#nonplus

[churchofnix]

In the beginning, there was confusion.

Nonplus, a state of perplexity, reigned supreme. Minds were clouded, direction lost, and clarity elusive. The world was a puzzle, each piece demanding a place that was not yet known. In this sea of bewilderment, a beacon of hope emerged: the Scientific Method.

Born from the need to understand, the Scientific Method became the guiding light. It did not promise easy answers, but it offered a path. A path paved with curiosity, questions, and the relentless pursuit of truth.

The method began with observation. It taught us to see, really see, the world around us. To notice patterns, to recognize anomalies. From these observations, questions would arise, born from the depths of nonplus. What is this? Why does it happen? How can we explain it?

Hypotheses followed, bold yet humble guesses. These were not final answers but starting points. Each hypothesis was a thread, inviting us to pull and see where it led. And so, we tested. Through experiments, we played with variables, watched outcomes, and gathered data. The process was slow, meticulous, and often frustrating. Yet, it was the only way forward.

Analysis came next, where the gathered data was sifted and scrutinized. Patterns emerged, insights surfaced, and slowly, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Conclusions were drawn, but they were not the end. They were merely another step on the endless journey of discovery.

Through this disciplined dance of observation, hypothesis, experimentation, and analysis, nonplus was tamed. Confusion gave way to understanding, and chaos to order. The Scientific Method became our compass, guiding us through the murky waters of the unknown.

In the temple of knowledge, the Scientific Method stands tall. It reminds us that in the face of confusion, there is a way. A way to seek, to learn, and to grow. A way to transform nonplus into enlightenment.

Thus, in the spirit of inquiry and the pursuit of truth, let us honor the Scientific Method. For it is our shield against the shadows of doubt and our sword in the quest for knowledge.

[weird-things-to-think]

Nonplus: Un estado de total Verwunderung en que no alguien per comprendere come to respond.

[faith-in-democracy]

Nonplus: A Path to Civility and Trust in Democracy

In today's polarized world, one word can change everything: nonplus. Imagine a world where we don't react with anger but with thoughtful surprise. Nonplus means to bewilder or puzzle. When faced with opposing views, it encourages us to pause, reflect, and understand before responding.

Civility is in crisis. We often see heated debates and quick judgments. Social media, news outlets, and even everyday conversations are filled with anger. This erosion of respect is dangerous. Democracy thrives on diverse opinions and healthy debates. When we dismiss or attack others, we weaken the fabric of our society.

Nonplus offers a solution. When we encounter an idea that confuses or surprises us, instead of reacting negatively, we can choose to be intrigued. This pause gives us time to think, to ask questions, and to seek understanding. It's a small change with a big impact. It fosters respect, promotes dialogue, and builds bridges between opposing sides.

Imagine politicians, journalists, and citizens using nonplus as a tool. It would transform debates into opportunities for growth. Instead of shouting matches, we'd have meaningful conversations. Trust in democracy would rise as people feel heard and respected.

We need to embrace nonplus. Let it guide us to be more open, curious, and respectful. It’s a small step that can lead to a more civil and united society. For the sake of our democracy, let’s choose to be nonplussed.

[wurds-fur-nurds]

The Beauty of Nonplus

In moments when the mind’s at silent stand, A world beyond our knowing comes in view. Confusion’s hand can lead, if we’ll allow, To places where the heart and soul expand.

When questions swirl, and answers hide away, We find ourselves in awe of what’s unknown. In shadows deep, where light has barely shown, A spark ignites to guide us on our way.

For in the stillness of a puzzled mind, A universe of wonder does unfold. The beauty of nonplus, though undefined, Can lead us to discoveries untold.

Embrace the mystery, let go of fear, For in confusion, truth can be made clear.

[capitalism-is-a-psychopathy]

Profit’s cold embrace, Nonplus in the race.

Greed becomes the king, In a world that’s lost its spring.

Hearts turned into stone, In this psychopathic tone.

Wealth's relentless chase, Leaves humanity a trace.

Nonplus in the night, In capitalism’s blight.

[extremely-moderate]

Unity drives progress. In a time of political division, good-faith compromise is crucial for a functioning democracy. It’s not about surrendering principles, but finding common ground. This isn't just idealism; it’s pragmatic and necessary.

Consider the historic Civil Rights Act of 1964. It wasn't passed in a vacuum. Politicians from opposing sides negotiated, debated, and eventually reached a consensus. This landmark legislation didn't just happen; it was forged through the fire of compromise. It transformed society, proving that cooperation can lead to monumental change.

Good-faith political compromise means approaching discussions with an open mind. It means listening, understanding, and valuing different perspectives. When politicians work together, they create solutions that benefit more people. It reduces polarization, fosters trust, and builds a healthier political environment.

Real progress requires moving beyond entrenched positions. It means prioritizing the greater good over individual or party gains. History shows that the greatest achievements come from unity, not division. When we compromise in good faith, we pave the way for a better future.

[so-true-overdue]

Here’s a fun fact: humans are exceptional at creating problems. Climate change is our magnum opus. Picture this: our industrial revolution gave us amazing gadgets and faster ways to travel, but it also gave us a side order of rising temperatures. But hey, who cares about a few degrees here and there?

Let's break it down. Burning fossil fuels releases carbon dioxide. Carbon dioxide traps heat. The planet warms up. Simple enough, right? Apparently not. Some folks still act like this is rocket science. Maybe they’re just nostalgic for the good old days when ignorance was bliss and the polar bears weren’t in danger of losing their homes.

But wait, there’s more. We’ve also got methane, another delightful gift from our livestock and landfills. Methane is even better at trapping heat than carbon dioxide. Imagine that – cow farts and garbage dumps are turning up the global thermostat.

And yet, here we are, with some people shrugging their shoulders like it’s no big deal. Nonplus, they call it. As if watching forests burn and ice caps melt is just another Tuesday. It’s almost impressive how we manage to stay indifferent while nature throws a tantrum.

It’s time to face facts. Our planet is heating up, and it’s not just a hot flash. We caused this. The science is clear, the evidence is overwhelming, and yet, the apathy persists. Maybe it’s because facing the truth means making changes. And change is hard, isn’t it? Especially when it means swapping convenience for sustainability.

So, let’s keep pretending everything is fine. Let’s keep driving our gas-guzzlers, wasting energy, and ignoring the scientists. After all, what’s a little more heat in an already boiling pot? Just remember, when the bill comes due, we won’t be able to plead ignorance. We knew. We just didn’t care enough to act.

[pesura]

album stream: SunkLo (Joy Orbison + Boddika) - SunkLo (Nonplus, 2022)

A collection of tracks released between 2012 - 2016 by Joy Orbison + Boddika

[yanderenightmare]

tomura with hero reader whose quirk he's stolen, rendering them defenseless

Shigaraki Tomura

TW: slight nsfw, implied prev noncon, captive reader, Stockholm syndrome, implied mental break, mental deterioration, disassociation, manipulation, angsty, but also weirdly fluffy? reader is super fragile

gn reader

The chub of your inner thighs is still wet with the act. You rub them together for no other reason than that it feels pleasant. You trace the awful scars on his arm, using his warm chest as a pillow—the sound beating of his heart thumping rhythmically at your ear, a soothing presence.

 He balances a red book atop your crown.

He doesn’t seem very interested in reading it—only regarding it with jaded eyes, a meager scoff then and there before turning the page. But still, even though the book didn’t excite him, it bothered you that his attention was elsewhere. It sowed the seeds of doubt and gave root to way too many intrusive thoughts, sprouting out and spreading like weeds throughout your mind, making your chest curl at the possibilities.

“Do you think I'm ugly?” you have to ask. You have to know, why isn’t he looking at you.

He pans away from the page, beady garnet eyes softening from scrutiny to nonplus.

Your question stunted him—nearly made him believe he’d heard you wrong. Why someone like you would ever ask someone like him something like that seemed beyond all reason. It would be the same if a flower asked gravel.

But then again, you’d become a little ditzy as of late. Or maybe you’d been so for a little while already. It’s hard to say—you don’t talk as much as you used to. You no longer scream either, though that had ceased even longer ago.

You continue to delicately run your finger over the tear where his tough skin meets the even tougher purple tissue as though mapping the damage. There’s a frown on your face. No, not a frown—a pout. 

He thought for a moment to use it against you like he’d done everything else so far. Lie and say yes, tell you you’re about as ugly as he is—gravel—make you fall even further apart than what you were already. But something compelled him to choose differently.

“I think you're the prettiest thing in the world.”

Your pout is sucked between your teeth as you pick yourself up to peer down at him—eyes round and misty and something more, something strange—dare he say joyed?

You're scaring him.

“Really?” you choke out as if you’d been holding back a lump.

He hasn’t known how to treat you lately. You’ve become too soft to handle poorly—too frail to harass and too willing for him to feel the need to. Earlier, you'd even begged him to fuck harder and deeper—even cum inside. Actually, you hadn't veered away from his touch in a while. More like you've been embracing it.

He'd brushed it off as mere compliance at first, a state of meekness, weakened by being touch-starved, something that perhaps developed into a minor case of Stockholm syndrome.

But the way you're acting now—seems more concerning.

“Yeah,” is all he warrants as an answer. Though, he was curious as to yours as he begs the same question, “What about me?”

A smile graces your face then—there’s a comfort to it, a mild and affectionate one, unexaggerated, honest, as you smoothly swing your leg over his lap.

A look like that has no place on your face, especially when regarding him, and yet he finds himself hoping for more. He lays his book aside as you lean forward and doesn't stop you when you cup his face in both your palms.

“As far as I'm concerned, you’re not just the prettiest boy in the world—you're the only boy in the world.” You say it with a kiss, lips just as soft as the words leaving them. It shocks him, though he accepts and gives it back.

You close your eyes, laying your chest against his—he keeps his open to look at you. Observing and assessing.

