.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through your veins, giving you a burst of energy and strength. Desperate to escape his grasp, you pushed yourself back and kicked his leg, hoping to create enough distance to break free. As he stumbled back, you saw an opportunity to reach for his gun.

You grabbed the weapon with a quick and decisive movement, feeling its weight in your hand. It was a risky move, but you were willing to do whatever it took to defend yourself. You held the gun at arm's length, pointing it at the man before you, hoping it would be enough to make him back off and give you a chance to escape.

Your triumph was short-lived as the man reacted quickly, moving in to tackle you. Your lungs constricted, and a wave of ice-cold cruelty washed over you.

Then everything happened so fast.

A shooting sound.

The man's weight fell on your petite frame, his body collapsing against yours. You struggled to breathe as the air was forced out of your lungs, and the gun slipped from your grasp.

Your screams echoed throughout the room as you tried to see past the sheet of tears that blurred your vision. You were hiccuping, hysterical, horrified by the frozen look on this man's face, his paralyzed lips wheezing gasps through his lungs. You broke free and stumbled backward.

The multitude of armed men behind you parted ways, their faces etched with shock and unfiltered terror.

"Somebody help him!" you screamed. "Somebody help him! He needs a doctor— he needs to be taken—he needs—he—oh—what have I done—"

You heard Vash calling your name.

"DON'T TOUCH ME—DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME—"

Vash was trying to comfort you, holding you together and smoothing back your hair. The tears continued to flow down your cheeks, and he was trying to wipe away your tears while you wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, to scream and murder him.

"You need to calm down—"

"HELP HIM!" you cried, falling to your knees, your eyes glued to the figure lying on the floor. The other men were creeping closer. "Please—you have to help him! Please—Vash!" His name rolled over your tongue, and for a second, you saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Livio, Rollo—TAKE CARE OF THIS!" he shouted to his men before scooping you into his arms. Your skin was cold and clammy with sweat, your fingers trembling with disgust, your heart unable to withstand him.

Despite his strength, you felt a sense of powerlessness and vulnerability in his grasp. You wanted nothing more than to run as far away from him as possible, but your body was weak and trembling, unable to withstand the trauma and terror you had experienced.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" you cried desperately. Then the pain you had suppressed for so long finally crushed you. You broke, your body cracking from the pain you'd swallowed so many times, heaving with sobs you could no longer suppress, your dignity dissolving in your tears, the agony of the past weeks ripping your skin to shreds.

You cried out all the pain and fear you had been holding inside, the emotions ripping through you like the storm outside. You felt like you were being torn apart, piece by piece, as the memories of what had happened to you flooded back.

You couldn't even breathe. You couldn't catch the oxygen around you. You couldn't see or hear anything anymore, leaving you unable to perceive the world around you clearly. Your thoughts were scattered and jumbled, and you couldn't even be sure if you were still fully conscious. You wondered if you had finally lost your mind.

In the midst of this confusion, you found yourself lifted off the ground, feeling weightless. The world spun around you in a dizzying blur, making it difficult to keep your bearings. You were lost in a fog of uncertainty, unsure of what was happening to you or where you would end up.

You were a bag of feathers, a fragile crystal in his arms. Despite everything that had happened, his embrace felt warm and safe. You shouldn't want this so much. For now, you wanted to forget that you were supposed to hate him, that he kidnapped you, that he was here just because he wanted to use you against your father. But at the minute, you wanted nothing more than to forget all and just be held and comforted.

Your face was buried in the soft material of his shirt, and your cheek was pressed against the cross dangling on his chest. You had felt this before, but when you breathed in his scent, you smelled your mom's pancakes, joyful peals of laughter, and happy Sundays. The nostalgia of simpler times.

You tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the warmth of his embrace and the sense of comfort that he provided. You didn't want him ever to let go of your body, but then the reality slapped you in the face, mortification muddled your brain, desperate humiliation clouded your judgment, red painted your face, and bled through your skin.

You clutched at his shirt, not letting go of the cross, your voice trembling as you spoke. "You can kill me," you told him, your fear and desperation evident in your words. "You have a gun!"

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he tightened his hold around your body, his face still stoic and impassive. However, you could see a sudden strain in his jaw and an unmistakable tension in his arms, indicating that your words had struck a nerve.

Despite your fear, a fiery sense of defiance rose within you. "Just kill me!" you pleaded. "My father—he—he doesn't care about me." you were numb, powerless all over again. "Please—"

The world went black before you could say anything else, and you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sound of his voice, telling you something cold and emotionless.

This monster had no heart. Your father had eaten it.

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