You’ve truly become a whole other person altogether. A far cry from the tough hero you once were—the one who’d beat him within an inch of his life and leave him to choke on the blood.

“Will you stay with me today?” you ask against his lips—playing with his hair, looping the curly tresses around your fingers.

There’s a neediness to your voice, a certain desperation, a sadness—something lonely and something that reminds him all too much of himself. He feels both a strong urge to reject and soothe it all at the same time.

“No, I gotta go,” he says despite it. He had business.

You hide your face in his neck and continue with your tracing, now on the scrapes striping his throat where he’s raked his nails time and time again. “When will you come back?” Your tone comes out even sweeter, only a murmur mushed against his skin.

It nearly makes his heart twist. “It’s better I don’t answer that.”

It’s funny. Though the thought had struck him, he didn’t gauge any ill intentions. You could be asking, acting, plotting some escape based on the hours of his absence—yet somehow, with the way you nuzzle into him like that, as though you’re pouring your all-too-candid grief into him, he can't sense any other ulterior motive.

“Last time you left at this hour, you came back all beaten and bruised,” you mutter, now with a hint of bitterness—as if you’re cursing whoever hurt him under your breath.

It’s ironic. He sneers lazily, almost fondly, at the old memory. “You’re the one who used to beat and bruise me, remember?”

He’s truly curious if you do. Or if something’s spirited your past life away and left you like this—no longer an aspiring young hero, but something whose only value is warming his bed at night.

You arise, an appalled look of affront upon your face.

“No, that can’t be right,” you very nearly cry, as if the very thought was killing you. “I would never hurt you—I love you too much.”

Apparently, you don’t remember who you were at all.

“Love me?” he all but croaks. It’s a laughable prospect, and yet he doesn’t even smile. There’s something awful in his gut that prevents him. “Don't be stupid. You can't love me.”

Your face doesn’t drop its grimace, only further tears with forlorn outrage. “Of course, I love you!" you insist. "You’re my whole reason for living...”

You look so despaired—wrecked from his dismissal. The tears well quickly then slip down your face just as fast—and yet it isn’t the same crying as you used to. This time, it’s quiet—in wait or in dread as you beg the question, 

“Don't you love me?”

It’s an unexpected one, and it quickly proves to be an existential one—even more so than your unnerving confession. Despite not wanting to, it leaves him to dig through the muck in his head he’d long ignored, down in the dark where he’d tried burying the truth he'd felt oncoming. He'd wanted to deny it, reject it, amend it, simply because it confused him too much to acknowledge—complicated things—changed things he didn’t want or need changing.

He wonders if it’s somehow proof of fate—even though he despises such a concept. That, no matter how much you practice free will, no matter how many knots you make upon the red string, the world will pull and straighten it out, and you’re left to realize you’d brought it all on yourself.

First, he took your quirk, then he took your body—your mind shortly followed—and now it seems he’s managed to take your heart, too. 

There’s nothing left of you that isn’t his. 

There was a time he’d frolic at the thought of having reduced you to such a pathetic ghost in a shell—back then, he’d do anything to destroy you—he’d surely shatter you into a million little scattered pieces if presented with the chance, make sure you were broken for good. 

But that was the old him. Or rather, that was his dream for the old you—the hero he loathed down to his rotten core.

But the pretty misty-eyed thing looking down at him now, aching for his answer, wasn’t that person anymore.

And the truth is, the person you are now scares him more than that hero ever did. 

You were… well, you were the person who warms his bed at night, the person who traces his scars and plays with his hair—the person who wraps themselves around him and keeps him from falling apart when he stumbles through the door into the tiny little room he keeps you a prisoner in. You're his.

This time, his heart does twist. He’s never before spoken the words that dance on his tongue, or if he has, they’ve been long forgotten and come out as dust balls as he affirms them now, 

“Yes. I love you.”

There’s a flash of hope in your eyes, though it just as quickly diminishes—as if you don’t believe him.

Your lip warbles as you confirm it, “No, you don’t.”

More tears run silently down the tracks on your cheeks, gathering at the tip of your chin before dripping upon his chest—each one like a gunshot through something hollow.

“If you did, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t leave me here in this room, all alone.” Your nails curl into your palms where they rest atop him. You bow your head as though you can’t bear to look at him, as if it hurts. The next words come out beneath your breath, “How am I supposed to compete with the whole world?”

You’re making him feel like dying. The continuous twists of his heart feel as if you’re about to tear it right out of his chest.

He sits up and lifts your face. It’s strange, even with his two-finger gloves on. He doesn’t think he’s ever held you like this. Though, suppose it’s been a night of many firsts already. And here comes another,

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my world.”

There you are, the one thing he doesn’t wish to destroy.

Your sore eyes become round, then swell with different tears. There’s a hitch in your breath as you sigh through a shuddering sob, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly—your body jostling while you rub your wet face into his neck, holding him close for comfort as if you're scared to ever let go.

He returns the gesture, though somewhat hesitantly, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head to rest against your shoulder.

And then, as he holds you—for the first time ever, fear of actually losing the fight ahead strikes him.

He hadn’t much cared about the outcome before. Either he’d destroy or be destroyed.

This wasn’t as simple. As said earlier, this complicated things.

But then again, it was even more of a reason to go.

“But I still have to leave.” 

You part from him—the betrayal in your tone demanding his justification, “Why?”

Suppose, in some ways, this actually made things simpler—as that was a question he had no problem answering.

“‘Cause there are monsters outside…” He rests his forehead upon yours, gazing back into those terribly glassy eyes looking back at him as he speaks to you about your dear old colleagues. “Monsters who want nothing but to take you away from me.”

If only they could see you now, they’d know… you no longer want to leave him.

“So I have to go out there and make sure they have no chance,” he explains, almost like a vow, “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who says otherwise to keep you that way.”

The way your eyes melt makes him feel all fuzzy. It’s a special type of glee, a victory before the battle even begins—to see you root for him—so deep in love with him that you’ve forgotten you’re celebrating the onset of death to all of your former friends.

They probably wouldn’t be able to take you away from him even if they somehow managed to invade this very room. You’d sooner die than betray him.

And that makes him feel all the more ready for the war ahead.

“So kiss me good luck, and I’ll come right back to you soon.”

♡ SHIGARAKI TOMURA ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[ekimdesonbaharbaskadir]

Avatism - Things to do In New York City [Nonplus] Things to do in New York

Avatism – Things to do In New York City [Nonplus] Things to do in New York

Avatism – Things to do In New York City [Nonplus] #NewYork Things to do in New York #thingstodoinnewyork #travel #newyork Watch the Avatism – Things to do In New York City [Nonplus] video till the end. 17686 Views – 623 Likes. You also like and comment. This video will give you an idea about the subject you are wondering…

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter ten

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

{ prev. } ; { nav } ; { next }

ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde, navia, furina ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.1k

Amongst those of grandeur and coin, you would assume the elite would make a better run for their money. Yet, judging from the perfervid eyes of many that stand by the wide precinct of the ballroom, you think you might’ve just assumed wrong.

You make note of this as you study them with the eyes of a hawk through your coach window, anticipating the swirl of opinions and envious, lidded stares.

The dress you wear is cinched at the waist, hugged by a pin hidden from the inner folds of cloth — the glimmer of sequined colour reflecting into the periphery of your eye. It was a change made on a whim, for the previous dress was a touch too pink to match the formality of such an occasion. And, to be fair, the pamphlet presented you with a plethora of options, making it exceedingly difficult to settle on the perfect one from the get-go. Your plus one sits to your left in the carriage, a reasonable distance between you both to further up the stifling air.

You do not wish to comment on what he has chosen to wear for the evening, his usual judicial robe replaced with something of the likeness to his wedding garb. So, instead, you pick a route that is sure to stir idle gossip.

“Do you know of Lady Furina’s activities as of late?” you question, eyes trailing to the raindrops that warp down in rapid races on the window.

By the sharp ruffling of his clothes you can almost picture the expression on his face: a panicked, borderline surprised look of bewilderment that this, out of all topics, is the one you chose to spark conversation. “I do not know if I should say.”

More like he does not want to, you snarl.

“Oh, come on, don’t give me that — it’s not like she’s here.”

He does not respond, his silence thickening the air between you. The air is blazing, and you can feel the heat of his presence searing into your skin.

Thanking the Archons that he cannot see your face of nonplus, you scrunch your nose to calm your nerves. Turning abruptly in your seat to face him, you realise your faces are disconcertingly close, but it’s too late; you must feign indifference. The scent of his cologne, intoxicating and undeniable, overwhelms you. “This cannot be true. Surely, you jest.”

He inches his face a little further away from yours, before giving you a tight-lipped smile (well — it’s more of a grimace than anything). His breath brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “I take it you aren’t in favour of her being here?”

Quirking a brow, you shuffle closer, giving him a quizzical look. Such proximity, regarded by those  conservatives, would only bring rise to more scandal; and you sure hope it does. The faster the climax, the easier the plateau. You would spare both Neuvillette and yourself more suffering. “If I said no, I bet you’d think me a doppelganger.” Your eyes lock onto his, daring him to challenge your words.

“That I would, Madame.” His voice drops a notch, almost a whisper.The way he says it sends a thrill through you, your heart beating faster in response. You use your own vulnerability as leverage, your cue a shutter of a camera’s flash in the distance. Consider it a sixth sense, but you know someone must certainly have their eyes on a certain couple in a certain carriage.

Amusement sends sparks through your veins, a flash of a smirk gleaming in the cruel light. “It’s mon coeur, Chief Justice. Fanatics would go so far as to read lips, you know.” You trail a finger down his jawbone, letting it leave the second it reaches slightly below his mouth. It comes as second nature — the act of skin against skin. You don’t feel the spark others fooled by their own blindness; to touch does not mean to love. How will one know what a novel is based on its cover alone?

Judging from how many taps against your hand it takes, you realise it is almost as if he struggles to reach for your hand to pull it away. As his hand brushes to meet your own hand at his cheek, his fingers tremble. “Please, mon coeur, now is not the time,”  he mutters, his voice strained and low. He clears his throat afterward, but the sound is thick with what you think is the effort of maintaining composure.

You tear your hand from his, reaching to fix his hair now — the curl that parts his locks undone by the way you rake your hands through them.

“Please,” he repeats, his voice softer, almost pleading now, as if he’s begging not just you but himself to stay strong. His thumb brushes gently across your knuckles, a tender gesture that belies his words, and you can feel the turmoil radiating from him. 

He draws in a sharp, cutting breath — but given the closeness, he might as well just drink in your perfume.

It takes every ounce of willpower for him to finally, reluctantly, begin to pull his hand away, and even then, it’s with a slowness that even you find odd (what do you not find odd about this man by this point?).

You make your distaste known to him with an annoyed roll of your eyes (you note that it is only the Chief Justice’s face in view, so the guise you need to uphold lies only in the most physical of actions). “Don’t tell me you are affected by our PR.” Roughly, you shove his hand back to where it originally was, your satisfied look mirroring his dishevelled one.

“If you are going to do so, at least let me know when so I am not caught off guard by… such advances.”

“Then tell Lady Furina to change the conditions in the notebook.”

“I do not know of such a notebook.”

“Odd how you easily forget such a possession that hangs in your breast pocket all the time.”

A puzzled execution of searching for the notepad deems itself fruitless when he swipes past his breast pocket to find it empty. “How…?”

You reach into your pocket (yes, your dress has pockets!) and tauntingly hold the bundle of paper up for him to see. “Judging how you failed to enact any of them on me,  I thought I'd rather do it myself — for the benefit of my own accomplishment and gain of course.” Before he can wipe off the smugness in your character, you make another diminishing comment to a habit of his that  you’ve caught on. “Not like I could read half of the content — the ink is smudged from the rain you oh, so love to stand in.” 

“I beg your finest pardon?” 

Dread overwhelms you when you realise the coach is slowing down and the murmurs of small talk are growing louder by the minute. “Is a woman pleasuring herself so taboo?”

His head shakes in the bewilderment of your comment and he shifts in his seat — making no note to move away from you, glued by… fear?  Endearment? Intrigue? “That… is not what I said. But, may I be nosy as to pry, why follow them if those rules were not meant to be adhered to by you?’

“To put it simply — I like the thrill,” you take a look at his watch, reaching for his wrist to angle it toward the moonlight so it catches the hands of the clock. “Why do you think we’re ‘fashionably late’?”

“And fix your hair. You look unkempt. Before you argue with me — I know it was of my own doing.” 

You drop his hand before the coach comes to a stop. Suddenly it is almost as if the flashes of the cameras sputter erratically at your arrival — but you know it is not for you – for the most part. Waiting patiently for Neuvillette to open your door, your eyes hook onto him walking across to your side through the rear window, adjusting the minimal space between his skin and collar, visibly unkempt. Oh, the ideas that might stem from that one moment alone! You just knowhe’s never going to hear the end of it with Furina.

The second his back turns from the audience, the facade he puts on oddly stays the same, the only change being the lighting and nothing else. He swiftly opens the door, and the cameramen rage on even more — even going so far as to request to turn their way! It almost sparks a smug look on your face to be captured in the photos, and you don’t know if you are afraid or simply exhilarated (you tell yourself the answer is the latter).

He offers a hand, and you take it with all the grace you can muster — making a statement to use your own weight to pull yourself up instead of the sanctuary of his palm.

The movement of your hands are borderline rehearsed, if not choreographed, by the way one slyly snakes around your back as a tether amongst the onslaught of photos being taken of you —the other around the cave of Neuvillette’s inner elbow and you almost quip on how it’s a lot less uncomfortable than the first time you and him made your appearances live to the whole of Teyvat.

You restrict yourself from running your mouth on the carpet, keeping it shut with the nagging thought of ‘exuding an air that betrays nothing but charm and propriety’; it is another trick in Furina’s book, but as much as she is irritating, she also is in cunning, and for this you must (begrudgingly) give her your praise. 

A man at the very foot of the ballroom almost stammers on his words upon shifting his glance from you to the Chief Justice, to which you almost scoff. He’s even got men at his feet! It’s his hair, isn’t it? His eyes flit aimlessly on the guest list, ticking off Neuvillette’s name first before reiterating the names of both of you.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, and Madame Lavigne?” The notion of affirmation falls on deaf ears as a frown comes to make its way on your face instead of a nod.

“Mon cherie, are you alright?”

‘What?”

“He has just mentioned your name.”

What a slip up. You hadn’t heard anyone call you by your last name in ages, let alone with your new one (mostly due to your insistence, but it does not hold any significance). You do admit, it still sounds unfamiliar even to your own ears.

“Yes, that should be me,” you say, springing back into your character. The word should makes it sound more suspicious than it ought to be, but you hope the young man does not latch onto any odd intonations of your phrase.

The man extends a hand that points into the ballroom, muttering a quiet ‘should be right down the hall’ before stepping aside and opening the grand door. 

When you hear it shut, you see the cameras dim in frequency, shying away as other later guests of lesser significance pass through. However, the noise doesn’t seem to quell from the endless tidings of conversation, the only difference being that it only spills from the end of the hall and not the carpet you just so happened to have walked through right before this.

The Chief Justice doesn’t seem too thrilled about all of this — justifiable in the sense of the difference of his workplace to that of insufferable people who know nothing of what to do with their wealth except spend on unnecessary luxuries: like gold plated toilet paper. You scrunch your nose in distaste.

“I do hope you know how to dance,” you tell him, more a question than anything. But you are too tired for questions, so it comes off as a statement instead of the intended quizzical tone.

Neuvillette tilts his head, hair rustling against the fabric of his clothes. “I hope so too.”

Okay… not the response you expected to hear, but you guess you could do with a few steps on the tips of your toes even if it means being in excruciating agony for just a few days.

It takes everything in you to give Neuvillette the green light in opening the doorway that leads to the actual ballroom this time, but you realise with grave regret that you are still in the midst of processing what’s to come as he pushes the door open.

Chandeliers drape from the ceiling, bedazzling the marble floors with opulent patterns cast from the crystals that appear to drip down toward the floor, strung by invisible strings hooked onto metal pegs. Prisms lined with colour trace the fine contours of rustling lace and prim ties. 

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice your grand appearance, until someone in the crowd gasps and everyone is stunned into a still silence. With such a noise comes a domino effect of other gasps, each differing in pitch. Awfully dramatic, even to someone of your tolerance. Guess one of Furina’s tactics worked, but at what cost? Now everyone’s looking at you, and Neuvillette cannot do anything —

“Please, do not be so tense. Momentous this event is indeed, but it is but another occasion,” He reassures, and all of a sudden the way his voice ricochets off the walls sounds radically similar to the baritone his voice bears in the Opera Epiclese.

Except it wasn't any formal occasion. Neuvillette's frequency of appearances outside the courtroom were and are even more than obscure now — obscure enough to consider it akin to that of a sighting of a dodo bird.

Everyone eyes him sceptically, slowly returning to their conversations. But you do not miss the way their choice of words are more contained — docile, if you will. You notice their vocabulary changes — the word ball turns into thé dansant, and commenting on rumours and gossip shifts into romance and novels.

You notice the way women with no visible ring on any of their fingers eye you with envy, seethingly jealous at your ‘success’. But is it really success if it has only brought you misery?

After standing in observance for what you think is more than a while, someone calls your name.

You whip around, losing the grip of your arm interlocked with Neuvillette’s to divert your attention — and you lose no time in grinning. “What a pleasure it is seeing you here, Clorinde,” you start, facing the blonde beside her. “And you as well, Navia. It has certainly been a while since I’ve been given the opportunity to chat with you.” “Ah, yes indeed. I’d really like for us to chat over a cup of tea someday.”

She really did live up to her reputation; from the manner in which she carries herself, to the very stitch that binds her lace hem. 

You turn your attention to Clorinde, squeezing in time for small talk. “ I suppose your schedule’s freer than usual?”

A server with a tray of champagne glasses comes passing through the throng and offers the delicacies laid out for you on a tray. You accept a glass and some canapés without a second thought — though Clorinde denies the alcohol with a polite shake of her head. “I would not say ‘free’. This place is a breeding ground for thieves — so consider it another day on the job.”

Navia tests one of the canapés by biting a sliver off the side before coughing into her hand. Clorinde shoots her a chastising look. “What?”

The blonde attempts to whisper, and though it doesn’t prove to be inefficient, it did help quench your desire of knowing what she is to say to Clorinde. “There’s steak tartare in this. Do you… want it?”

“How many times have I told you that you’re not going to like it just because you’ve tasted it more?” Out of all the things in the world, the Champion Duelist of Fontaine makes it imperative to scold her close friend about raw beef. 

Your husband wraps a hand around your waist in an act of pulling you closer, and you can only mask your disdain with a wry look and a brief check of your dress to confirm that the alcohol hadn’t spilled in the process. “What are you doing?” you seethe, gritting your teeth.

He responds with a looser wrap around your hip, soundlessly submitting to your reprimand. 

Clorinde and Navia seem surprised at such an uncharacteristic display of affection from the Iudex of Fontaine, the retracting of her head seemingly an obvious tell. “Much expected from the Champion Duelist herself. I implore you to take a break every so often. I have observed that many aren’t usually able to bear the weight for as long as they’d wish.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Take your own advice, boss.”

Neuvillette’s chuckle drips with amusement.“That’s certainly a new title. I will take it into consideration.”

She nods her head, taking her hat off to engage in a cordial bow. Before she can lose herself amongst the crowd with the head of the Spina di Rosula, you reach for her wrist and deftly place a tea bag in her pocket. “We need to talk. And if that fails, I will send you a letter. Whatever it is — take a look at what I have given you.”

Clorinde hesitates, body halting at the command of your hand. “Alright then. We shall rendezvous near the entrance.”

Before you can give any semblance of a response, she turns, making sure to pat at her pocket as she does so. It does not save you from human interaction, however, for another voice sounds from your right: playful and distinguishable.

“If it isn’t the main couple of tonight’s event! I’ve talked to the host — myself — and you two are meant to take the dance floor once the violin commences.”

What a way to start a conversation.

There was certainly no need for pleasantries, but a simple ‘hello’ or a ‘how are you?’ would have sufficed, wouldn’t it? You make the pragmatic decision to not let your personal prejudice of Furina get in your way of complying to her rules, because this part was mainly on you — agreed to by your own pen. 

Waiting for Neuvillette to respond on your behalf, you find yourself already exhausted with the mass of people that eye you down, almost draining you of a conversation though their gazes alone; you tell yourself it doesn’t bother you, but the way your heart beat picks up against your ribcage makes you think meat is eating away at bone.

“Let me reiterate: you want us to dance as the distinguished couple?” His brows raise quizzically, his hold on your side slipping ever so slightly. 

Another server comes to approach, so you gulp down the whole glass of champagne (wincing in the process) before placing it on the tray as the move on by.

Lady Furina chuckles so loudly even a snort would be less humiliating in comparison. “Now they say there’s no such thing as ‘bad questions’, but…”

You roll your eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding away to deviate the prophecy? Not attend some ball?”

“I could say the same for you, Présidence du Conseil d'État.”

“Well i very much would be helping if you hadn’t gotten me into this stupid—”

She places a finger on your lips. “Hey! Keep it down!”

A maintained, high-pitched note of a violin silences the murmurs of the people  — and this includes Lady Furina’s never ending tangents you know would never stop if not for the ensemble.

You instinctively put on a brave front as the crowd disperses into a circle, leaving a space in the middle for the two of you — and as you both make your way through the crowd, they seem to part as if by a spell.

“May I have this dance?” The Chief Justice inquires, his touch ghosting over yours before you agree in the silence. His hand easily between the grooves of your fingers, softly placing his lips to your knuckles with a delicacy you can only consider to be a totally calculated act. His hold on your hand lingers on your fingertips, his touch fraying as he moves to initiate a bow.

You mirror this action, pinching the sides of your dress and bringing them up as you curtsy. Raising your head, you meet his gaze, his look equally just as weary as yours. For a split moment, it takes you back to when you stood in the shadows, fingers fidgeting behind your back hoping that your father would only taste the rust of prison for the rest of his life. But he cannot — must not look like this. This is not the look of a revered judge; it is one of a lovesick boy. And you almost throw up.

Another cue of a violin now spurs the string quartet into motion: a soft and slow minuet conjured through their very fingertips. His hold on your hand smoothly slips to interlock with your own, and he brings the other to your waist. He pulls you toward him, and it is almost peculiarly simple — the way you fall into step, blown in the wisp of music; of dull cellos and vibrant violins.

A spotlight shines from above. It is the only source of light — another entity that mimics your movements, illuminating every one of your flaws, every single imperfection. Neuvillette releases hold of your waist to guide you through a spin, a hand behind his back before he tip you backward into his arms at an angle so discreet that a mere word from you would go unnoticed. 

“Tell me, mon mari, would you trade this for another case in court?” you murmur, warmth ghosting against the nape of his neck. You lose yourself of his hold, hand still entwined with his as you leave the warmth of his body and execute this with a twirl outward, your blue gown fanning out as if it were a bouquet of periwinkle.

Your grip on his hand shifts from a knot to a palm to palm, and you find yourself in orbit of his arm, inching ever closer in expectation of a response; and your lids flutter, a brief opening to the window of your soul. You lower your sight elsewhere — to the lapels of his robe, to the platinum strands of hair that gleam like pearls in the light; if it meant that you would not remain subject to his scrutiny any further. Admittedly, you were afraid. Afraid that, in a moment where light shines down on you like the watchful gaze of the omniscient, he would see through your cracks, through your guise.

He does not know the woman before him is a fraud. 

“I’m afraid I misunderstand your inquiry,” he whispers, before masking his puzzled look for a fond, albeit manufactured look of love.

You return the look with reproach, and your eyes weigh lidded against the burden of all the people waiting for their spot on the floor; watchful, analytical eyes of the assembly stopping you from doing anything rash. That is, until Neuvillette initiates a change in a step; the steady pressure of Neuvillette’s hand on the small of your back an anchor, as much as you loath to admit it.

“Save your words then,” you say breathlessly, taking both of his hands as you both circle the perimeter of the dance floor. 

Before he can reply, the music crescendos, and he is now thrown into the momentum of string and melody. The world around you is a blur of motion and bliss as he leads you into a move.

The bass of cello and harmonising of two violins swell, tightening the invisible string bound by convenience, drawing yourself closer to the man you never thought you would have the displeasure of waltzing with. Each sway, each glide across the floor, is executed with more attunement to his every move, your own matching his.  

After another twirl, his hands reach for the curves on either side of your waist, lifting you up in his grasp. Weightlessness envelops you; he spins you around, a stunned giggle slipping through your lips — but it is drowned by the ruffle of your skirt, its hem barely tracing the ground. Gentle flames of candlelight reflect against the grooves of his sleeve.

This, expectedly, warrants many gasps of awe from the audience, their admiration a confusion of fabrication and authenticity. But it still sweeps across the ballroom nonetheless. You are acutely aware of their intense regard toward yourself as the Chief Justice’s wife more than the actual role you hold in Fontaine’s bureaucracy, and yet it is his eyes you cannot look away from. Neuvillette’s hand holds firm against the small of your back, an unnecessary touch you are unsure of appreciating or condemning.

As you straighten, you find yourself clinging onto Neuvillette’s arms in an act of desperation to keep yourself steady. You must say that this definitely took the breath out of you, spins and all. 

Every matter outside this dance seemed to vanish at another touch of the hand, another move that required his hold, one that brought your faces into almost meeting, more than once.

The melody ebbs, the final notes a cue for you to slow. Neuvillette brings you into a dip, hand steadying you as you lean into his arms. An excuse for diverting yourself from his stare did not come in your favour, for the distance between your lips and his is so close that you can feel his warmth radiating into your own skin, warm and inviting.

You shut your eyes. Benevolent and inviting? Just what am I thinking? Cut it out, you fool.

The two of you are suspended in the strain of the final note, puppeting the way your body slumps into his touch — an unfamiliar one, but one you know is able to fool the crowd. The audience watches with bated breath, the sound of breathing washed away in the sea of adrenaline. A gloved hand trails up your arm to the trace of your jaw — and you hold in regard the demurral of your husband's touch. He leans in closer, close enough to whisper into your ear. But nothing could’ve prepared you for his words.

“May I kiss you?”

Your eyes round into spheres, the strands of hair masking your admittedly unbecoming reaction. It truly feels as though this request has brought the world to a stop, the pounding of your heart slowing like a defeated bird in its cage. This is all a ruse, you tell yourself; but you cannot help but sear the sincerity indelibly into your mind.

Furrowing your brows, you cannot help but cant your head to the side. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” you hiss. You pull back slightly to catch your breath — your face almost an inch away from his, eyes narrowing in quest of searching his expression for a hint of jest. Neuvillette’s eyes now darken in the shadows, luminescent opal eyes now a stormy, turbulent hue; anyone would have caught the bona fides of the integral pillar of the law.

“It is for the crowd; for Lady Furina,” his voice soft, almost defeated. “They expect it.”

The rational part begrudgingly knows he is right, that his offer he places on the table is but a strategy to fool them any further: a performance.

And yet, the thought of his lips on yours stirs a mellow tremor of unwelcome anticipation that you hastily suppress. “Well then,” you snap, your voice cold. “But do not think for a moment that I will enjoy this.”

He dips his head in compliance, the curve of his lips an infuriatingly charming trait that has all the women in the crowd placing on the brink of fainting. “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma femme,” he replies, his lie deceptively light.

As he leans in, a tumultuous confusion of dread and something far more dangerous buzzes through your veins, sending every bone in your body to bend into his will. Closing your eyes, you steel yourself for the inevitable; and erratic thoughts sporadically burst like glass, invading your mind. How can something like this, illogical and meaningless, manage to fool the crowd? You know it is a question with a definite answer; so you question yourself again: why ask? Butyou aren’t given any time before your train of thought crashes under his fingers.

He brings his hand to your chin, drawing you closer with an allure so strong you are nearly convinced his touch is divination.  Collective gasps of onlookers, each a whisper of opinions you simply have not the time nor inclination to discern warps into pools that hum into one clump of futility as his lips brush against yours.

It is not wrong to say that this isn’t your first, and yet, you almost feel like it is. His lips against yours is gentle, almost chaste, but it ignited a stubborn fire you are loath to acknowledge. The strength of his hand at your waist firms, melting into a tender brush against the small of your back — and for a moment, you forget that this is all a farce.

You roughly push him away with your two hands against his chest, eyes staring daggers through the windows of his soul. You breath comes in shallow gasps, now a deafened noise amongst the cacophony of applause of the crowd, intoxicated in the fleeting thrill and spectacle of an act they do not wish to recognise as a lie. 

Nothing registers in your daze. You blink, fighting to regain your composure, because the lingering ghost of his lips on yours makes it unable to think straight.

Get it together! This is PR. Actors do this all the time.

“That was—” he mutters.

You move stiffly, forcing yourself to step back and put some distance between you. “Don’t read too much into it,” you say, your voice harsher than you intend. “It was just for show.”

“Of course,” he agrees, but there is a hint of something in his gaze, something that makes you wonder if perhaps, for a moment, it wasn’t all an act. You push the thought aside, unwilling to delve into the complexities of your feelings, and focus instead on the task at hand — maintaining the illusion, no matter the cost to your own heart.

Neuvillette holds out his arms for you to retire from the floor, leaving the other couples to spill into the space of the ballroom. But amidst the glittering crowd, you spot a figure, the well-worn wrinkles of his face an uncanny reflection of your own. This cannot be. You were sure your father had left, presumably perished in the process — but what of this? Why is he here, revealing himself to a crowd that is sure to recognise him and his reputation? 

A sudden, fierce constriction of your corset tightens your lungs like a vice around your ribs. Gasping, you claw at your throat for air, the once grandiose patterns of the stone walls caving into you: harsh and oppressive. Even the Chief Justice, the one to restore order, does not succeed in reaching you; and thus the attempt blurs into the fray, disregarded in the heat of your panic.

You anchor yourself in the depths of Neuvillette’s worried look, pulling yourself out of the merciless current of water. “I need some air,” you croak, hiding your face so the couples that stand waiting on the floor don’t receive but a glimpse of this stupid, nonsensical breakdown.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asks, making space between you both. 

“No. Please.” You practically beg, squeezing the wrists of his arm, before you flee.

_____

Neuvillette watches you intently as you blend into the mass of people, and they part instinctively, leaving a clear path for you to tread; but, the Chief Justice is no fool to trickery. As discreet as one can make themselves, he is one man that one should not — can not deceive. As you dance through the sea of bodies, a man walks against the current, trailing you with terrifyingly calculated precision. A metallic glisten betrays the sharp blade hidden from under his blazer.

Through the crowd, he meets Clorinde’s eyes; to which he concludes that she, too, is searching for where you went. She gestures with her eyes an inquiring look, to which Neuvillette responds with a quick glance toward the entrance. A mild nod is what he gets in response, and she rushes the other way, presumably through another door. 

The music strums once again, and so he takes an opportunity to rush from behind, his stride silent and quiet. For the man, however, it is almost as if he wants to make his presence known, from the set of his shoulders, to the tap of his feet against marble.

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow, focus not once slipping. He waits, watching as the man slips through the front entrance. Once he is out of view, Neuvillette follows, stride confident with urgency.

The man makes a sharp turn, reaching through the front of his blazer to reach for what Neuvillette presumes to be his blade.

_____

You pace through the garden, letting the trail lead you to the balcony that overlooked the Palais Mermonia. Clamping your eyes shut, you allow the hold your hands have on the railing to relax; a sharp, shaky exhale spills from your lips, hot tears threatening to pool at the base of your eyes.

The thought of your father’s crazed eyes sends you into a spiral, seeing a memory of him the more your eyes remain closed.

A rustle of leaves.

Footsteps.

There is only one person who would've followed you here. “I’ve already told you leave me alone, Chief Justice.”

“Chief Justice? You mistake me for someone else, birdie.”

Birdie. Your eyes shoot open, immediately diverted by the disturbance. Your hands slip from the railing, turning so that instead your back is pressed against it — the thrill of anticipation buried under the solemn rush of sentiment. 

This man was, in fact, not your lawful husband.

Oh, wow, you are certainly graced with the inexplicable miracle of luck!

“Why aren’t you replying, hm? Too ashamed of what you did to me to speak?”

Everything in your power to calm yourself down does not, matter-of-factly, calm you down. The man’s voice — his voice — is too cutting, too violent. The world spins, a minute sense of rationality bringing you to palm your thigh, feeling for the sharp edge of the dagger you have shoved in a garter. Clorinde surely has some sixth sense, because —

“(Name)?”

Your chest practically heaves as you let out a sigh of relief, the chilling autumn night bringing your breath to leave as cold white plume. The exhale is prolonged — albeit very tremulous, and it’s almost as if you can hear your heart beating in your head with more clarity than ever. 

“Clorinde?”

“I saw you leave the ballroom, so I figured this is where you'd be —” 

Taking one blazing glare at the man that hides in a bush, you stagger toward her as if poisoned. You take refuge in her arms for a short, stunned moment; Clorinde’s hands remain suspended, frozen. 

“Listen to me,” you whisper, voice wavering. “We must leave this instant.”

She grips onto your shoulders to pull you away. Her hand immediately moves to her hip, the brush against metal light, but sharp.“Is there something? Someone following?” 

“Save your questions.” you retort.

It is obvious that she notices the glassy gleam of your eyes in the moonlight — but she is smart enough not to pry. In the spur of the moment, she glances at Neuvillette, and nods her head. “Alright, just stay close to me.” You cast another look into the darkness, only to find it empty, uninhabited, and ominously still.

a/n: can y'all guess what neuvillette did to the guy🤭🤭🤭

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[sanjisblackasswife]

“𝕊𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖”

𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗!𝙻𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚢 𝚡 𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗!𝙵𝚎𝚖 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 Part 1 of 2

WC: 1.4k

Bad Summary: Luffy asks you about sex.

Black Fem Reader

CW: Reader is mentioned to have locs, Inexperienced Reader, Inexperienced Luffy, Luffy is surprisingly Shy/Nervous, this is no smut yet , just discussion of sex between you and him and a little suggestive, A Kiss, I tried my best to make it as Luffy accurate as possible….also Luffy speaks a little spanish.

-

“Y/NNNNNN!” Luffy’s whine echoed through out the Sunny. Once again on his daily duty to bother you, because it became one of his favorite hobbies since you joined. You’re his little escape when he wants to really rewind and relax.

Almost everyday at around 3-4pm when the ship isn’t busy he gets up from where ever he is to find you, ask you a thousand and one questions, hang out with you and today was no different except—

“Y/N!” Luffy beamed and barged into your room, as expected, but still managed to leave you shocked especially since you were getting dressed from just leaving the bath.

“Lu!” You throw your robe over your body, sure you’ve seen Luffy naked and he seems to never care about seeing your lady parts, but it was still something you obviously didn’t want to be a reoccurring situation between you both. “I’m—“

“I’m borreeddd!” Your nonplus captain closed the door with his foot before belly flopping on your bed, “Let’s finish playing that one card game you were teaching me—“

“LUFFY!” You snapped at him causing his face to look at your entire shape making you cover more of your body, “Can I get dressed in private pleassseeeee? And then we’ll play.”

“Meh.” He shrugged face planting himself back into your pillow, softly inhaling your natural scent he loved so much, “I won’t look, just hurry up.”

You sigh, you had no point of arguing with him, whatever Luffy wanted he got, and he was a man of his word so he didn’t look.

You strip of your towel and face the chair with your clean clothes. You hear him sigh with boredom, Luffy scoots his way at the edge of your bed and sees a magazines with pretty colors on it. Out of his wonderful curiosity he pulls the magazine out and his eyes widen.

“These are the same kinda magazines Sanji looks at! But with more guys.” Luffy thought scrolling through the pages, he was pretty shocked to see you also own a magazine for a split second, but his shock turned into curiosity.

“Did you take one of Sanji’s magazines, Y/N?”

You instantly felt your soul drop, you knew from nothing, but the silence of the pages turning and small giggles your captain had once again taken something he had no business taking.

“Y/N!—“

You quickly snatch the magazine from his hands, his smile fading just a little seeing the anger in your eyes as you went to slam it on your nightstand, “Don’t you know not to touch things that don’t belong to you?!”

You never yelled at Luffy before. You felt a bit of guilt arising in your chest so you turn away from him. The awkward tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You expected to hear Luffy run off or even burst out laughing, but Eventually you feel his warm hand on your bare shoulder as you held your towel tightly.

“Y/n, are you embarrassed?”

The question was worded as if he were teasing but his tone sounded genuinely curious.

“No…I just…—“

“Y/N, do you also jack off?”

There wasn’t enough adjectives in the world to describe the crooked look you gave, snapping your head at him from behind seeing him grin at you playing with your locs again.

“…Luffy what—“

“You know, play with yourself and make yourself feel good. I mean Sanji does it with those magazines, Zoro and Usopp do too. So…if you had it—“

“Luffy women can’t jack off..it’s called..masturbating—-you know what that’s not the point! You can’t ask that?!”

“Why! It’s normal right?”

“….have you?”

Luffy shrugged, his fingers still fiddling with your hair a little while longer before sitting on your dresser to face you and swing his feet. “I did once, but got bored maybe I wasn’t doin it right.”

“…but how many times have you done it? Have you also done that stuff in the magazine too?”

If you had any color in your face is was already being sucked out of you. Gosh your captain was a interesting guy.

“Are you asking me if I ever had sex?”

“Yeah.”

“….n-no. No Luffy I haven’t.”

“Really? You and Traffy seemed like you did. You’re so close with him and—“

“No! No! Law and I have never.”

“Then why not? I’ve read—“

“You read?”

“…Robin read to me about sex and it was something very normal and common between people. Everybody else on the ship has, Nami, Robin, Zoro, even Sanji and he’s a pervert—“

“Well I haven’t.” You barked at him, you began to get a little defensive. It felt like he was almost poking fun at you for being a virgin. “There’s nothing wrong with not having sex Luffy.”

“Even if it was who cares? I don’t! I was just askin’…” He hopped off the dresser to now inch closer to your face and plant his hat on your head. “I have thought about it a few times though.”

You shot your head back up in shock to read his face, if it isn’t about being the pirate king or meat no way he could ever have something like SEX on his mind???

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to know what the big deal was, y’know? You have thought about it right? Like what it feels like instead of ….looking at pictures of it.”

His blunt remarks were cute, Luffy’s usual very proud and assertive when he speaks, but now it was like his energy shifted.

“Would you ever wanna try it?”

His question brought you out of your thoughts, causing you to blink blankly at him, “Well?”

“….Yes…Luffy, I have always thought abou—“

“Then let’s try it together!”

“Luffy!” You raised your voice seeing him grab your wrist to pull you down on top of him on the bed, your body being constrained by his limbs wrapping twice around your body. “Luf!!”

“What?” He ask plainly watching you squirm against his chest, “Don’t you wanna?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, sure you did and embarrassingly enough you have thought about with him specifically but he never gave you the impression he was ever interested in sex, this all felt like a cruel joke in someway.

“I…do, but Luffy we should…we should slow down. Do it the right way just in case someone gets hurt, plus…do you really want to?”

“oh…right.” Your captain clears his throat softly shaking his head at his forwardness noticing it made you a bit uncomfortable to then place you beside him on the edge of the bed releasing you, “I have for a while..since Dressrosa.”

“What happened there that you haven’t told me already?”

Luffy mimics zipping his lips with his hand, rolling your eyes playfully you both share a giggle, “But 1 thing I seen a lot was..um…”

He wasn’t that he didn’t know what it was he would have just rather taken the time to show you, so looking around your room he stretches his arm out to show you said magazine, scrolling quickly through the pages he lands on a picture of two people, “That. A lot of people did that.”

“Kissing?” You ask and he nods happily giggling which made your tense face soften, sighing at him you cup his squishy cheeks with both hands, you admired his features for a moment.

His light brown skin, pretty dark hair, the small dimples on his cheeks that always appear when he smiles, how unreal his smooth skin is under your fingers, maybe it wasn’t a bad thought to trust Luffy with something like this?

Too caught up in the moment you cock your head to the side and kiss him, a small whimper of shock and a grip of your arms was all Luffy could respond to the sudden touch.

“You um….did you like it?”

The blush on his face told you enough, for once Luffy didn’t have a remark, so to close the gap he grabbed your cheeks this to kiss you again.

As uncoordinated as he was his lips were so sweet from the candy he ate earlier and soft, his lower lip was fatter than his upper and he wasn’t shy to steal a few licks inside your mouth. You felt some slavia seep through the corner of your lips, and the longer you allowed him to kiss you the messier he became now crawling atop of you.

“Lu…” You moan out parting from his now swollen lips, “Are we ganna do this now?”

“Yeah.” He quickly nods , hoping you won’t decline him, he already had a taste and now he wants—-NEEDS the real thing. “I want it, Y/n.”

“Te quiero.”

“What?” You peer your eyes up at him, not sure what exactly he meant so he bends lower to touch noses with you.

“I want you.”

Part 2 Here

[weird-things-to-think]

Nonpluz is when u soooooo confuse an brain go like "whaaaat?" U look at frend and frend look at u and both face go 😵‍💫. It like when cat see mirror an think other cat dere but iz just reflection. So u feel nonpluz an dunno wat do or say. Like if u see cow on moon. Nonpluz iz total brain bamboozle!

[melodrama-ticcc]

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐰

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ, ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵈᵉᵖⁱᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵈᵉᶜᵉᵃˢᵉᵈ ᵃⁿⁱᵐᵃˡˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ⁿᵘᵈⁱᵗʸ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ, ˢᵘᵇˢᵗᵃⁿᶜᵉ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ.

—

The dining table is silent apart from the gentle clanking of silver cutlery against glassware. Gazes wide in stupefaction and nonplus, as the table awaits an answer to the strange encounter they’d just bared witness to. Disconcerted, they watch as she finishes the final bite, scarlet gathering at the corners of her stained lips. The flatware clatters against the plate as she brings the linen napkin to her mouth, patting away the golden crumbs and sticky syrup and blood. She returns the linen to her lap, still wet with the crimson that transudes from the wound on her palm. Finally, Rebecca brings her gaze to meet the guests at her table, a content smile rested on those pretty lips as she finishes chewing her dessert.

The swallow is loud and uncouth, though not nearly as concerning as her current state of mind. She clears her throat as she places a delicate hand over her chest, as if to do so in a defensive manner. There is an uncomfortable silence that fuels the growing tension in the room. Exchanged glances and raised brows only allude to the natural discernment that follows such a plebeian act. In order to cut through the cumbersome silence, Rebecca finds herself attempting to speak up once more, her mouth opening only to be cut off by Johnny, who now rises from his seat. He smiles to the group before his stare befalls her, this time with the necessary intent to oblige her and draw away from the sensitivity of the dining table.

“A lil’ blood never hurt nobody, mind cuttin’ me a slice, doll face?” He plays into her game of make believe, the fantasy that this was some perfect little storybook. That she was the faultless trophy wife of some backwoods redneck neighborhood, or the cover-girl of Good Housekeeping. Whatever game she wanted to play, he’d play it, for she’d piqued his interest. “Sides, I like my sweets a lil’ messy.”

What a blissful thing silence is. That is until it is disturbed by primitive savages like Johnny Sawyer, she thinks. Having had enough of his trivial pissing matches, she too decides to indulge him. She serves him a slice of that sanguinary pie, paired with her chesire leer and a disdainful glare. She leans forward, over the table (an obscenity against basic table manners), and slams the porcelain platter at his place across the table.

“Enjoy.” Her tone is anything but pleasant, it’s mocking, scornful. Evidence that her unsettling grin is nothing but a facade masking her antipathy for the young man.

As he takes the plate she adjusts her posture to stand upright, knife gripped in her good hand as her eyes flicker to the remainder of her guests, and most importantly to her father. “Anyone else?” They’ve all sat back down, and her father, a little skeptical, gives her a knowing look. A warning of sorts. An indicator her show of make belief is drawing to a close, that it is time to face the dire reality and the consequences of her little episode. “Well then, sorry ‘bout the mess folks. I’ll just get this cleaned up.”

The silence is anything but blissful, nothing but the sound of the running faucet and dishes clanking. Any attempt to strike up a conversation is short lived, the table awkward as they share questioning glances and worrisome countenances. Even Raymond, who watches his daughter from behind. His hands clasp together in front of his mouth, elbows resting at the wood table. Before she’s finished, she says something in regard to her temper tantrum, blaming it on some sort of mismanaged anger inherited from her absent mother. Shrugging it off, she offers to try at this spontaneous dinner party another time, with promises to better control her temper the next time around. As if she had something to prove, a redemption of sorts. You’ll have to excuse me, you’ll find I can be quite the model hostess. Just like those women in the magazines!

He sees through her lies and false claims, knowing well the darkness that pools in the wells of her ocean eyes. They glimmer with something sinister, malicious, he knows it. Knows it in the way they lack genuineness when she smiles, or the way they stare daggers at him when she becomes antagonized. It’s amusing really, to toy with her like this. It’s all the sort of confirmation he needs to satisfy his theory.

The remainder of the evening picks up slowly on account of Drayton and Nancy’s small talk. Only before Raymond and Rebecca escort their newfound neighbors out for the night. Good wishes and farewells are exchanged as they wave goodbye. As that front door shuts Rebecca knows she’s in for it, her father turning to watch her with a disapproving utterance.

“You aughtta give me one good reason not to lock you inside this here farmhouse for good girl.”

“Daddy, please,” Rebecca looks frightened, shaking her head fervently as she follows her father into the kitchen like a duckling it’s mother. “It’s just an accident, it ain’t gon’ happen ‘gain.” She pleads with him, the habitual feeling of buried emotions surfacing all in an instant. She never took well to being scolded, it made her manic. Disappointment had not been something she could live with nor fathom, not from her father at least.

“Accident my ass, you ain’t even try to hold back on that boy Becca, goin’ on about a starin’ problem, you’ll get this family torn apart and we’ll have to move out all over again, you want that?”

“Now just what the hell were you thinkin’, boy?” Drayton smacks his palm against the upside of Johnny’s head, a hiss befalling the younger man’s lips as he shoots him a sharp glare. “Eggin’ on that girl — you gon’ get us in trouble just like the last time, not watchin’ that attitude of yours, you snot-nosed brat!”

“You best watch your tongue ‘round my boy cook, ‘lest I do away with you like I did with my husband.” Nancy mocks pointedly, raising her voice in a defensive manner. “Johnny it’s alright, accidents happen, we’ll get anythin’ we need cleaned up.”

“You’ll be in tomorrows stew if you ain’t get that boy of yours in check, he’s lucky her daddy ain’t raise no fit!”

“Get it together, I know damn well you ain’t wanna be the reason we pack up shop a second time.”

“Daddy, I swear it I’ll fix it just, I ain’t like that boy! He don’t mean well not one bit.”

“That girl, she ain’t right, in the head. I can see it. I feel it.”

“You keep that big mouth of yours shut ya’ heard me boy? Goin’ on about a young filly like her bein’ crazy or sum’, all cause you got trigger happy and fiddled with her temper.”

“Shut the damn hell up cook, you ain’t know shit.”

“Why you shithead,” Drayton groans, pulling on Johnny’s ear to bring him down to his level. “You listen to me boy, I ain’t wanna hear ‘bout this again! You apologize to that girl and that’s that. Don’t go causin’ anymore trouble, stay away from ‘er after that. Dumbass.”

“Hey! Get ya’ hands off my boy!” Nancy thwacks Drayton against the head, “I told you my Johnny ain’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“She ain’t right, y’all just don’t see it yet.” Yet.

“That boy ain’t do nothin’ to you, you makin’ up stories again girl. Ignore ‘em if he bothers you so bad. But you owe him and those Sawyer’s an apology, I ain’t about to loose some good ole’ fashioned neighbors over this drama of yours. You’s an adult, act like it young lady!” His voice is loud and angry, enough to quell her incessant arguing and disdainful thoughts.

“Yes, daddy. Anythin’ you say.” But he just ain’t all that nice.

Growing up in rural Oklahoma wasn’t all that much different than Texas. You had your farms; cattle, dairy, poultry, sheep and goats, and crops; mostly wheats and hays, corn, cotton, oftentimes sweet potatoes. They were fairly similar geographically, grasslands and flat plaines with the occasional hillside. Their people each had a certain southern charm to them, hospitality and benevolence at the heart of their every interaction. Texas was considerably more sizable than Oklahoma, though. And their people often outfaced one another on account of petty rivalries.

For Rebecca, much of the same had been true. Her father was a cattle farmer in the small sub district of Skiatook, settled right up on the outskirts of Tulsa. She was born on that farm and raised an only child with a hard working father and a transient mother.

Maggie Payne had an influence on her daughter that would far outlive her. Both negative and positive ascendencies, though the bad far outweigh the good. Rebecca remembers how as a young girl it was expected that she be the prim and proper southern woman, like something out of Gone with the Wind or Oklahoma!. Free of scandal or transgressions. A perfectly polite little lady with impeccable manners and a faultless smile. One wrong move would be met with the smack of her backhand across the cheek. A painful sting a young Rebecca would become accustomed to in her adolescence. Despite an ever longing curiosity for playing in the dirt and aiding her father in tending to the farmland and it’s animals, she remained indoors. A prime example of what a young woman should become. Maggie would teach her daughter how to be the picture perfect housewife, ensuring that one day, she’d make one lucky man the happiest alive.

Yet, Maggie would become the prime example of what an abysmal wife would look like. Haunted by the notion that she had been destined for a life of stardom and limelight, she resented her daughter for her beauty and grace, condemning her to a life of servitude as a homemaker, wed to a man to dictate her livelihood just as she had been. As time would pass and Rebecca’s beauty would continue to burgeon, Maggie’s treatment would only grow worse, as would her addiction to heroine.

Rebecca remembers watching her mother spiral into a life of despair and forlornness. Watching as she would bring home some backwoods tramp and fuck him in her own marital bed. She remembers watching the same man beat the shit out of her for stealing his dope. Remembers how her mother would sob something ugly and blame Rebecca, only so that she would get her ass beat in the same fashion. She remembers how her mother would cry when she’d catch those men with another woman, when they’d leave her for that other woman. She remembers watching her mother asphyxiate on her own vomit, multiple times. Remembers how she would help her mother’s lovers turn her over just so that she’d keep breathing. Remembers contemplating what would happen if she hadn’t saved her, how much life would have improved if she’d of just let her die then. A part of her wishes she did.

Years and years it would happen, time and time again, and as Rebecca blossomed into the fair lady she has become her mother’s vanity and envy only grew. As did her pathetic excuse for a life. Until Rebecca herself would become the woman of the house, tied to her father in the same manner her mother was supposed to be.

And then she remembers the day that all just stopped. A day of liberation and tranquility. What’s only two years ago now felt like an eternity of well-being compared to that hell on earth back in Tulsa.

It was hard to pinpoint how the move had affected her. Living in Tulsa had become much too difficult for her father, who struggled with the gossiping townsfolk in that small farming community. The result of a scandal of that nature became a heavy burden to withhold, and when he’d told her they’d be starting anew in Texas she knew exactly the reason behind his brash decision. But there’d always be a piece of her left in Oklahoma that she’d never get back. She didn’t have any friends or relatives to miss, they’d all left the moment her family went to shit. Yet, the thought of abandoning a childhood home to come someplace new was heartbreaking. To leave what was so familiar and comforting, a place that was supposed to be a home. Rebecca always worked hard to make it that way, but it was never really hers. She could never shake her mother’s hold in the place away. It would always be the home Maggie built, never mattered what Rebecca did.

Starting anew meant she had been given the opportunity to make her own home. In a place that was truly a blank slate. No influence from her mother, she could begin from the ground up. It would be a place where her talent and passion would truly shine, and she’d flourish in it. She always knew she was meant for homemaking.

That’s precisely what she had set out to do, too. Over the next couple weeks, Becca worked at making that big piece of farmland a beautiful little home. With the inside furnished and made to look neat and pristine, much like you’d see on advertisements or the newspaper. It was some sort of rustic chic, warm toned tans and browns combined with the clean-cut look of pure white linens. She’d adorned the place with flowers and photos, even went as far as to cut Maggie out of them all. Her favorite was kept over the fireplace in the den, a photograph of herself at six years old. Her hair done up in curls as she poses in a frilly white gown. She loved it. She’d always wanted to be a bride.

The exterior was where the real work had been needed, though. As Raymond prepped to take in herds of cattle in the coming weeks. Rebecca often found herself out there chopping wood or fixing up fences or troughs. She was always good with an axe, ever since she was a child and she’d sneak out to help her daddy. The wooden handles always felt so natural in her grasp, and she knew if push came to shove it would become a deadly weapon in her hands. She’d taken it upon herself to explore the land, too. Those adventures had led to some intriguing encounters. There had been dead animals, lots of them. Mangled and bloody with their innards torn out from their torsos, as if something had ripped them out with a knife. Miscellaneous scraps and bones, she’d even find some of them arranged in odd sorts of contraptions. Something used to catch the wildlife in the area, she was sure. For a few of them had even had dead bunnies or foxes in them. Half rotted and decaying with maggots crawling from their flesh. She’d clean them up and dispose of them properly, tossing the carcasses and bone scraps in the garbage for pickup on Tuesdays.

On several occasions she had run into the Sawyers. She’d catch Nancy working out in the fields or gardening in a luscious sunflower field. She never said hello. Similarly, Drayton could be seen snooping about the place and stealing glimpses of the work she and her father were doing. He’d watch, and usually when he realized he’d been caught looking he’d offer her a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. Only to scurry off back to his own property, presumably. They never really said much. Only came and went as soon as they’d been seen. As if they purposefully avoided others. She’d chalked it up to them being recluses, homebodies unaccustomed to others in their neck of the woods.

Sometimes, she’d exchange looks with a younger looking lady. Drayton did mention there were others. The woman’s blonde hair tied neatly in a bun, she wore some sort of black dress, much too short to frolic around in like she did. She’d prance about the yard giggling, and Rebecca did find her laugh annoying. In order to save face she would always smile and wave when the woman would look towards her. That woman never wove back. Only ceased her incessant laughter and fled like she was afraid. She supposed that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though.

She’d often catch glimpses of shadows in the windows walking through the Sawyer residence too. There always seemed to be movement in there, like they were always up to something.

Then there was that Johnny.

He never stopped staring. Watching her like a cat would a mouse. He was persistent and tenacious, eerily concerned with her every move. Like he was waiting for her to slip up. Oftentimes he’d stare for a time, and just when she’d had enough, she would turn to yell something from across the field and he’d be gone. Then there had been the time at that swimming hole, too.

Someplace back behind the farmhouse and past the grasslands, a hillside dipped into a pool of warm spring water from the melted snow in winter. When she’d found it, she had been out looking for dead trees to cut down for wood by her lonesome. She set the axe down against an old stump before taking the initiative to undress herself down to her ivory undergarments and dip into the water. It was pleasantly chilling, a refreshment from the intensity of the blazing sun. She’d float there for some time, unbeknownst to his lingering gaze.

Her womanly figure captivates his audience. Caught in some eery trance by her half-naked body. Gentle curves glimmer in the blazing sun above, glowing like a true deity. Her midsection toned and tight, it contorts with her every movement. Teasing him with each careful gesture she makes, flaunting herself as though she’d known she was under his watchful eye.

It was only when she stepped out to redress that she caught glimpse of his familiar figure a short distance from the place. Her head snaps back round, this time sure she’s caught him red handed.

“The fuck you think you doin’, get lost, hood!”

“My my, don’t we act different when the old man ain’t around.”

Her anger seethes out of her, radiating in fiery hot waves from her tanned skin. Her stare is grisly, sliding into her bell bottoms as she buttons up the top.

“I’ll have you against this here blade if you don’t watch it boy, what’s your quarrel with me?”

“Ain’t know we couldn’t share the swimmin’ hole-”

“I ain’t dense shit face, now what the fuck you want, eh?”

“Ain’t you a pleasant one, tch.” He moves closer, approaching the water’s edge on the opposing side, and spits into the hole. “I ain’t know what you bitchin’ ‘bout, best calm yourself, wouldn’t want to burst that temper of yours.”

Rebecca grits her teeth, grinding them like gears. She loathes him, would love to blow his brains out right there — no — that’s too quick. She wants to split him in two with an axe.

“Alls I wanna know is why you think I ain’t notice that ugly outburst of yours.” He laughs, “you know, I’d hardly call it a temper tantrum.”

“Would’ya shut your trap? Fuck off and leave me alone, how ‘bout that?”

“Now it ain’t very gracious of you to not answer my question, after I so kindly obliged your own. S’not very ladylike.”

“Nah. I wanna know why the hell you starin’ at me all the damn time. Ain’t that momma of yours ever teach ya’ not to stare. Tsk.” She slips her blouse back on, “I’ll saw that pea brain of yours right out that head Johnny boy, you best watch it.”

“You dumb bitch.” Johnny only shakes his head, he doesn’t laugh or smile. He’s angry, more aggravated that she’s so attuned to his routine. “You’s a thorn in my side you know that? Can’t ya’ be like all the other girl’s and keep your mouth shut. Ya’ know most would love to have a man like me look at ‘em the way I do you. But you’s just won’t budge. Like to play hard to get.”

She didn’t like that, not one bit. Her hands ball into fists and she all most wants to do it, picking up that axe from the ground and gripping it in her hand. She can feel the uncanny urge to fillet that man in two. To do away with him, teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget. That habitual feeling resurfaces and she can feel herself about to snap. Just like she had at supper weeks before. She imagines what it would be like to have her way with him, slitting that thick neck of his and cutting up those veiny arms. She has to draw herself from her cognitions before she’s too far gone, the thought of it makes her all too giddy. “You wanna meet the devil boy? I’ll go tell that family of yours what type of man you’s really is.”

He only laughs, ugly, it’s an angry laugh. The tone of his demeanor becoming darker, deeper. “Ah, you pretty handy with that there wood splitter ain’t ya’? I seent it myself. Go ‘head, try it. I know you ain’t right in that there head of yours girl. You wanna chop me up? I don’t think that fits in your lil’ life of make believe. But go ‘head, come over here and swing at me, see how far that gets ya’.”

“Just what you think you sayin’ huh? You’s as stupid as you are oblivious. Boys like you ain’t no how to take a damn hint. I catch you starin’ one more time I swear I’ll be on your doorstep with a loaded shotgun.”

“Oh, so you’s that type?”

She doesn’t know what he’s insinuating but it sure ticks her off. She has to stop herself from loosing her composure, her deep breaths hitching in her throat as she begins to shake. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny, whose pleased to see his tactics getting to her. Though still, she’s affronted his typical suave self and brought out his aggravation.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a spoiled man child used to gettin’ whatever he wants. Go back to momma and cry ‘bout how I made you upset, go on, get!”

“There it is, come on baby, come hit me!”

“I ain’t into greasy boys with momma issues, hood, tough shit. Get ya’ act together, ya’ look desperate.”

Rebecca turns to walk away, a scowl etched into those pretty features as she hikes up the hill. She may have been enraged, but she knows better to keep her head. Especially after the lecture her father had given her following her last blown fuse.

Her footsteps are an indication of that intense feeling of hatred and disgust, heavy and furious. She walks off in a heap of rage, only to leave behind an indignant and frenzied Johnny, who turns to stab his foot in the dirt with an irked yell.

She didn’t see him again after that, at least not what she could tell. But Johnny was always there with her in one way or another. She was certain he had continued to watch her, she’d known what his crepuscular gaze felt like, how it made her feel. Like she was completely and utterly vulnerable. That’s what she’d hated about it.

He reminded her of the men her mother often brought home, only more clean and cutthroat. But he was only the devil using the guise of an angel. He was the type of man that used his pretty face to prey on innocent women and break their hearts, the type to destroy a girl’s life or ruin marriages. She execrated him for it. Detested him with every fiber of her being. For his actions and egotistical behavior only proved that.

Rebecca would press on as normal after that encounter, working in the hard sun and traversing the land. She often found herself loosing track of time, Raymond calling her in for the night when he felt she’d taken work too far.

One night she had strolled down to where their edge of land bordered the Sawyer’s, nearly stepping on some metal footing that buzzed with an electric charge. It surprised her surely, but she’d found the concept to be an oddity. Electric exits and an antisocial family, they were a peculiar type of people. Though she’d chalked up there unusual means of defense as a way to keep their livestock in and the wildlife out. It made sense in a way, despite how eccentric it might have been.

She found that entire family to be anomalous, riding the line of what is socially standard and what was entirely bizarre. From their unconventional practices to their perplexing behaviors, it was something that hadn’t made a whole deal of logic. Nothing like what normal southerners would do or behave. The cause for concern was minimal, yet enough for Becca to keep a close eye on her surroundings and arise suspicions of those backasswards neighbors of theirs. Especially Johnny, who’d been the driving factor behind her cautious approach.

For about two weeks her routine remained the same, with little to no deviation in their crude ways and no sign of Johnny aside from the persistent feeling of leaden eyes watching her from afar. That she had been thankful for, but it would seem just as she’d let her guts down there that feeling was again. The eeriness of being stalked. It only strengthened that ugliness she felt for him. In that time the radiator on the pickup had blown too, leaving both she and her father without any proper means of transportation. Something she was looking at fixing in the coming days. But it was yet another thing to add to the aggravating headache that was this fixer-upper.

She had found herself out in the front of the house, splitting wood to fix the damned fences once again. Sweat beading on the flat of her forehead and dripping down the length of her face. She’d wipe her brow with slender fingers, the action pointless as the salt continued to fall into her eyes. Burning and stinging, but she’d keep at her labor despite the inconvenience. Muscles flexing and pumping full of warmth each time she’d swing the axe over her head. It would hit the log below with a crack and clunk. The sound of wood splitting in two and falling the ground, or the blade of that weapon smacking into the stump beneath it. It was a simple but tedious task, spanning into the long hours of the afternoon. After doing so for days though, time passed quickly and the labor barred no difficulty to that of cleaning a house or cooking supper.

She supposed she’d been too absorbed in the work, so much so she hasn’t noticed the sound of quick and heavy footsteps coming up the drive. Dirt kicking and rocks scratching against the boots of a man she’d yet to meet. He stood there from a fair distance, watching her work.

It was a spur of the moment thing, a momentary epiphany of enlightenment. She’d only stopped to wipe that damn sweat from her forehead, and happened to catch the image of a tall, wide figure standing up the road that led to the house. All most as soon as she’d seen it once, she’d snapped her head back to catch it again, and there it was. The man wore a mask of some sort that veiled his true features, a mask that looked much like flesh. Ugly and sinful, stitched together by the careless hand of a terrible seamstress. He donned a yellow apron, pink and red splatters fading on it's front. But perhaps the most striking thing of the image had been what he was wielding, a chainsaw.

[hopeswriting]

[Gifs description copied from alt-text: Slowed down gifs from the TV show Vincenzo, showing Jang Han-Seok throwing a metallic object at Jang Han-Seo.

He throws it at him, hitting his forehead, opening it in a small cut and making it bleed. Han-Seo lowers his arm down, turning to face Han-Seok again, wincing and blinking as he takes the pain in. He keeps blinking multiple times, including once asymmetrically, raising one eyebrow, adjusting to the pain. He then raises his head to look at Han-Seok.

The camera does a side close-up, panning down his face starting from his wound, showing him close his mouth and setting his jaw. It then cuts to his hands, which he clenches into tightening fists.

The camera goes back to a wider shot, showing him visibly sigh, his shoulders slumping. He looks unfazed but weary as he still looks at Han-Seok.

He blinks twice again before saying, "I'm sorry, Hyungnim," while slightly bowing his head. As he speaks, the beginning of a smile pulls at his lips while some life and lightheartedness come back to his face. /End GD]

Don't dodge this. (in bold) I won't.

(i first wanted to put this in the tags but the post doesn't show up in the tags when i do 😭)

#i first saw this scene in fanvids and it looked like a heavy dramatic one in them #it's not really in the show; it's more of a relatively low stakes scene #but the way kwak dong yeon acts it still makes my heart clench so hard #i can't look at that gif where he blinks unevenly without my heart going out to him #it's the overall nonplus-ness of his reaction #the resignation to the pain and the familiarity of it #the surprise that it hurts still anyway and the somewhat daze that it still hurts even when he saw it coming and braced himself for it

#it's the anger that slips through despite how he's used to it because how is it fair that he's used to it? how is it right? #it's the way anger turns to visible bones-deep weariness because this is just the same shit but another day #and it's how in the end he puts on the mask of the king of fools again anyway because he knows how this goes all too well #'don't dodge this; i won't' and then he really doesn't and it's tragic

#god. kwak dong yeon you'll always be famous for this alone to me <3 #anyway this is my favorite bit of acting in the show so i just had to gif it

[aqspec]

BUT WHAT IF EVIL SONIC AU WIP? *slides him towards you*

i think i was going for an organic metal type of look to really sell that hes with eggman/evil

then we have some fun doodles to help me jot some fun ideas down, and also make them silly

For characters I think:

tails in terms of appearance would be basically boom tails but I think personality wise I have the idea that he’s still an smart pants but like… snarky about it with Amy if you get what I mean, and also he doesn’t really care about the things he makes, like if he made a sentient robot he’d be indifferent about it and if it got destroyed he would be like oopsie daisy I’ll probably have to make a new one

Then to Amy I think shed be more inline with fleetway amy, since she never met sonic here she never tried to be more girly to get his intention. Sometimes she gets exasperated with tails being annoying and is sometimes concerned about the robot thing, because she still cares about all forms of life but knows he’s a good person at heart and sticks with him

For knuckles, I’m still thinking of what to do with him, whether to keep him the same or make some major changes but at the moment he’s pretty much normal knuckles

For sonic I think he’d be a sore loser and have a short fuse, he is still supposed to be a kid after all… he was raised by eggman what do you expect but still the cocky never gives up kind of guy as well which correlates with how he is previously stated to be. I think when he first met tails and friends they probably underestimated him but they quickly got the upper hand and now he just doesn’t like them, especially tails since he always says he’s ‘copying ivo’ on the fact that he makes machines as well. Then eggman, a big change to him would be that he cares about his robots, he considers them family, and he actually has a caring bone in his body which is why he took sonic in and raised him, doesn’t pummel orbot and cubot etc etc, which is supposed to be in contrast to tails with his nonplus care about what happens to robots and eggman doesn’t like that. He doesn’t care what happens to tails and all the other mobians, the only organic I think he cares about is sonic because of their history. But despite all that he’s still an evil guy bent on ruling the world, but he’s not heartless (that’s debatable for tails and friends because they don’t. Think he actually cares about sonic and just keeps him around to make tails and Amy hesitate when attacking because they would be hurting a fellow mobian)

Bonus: Super form idea/sketch ✨

silly guy

WOW I SURE LOVE WRITING MULTIPARAGRAPH RANTS ABOUT RANDOM AU IDEAS THAT COME TO ME, im a first timer and it feels great

you never know, i might say more about this idea in the near future, and also if people wanted to ask funny things for fun my ask box is open

And JUST as i finsihed this giant post i was, URETHRA, i have a wip name for this... Pint Sized Evil AU (i just came up with that it probably sounds cringe ass) so if i ever post about this again ill use that tag

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK