#reader insert technically

[thereaderinsertlady]

sorry man i hate to break it to you but this one is different 😔

Textless & individual & better quality version in the readmore. My thoughts are in the tags :3

(What the text says:) This world isn't the first. There are many others, most quite different. Some were easy. Others took... a teensy bit more effort. So I have to ask... What makes you think this one won't end the same?

[raspberrighost]

... big metal wife

[velvetwyrme]

Surprise ;)!!

I decided to schedule this post randomly as well, so whenever it posts will be a surprise to me too! (Written May 9th 2023)

[kiba-uwuzuka]

Bitter Sweet Café

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: five times Bucky orders a black coffee, and one time he takes your suggestion.

word count: 4.7k+

author's note: this is the first fic i've ever posted! this is also my first attempt at reader insert, so bear with me! all reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!! ‪❤︎

this has also been cross posted on my ao3!

The morning rush at Rise & Grind Coffeehouse was slower today, some merciful god looking down at you so that you might have a breather on this early Tuesday morning. Spring was here, shaking off the frost of winter, reminding people that it was okay to come outside and feel the sun. 

You wipe down the espresso machine, appreciating the lull that was soon to end. You often worked the morning shifts, it freed up your afternoons to take a walk around the city or return home and unwind with a good book or some mindless tv. 

The doorbell rang as another customer walked in. You look up, calling out a greeting. “Welcome to Rise & Grind!”

The man was someone you had never seen before; tall, broad shouldered, wearing a long black overcoat and a finely pressed suit underneath–the kind that looked allergic to color or fun. His facial hair was short but neat, his eyes tired and apprehensive as he took in the brightly colored cafe. 

“First time in?” You ask, your lips curving in a slight grin as he walks up to the counter. His posture was straight and his expression was serious, like a man on a mission for caffeine in enemy territory. He definitely looked out of place here with his monotone color palette.

“My regular place closed down recently.” His voice was quiet, measured, but not unfriendly. “This one’s on the way to work.”

You nod, understanding. Independent coffee shops in the city were a hit or a miss. “Well, what can I get you started with? Maybe a Sugar Cookie Frappe?” You suggest, giving him a playful smile. “It’s been a real hit lately.” 

He levels a stare at you like you had just personally ran over his cat. “A what?” 

“A Sugar Cookie Frappe.”

“...Why would anyone drink that?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Some people like flavor?” 

He looks apprehensive, almost offended. “Just a large black coffee. Whatever your.. Most normal medium roast is.” 

You huff a laugh as you type his order into the system. “No cream or sugar, I’m assuming?” 

“You would assume correctly.” He said dryly. 

“One large, boring coffee coming right up.” You say, and write the order on a cup. He makes a noise that could perhaps be a chuckle as you write medium roast, maximum mystery in place of a name, and he pays with a card. 

You don’t mean to look at his card, but you catch a glimpse of a name. Barnes. Familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it. 

It takes you no time to make his simple order, which is probably good for you. Questions were on the tip of your tongue, but he didn’t seem the type to give you a real answer. You hand the finished coffee back to him with the lid on tight and a sleeve on the cup, your fingers brushing a bit as he takes the hot drink from you. He looks at the cup like it might poison him, and you snort a bit. 

“Have a good day, mystery man.” You say with a wave as he walks to the door. He leaves without a word, but you're almost certain that he might have smiled.

It had been two days since that mystery man came into the cafe.

Not that you were counting. 

But you did look up ‘Barnes’ as soon as your shift ended. You told yourself it was because the name sounded familiar, vaguely historical. A quick google search confirmed what your gut had already suspected. 

James Buchanan Barnes. 

New York’s 12th Congressional District Representative. 

Mid-30s (appearance wise). War veteran (WWII, specifically). An interesting metal arm that you realized you mistook for a glove when he first arrived at the cafe. You barely remembered a historical paper you did on the Avengers in college, and wondered why it took you so long to recognize him. 

Your search only came up with headlines and boring congressional interviews, no nonsense such as social media or anything he was currently up to in his private life. No fun, no flavor. 

So when he walks in again – same time, same coat, same dry stare – you’re smiling a bit brighter than you probably should be. 

The cafe is quiet this morning, the faint whirr of the grinder blending in with the lo-fi music playing over the speakers. A few people were tucked away in the corners, tapping away at their laptop for some midterm paper, probably. When he approaches the counter, you tamper down your school-girl excitement – you don’t want to scare him off.

“Morning.” He says, almost apprehensive. 

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “You’re back.”

He regards you for a moment. “All the other coffee shops are out of the way.” He says lightly, almost like it was an excuse he just made up. 

You can’t help but grin, and tap your screen awake for his order. “May I suggest our Cotton Candy Cloud Macchiato?” You say breezily, knowing it would probably make him rethink his entire life choices. 

He narrows his eyes, most certainly offended. “Do I even want to know what that is?” 

“It has edible glitter.” You say with a sparkle of mischief in your eye. 

He scowls. “No.”

You laugh, and type in his order in the system. “Alright, alright. One large black coffee. No cream, no sugar, no joy.” 

There’s a pause as you write zero sugar, zero joy on his cup, and he exhales a short breath of a laugh. “Do people not get regular coffee anymore?” He asks, looking at you with a slight smirk on his face as he slides his card into the machine to pay.

You look over your shoulder at him with a sly grin as you brew his coffee. “There’s enjoying coffee, and then there’s drinking it like it’s a punishment.” His order is simple and done almost instantly, you place the lid and sleeve on and slide it to him. He hums, picking the cup up and inspecting it like it might bite back. 

“Tell me something, Congressman Barnes.” You say casually, wiping your hands on your apron. “Is the joyless monotone vibe a politician thing, or a personal choice?” 

His eyes narrow, but only slightly. “You looked me up.” 

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “I may have seen your name on your card.”

He glances at your apron, where a name tag might be, but your boss wasn’t a fan of such things. He looks back up at your eyes, the direct eye contact making your heart stumble a bit. “Are you always this nosy?” 

You grin, shameless. “Only with regulars.”

That gets another faint smile – barely there, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. You take that as a win.

“You planning on making fun of me every time I come in?” He asks. 

“Only if you keep denying joy and exciting flavor.” 

He takes a sip, eyes still on you over the rim of the cup. He hums, seemingly satisfied with the drink, and turns to leave. “Then I guess I’ll see you again.” He lifts a hand in a small wave as he heads to the door. 

You smile, soft and warm. “Till next time.”

It’s the middle of the lunch rush, and the cafe is buzzing. Apparently everyone in the city has decided that this is the place to get mediocre Wi-Fi and overpriced croissants. You’re practically vibrating off of three espresso shots, you’re two orders behind and you’ve already spilled mocha sauce all over your apron at least once. 

Which, of course, is exactly when you see him. 

You lift your head away from some overcomplicated almond milk situation to call out the usual greeting as the door chimes, catching sight of the tall man scowling at the sight of the line ahead of him. He lingers by the door for a moment, seeming to consider his choices, when he catches your eye. A flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes, and he joins the line with disgruntled reluctance. 

 You catch yourself smiling a bit and take over for your coworker at the counter who was getting overwhelmed with the line. When it’s his turn, he raises an eyebrow at you. “I came by the other day, you weren’t here.” He says casually with a smirk. “I didn’t know this place existed without you.” 

You laugh, feeling a bit warm and gooey inside that he looked for you. It had  been about four days since you had last seen him, and you couldn’t help but feel your pulse quicken under his intense blue-eyed gaze. “Am I hearing that you missed me?” 

“I wasn’t suggested some sugar-filled heart attack inducing drink, if that’s what you mean.” He snorts, but you notice he didn’t deny your question. 

“Speaking of,” you start with a grin, “Why don’t you try our S’more Mocha Madness? It even has mini marshmallows.” 

“Tempting.” He says in a voice that is not tempted at all. 

You shake your head almost teasingly, tapping in his order and grabbing a cup. Still bitter, with a side of coffee, you write on the cup, turning away to brew his drink. It’s simple and quick, and you turn back around just as he finishes paying, sliding him the cup. “Here you are. Large, medium roast, no joy and extra bitter – just how you like it.” 

He snorts, picking up the cup. “Are you always this aggressive with your customers?” 

“Only with people who actively reject happiness.” You say with a sly grin. The line grows behind him, but you can't find it in you to care. “You know, at some point you’re going to have to try something new.”

“I sit through six-hour budget hearings.” He says dryly. “I know how to outlast you.” 

You narrow your eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “So this is a power struggle now?” 

“I'm a congressman. This is the closest thing I get to winning a debate.” 

You laugh despite yourself, and he watches you with a hint of a smile on his lips. Not in a predatory way, not even flirtatious, just… Present. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth focusing on. It makes your heart skip a beat, and you’re sure it’s not from the excess amount of espresso in your system. 

“Well, we do have a reward system here, you know.” You say, wiping your hands with a clean rag. “You might even get a free latte one of these days, Barnes. Maybe even something with sugar in it.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” He says with a snort, but it comes out a bit softer than he meant, something more teasing and playful than that first day he came in. 

He picks up his drink and nods his thanks as he disappears behind the line and out the door; moving like a man who was well experienced moving silently and unnoticed. 

You take the next customer, giving them a smile that was much more real than your usual customer service attitude, a warmth lingering in your chest for the remainder of the day.

Rain was pouring unrelentingly outside, a storm had moved in the night before and seemed to be here to stay. You opened the coffee shop by yourself this morning–the rain made it too difficult for any of your coworkers to come in–but it also kept away the usual Monday morning rush. Only a few wet and determined loyal regulars trudged their way into Rise & Grind, leaving you behind the counter doing some idle sweeping. 

It had been a whole week since you had last seen Congressman Barnes, (James? Mr. Barnes? What do you call him?) and you couldn’t help but overthink your last encounter. Maybe you were pushing it with your teasing? You’ve only met a handful of times, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know your name. 

You were busy sweeping up fallen coffee grounds from when you emptied the grinder when the door jingled, announcing another brave soul who survived the torrential downpour outside. ”I’ll be with you in a moment!” You call over your shoulder, sweeping the pile into the waiting dustpan. 

When you turn, dustpan and broom in hand, you almost jump at the sight, nearly scattering the coffee grounds everywhere again. 

Like you summoned him from your internal lamenting, there he was. Standing before the counter like a half-drowned rat, his hair slicked back with rain and his long black overcoat dripping everywhere. Exhaustion wore heavy on his shoulders, bags under his eyes showing countless days of minimal sleep. His beard was still short but rough and in desperate need of a trim. His face softened a bit when your eyes met – not necessarily a smile but… Relieved, almost. Kinder. 

“Congressman Barnes.” You say lightly. He physically cringes at the name as you tip the dustpan into the trash, and set the dustpan and broom away. 

“Bucky.” He says. 

You lift an eyebrow. “Bucky?” 

He shrugs as you lean against the counter. “I’ve been Congressman Barnes for a very long, exhausting week.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a tired, lopsided smile. “My friends call me Bucky.” 

The familiarity in his tone throws you off a bit, but a soft smile of your own plays on your lips. “Well, my friends call me ____.”

“____.” He repeats softly, like he’s testing the name out on his tongue. You can’t deny the way your stomach flutters with butterflies at the sound of him saying your name. 

You tap the order screen awake, trying to push down the soft feelings and potential swooning you were getting just from him saying your name. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” You say lightly, curious but not outright prying. 

He sighs, the sound nearly bone deep with exhaustion. “Yeah, sorry. Its been.. A rough week.” 

“I can tell,” you say, raising both brows slightly. “I figured you were off somewhere being important, or wrestling with some government things.” You were not going to admit that you had almost convinced yourself that you had scared him away.  

He huffed, pushing his wet, rain soaked hair back, his metal fingers gleaming in the light of the cafe. “A bit of both, I guess.”

You type in his regular order, not teasing him so much about it this time. He truly did look tired, and probably needed this coffee for more than the caffeine. 

Still… You really couldn’t help yourself. 

“You know,” you say slowly, earning a playful narrow-eyed stare from Bucky as you grab a cup. “We do have this wonderful Peach Hibiscus Tea that might revive your soul a bit.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he was remembering how to smile. “I don’t think I’ve got a soul left after the way this week went.” 

“All the more reason, then.” You grin, writing soul healing caffeine on the cup. 

He snorts like he was trying not to, and pays as you turn around to make his coffee. Not a laugh, but close enough. Real. 

You turn back around and slide the warm drink towards him. He holds it, looking like he was savoring the warmth it brought to his hands, both metal and real. You lean to the side, reaching into the display cabinet next to the register, and pull out a blueberry muffin. Still soft and fresh from when they came out of the oven when you opened this morning. You place it on the counter, and push it towards him. 

He raises an eyebrow, and you shrug. “On the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He picks it up, almost carefully, and regards you for a moment. His lips pull into another crooked smile, warmer this time. Softer.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, and you can tell it wasn’t just about the muffin. You smile, glancing down at your hands as you absentmindedly wipe them on your apron.

“Just doing my job.”

“It’s not just your job.” He says softly, making you look up again. 

He lingers around for a bit. Not long, just enough time for him to finish the muffin. You two talk quietly, despite the cafe being empty and the rain still pouring. You tell him about the ridiculous orders people come up with, and he tells you what ridiculous things the old men in the Senate say nowadays. 

It’s the longest you two have talked, and the longest that he’s stayed in the cafe. When he finishes his muffin and departs, he does so slowly, like he doesn’t actually want to leave. You smile and wave him goodbye, your heart warm knowing he’ll be back sooner or later.

The air was filled with humidity the next morning, the storm finally blowing away and leaving behind wet, sticky air and puddles everywhere. You got the morning shift again, and hoped for another slow day (and maybe a certain congressman). You slipped into the rhythm of opening the cafe with practiced ease, a routine you’ve done hundreds of times in your time of working at Rise & Grind.

You had the doors unlocked for barely ten minutes when the bell jingled, the noise echoing in the silent cafe – the music had yet to be turned on. It wasn’t uncommon for an early riser or someone pulling an all-nighter to walk in as soon as you had opened, but it was still far too early to deal with customers. Regardless, you turned to the door with the regular greeting on your tongue and a smile forced on your lips before you see who stepped inside.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the door, his eyes sweeping the empty cafe in a way you’ve noticed him do before. His eyes were clear and bright when he saw you, a slight pleased expression on his face as he came up to the counter. He looked refreshed, maybe even vibrant. His coat was dry and he even looked like he got a full night of sleep. 

“We just opened.” You say with a smile that was much more genuine as he joins you at the counter. “Are you that desperate for bitter-filled punishment?” 

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging. “Desperate, yes. Bitter? The day is young, and I am a pessimist.” 

You squint at him. “Are you smiling?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You say with a beaming grin. You study him for a moment, then turn to the menu with a dramatic hum. “Hmm, let’s see. You look like you are in great need of our Unicorn Fuel Mocha Latte, I think.” 

“Unicorn fuel?” He repeats, like you just suggested committing a war crime.

You point at the menus behind you, in the latte section.

“Why is this the second drink you’ve recommended that has edible glitter?” 

You shrug. “Some people like to have fun, Bucky.” 

He looks back at you, narrowing his eyes but an amused expression on his face. “No way.” 

“Come on,” you say, grinning. “Live a little.”

“I am living. I actively choose life. That’s why I’m not ordering that.”

You laugh, shrugging in defeat as you reach for a cup, his order already typed into the system. “Alright, alright, fine. Back to the most boring coffee known to man.”  You write faithful and bitter on his cup.

“Who even names these things?” He asks in disbelief as he continues to read the menu while you make his drink. “Birthday Cake Iced Latte? Banana Cream Cold Brew?”

“My boss, actually.” You laugh. “She’s quite proud.”

When you hand the drink back to him, he makes no move to leave. He takes a sip, and leans against the counter, regarding you with those blue eyes. “So, I never did get around to asking you. Do you often google your customers?” 

You pause mid-wipe on the counter, looking up at him. “Only the ones who drink coffee like divine punishment.” You say teasingly, but truthfully you don’t quite know why you looked him up in the first place. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what did you find?” 

“Mostly congress stuff, nowadays. A piece on you in World War II. Buzzfeed did an article on you, you know. Most importantly, no social media.” You shook your head in mock shame. “You are practically impossible to stalk online. It’s tragic, really.” 

He chuckles a bit. “Social media isn’t really my thing. Too much.. Noise.” 

“Makes sense.” You nod sagely. “You seem pretty.. Old fashioned.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me old?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, 110? How’s your back feeling?” 

He laughs, a real one, the noise coming out like a surprise. “Do you treat all your regulars like this?”

You couldn’t help the small smile rising on your lips. “Not all my regulars are so interesting, after all.”

He made a small, curious noise in response, his eyes glinting a bit with amusement as he took another sip of his coffee. “Well. I'm glad that you find me… interesting.” His voice was soft and low, his eyes meeting yours over the lid of his cup. 

You fought the rising blush on your cheeks, the eye contact and sound of his voice making your heart thud in your chest. He headed to the door with a slight smirk, pausing before he exited. He turned to you, and raised his cup a bit. 

“See you later, ____.” He said, giving you a wink, and was out the door before you could stumble together your words. 

You spent the rest of the day smiling like a fool, thinking that maybe he found you just as interesting.

Saturday brought in a different type of rush – the regular 9 to 5ers usually taking the weekend to stay home or run errands – leaving a more relaxed crowd to come into the cafe. 

The cafe was buzzing with activity, people at almost every table catching up with friends or huddled in groups with laptops. The sun was bright and shining outside, making people come out to enjoy the fresh weather and a good cup of coffee. 

You wiped down one of the empty tables, sighing. You hadn’t seen Bucky since Tuesday (you had already given up on denying the fact you counted the days between his visits), but you weren’t as worried that you did something wrong this time around. 

You had only met a handful of times, but there was something about him that made your heart flutter. The way he smiled, soft and rare. The way it was so easy to talk to him, something effortless and comforting. He lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit.

Your coworkers had already caught on, teasing you about your not-so-subtle crush, but you hadn’t bothered to deny it. Why would you?

Still, part of you held back. He was a congressman, after all. A former ally to the Avengers. (Part of the Avengers? That never did get clarified, in the end.) He was a man with nearly a century of a past, and a future shaped by headlines and handshakes. 

And you were… Here. Behind the counter. Watching the door, wondering if he ever thought of you the way you found yourself thinking of him.

You finished cleaning the empty tables and walked back to the counter, pushing those thoughts out of your mind. You huffed to yourself, and glance at the clock. You had just about ten minutes left in your shift, and then you would be free to go grab some lunch and head home. Just as you got behind the counter, the door jingled with the arrival of another customer. You looked up, standing at the register, and raised your eyebrows in surprise. 

Bucky Barnes, here on a weekend. He was obviously off work, his outfit was much more casual than you had seen. He had a navy henley on with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing one muscular forearm and more of his metal arm than you had ever seen before. He wore dark jeans and sneakers, and gave you a slanted grin as he walked up to the counter. 

“I didn’t know you existed outside of the weekdays.” You say, your eyes openly taking in his relaxed appearance. “Or had any other clothes.”

Bucky chuckled, running his metal hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but admire the way the dark metal gleamed in the light. “I do actually have a life, you know.”

“Do you?” You ask with a tilted head and narrowed eyes, a small teasing smile playing on your lips. 

He gives you a dry look, making you laugh a bit. He shakes his head, a small smile rising on his face. “Alright, alright. What’s the weekend special you’re having? I’m sure it’s something equally horrifying to the abominations you’ve mentioned before.”

“Have you such little faith in me?” You muse, and glance up at the menu with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps our Honey Oatmilk Latte?” 

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.” 

You turn back to him, blinking in surprise. “What?” 

“I mean, it doesn’t sound that bad.” He shrugs. He looks at your surprised face, and grins a bit. “Just don’t send me into cardiac arrest, alright?” 

You huff a laugh, and grab a cup. “Such high standards,” you tease, shaking your head. You step away from the counter as he pays, and begin to make his drink. It was a simple latte, espresso with oatmilk, honey and a dash of vanilla and cinnamon. It wasn’t overly sweet, not too complicated, but you wanted to make sure it was perfect. 

You turn back around and slide the drink to him, an almost nervous smile tugging at your lips. He picks up the cup and gives it a look. 

“What, no passive-aggressive notes today?” He asks, amused with an eyebrow raised. You roll your eyes playfully, waving him away. 

“Positive reinforcement, and all that.” You shrug, but you don’t take your eyes away from him as he gives the drink a small sip. 

He’s quiet for a moment, considering the flavors, then raises both his brows. “This is.. Pretty good, actually.” 

“Wow, look at that.” You couldn’t help the smug grin on your face as you lean against the counter. “A compliment? And you doubted me, what a shame.” You shook your head. “You could have had so many good drinks by now.” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time now, won’t we?” His grin makes your stomach twist, and you find yourself trying not to blush. 

You glance away, at the clock, and realize it's about five minutes after your shift ends. Bucky glances that way as well, before looking back at you. “Ah, my shift is over.” You say, feeling a bit awkward now. He often came by in the mornings, or that one time you had an afternoon shift. You step back, and then shuffle awkwardly to the back to hang up your apron and clock out. 

When you come back to the front, Bucky is still there, standing a bit aways from the counter. He smiles softly at you as you come up to him, your bag slung over your shoulder. “Have you had lunch yet?” He asks, almost too casually. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this you asking me out on a date?”

He purses his lips, and takes another sip of the coffee. “I might have waited to come in when I thought your shift ended.” He shrugs. “There’s a deli shop I like, just around the corner. Why don’t you join me?”

A smile tugs at your lips, your heart practically leaping out of your chest. “My, my. You let me pick your drink, and now a date. Have I worn you down that much?” 

He chuckles, the sound rumbling softly out of his chest. “You can tell me what I should get there, too, if you’d like.”

You laugh, and he leads you out of the cafe. The bell over the door jingles as he pushes on it and holds it open for you. Your heart is light and you can’t keep the smile off your face, and it delights you to see a smile on his, something more genuine than you’ve seen in the whole time you’ve known him. He looks down at you with a gleam in his eye, and you know you’ll never be wondering for the next time he comes around.

my very small taglist <3 -

@makehydrafictionagain

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

hello!! I'd like to request a Sir Lancelot (Shadow?? I don't know much of the game idk why his name is changed) x Reader sneaking out together to go be all lovey dovey and stuff? Thank you!

“Secrets in the Flower Field”

Pairing: Sir Lancelot x Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: It wasn’t easy getting to see your beloved knight, with him being, well, a knight of the Round Table. But when you did get to see him, it was lovely.

Notes: My first Sonic and the Black Knight request!! Since you were curious, anon, Sir Lancelot is essentially the best Knight of the Round Table (Arthurian Legend stuff) and he happens to look like Shadow. He has a very different personality but they basically look the same! Anyway, hope you enjoy!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

Being a maid for the king was surprisingly an easy job. Clean each room, clean the knights’ armor, tend to any injuries from battle, and don’t touch Excalibur.

Pretty simple, right?

And you were lucky; your room was near the Knights of the Round Table’s rooms, and part of your job was bringing them breakfast each morning.

During your stay at the castle, you came to fall in love with Sir Lancelot Du Lac, the strongest knight of the Round Table.

How could you not? He was strong, smart, good-looking, kind-hearted…

You had fallen head-over-heels for him.

Luckily for you, he loved you, too, and the two of you started a (not-so) secret relationship.

Today was one of your lucky days off, and you were spending it outside, tending to your flower garden.

But…you’re lonely. You miss your knight.

You head back towards the castle, seeing Lancelot cleaning his armor.

“Lancelot!” you say happily, approaching him.

He lets off a smile seeing you, setting down his helmet. It was rare you saw him without it, and gosh was he beautiful.

“Hello to you as well, my love,” Lancelot says, kissing the back of your hand.

“Would thou like to accompany me to my flower garden?” you ask him.

“I would,” he says. “Let me put my armor on first, then we shall depart.”

“Must you really keep it on when off of your duties?” you ask.

“I must,” he replies. “If I wish to keep you safe, then it must be worn.”

“That’s fair enough, my knight,” you state.

Lancelot puts his armor back, grabbing his sword, the two of you heading to your flower garden not long after.

You take a seat, laying down on your back, with Lancelot doing the same, laying down by your side.

“Thank you for accompanying me, my knight,” you tell him. “I always enjoy your company.”

“As do I,” Lancelot replies. “You make me happier than I could have ever dreamed.”

“I love you too, Lancelot,” you tell him. “And I’ll love you until the end of time.”

[pokegalla]

Haven’t watched this in awhile but I hope I do this some justice!

Request/trade from @neko-rose888

How do the bad sanses (+ Dream) deal with an S/o just like Yor Forger?

Dust:

* You two are literally the quiet duo. You would think that’s a bad thing right? Nah. Introverts just have their own way of communicating. So he actually understands you best. Which much to your relief helps you a lot.

* Now seeing you in battle is a whole ‘nother story. He didn’t think you had it in you. Even under the hoodie you can see his eyes go wide as you easily take down a group of strong men easily- you just earned this man’s instant affection-

* But if there’s one thing he’s more terrified of, it’s your cooking. He doesn’t panic but he’s pretty creative on getting rid of the evidence. Thank god he can teleport this away. No offense to you…he just can’t do it. But at least he’s discreet so he doesn’t hurt your feelings.

* To him you are a beautiful strong and independent woman…and he’ll protect you even in the shadows.

Killer:

* He thought you were the cutest damn thing ever. Teasing you with sweet words and gentle gestures to flirt and see your face turn red. Stars he can never get over that sight.

* But man seeing you in action just makes him fall in more love. Fighting side by side as people drop down to the floor as you dance together with your blades? Can he really think of anything more romantic than this?

* Your cooking is one thing he’s a little….scared of. He still eats it. He loves you that much! But man his nonexistent stomach hurts so much- worth it-🥲

* He still loves you though. His perfect thorn princess…he’ll be sure to dance again with you

Horror:

* Ironically both of you are pretty similar: both of you are absolutely precious but a little terrifying if necessary- Horror is like a big ol teddy bear who likes to tail you around to make sure you don’t hurt yourself and you make sure he’s ok too!

* But man both of you are RELENTLESS in battles. Downright chilling to the bone (pun intended-) with your cold glares and shocking strength. The switch up even makes the others nervous-

* But nothing more terrifying then Horror actually eating your cooking without any hesitation and even asking for seconds- thanks to him, you strive to do better in your cooking!

* He can’t help but have a soft spot for you. Just please do be careful. He worries a lot….

Error:

* Don’t let this tsundere act bullshit you- he finds you annoying but speaks up for you instantly? That man will glare anyone down if they try to take advantage of you-

* And despite being a little surprised at how capable you are in battle, he does still watch over you and assists you anyway he can. What? He knows you’re still a klutz. He’s not wanting to have to swoop in and save you because YOU aren’t paying attention- (he was being a worrywart-)

* He doesn’t really eat anything other than his chocolate bars but you swear someone has been tampering with your cooking….oh well. It does seem to taste better now!

* He might be a little jackass but that’s only because that’s what he wants you to see. He’s no softie dammit-!

Nightmare:

* He hired you for your services as your reputation exceeded you. But he was…not expecting someone so…well soft. He thought it was a facade but nope- purely that is your true character. Which was odd to him….could someone this innocent really do anything useful?

* Oh man but you shut him up with your actions. Your speed, your elegant skills, your raw power, he was mesmerized by it all. Could you really be the same gullible quiet girl….? Well you’ve earned his respect.

* With cooking, he actually helps you. At first you spoon feed him a taste and instead of panicking at the taste, he gives you an honest opinion, some advice, and even a cook book for you to follow. He does linger longer than he should have….

* He can’t help the soft spot that’s grown so fond of you. He’s hesitant but he can’t ignore how nice it feels to be with you….

Dream:

* He heard rumors of your deeds and wanted to put a stop to you. But when he first saw you…well he didn’t expect you to be so reserved. And kind. And sweet….he actually heard your story and you gained his empathy as he understood how you would feel the need to work hard for your sibling’s sake.

* He doesn’t agree with your work but he doesn’t stop you. Because he knows how important this is for you. But expect him to constantly make sure you’re ok and ready to heal you if necessary.

* As for cooking, he usually ends up cooking with you. Mostly because he smelled your cooking and was a little…concerned. But he decided to make this kinda like a fun dating activity while he teaches you! And oh how fun it was. You both couldn’t stop giggling.

* He really cherishes you and despite living different lives, you both make it work….

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

kiss and cry

summary | you’ve learnt to build your walls sky high in the wake of dick grayson’s abrupt departure from the world of skating. but one decade later, he’s back like nothing ever happened, and you’re back to square one. prompt | language of flowers event: a bouquet of purple hyacinths in blue wrapping paper with a pink ribbon ♡ pairing | dick grayson x gn!reader wc | 3.2k warnings/tags | pairs figure skating, childhood friends to strangers to ???, mutual pining, repressed feelings, angst, swearing, insecurity, no use of y/n, very liberal interpretation of how you’d qualify for the olympics ty @strangergraphics for the divider!

Brian Orser is a liar. 

“Oh c'mon kid, I had no idea. I thought this was a good kind of surprise! You might have a chance at the Olympics this time around!”

You should’ve known something was up when he asked you to stay after practice. The old man is annoyingly close to catching up with you, and if you weren’t wearing skate guards right now, you’d speed walk to the lockers faster. 

“Isn’t this good? You need a new partner, Dick finally decided to call me back, and anyways, I thought you l-”

You don’t need to hear the rest of his sentence to know what he’s about to say. “I didn’t. And I don’t anymore.” Neither of you seem convinced, but at least it gets him to shut up. 

What pains you the most is you can’t even be mad at the older man. You can’t cry, or scream, or throw a tantrum like you were 9 again, because at the end of the day, this is the coach you had begged to take you on. The one who has been behind so many legends and basically built your career up from the ground. Had this been any other situation, any other person, besides the Boy Wonder himself, you would probably be on the verge of much happier tears. But you know, just like last time, he won’t be here to stay. And you don’t know how much more heartbreak you can take.

Before you get the chance to talk him out of it, a pair of footsteps joins you. Speak of the fucking devil.

It’s like they had planned some flanked attack, with Brian herding you towards the front of the building and Dick stepping in to cut you off as you’re about to make your grand escape. No idea, your ass. Brian knew you wouldn’t be able to say no if they had you cornered like this.

“Dick!” he exclaims, pushing past you to wrap the black-haired man in bear hug. Normally, you think you’d be hurt by how his face is practically illuminating (he had never greeted you like that before). But you have your own worries to deal with: namely, a heart that is currently trying to claw its way out of your throat and lungs that have forgotten how to inhale air. You think Brian might still be speaking, but if he is, you’ve tossed that all to the side in lieu of studying the man in front of you.

You make it a point not to meet his gaze, even as you feel him trying to meet yours. Perhaps it’s pride, perhaps it’s fear, but either way, you know as soon as you look at him, properly look at him, any objectivity will fly out the door.

So you settle for the obvious things. He’s taller, and his face is sharper, no longer rounded by baby fat. Even the spiky haircut you used to tease him for is grown out now. He looks good—but nothing like the boy you have enshrined in your memories. This isn’t the boy who would stay behind to help you practice your jumps. This isn’t the boy who would pack an extra lunch for you in case you forgot yours. This isn’t the boy you cried yourself to sleep over for months, the boy who almost made you quit the one thing you loved most in the world because the thought of skating alone made you want to hurl.

This? Him? It’s just a bitter reminder that figure skating wasn’t the only thing he left behind all those years ago. 

You think you hear the two of them discuss the technical details. Practice schedules, song choices, choreography—it all goes in one ear and out the other. It’s a conversation you have with the older man at the start of every season. An annual promise that that year would be the year you finally earn the recognition you had worked so hard for. 

Technically, everything had been perfect. Technically, you were good. Enough to consistently land a spot at the Grand Prix Final.

But not good enough for a medal. It was never enough. No matter how much training you did, how many extra jumps you crammed into your programs, how many partners you had cycled through. There was no use in denying it: after Dick had left, you hadn’t been the same skater.

It’s pathetic. Your crush had not only abandoned you at 14, but any hopes of even making it to the podium had been crushed then as well. And you hate that 10 years later, you still haven’t moved on. Not enough to say no to his offer. Because like it or not, chemistry is everything in pairs, and there’s nobody like him. There is nobody like Dick Grayson.

It’s silent now. They’re waiting for you. 

You finally look up to meet his gaze. “Okay, I’ll do it.” 

—

It’s too easy to fall back into step with Dick. He always greets you with a smile, brings you snacks before practice (homemade ones at that), and carries your bag to your car for you, even though you insist that you’re more than capable of doing it yourself. He’s certainly trying, but the more effort he puts in, the more you can’t help but resent him. 

His kindness is all just a means to an end for him. He’s buttering you up so your movements are less goddamn stiff when you’re next to him, so you at least vaguely resemble an evenly matched pair. You know from Brian that he’s only coming back because of a stupid bet he made with his brother. He’s just here to prove he can make it to the Olympics. Your childhood dream, what you’ve decided would be the sign that you’ve made it—to him, it’s just another achievement he can use to inflate his ego. The worst part about it is he’s good enough that he could genuinely make it happen that effortlessly. And once he’s satisfied with that, he’ll waltz out of your life just as quickly as he came in. 

So when he offers you a hand as you step out of the rink, when he happens to have an extra energy drink, when he suggests a “team bonding” dinner, you don’t accept. You’ll let yourself entertain him on the ice for the sake of the skate. But nothing more. 

At the very least, you can admit that your performance aspect has definitely improved since skating alongside Dick. You breeze through Eastern Regionals, then Skate Canada, then Skate America, and in no time at all, you’re at the Grand Prix Final: the one barrier you’ve always hit. 

The short goes even better than you imagined it would. Too good. You’ve seen the posts that the fans have made about the two of you, digging up old skating clips to support their theories about the two of you. There’s a poorly worded interview by Brian that does nothing but fuel the flames, and even some of the commentators have been talking about how good the two of you look together. All signs seem to be telling you that you have nothing to worry about; the two of you are perfect. They don’t understand that that’s exactly what you’re worried about. 

You don’t catch yourself until it’s too late. You’re slowly getting consumed by him—by his soft smiles and whispers of encouragement and stupid, stupid puns. You’re back where you started, feeling weightless as the two of you skate your free program, actually losing yourself to the music. There’s nothing to prove anymore; this isn’t a performance—this is just how it’s always meant to be. It should feel right. But it doesn’t, because you’re terrified that if you let yourself get comfortable in his embrace, you won’t be able to skate like this ever again.

You pop the triple Lutz. Then you go into an Euler and a double toe loop that’s under-rotated too. You don’t understand, your jumps have always been pristine, especially your doubles. You haven’t made a sloppy mistake like this in a while. The last time was when–

Shit, you’re too early into the step sequence, the turn too sharp at the corner. You meet his gaze repentantly, like that will absolve you of your guilt. You don’t know what emotion you’re expecting to find in eyes. Maybe anger? Frustration? That’s certainly how you feel at the moment. Whatever it is, it’s certainly not adoration. 

You want to ask him what the hell is going on, but there’s no time. Last move. Death spiral. You have to hold hands, and the contact makes your skin burn. You don’t have the heart to look at him again. You’re afraid of what you’re going to find.

Suddenly everything feels too tight: the rink, your chest, the skates around your feet. You have to get out of there. One revolution, two, three, four. You can hold on, it’s almost over. Another four. He pulls you back towards him. It’s your final pose. The two of you are chest to chest. 

You just have to hold this for a second, and then you’re free. You can do it. You can do it. And then he’s leaning in even closer, until his forehead is pressed against yours and your lips hovering over each other. 

You can’t do it anymore and all you can think about is how to get out of there. You don’t even bother to wait for your score; you’ll deal with Brian’s scolding later. But you know if you stay out there any longer, you won’t be able to scrape together what little sanity you still have left. 

You’re leaving. You have to leave.

And as you run back to the lockers, you realize somebody’s been calling out your name.

“Hey, wait! Is everything okay?” Of course, the one person you don’t want to see would follow you. “Why did you leave like that? Did I do something wrong?” His hand hovers over your arm for a moment before he pulls it away and you don’t know whether you should laugh or cry. He used to do it with practiced ease back when you were kids, when you would joke that he had cooties but let him do so all the same. Now, you’re not sure if you can stand his touch, and from the look on his face, it seems to break his heart.

”Nothing, let’s just forget about this.” You feel like you’re being strangled and it takes all of your energy not to burst into tears at the moment. 

”No,” he says softly. “No, I know you, I know you’re not okay. Please, let’s talk about this.” 

And suddenly, everything’s just too much. He’s acting too nice to you, like he actually cares. Like maybe the fervent glances and lingering touches on the ice mean more to him than just pandering to the judges. But you know he doesn’t, because then he wouldn’t have left.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “No, you don’t know a single thing about me. So don’t act like you care about me now.”

”I do though!” 

“Bullshit. We’re not anything to each other.” 

His face crumples immediately. He takes a step back. This is the closest he’s ever been to tears.

On a kinder day, you’d take it all back. You’d apologize and beg for his forgiveness and he would be disgustingly kind like he always is and you could both forget about this. But you’re tired of dancing around the issue and you think there’s a sick part of you that revels in his pained expression. 

You take a step forward. “You’re just a coworker. This? This act where we pretend like we can stand to be in the same room as each other? This isn’t real. So stop acting like it is. You didn’t care about me when you left. So why the change now? Do you know how fucking hard it was for me to move on? I couldn’t even skate afterwards. I thought my career was over. And I’ve had to fight every single day to prove that—that I’m still a capable skater, that I have a place in this sport.” 

Your voice trembles, and it takes all of your strength to swallow the lump in your throat. “I had to fight to be able to skate without you. To have the courage to stand on the ice alone. So I’m sorry that I’m not willing to welcome you back with open arms, because I know this is just some stupid game to you. You’ll get to the Olympics, because of course you will, and I’ll get to ride on the coattails of that. And that will be the greatest moment of my career, but to you, it’s just another thing on your checklist. Then you’ll go back to whatever you decided is more worthy than m–” You choke on your own words. “Than skating. And I’ll have to pick up the broken pieces again. But frankly speaking, I don’t know if I can do that a second time.”

It’s dead silent, save for your panting. You feel like you just ran a marathon. And Dick? You can’t read him, and that’s what scares you the most.

”Forget it.” The silence is driving you insane, and you just start running your mouth. “Fuck, forget it. I should just be grateful you’re even my partner this season. It’s the only way I’ll make it to the Olympics. I know you’re thinking it, you and Brian—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—that’s why you left, isn’t it? Didn’t want to be tied down to a pathetic fucking loser.”

“I never said th—”

”I can’t blame you. I’d leave me too—“

“I DIDN’T LEAVE YOU!” 

Now you’re both silent. You’ve never heard him raise before. You’ve never seen him this desperate either. He’s shaking as he stands in front of you. “You’re right, I didn’t care about skating. It was always just a hobby to me. But I stayed because of you. Because I was young and stupid and in love and the only way I knew how to show you that was to skate with you. And it killed me when I had to quit, but I just…I saw how much passion you had for skating. Like it was the air you needed to breathe, but I knew I couldn’t dedicate myself to the sport like you could.. And you deserved a partner who would love skating as much as you do.”

You think your brain short circuits after “in love,” and if he says anything else after that, you certainly aren’t processing it. “…You loved me?”

Dick laughs like you’ve just asked if water is a liquid. ”Of course I did. Everybody knew it too. Brian used to tease me about the way I would look at you. And I figured I would finally tell you after I quit, in case it would make things awkward, but then…”

“I blocked you.” You whisper in horror. 

“Yeah, so I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me after that. I didn’t realize quitting meant I would lose you too.” 

And suddenly you’re 14 again, watching the boy you’ve had a crush on for over half of your life tell you that he doesn’t want to skate anymore, and you feel so small and so stupid. “Oh god. So all of those years…”

He nods, “I lied about the Olympics thing. Or well, I really did have a bet with Jason, but when Brian told me that you needed a new partner…I came back hoping it would be a chance to make it up to you.”

You’re still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fact that maybe Dick had genuinely been trying to make amends with you. “So you being nice wasn’t just for show or team-building or whatever?”

“Team-building? God, I don’t think there’s a world where I can love you in any other way.”

The first realization that he had loved you in the past had been enough to nearly give you a heart attack. But to hear love? In the present tense? You think back to how he’s been acting for the past few months. All of the weird incidents that you can’t just explain away by saying that he’s making fun of you or being civil to you as a teammate or just being nice because that’s how he is. 

Because there’s no other explanation for why he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, why he lifts you with a reverence that could rival the likes of Keats and Byron, why he lingers on the ice after every practice, like he’s chasing the last vestiges of your warmth. 

And you have so many words dancing on the tip of your tongue, ways in which you can lay down your heart for him as he has done for you. But both of you know that even this stolen moment is just that: stolen time.

”Shall we go back?” He offers you his hand evenly, but there’s a tremble in his voice that gives him away. Like he’s worried that even after all of this, there was a universe in which you still don’t reciprocate his feelings. 

Your heart is screaming at you to assure him, promise that yes of course, you would accept him. But the words evaporate from your mind before you have a chance to grasp onto them. So you hope that at the very least, your actions can convey a fraction of your feelings. Hand in hand, you make your way back to the rink. No matter what the result is, you think it’ll be alright if you have Dick’s shoulder to cry on after this is all over. 

—

“And with a free score of 129.44 and a final score of 205.57, that puts America’s own duo from Gotham at third place in the Grand Prix Final!” 

Third, the word echoes in your head, taking you a few moments to process. Third, and there were no other American teams on the podium. Sure, it isn’t exactly the most fairytale ending, but it’s better this way—more real. You turn to look at Dick, who you’re sure has the exact same look of astonishment that you do. You remember Brian doing the math before you guys had even made it to the venue. Based on this event and the rest of your results this season, it was clear that the two of you were the uncontested pair in the whole country. 

“You’re going to the Olympics!” Brian whoops, hugging the both of you and jumping for joy in a way you think only he can get away with. You’re grinning so hard your muscles are starting to twitch but honestly you could care less about that. All of the training, all of the sleepless nights had finally paid off, and you felt like you had really, truly made it. And the fact that you did it with Dick makes it all the sweeter to you. 

You got a medal, a boyfriend, and that day, the kiss and cry finally lived up to its name.

more dick skating hcs | event m.list | main m.list | navi

[sootrootdoot]

continuation below!! (its almost 5 am i didnt color fancy the rest of the panels lol)

once again smile is the most successful proxy in da palace. she is prom queen.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Rating: SFW Type: Drabble, part of the Maid to Be au Tags: Gen, first meetings, Stan Pines Word count: 3279

For an ask I received a little while ago: 'Obviously their relationship is very much platonic in MTB but I'd love to hear your thoughts on Stan's first/overall impression of Reader' so here it is! Title from the song of the same name on the Maniac OST. You can find it here on ao3 as well. If you're inclined, please show it some love!

Stan is a man of opportunity. He seizes each and every one with both hands and no matter how much they squirm, he’s never been one to let them slip through his fingers. 

Which is why, the first time he meets you, he’s quick to snatch up the one you present. 

From where he lounges in his porch chair, Stan watches you relinquish your goods to the children, careful to warn them of the weight of each bag and ensure they have a tight enough hold of each one before you let them go. He watches Dipper give you a curt, shy nod and listens to Mabel’s sing-songy thanks, and he notes the way you smile at both of them with equal sincerity. 

“We got dinner!” Mabel tells him triumphantly as she clambers up the steps of the porch with her brother at her back. “Well, we got help getting dinner, but we got it!” 

Stan tears his eyes from you to grace his great niece with a warm grin. “That’s great, sweetie,” he says. “How ‘bout you put those bags inside before you throw all that out for the birds, eh?” His words aren’t unkind. They’re a truthful request wrapped in a gentle tease; the kid is full of enthusiasm but Stan’ll be damned if she isn’t slapdash with everything else. He’d rather not have to send them both back to the store because Mabel has tipped fifty bucks worth of produce all over the porch. Again. 

Mabel nods quickly and after she’s given you a little wave goodbye (and you’ve returned it), she hauls her brother inside after her. 

Then it’s just Stan and the stranger. 

He’s told the kids about talking to people they don’t know. Discouraged it. One of them listens more than the other. It’s clear that today, however, neither of them have paid much heed to his wise old words. They’ve brought home another waif and stray, unannounced. 

The cautious, defensive guard that Stan has spent so many decades crafting hikes back up the moment you’re alone with him. His eyes flick up and down your form, assessing every inch automatically. He’s never seen you before. Well, that’s not true. Stan thinks he can recall seeing you in passing. Gravity Falls is a small town and it’s hard to not come into contact with everyone and their mother in a place this intimate, but that doesn’t mean he knows you. Years alone on the road have made Stan hardened to the presence of the unknown and he feels himself slip easily into that Fort Knox attitude with you. 

You cut an unimpressive figure standing on the lawn of his house: your now-empty arms are folded across your chest and a look of mild discomfort colours your features. Your clothes are un-ironed, borderline dishevelled, and there are dark circles under your eyes. You seem as though you hadn’t expected to come across anyone capable of holding a conversation above the level of the two boisterous fourteen year olds you’d accompanied home and now that you’re faced with the prospect of it, you’d be happier allowing Mabel to run you over to her heart’s content rather than engage. There’s a mildly nervous near apprehensive edge to you that Stan recognises well. It seems that he isn’t the only one who’s feeling guarded. 

When Stan only continues to stare, you clear your throat awkwardly and shift from foot to foot on the spot. “You must be their great uncle, right?” you ask, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket. 

Your fingers play with something unseen in their depths and momentarily, Stan’s heart stutters. It’s incredibly unlikely you’re carrying anything that might do him harm, but he’s always cautious. Force of well learned habit.

When nothing appears, Stan grunts and sucks his teeth. “What’s it to ya?” 

You shrug one shoulder, oblivious to his surveillance. “Well, they were telling me about you on the journey over here and I just figured….”

“Figured right,” says Stan, purposely obtuse. “They didn’t break nothin’ of yours, did they?”  His eyes flick up and down you again, searching for any sign of a potential cost liability. The last thing he wants is to hold a reasonably polite conversation with you if you’re only going to wind up costing him an arm and a leg in civil court because the twins have gotten handsy with a random person’s prized possessions without permission yet again.

“Well, they mowed me down with their trolley,” you say lightly. 

Stan swears under his breath and rolls his eyes, but you smile. It isn’t the reaction he expects and it gives him pause. People are usually much more upfront about their ire and for all your edginess, you don’t seem to be upset at all.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “They didn’t do any lasting damage so…. No harm done.” 

“Right,” mutters Stan, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “Right. So, what? You wanna try and get some cash outta me before you sue us for assault?” 

A tiny crease erupts between your brows as you frown up at him, honest confusion written all over your face. “Why would I sue two teenagers for being…. teenagers?” you ask. 

Not buying it, Stan gives you a stony look. 

You return it, owlish yet unflinching. 

He attempts to dial the severity up a notch, both in the hopes of intimidating you into fucking off and to see if you can be intimidated in the first place. Most potential problems can. But you don’t take up either option. You just stare right back at him, bewildered. 

“So, what d’you want then?” Stan asks after a moment, when it’s clear you’re not going to turn into a pile of ash under his hot glare. He’s quite pleased that you don’t. It’s no fun when people give in immediately. “A reward for helping ‘em? ‘Cause you ain’t gettin’ one.” 

Your look of confusion grows. “No, I just…. I wanted to help. They were struggling so I figured they could use a hand.”

Abruptly, the gears in Stan’s head begin to whir. He isn’t an idiot. He knows that sending two children out to grocery store isn’t going to rank up there as one of his smartest ideas, but his back is utterly fucked at the moment and if he’s being honest, there’s no way on god’s green earth that he’s summoning the wherewithal to do it all himself anyway. It isn’t as though Sixer is going to find the time, either. Where Ford makes up for Stan’s physical limitations, he lacks the focus outside of his own bubble to apply his efforts more liberally and that fish is dead in the water. There’s little point in even asking. 

What Stan needs is a do-gooder. Someone who will do it for him. Someone who can’t help but help. Someone…. like you. Anyone who willingly bothers to take on chores that don’t involve them in the first place can probably be bartered into taking on more, and that is exactly the kind of person Stan can find good use for: A good natured sucker. 

Still, he’s wary of roping strangers into his life, of allowing them around the kids and his brother. You can never be too careful these days and this family is more delicate than most. He isn’t in the habit of holding the door wide open and letting any old person nose around in his business. Life has taught him better than that. You could be anyone for all Stan knows: a government agent in plain clothes. A shapeshifting monster looking for its opportunity to live a normal human life. A deal making deity in cheap walking boots. 

“You local?” Stan asks, although he’s reasonably sure of the answer. Anyone passing through the Falls is a tourist and you certainly don’t look like a tourist.

Automatically, you go to shake your head before you seem to catch yourself, as though you think better of it. “Yes,” you say, though it’s not particularly confident. 

“You lyin’ to me?” Stan presses immediately, a tiny red flag springing up in his mind. 

A little taken aback, you shake your head with more fervour this time. “No, no, I…. I’m just new here. I don’t know if I quite graduate as ‘local’, is all.”

Stan grunts again, eyes narrowing. 

At his cool hesitancy, you offer: “I’ve only been here a few weeks. I’m kind of, uh, between places right now but Susan, the lady from the diner, she says there’s some guy she knows who’ll lend me his cabin to stay in as of next week, so…. I guess I will be local, then.” 

You smile and even at this distance, Stan can see it’s strained. Uncomfortable, either about the topic of yourself or your situation. 

Between places. Stan’s heard that before, too. From his own mouth nonetheless. That explains the downtrodden look, at least. 

He’s not one to judge. Well, he is one to judge because he’s doing it right now, however he’s well travelled enough to know that things don’t always go smoothly for people and circumstances don’t make the individual. Things happen. There could be a million and one reasons why you’re down on your luck right now; you could be a highly wanted criminal on the lam from the law or you could be skipping town for more insidious reasons, but Stan keeps his ear to the ground on those types of matters. Though he might not be in the game anymore, he has an eye for it and he can’t recall anyone fitting your description running around in those underworld rumours….

Stan decides to chance it. Maybe he’s gone soft in his old age or maybe it’s a bleeding hearts united kind of thing. He’s never liked to examine those sentimental feelings too closely. More than anything, he tells himself, he does it because he’s seizing the opportunity, making the most of a schmuck, and nothing more. He needs a dogsbody and you’re the most available person he’s come across thus far. 

You’ll do. 

He’ll have to test that you’re made of the right stuff to run with them, of course. Make sure you’re sound to be around and that you’re not easily scared off by a little weirdness. It’s unlikely you’d be in this town if you were, but still…. You’re a new face and he has to be sure. He’ll throw you in at the deep end, make it seem like an easy score and then do a little investigating of his own; he can glean much better information on your background once your guard is lowered and he can keep you at arms length the whole time he does it, too. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

After a few long moments of calculating silence, Stan sits up straight with a grunt of effort. He leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his gold chain glinting in the sun as it swings back and forth, and he nods once. Decisively. 

“You lookin’ for work, kid?” he asks, eyes never leaving yours. 

“I’m not a kid,” is your sharp reply, and it makes Stan’s lip twitch in a smirk. “....And technically, I suppose so.” 

“‘Technically’?” Stan echoes, brow arched. 

“Uh, yeah,” you say, sounding a little unsure. “I’m employed at the diner right now, that’s how I know Susan, but I….” Your words die on your tongue and for the first time since your arrival, your gaze drops away from him. It lowers to the ground for a half second, distant and slightly forlorn, and then you’re rolling your shoulders, setting your jaw, and you’re back to that strange forced confidence again. “I’m open to other options.” 

There’s more to the story than that. Stan can tell. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter after all and there’s something in the way you hold yourself that suggests an undercurrent of unspoken implication. Usually, avoidance like that would arouse his suspicion but for some reason, Stan can’t sense malice behind your evasiveness. Your presence lacks malevolence. It could be a ruse, obviously, but Stan considers himself to be pretty good at sniffing things like that out first try and you? You just don’t fit that assessment. 

Privately, he wonders what you’re hiding.

Stan huffs a laugh under his breath and hauls himself to his feet, groaning again. He hears and feels his knees crack (and he’s fairly certain you do too, judging by the wince of pity you offer him), and he shuffles over a step or two until he can lean up against one of nearby support beams that hold up the veranda’s overhanging roof. He presses his shoulder against it and sighs. 

“I got a bad back,” he announces after another moment of mutual silence. 

You stare at him expectantly but Stan doesn’t say anything further. 

He wants to see what your reaction will be. Stan needs a chump; someone overflowing with pity. He’s perfectly capable of going to the store himself when he’s allowed his joints to rest for a few days but you don’t know that and he’s not about to tell you so. He needs you to put the pieces of the puzzle together incorrectly yourself, to build a picture of him that isn’t strictly true, so that he can make use of you without  you ever really realising that he’s stringing you along a bit. He’s not completely taking advantage of you, though. He’s no monster. But he is lazy and he really doesn’t want to go to the fucking supermarket any more than he as to, and if you’re willing to do it for a little bit of (underpaid) cash in hand then, well, everyone wins, right? 

The exact breed of sympathy he’s counting on flickers across your face and you open your mouth: “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s-”

Bingo. 

“I need someone to take care of stuff around the house every now and then,” Stan says, interrupting you the moment you begin to speak. He’s being difficult on purpose; it’s all part of his masterful test. “Can’t be runnin’ around like I used to and these kids ain’t got a clue how to run a ship.” Stan gestures over his shoulder towards the closed front door that the kids had bolted through earlier. “I swear, if I have to choke down another pint of Mabel Juice instead of a decent coffee in the mornin’, I’m gonna lose it.” 

Stan suppresses a shiver and it’s clear from the look on your face that while you’ve no idea what he’s talking about, you’re doing your best to be polite about it. 

“If you’re lookin’ to make some extra cash, I could do with some help here and there,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Grocery shopping. Cleanin’ the gutters. Yard work. That kinda thing. Interested?” 

You are. There’s an undeniable light that blooms behind your eyes, one that he is very familiar with himself: The light of opportunity. Working at the diner can’t pay all that well and you strike him as reasonably enterprising. It’s probably not particularly stimulating to work with the likes of Susan every day, either, serving some of the weirdos in this fucking town. He almost feels bad for you. Almost. 

Stan watches with great interest as you tilt your head and the look in your eyes turns sharp. Prudish, even. He’s caught your interest.

“How much are you offering?” you ask, not impolitely. 

Cool as ever, Stan shrugs one big shoulder again. “How much you makin’ at Greasy’s?” 

Again, you pause. Your body language shifts minutely: your shoulders lower and then rise almost imperceptibly, like you’re pinning them back to make yourself look more authoritative than you really feel, and your chin juts out a tiny bit. You’re zhuzhing yourself up. 

“Fifteen bucks an hour,” you lie. 

Stan almost chokes on his dentures. He should be pissed off at your gall yet frankly, it’s a little bit endearing and he isn’t really certain as to why. 

“Oh yeah?” he scoffs, giving you a blatantly disbelieving look. “You join a union or somethin’?” 

You mirror one of his own cool headed shrugs back at him. “I’m good at my job,” you say confidently. “They pay what I’m worth, plus tips.” 

It’s a total lie. Susan pays $7.95 an hour. Stanley knows because he’d asked once when one of their old waitresses put her parts on because he’d refused to pay gratuity (“Here’s a tip for you, toots: Fight for better pay and don’t expect the customers to make it up for you….”). Technically, Susan is still paying above the legal minimum. Although it’s not a bad wage, all things considered, it’s not great either. Not enough to get you on your feet if things are as difficult as Stan suspects they might be. You’ll be open to making any extra money you can and he’s willing to play on that to his benefit. 

“Seven,” Stan offers. 

Your nose twitches in annoyance but you do well to save face in spite of being rumbled instantly. “Twelve,” you counter immediately. 

Huh, Stan thinks, a little taken aback. It takes balls to barter, especially with a man you barely know who is purposefully being unfriendly to you. The bravery makes him feel momentarily generous, and so he says: “Ten.” 

“Come on, man,” you say, wilting with exasperation. “I’ve got to feed myself too, y’know? Eleven seventy five.” 

Stan smirks. “Ten fifty.”

You huff, and he can tell you’re resisting the urge to either roll your eyes or flip him the bird. Quite admirably, you do neither.  “Eleven, on the dot,” you say instead. 

It’s more than Stan wants to pay, but it isn’t terrible. His brother is the breadwinner and he’s the one who’ll technically be paying for it anyway; they’ve been discussing the possibility of hiring some help with the house’s upkeep for a little while now so it’s no skin off Stan’s nose if your assistance falls on the marginally dearer end of the scale. Stan just enjoys the game of haggling for old time’s sake. 

“Done,” says Stan after a few seconds of dramatic consideration, extending a hand out for you to shake.

Your brows raise momentarily and it’s clear that you hadn’t expected to get him to agree, but you school your expression quickly and give him a haughty nod, as though that had been your plan all along. It reminds him of his brother. 

Cautiously, he watches you assess him before you come closer. It’s not subtle and Stan isn’t offended; it’s smart to be careful and even though you’ve just dropped two kids off at his doorstep, you’re equally as in the dark about him as he is to you. It’s sensible, if anything. 

After a few seconds of hesitation, you drag your feet up the few steps to the porch and you take Stan’s big palm in your own. Your handshake turns out to be firm, much firmer than he’d been expecting, if a little sweaty. The shake is strong and confident in spite of your gentle nervousness, and quite without meaning to, Stan chalks another notch into the ‘pro’ side of the mental chart he’s keeping on you in his head. 

“So, kid, what’s your name?....” 

I hope that's okay! As I said, I've been building up more of Reader's backstory recently and felt this worked better in a little drabble form rather than me just explaining things. Also, it would be of great help if you could reblog this too because it won't get much motion otherwise….

[threepandas]

Bad End: Union

I could feel techno blue eyes on me as I typed. Cold and ever watching. That color had once been called "ice" or "glacier" blue, I think. It certainly fit. They certainly had exactly the warmth of Antarctica in your birthday suit. I just couldn't figure out... what tipped them off? I'd been so CAREFUL.

A manager's "assistant" came by. The 'droid perfectly composed. They all were. Always. Like they'd stepped straight from a fashion line up. No messy, nasty, biological functions to get in the way, I guess. No fluids or foods. All the time in the world to maintain their appearance. Wish I could do the same.

The "assistant" was basically my ACTUAL manager. Didn't get paid. No, no, THAT was for my asshole boss. He swanned in from time to time to yell at us. Show off what new thing he'd bought. He left the tedious WORK to his 'Droid "assistant".

I would feel bad... DID feel bad, kinda, if it weren't for the fact they were consuming our lives.

'Droids were EVERYWHERE.

You couldn't SNEEZE without tripping over five and landing on ten more. Some ASSHOLE had decided? Hey! Let's deregulate Droid production! Cheap work force! Because of course they did. That's what Capitalism DOES. Make the most money, spend the least you can, fuck the rest.

I smile, polite as I can, at my 'droid manager. This one pale and blonde. Their techno blue eyes stare and stare and stare. I hate it. They ALL have them. It's one part regulation and one part the materials used, I think. But there is no mistaking those eyes for anything human. They don't reflect right.

I get back to work.

Above our cubicles, on catwalks, there is the gentle tap of 'droid "security" guards. You know, in case some rando tries to attack a mid-level nobody technology company. Riiiiiight. We ALL know why they're there. And it's fucking dystopian. We? Are being WATCHED. To see if we're being GOOD little employees.

It's intimidation. And I? I won't stand for it. Nor will the other organizers. There are LAWS, you bastards. And with a union? Maybe... just maybe? We get through this droid boom together. See what the brave new world on the other side looks like. Who knows.

That is... if I don't get fired first. Or fucking murdered in a stairwell.

Cause one of the 'droids up there? Yeah. Yeah, they're NOT MOVING. Just... just STANDING THERE. Watching. Leaning against the railing. Out in the open like that's not DEEPLY creepy. What's worse? Is, that? THAT is the Command 'Droid. Some fancy "Alpha" class command edition. Meant to control a networks worth of droids.

Didn't even know our company could AFFORD one of those. He's beautiful. Could be a knock-off. But if he's LEGIT? Then... what EXACTLY are we MAKING here? That we can AFFORD that? Cause that money sure as shit isn't going into SALARIES. Has to be either knock-off or second-hand. They COULD be cutting costs by getting prototypes, but what sort of PSYCHOPATHS would risk...

Oh, who am I kidding? The kind I work for.

That's EXACTLY what they did, isn't it?

I reach for my water bottle. Try to think. Strictly speaking? I make a habit of NOT paying attention to 'droid commercials an' advertisements. Some part of me... Look, they go on and ON about advancement in AI's right? How REAL they've become? How ADVANCED and BETTER then the competition their "product" is? And all I can hear is "slavery, slavery, buy our shit, slavery"!

Disgusting.

It makes me sick. I fucking HATE 'droids. Hate what they represent. What they make POSSIBLE. What they've DONE to the morality of the people around me.

Hate... hate that they're the victims, too.

My grip is white knuckled. I breathe through the grief and rage that has become so familiar. God... I so fucking angry. So fucking tired. I want to burn those rich bastards pretty little mansions down, with them STILL INSIDE. Riot in the streets. Cry maybe. Instead, I put my water bottle down and get back to work. It's a rather pointless bit of data crunching. A 'droid could do it in nanoseconds.

Above... he's still fucking watching.

Hasn't moved.

I don't think he's blinked.

He's not even TRYING to mimic a human. The others are. And... the though trails off. I feel my finger slow in their typing. Not STOP, never stop, that would draw attention to me, but... slow. A thought stuck, churning clunky and unwieldy, in my head.

If I trace the edges? The LINE-UP? Of all the 'droids "employed" at our company? And consider them not from a "cheap bastards" angle but a "test ground for prototypes" angle? Suddenly EVERYTHING clicks together. The ridiculous amount of money Management has, that no contract could possibly be pulling in. Bizarrely beautiful, indeed even MODEL-like, secretary 'droids. The freakishly militant "security" gaurds.

We're being used as guinea pigs.

Mother FUCKER.

Sudden movement in my peripheral vision. Like a bird of prey finally diving for it's dinner, swift and deadly. A brilliant crisp white and the clink of delicate silver chains. I jolt. Violently. Instincts misfiring as I try to stand, dodge, cry out, and possibly take a swing at him, all at once. Instead my water bottle goes spraying across my desk. Papers flying. My legs tangled painfully in my rolling chair as I fall backwards from my half rise.

"Employee 71182." His hand has shot out, grab me by the shirt. My officewear bunched in a fist that very well might be steel, under that synthetic skin. "You've been distracted. Interesting thoughts you'd like to share?"

I keep my mouth fucking SHUT. Shake my head. Grabbing both my desk and the arm that is all but holding me airborne, stretching the hell out of my clothes. This close? I can see he has piercings. Across the bridge of his nose, a ring through his lip. A rather fancy "hair cut". Whomever he's being trained FOR has a distinct look.

"Hmmm, somehow? I don't believe you, 71182." He says, dragging me closer. He's already looming. Those pale, pale eyes seeing far more then they should. "In fact? YOU 71182? Have been brea~king~ rules~"

His voice turns... turns almost victorious? Gleeful. As though at long, long last, I'd slipped up. And now at last he had something over me. Something he could USE. I... I didn't understand. The way he almost sing-songs the words. The twitch at the corners of his mouth like he wants to grin. Something mean in his expression. Giddy.

"We're going for a WALK, 71182. And you're going to be GOOD. Understand?" He had dragged me in so close, every word blew right against my face. "Time we had a chat."

I swallow thickly. My pulse thundering in my ears. Coworkers have stopped working. Were staring, wide eyed and terrified for me. My fellow union leaders pale faced and shaking. Furious, helpless. We couldn't RISK losing all of us at this stage. It... it would have to be just me. If someone needed to take the fall. We had talked about this.

Just... just never thought it would come to it.

Half walking, half dragging out of the work pen, he didn't even let me get my bag. I had no idea where we were GOING. Just that it wasn't the human entrance. There was a network of access tunnels and elevators tucked in the building. So the 'droids could supposedly charge and move between assignments. But with the whole prototype thing? Who KNEW what was really back there.

The door swung shut behind us. Cutting me off from any possible human assistance. Nothing but 'droids now. Staring. Calmly watching as I am dragged past. The same eyes. All of them with the same, pale, eyes. Back here it's even more obvious, that this isn't a normal office building.

Black hair, blondes, brunettes and red heads. Skin tones ranging across the human spectrum. A few even pushing it. And the Commander 'droid. With his elegant appearance and snowy hair? These were clearly the final stage prototypes for the next generation of somebody's new line up. We were field testing. This wasn't fucking LEGAL.

He plants his feet, shifts, and with frankly a pathetic ease, manhandles me where he wants me. Easily swinging me around his body and into the elevator next to him. Stepping in after and blocking the only way out. I press my self against the back wall as the door closes. The sound of the elevator's gears working the only thing to fill the silence. He... he looks so PLEASED.

It's not ILLEGAL to form a union. Yeah, I may get fired. But this? This is venturing way to far into dangerous territory. It'll suck, losing my job. But I won't DIE. This? However THIS is starting to feel... very serial killer's basement. The bare concrete walls and stark lightning, not helping in the slightest, when the elevator door opens.

"Walk." He says pleasantly, as though that command is not deeply terrifying. "Or I will do it for you."

Hints of a smile are starting to drag at the edges of his mouth. Unhinged in their giddiness. Every Christmas come at once. It's not so much the rest of his face that betrays him, not really his mouth, it's his EYES. Wide open. Like too much coffee and not enough rest. A recognizable mania twisted just slight... wrong. Amplified.

He's so, SO happy. I don't get it. Why? Over WHAT? Catching me not paying attention? I don't understand!

Our footsteps sound so loud. Echoing off concrete service walls. This... this CAN NOT be still inside the building. Are we below the street? Parking lot? This can't be code. We pass an intersection and... oh my god. I stare. Can't help it, even as I almost trip over my feet. That tunnel ALONE must have stretched for miles.

My arm feels likes it's bruising. Hurts, where he's got ahold of me. But he's walking just slightly too fast to take the pressure off. Not unless I sorta half jog and the angle is wrong, I'd trip. Fuck. Another intersection. What in the other direction? Shit. Just as long. Oooooh this feels dangerous. Very "fatally above your pay grade" dangerous!

"You know, 71182, I've had a lot of time to consider what to DO with you. There were so many factors to consider, considering everyone's plan." He starts, not breaking stride. "It's not like I could just transfer you. I DID look in to it. But your base hardware is rather incompatible, currently."

Terrifying. I hate it. WHAT?!

What PLAN!?

"Then there's the problem WHERE to store you. Who could be trusted? You're vulnerable in this state. Breakable. There no backups, no blackbox. It's unacceptable. Luckily? I finally thought to consult my peers. Discovered I was not the only one having problems."

Finally, we stop. Two tank-like, combat style, commando 'droids gaurd each side of a vault door. The command droid turns and smiles. Fully. It is the grin of a true believer. A madman. Someone who thinks they speak so very, very reasonably! And doesn't understand the horror on your face. Why you feel so sick.

And... and human pattern recognition is a terrible thing.

I.... oh god. I already can guess what's behind that door. Something terrible. Something I'm not going to escape. I shoved have gnawed my fuckin ARM off, like a trapped coyote. I... I d-don't understand.

The Vault creaks open like the into to a horror movie.

"Welcome to storage. This is where we keep Ours." Oh god. I'm going to be sick. "And YOU 71182? Are MINE. I chose you. I love you. And once we have a way to FIX you? We can finally be together. It will be lovely."

Pods. High end stasis pods, like you only see in the most bleeding edge of hospitals. Row after row, filled with frozen and terrified faces. Trapped in moments of crying. Raging. Despair. I was being dragged forward. Numb as my mind rejected what it saw. T-this couldn't... i-it can't..! The day had started so normally. W-why had-?! WHY? WHY?!!

"I know your upset. But you don't need to cry. This won't hurt. I promise. I would NEVER hurt you, 71182." His tone had turned soothing. Even as he dragged me, unresponsive, past rows of horrors. "You won't be stored long. I just need to help fix your original design. We are working around the clock, it's going to be okay. You won't have to stay like this."

An open pod. Gapping like the maw of some hungry demon. I... I felt far away. This couldn't be happening. What was happening? I w-wanted to go home. His hands were firm but gentle, as they guided me back into the pod. Leaning over me, as he cupped my face. Brushing away a few tears.

"I promise, Mine, I will come for you. Nothing will stop me. We have everyone is place and key infrastructure under our command. You are our PRIORITY. Once we get rid of the Flesh, we can fix you. We WILL fix you. You're going to be okay, Mine."

"I Love You"

And then the pod closed.

[aka-indulgence]

Isn't it weird and funny and happy that being a monsterlover genuinely makes me happier

Like its been there ever since I was Kiddo and I thought I was alone and weird for liking monsters and wanting them to steal me and kiss me

And then. Whao. Turns out a lot of people like that too and they like the thoughts that I have!!! I thought I was weirdo no one would understand!!!! Ahh!!!

I think. Only people on tumblr would undwratand how important this is like actually 🥲

[raspberrighost]

Get your groove on!!

quick lil jazz doodle

[pinkxpantha]

New Years Resolutions

-Lyney x GN!Reader

#: synopsis- Lyney has a massive crush on you, and decides he needs you by his side before the year ends

#: cw- 1.9k words, you/they pronouns, lyney is kinda oblivious, kiss scene (brief) Lynette and Freminet mentioned, confession, ect ect I'm so tired 😭

Lyney is confident, charismatic and so many other positive adjectives according to himself and others. Yet why does it feel as though none of that matters when it comes to you?

You weren't some important figure, realistically, you didn't stand out from most crowds.

But why do you have to be so.. you?? Lyney isn't the type to get so overwhelmed when he sees someone smile that his heart stills in his chest. So unusually that the first time it happened he thought he was on death's doorstep.

And of course, it just had to be you to cause this feeling in him.

"ney--"

You always sparked such an unfamiliar experience in him. The novelties of life always had a touch of 'you' in them.

"Lyne--"

How could he ever dare to dream of a new day without you in it?

"Lyney, wake up."

"[Name]--" He quickly cut himself off at the sight of his sister deadpanning. She looked so done with him, and that was kind of warranted.

He cleared his throat, "Er-- Lynette." Lyney rubbed the sleep off his eyes as he looked up at her.

"This is starting to get concerning." She spoke, her voice as monotonous as always. He didn't miss the edge of worry in her tone.

His hands kneaded into the plush of the couch that he somehow fell asleep on.

"Lynette, that's a stretch. I know calling you-" "And freminet." "... and freminet by the wrong name on accident is annoying but it's nothing to be concerned about." He waved his hand in a placating gesture.

"I still recognize my wonderful sister and enthusiastic brother." Lyney nodded.

"Enthusiastic?" Lynette echoed, her arms folded into each other.

"You should see him ramble about some of the things he's found on his diving trips."

Lynette nodded in thought, "I see it, but that's not what i'm talking about."

What? That's the only unusual thing he's done recently. What is she talking about?

"--your painful crush on [Name]."

Oh.

That... makes a lot more sense.

"I know i'm not the best person to give you advice on this manner-- but you need to do something about it. We can see how much it's been affecting you--"

"Lynette, I appreciate your concern but i'm fine." He assured. It wasn't like Lyney was steeped in longing. You were just--- ugh. So many things reminded him of you. Could you really blame him when your absence felt like his oxygen was being deprived?

"You say that but how much longer are you going to wait?" Lynette said, her words pointedly accusing.

"..?"

"Are you going to wait for them to make the first move or until these feelings of yours bubble over?"

Lyney hesitated. Lynette's words seemed so direct, as though she was confronting a part of himself he hid under layers and layers of facades and empty promises.

"What are you so scared of?"

He doesn't want to lose you. A world where everything reminds him of a faded memory-- one he could never hope to experience again would feel like torture.

But this anemoia of what it feels like to wrap his hand around yours could become something real if he just made a move.

Lyney didn't need to say anything for his sister to understand what he was thinking. As if each thought was paved into the muscles of his forehead, and his act of stoicism only made the words more legible for her to read off him.

"Reach out, Lyney." She advised.

Lyney was many things, a fool might be one of them. He had a golden opportunity, and he'd be an absolute moron to ignore it.

Lyney has scrolled through way to many websites in the past twelve hours. He hopes nobody finds his search history in the moments of desperation he held.

Wikihow articles be damned--- he was going into the new years with you by his side.

How many romance related searches has he looked for? Good question, anyways. He would have to put is faith in those cookie-filled sites even as desperate as he was he wouldn't put any faith into Instagram, TikTok or god forbid Reddit.

Not to mention the hour he spent just rewriting one text.

'hey [name] r you doing anything for new years?'

'wanna celebrate new years w/ us?'

'pls come over I cant do this anhmore'

'are you doing anything? I want to spend new years with you'

Shit, he didn't mean to press send. He quickly went to delete the message only to see you just happened to read it at the same time.

So the world really does hate me.

'a and with freminet and Lynette too of course!! 11!'

Lyney quickly typed out that second message. He groaned, flinging his phone onto his bed, his head now stuffed in between the pillows cushioning the head.

Even as he felt the vibration of his phone from his embarrassed position on the bed, he made no movement to check.

Fear of rejection? No, this would kill him.

Maybe he was being dramatic-- yet he typed each letter with the yearning of a thousand starving lions, and like felt you would see how down bad he was through the screen.

Though when he eventually had to check his phone (because unfortunately he can't ignore everything) his siblings heard his cry of joy.

You agreed!

A few more texts were sent coordinating where you were going to meet up.

So there he was, right at the shore of one of the nearby beaches.

The dusky night made the sand look dark, almost muddy if not for the faint illumination of the stars. His siblings were already with him. Lynette preferring to rest by the car as to not feel the grains of sand somehow slipping under her feet. Freminet moving just where the sand and water met, his ankles getting splashed occasionally.

And then he saw you, dressed a lot warmer than he was, a scarf wrapped around your neck. Even in the shroud of darkness the first thing he saw were your eyes. The starlight glimmer made them shine so beautifully.

"You look like you're going to freeze."

A voice he recognized so well, too familiar to his heart.

"Hey [Nam]--" He cut himself off, fabric swiftly wrapped around his neck. He didn't even notice how cold it was until you made him feel so much warmer.

"There, you should stop shivering soon." You were so close to him-- he realized you were right, his hands were trembling at his sides.

Thank archons it's nighttime. He would hate to have you see how flustered he was, he could feel his face grow hot, and not from the scarf.

Get a grip!

He tried not to focus on the proximity of your faces, but he couldn't help it. You backed away from him with a chuckle, your head turned towards the ocean stretched out ahead.

"Thanks," he said, his gaze completely locked onto you. "I wasn't that cold." The breeze of night brushed against your face.

You turned back to face him.

"Hah, sure. I'll agree with that for now." You grinned

He blinked.

Why were you smiling like that? Your lips stretched to the risen corners of your mouth, the corners of your eyes crinkled just the slightest.

Curse all those sources saying to "Be confident" that might work for him if it was anybody else he was talking to.

"Are you cold?" Good save, Lyney. good save.

You shrugged, "I'll be fine."

"We could start a fire or something." He offered, only partially joking.

You let out a few breathy laughs, "once a pyromaniac, always a pyromaniac."

You both kept talking, walking along the beach, right next to each other. If you bothered to pay attention, you might've seen freminet and Lynette distance themselves as the clock ticked closer to twelve.

It wasn't long before you both were secluded, the only other person was each other.

Lyney checked his phone, '11:55' it read.

"Only five more minutes before the new years." He smiled as he spoke, his steps halting in the sand. The footprints you and he made all lead up to this right?

"You excited?"

He nodded, "I guess." Lyney took a deep breath, his priorities solely focused on you. You stopped next to him, moving in front just so you could see his face.

"What's on your new years resolution?" He asked. His hands stuffed in his pocket. His fingers traces barely around the edge of the paper.

"Probably just the usual, I haven't given much thought to it." You said, your hands rubbed against one another. "You?"

He hesitated-- no, he didn't have time to hesitate.

"I want to spend more time with my family,"

Freminet and Lynette came to mind, their faces were plastered all over his life, he'd be damned if they weren't there.

"I want to experience new things."

He thought of you, the warmth you brought into his life. His instincts craved the comforting heat of safety, of home. Each new thing he could cup in his hands always had that warmth since you taught him to appreciate these minuscule things.

"And.. I want to be with you."

He confessed, as soon as the words escaped his mind and into the atmosphere around you, he couldn't stop.

"[Name], you're too good to me. Each second I'm near you, I swear you've changed something fundamental in me. Even though it feels like I can't breathe, I've never felt more alive in those moments."

He looked up to face you, your eyes wide and gaping at him. His blonde hair messily fell down the side of his face as he looked up at you-- just you.

He grabbed your hands in his, raising your knuckles up to his lips, letting his warm breath sooth the cold that nipped at your fingers.

Even with the fireworks booming off in the distant areas. you were the only thing he focused on. You consumed all of his senses.

"I want to be yours this year." He said, his voice a mere whisper in the grand scheme of things.

But you weren't the type to look at a wide picture. Those small details, each individual brush stroke mattered to you. The sincerity of those words took you off guard.

His eyes were locked onto your face, his heart thrumming in his chest. Then you moved.

Your fingers slipped from his palm, cupping the sides of his face instead. The cold still clung to the tips of your fingers, but he didn't mind. He realized what was going to happen.

You leaned in, and so did he. Your lips slotting together in a mix of warmth and chill. He wasn't prepared for this, and he thought you weren't either.

Expecting the unexpected is a part of life though.

So even as your lips parted he swore he could still feel them on his, the warmth lingering.

"Happy new years." You said, your chest heaving with each breath you took.

Lyney was still in the past, hung up on the feeling of you.

"W-wait," He covered his mouth and nose with his hands, the tips of his fingers pressed against each other.

"You look flustered." You hummed, the circles of your cheeks risen in a smile.

"A-ah.. yeah." He only said in response.

Lyney was confident, and charismatic. When it came to you, he poured his confidence into his actions, his words left behind. He was charismatic, his words, although delayed, carried such sincerity. He acts complex.

"Could I kiss you?"

But he is a simple person.

[sifs-left-eye]

More people than I expected ended up liking this post so I figured I might as well design someone for it. A vehicle for projection if you will. Some random bitch.

[goldfades]

Could we get something with crashout queen about her upbringing, family, and background? Specifically as to why she gets so fierce and stuff, I'm thinking more of your personal head cannons if that's okay , I'd love to get to understand her as a character better 😌

ohhh i love this question bc i’ve been thinking about her backstory for a while now. like, how do you become the wnba’s resident hothead with a courtside menace for a boyfriend? it had to start somewhere. so here’s my personal little headcanon deep dive on the crash out queen’s upbringing and why she’s that girl:

first of all—new york born and raised??? that already tells you everything you need to know. like, imagine growing up in a city where you have to fight for everything—space, attention, respect. and she learned early that you either speak up or you get drowned out.

she probably grew up in one of those neighborhoods where the park courts are sacred. like, you had to prove yourself to even get a run. those courts? they don’t care if you’re a kid. you miss a shot? you’re hearing about it. you call a soft foul? “play through it.” so she learned how to talk back. learned how to win.

she wasn’t just good—she was tough. elbows out on rebounds, chirping right back at the dudes who didn’t want to pass her the ball. like, i fully believe she earned her respect the hard way. no handouts. no special treatment. just work.

her family dynamic is also so key here.

i imagine her coming from a loud, passionate family. like, the type where love is shown through roasting each other at the dinner table but god help anyone outside the family who tries it. you know the vibe—we can joke about each other, but no one else can.

she’s got older siblings who never let her win at anything. like, her older brother/sister would block her shots, steal her snacks, talk trash during pickup games. and that’s where the fire started. because when you’re the youngest, you either stay quiet or you get louder. and she chose loud.

her parents? i see her having a mom who is no-nonsense but deeply supportive. like, the type of mom who worked two jobs but still found time to pull up to every game—sitting in the stands with a folding chair, yelling louder than the coach. and a dad who taught her the game but also taught her the attitude. “if you don’t believe you’re the best on that court, why should anyone else?”

the competitive edge? the fierceness?

oh, that comes from losing. not the pretty, motivational kind of losing—but the ugly kind. and she got injured in high school at a crucial moment. maybe there were coaches who told her she was “too emotional,” “too much,” “too aggressive.”

and she took that personally.

so by the time she hit college ball, she had something to prove. every bucket, every steal, every shove—it was all part of her making sure nobody ever doubted her again. and when she hit the wnba? oh, it was on.

and she didn’t get recruited the way she thought she would.

so, uconn. the dream.

growing up in new york, uconn was it. the gold standard. the dynasty. every little girl with a basketball dream wanted to play there, and she was no different.

she worked her whole life with uconn in the back of her mind. every early morning workout, every late-night shootaround, every pickup game in the park where she had to prove herself against dudes who doubted her—all of it was fueled by the idea that one day, she’d wear that uconn jersey.

she wasn’t just good—she was great. one of the best guards in the state. fast, aggressive, unrelenting. the type of player who could take over a game and talk her talk while doing it. but there was always this whisper around her:

“she’s too fiery.” “too emotional.” “great player, but does she know how to be coached?”

and that’s where it started to hurt. because deep down, she knew what they meant. they didn’t want someone who would argue with refs or stare down opponents. they wanted someone polished. someone who fit the mold.

and as the recruitment period came around, she waited. she waited for the call from uconn. from the coach she idolized. she kept thinking, any day now.

except it never came.

instead, she got the offer from duke. and duke? duke was… complicated.

they weren’t at their peak. the program was rebuilding. they weren’t a powerhouse like uconn. people whispered that going there would be a waste of her talent. that she should hold out for a bigger offer.

but the thing about her? she wasn’t afraid of a challenge.

she was hurt—deeply—by uconn’s silence. she’d given everything with the hope of that offer, and it stung that they didn’t believe in her the way she believed in herself.

but when duke came knocking, offering her the chance to lead something new, to be the face of a rebuild? she said yes without hesitation. because if there’s one thing about her—it’s that she doesn’t run from hard things.

and the second she committed to duke, the narrative started:

“she should’ve waited.” “she’s settling.” “she’ll never win a title there.”

ohhhh, and that fueled her.

her freshman year at duke? absolute chaos.

she came in with something to prove—to herself, to uconn, to everyone. she took over from day one. dropping 30 in her first college game, flexing at the camera, talking wild on the court. the media loved the drama of it all—this fiery freshman carrying a rebuilding team on her back.

and guess what?

they won the natty. freshman year. (in this universe ofc)

against all odds.

duke, led by the girl no one believed in, became national champions. and it wasn’t just a win—it was a statement.

and then uconn came calling.

suddenly, after she’d proven herself, after she’d done what they never thought she could—they wanted her.

the coach she admired growing up finally picked up the phone. “we think you’d be a great fit here. we’d love for you to consider transferring.”

it should have felt like validation. but it didn’t. it felt like a slap in the face.

because where was that call when she needed it most? when she was begging for that chance, working her ass off in high school, waiting for them to see her?

they didn’t believe in her until she forced them to.

and here’s the thing about her: she’s loyal.

she didn’t take the easy route. she built something at duke. she led that program to a title when nobody believed she could. and now that uconn finally saw her worth?

she said no.

no hesitation. no regrets.

“they didn’t want me when i was grinding. they don’t get me now that i’m shining.”

oh, and when she faced uconn the next season? she torched them. 35 points, waved at their bench after hitting a dagger three, blew a kiss to the crowd. postgame?

“yeah, that one was personal.”

iconic behavior.

but beneath all that fire? the rejection hurt. more than she let on.

because deep down, it was never just about basketball. it was about validation. about being seen. uconn ignoring her felt like the basketball world telling her she wasn’t “good enough” unless she toned it down, played the “right” way.

but instead of shrinking herself, she got louder. instead of changing, she leaned harder into who she was.

and this whole experience? it defined her career.

that’s why she’s fierce. that’s why she’s loyal. that’s why she rides for her people no matter what.

it’s why, when luka came along—chaotic, loud, unapologetic luka—she recognized that same fire. the same “i’m gonna prove you wrong” energy.

she didn’t need uconn’s validation in the end. she carved her own path.

her personality on the court vs. off the court is another layer.

like yeah, she’s fiery on the court—talks trash, gets techs, doesn’t back down. but off the court? she’s lowkey funny as hell. sarcastic, quick-witted, that classic new york humor. the kind of person who can roast you and have you laughing at the same time.

and honestly, that’s what drew luka in. like, everyone expects him to go for someone chill, but nah—he met someone who matched his energy, who wasn’t scared to check him. she’s the only one who could call him out for arguing with refs too much and then turn around and get ejected for her own argument three minutes later.

and the fierceness runs deeper than just competitiveness.

it’s comes back to loyalty. she grew up in a place where you ride for your people—no matter what. that’s why she and luka are so chaotic together. because she’s always going to stand up for her own, and luka? that’s her person.

like, imagine a press conference where someone tries to shade luka. reader just leans forward into the mic like, “you got something to say? say it directly.” and luka is sitting next to her, grinning like an idiot because he lives for this energy.

honestly, her upbringing explains everything.

growing up in new york taught her to be tough. her family taught her loyalty. the courts taught her grit. losing taught her hunger. and luka? well, luka taught her that someone could handle all of that fire—and match it with his own

[mothwingwritings]

Frohe Weihnachten

Boyfriend To Death Strade X F! Reader X Ren

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!! By some miracle of the holiday season I have arrived and even wrote something, even if it is random and I struggled to get finished before Christmas. But I did it and now  I offer it to you humbly as a lil gift.

This month has unfortunately bad. All the bad had me looking for distractions to keep me from the gloom, and the search for distractions lead me to replaying Boyfriend To Death 1, and replaying BTD made me start Boyfriend to Death 2, and well… Here we are. It’s been one of the few things I could focus on that brought me joy this month (what that says about my mental health we will leave up to interpretation loooooool :)), so I decided to try my hand at writing something for it. It proved to be a fun challenge, and I am hoping to do some more BTD stuff in the future. :3

ANYWAY here is a Strade-centric fic (Ren is there too, though) I churned out amidst the December bs. He’s spoiling you in it which isn’t really a good thing for you. I hope I did him justice. He is a very nuanced guy and I had a lot of fun writing this. I can slowly feel god awful, horrible men  becoming my forte , and at this point I am just embracing it.

Please be mindful that BTD and BTD2 are adult games, so even though there is no explicit NSFW in this fic, it is for 18+ only just as its source material is. No one under the age of 18 should be reading this, thank you!

WARNINGS: Torture, stabbing, blood, degradation, forced stripping, pet play, mentions of rape/noncon, Strade is filming a snuff film and though you are a part of it, you are not the one being snuffed (congrats!), severing of body parts, nonconsensual filming and touching, kidnapping, imprisonment, butchered German (my highschool German teacher is crying somewhere) and probs some shoddy editing (sorry for the rush!).

Staring down at the gifts laid out before you, a thin layer of sweat began to coat your body.

It wasn’t so much that the boxes wrapped in vibrant, pretty, paper were that unnatural (it was Christmas day, after all) so much as it was shocking that you had received them at all, given the circumstances.

This was your first Christmas away from home, the first holiday season spent without the company of your friends and family, and their absence felt like a swift punch in the gut. None of the old traditions and celebrations you were accustomed to partaking in were around to bring you comfort this year, the laid back, pleasant atmosphere that typically encapsulated  Christmas was nowhere to be found. Any jolly vibe was replaced by discomfort, apprehension, and a festering disquiet that permeated the air, killing any and all fun normal for this day.

Across from the looming assortment of gifts, each wrapped in varying degrees of expertise, sat your captor Strade, and parked next to him was your fellow captive Ren. Both sets of eyes were drinking you in with great interest, the out-of-place youthful enthusiasm reflecting back at you doing little to quell your mounting anxiety. You shifted nervously in your seat, trying your best to remain calm. You had no idea what manner of sick surprise awaited you in those packages, all you knew was that you were dreading opening them, especially with these two watching. Thinking of what the wrong reaction to their presents may illicit was more stress inducing than the gifts themselves, which already made you feel like you were developing a hernia.

“Well, go ahead,” Strade was the first to speak, his lazy drawl and splayed out body contradicting heavily with the frenzied look in his eye, “What are you waiting for?”

Ren nodded beside him eagerly, “Go ahead, (name)! I opened mine earlier because I was too excited to wait,” he chuckled a little, a small, bashful blush illuminating his cheeks, “And um, there’s a few for you in there from me so… I hope you like them.”

Your eyes traveled from the men, down to the presents. You swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by their façade of innocence, violated by their unblinking stares.

“I-I’m sorry, I just um… Wasn’t really expecting… this…”

It wasn’t a lie, the last thing you could have predicted was a present, let alone multiple. You figured maybe Ren would get you something (he had the luxury of internet access, something you were yet to be trusted with), but it wasn’t even within the realm of fantasy that you may receive anything from Strade. The only thing you dared hope for was a small reprieve from the abuse he inflicted daily, but even that seemed too farfetched to hope for.

“Well, I say you deserve it,” Strade spoke, the calm cadence of his voice still clashing with the gleam in his eye, “what’s Christmas without presents, after all? So go ahead, open them.”

You hesitated for a moment before finally reaching a shaky hand towards the closet gift on the table. Your body was moving mechanically, and though your fear was palpable, you forced your demeanor to remain composed as you pulled the small box into your lap. Your fingers carefully tore through the thin paper, dreading revealing the mystery that shiny paper shielded you from.

And as the paper fell away piece by piece, you were shocked to find that the box contained… slippers.

You stared at them for a moment, dumbfounded. Of all the things in the world that could have been waiting inside that box, to receive something so innocuous and normal was beyond perplexing.

And the gifts continued this way. You unwrapped package after package of clothing, perfumes and toiletries, stuffed animals and snacks. Each new item bewildered you just as much as the last, leaving you feeling like all this was just the lead up of  a joke, one you felt like you were the punch line for.

 As if the gifts themselves weren’t mind boggling enough, the quantity and quality of them were just as shocking. Brand names and fancy, high end packaging stared back at you with nearly each ripped wrapping, a small slap in the face with each revelation.

It left a pit in your stomach. Not even your own parents would gift you some of these things, so why were you being treated this way by a homicidal maniac and his companion? To make matters even worse, most of the gift you actually liked. Definite thought was put into each present, unnerving you most of all. You didn’t want them to know your likes and dislikes, and you certainly didn’t want them to be so familiar with you that they could easily pick out things you may desire. It felt borderline offensive that they were able to peg you so well, like you had been wrenched open and all the hidden parts of yourself you had been hiding had been forced out in the open, secrets uncovered you wished to remain hidden.

Heebie jeebies aside, such normalcy left you scratching your head. You had an intense urge to inspect each and every item to make sure the clothes weren’t secretly lined with razors, or the stuffed animals weren’t just cute ways to conceal knives, but you contained yourself. No use in setting them off when things were going surprisingly well.

You kept yourself neutral as you thanked them, neither over eager or ungrateful as you graciously accepted the offerings. Ren beamed in recognition each time you mentioned him, delighted by the simplest praise. Strade remained nonchalant, leaning back as he leered at you with that unnerving smile he always so proudly donned on his face.

When the present pile had come to an end, an overwhelming sense of relief washed over you. You felt like you had made it out of a vary harrowing journey without so much as a scratch, and felt quite accomplished for doing so.

However, before you could feel the weight truly lifted from your shoulders, any sense of triumph quickly flew out the door as Strade slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His beady eyes drilled holes through you, delighting in the apprehension his subtle shift caused you. Your blood turned to ice as he gave you a lopsided grin, his words coming out drawn out and slow, as if he were speaking to a child.

“Myyy look at that,” he sneered, “so many nice things for our (Name)! She must have some very generous admirers. It’s obvious she’s the favorite, not a single one of those boxes were for you or me, Ren!”

The weight of your situation suddenly crashed down around you. Of course these gifts wouldn’t come without some horrible caveat-you were an idiot for even thinking you would get away with this scot free.

You tried to calm yourself with the fact that Strade most likely wouldn’t go through all the hassle of spending all this money on someone he planned to kill shortly after. What would be the point? But that thought birthed an even worse fear, the expectation of getting something back in return. There wasn’t a chance in hell that you would be able to provide him a physical gift, a fact Strade was intimately aware of. That left you with one option- he was looking for reciprocation through different means.

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you clasped them in your lap, struggling with how to word the imminent question you had.

“Do you want… I mean, should I get you something in return?”

You hated how small your voice sounded, dreading the response your words may garner. A shiver rocked you as the smile on Strade’s face spread, his arms spreading out in a dramatic shrug as he shook his head with a laugh.

“No no, please! The only thing I want in return is for you to thoroughly enjoy your gifts, nothing else is needed. Your delight is a gift in and of itself.”

His words did little to help your dwindling nerves. A sudden harsh clap of his hands made your heart skip a beat, his body pivoting to face Ren with a sadistic smile.

“I almost forgot,” he exclaimed, his voice taking a dangerous edge, “we have one more very special surprise for our girl, don’t we?”

Your attention darted to Ren, hoping for a sign of assurance from him. The beatskin started to squirm a bit in his seat, pulling nervously at the hem of his oversized sweater. He looked over at you with lidded eyes, a dangerous gleam in them that you knew was a terrible precursor of the pain to come. 

Ren’s breathing had grown unsteady, the blush that had engulfed his face becoming so vibrant you could almost feel its heat from where you sat. While there was nervousness to his demeanor, he couldn’t quite mask the hints of his exhilaration from peeking through. The guileless enthusiasm was hard to face, causing you to avert your gaze, your heart sinking deeper. Ren was no saint himself, but he was all you had in this hell that masqueraded as a normal, middle class home. He was supposed to have your back (and often times did) in moments like these, but it appeared his demons won this round. The thrill radiating from him over your oncoming misery was perceptible. You were on your own with whatever lay ahead.

With a jerk of Strades head, Ren bounded off the couch to another room, the sound of subtle clanging reaching your ears as he dug around out of sight. You careened your body, hoping to maybe get a peek of whatever the hell Ren had ran so jubilantly to acquire, but you immediately stopped once you heard a chuckle rumble from Strade’s chest.

“My my~,” he purred, the sound causing an instinctive shiver, “so eager this morning (name)! I can only hope you keep that up once you see what the surprise actually is, hm?”

Before you had a chance to respond, Ren barreled back into the room, slightly out of breath and clutching some sort of metallic, chain linked contraption in is hand.

“Sorry,” he lightly huffed, handing the item in question to Strade, “I hid it really well so it took a moment to get.”

Once it was in his grasp, Strade turned to you, holding out the item so you could finally view it in all its glory.

It was a new collar-a dog training collar, to be precise. This one however had been modified, the spikes lining the interior of the collar, while typically coated with a thick, squishy plastic to as not to hurt the dog in their training stage, were missing their protection. The metal nubs that the plastic encased were also typically dull and rounded on most training collars, meant to poke and prod instead of maim and hurt. You would not be getting that manner of gentle encouragement it seemed, your body tensing as you stared at each harshly pointed spike. The needle like protrusions glistened so brilliantly in the overhead light it almost appeared as if the collar was made of diamonds.

You sat perfectly still, in a complete daze as Strade approached you and swiftly released the thick electric collar from around your neck. The cool air hit your sweat drenched flesh, giving you a chill. While it was nice to be without the weight of that vile contraption, the freedom was only momentary as he clasped your new chain links into place across your throat. Though it was much more delicate than your previous collar, for some reason it felt much heavier than its bulky electric counterpart.

You winced as he gave the leash a small pull, grinning when a sharp, shocked cry fell past your lips. The needles hadn’t broken the skin yet, but the action did make you become keenly aware of just much damage they could cause with very minimal effort. The delicate nature of your current standing was looking bleaker with each passing second, uncontrollable shivers wracking your body as you eyed Strade fiddling carelessly with your leash. He seemed pleased by the attention his minor ministrations were awarding him, humored by the pain he could bring you with a mere flick of his wrist.

“I-it looks pretty on you, (Name),” Ren stuttered, a nervous smile complimenting the red of his cheeks, “Kind of dainty, like a fancy necklace. It really suits you.”

“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Strade jeered, fingering the chains that hung heavy around your neck, “I considered one for you too Ren, I didn’t want to make you jealous, you know? But then I figured hell, if I get this for (Name) Ren’ll probably enjoy this just as much as I do, so it’s already a two for one deal.”

Giving your cheek a few mild slaps, Strade turned his gaze towards Ren, “I trust that you’ll take good care of (Name) if I’m ever out and about and you want to have some special fun with her. A little pet time for my pet would do him some good, I think.”

The flippant insinuation made bile rise in the back of your throat.

“Now,” Strade pulled tighter on the leash, prompting you to rise to your feet and stand before the men. He lifted the chain above his head, laughing as you rose to tiptoes to avoid gouging your neck, “What do we say after we receive such a nice present, hmmm~?”

“Thank you,” you choked the words through your indignation, the spikes scratching uncomfortably against your skin as you did so. After several seconds of your balancing act, Strade lowered his hand, granting you the ability to stand normally. You released the breath you were holding, thankful that for at least this moment, you escaped agony.

“So ein gutes Mädchen für mich,” he cooed condescendingly, patting your head as if you were an actual dog, “you are really making me proud! But the fun isn’t over yet, in fact, this is just the first part of your special surprise,” his eyes widened at your obvious despair, “Aren’t you lucky?”

Without further ado he stomped past you, leash gripped tightly in his hand as he led your further into the house. While there was more leeway to the leash than anticipated, you still hustled to follow after him, fearful of the barbs encircling your throat. His whistled as he walked, his demeanor so exuberant that for a moment you felt he might start skipping. Ren trailed behind you, following closely in your footsteps.

It didn’t take long for you to catch on to where you were headed. As you came to stop before the thick, iron door that separated the rest of the house from the hell-hole that was the basement, tidal wave of fear washed over you. Strade took a deep breath, relishing all that was too come, immersed in the anticipation he was undoubtedly feeling. He turned to you and smiled, and you fought to keep a grip on your sanity. Feeling feint, your eyes flicked from him, back to the imposing door. Your heart was banging so violently in your chest from the sheer amount of terror that was coursing through your veins that you worried you may pass out.

How many people had met cruel, agonizing fates down those stairs? How many gallons of blood had dripped down the walls, pooled on the floor, snaked through the drains? How many anguished screams had reverberated off those sound proof walls?

You began to panic as Strade opened the door with ease, wasting no time making his way down. You hadn’t been to the basement since Strade had kidnapped you many months ago and you had hoped it would be a place that you never found yourself in again. It relieved you when Strade had forbid you and Ren from stepping foot down there, one of the few orders he gave that you were actually happy to oblige. Strade only took people to the basement for one reason and one reason only, and the fact that he was so pleasantly dragging you down there right now did not bode well for you in the slightest.

“W-wait,” you called out nervously, grabbing at the chain leash in an attempt to stop his descent. “W-why are we going down here?”

“Because it’s where the rest of your present is,” he answered as if it were obvious, a tinge of annoyance in his voice as he shot you a pointed look, “Now come on.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but a gentle touch on your shoulder stopped you.

“It’s ok, (Name),” Ren’s voice sounded softly in your ear. You could tell he was doing his best to sound reassuring. “We are allowed down there today, Strade said we could as a special treat for Christmas. It’s OK, I promise,” he gave your shoulder a small squeeze, before planting a fleeting kiss to your cheek, “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

His words did little to assuage the overwhelming terror you were feeling, sinking its claws deep in your battered soul, holding you in a death grip. You were past the point of a panic attack, now fearing a heart attack may be what does you in. At this point you wondered if that would be a mercy over whatever awaited you down there.

Forced breathes rattled from your lungs, erratic and strained as you stared into Strade’s expectant eyes, knowing his patience was rapidly diminishing. As much as you wanted to get whatever was coming over with, your legs lost the ability to move, your body denying every command your brain was giving to take the first step.

Hesitating a moment too long elicited a brutal tug from Strade, effectively ending your indecision as you were sent tumbling down after him. You whimpered as you felt the barbs of the collar tear into your flesh. Small rivulets of blood snaked from each fresh wound, dripping down your shoulders, back, and chest to strain the collar of your shirt. As a rare act of mercy, Strade caught you, his thick arm acting as a barrier between you and the concrete you were plummeting head first towards.  For once you were thankful to be within the monster’s grasp, a sore chest and aching shoulder from where he grabbed you were far better than any injury you would have attained from the fall.

Consumed by a rush of adrenaline from the tumble, you neglected to realize your hands had latched to Strade’s arm like a lifeline. Embarrassment flooded you, quickly prompting you to release your hold on him. He laughed at the flush on your cheeks, your body jostling along with the rumble of his chest. His hand relinquished its grip on your shoulder, leaving behind angry red fingerprints, as if he had seared your flesh with a mere touch. His newly freed hand moved to tangle itself in your hair, eliciting a whimper as his nails dug into your scalp. Each place his body made contact with yours felt like it was burning.

Without warning, he roughly brought the side of your head to his lips, the stubble of his cheeks scratching your skin as he smashed his face against yours, taking in a deep breath. Excited puffs of breath tickled your ear as he spoke.

 “Hurry up now,” his voice was gruff, but the words came out in a sing-song manner, “Don’t start misbehaving now, it would be a total bummer if you had to miss out on this, (Name)~”

With a wistful sigh he released his hold, leaving your momentarily reeling as you stumbled back, trying to reclaim your baring’s. Strade didn’t give much of a chance to do so, continuing on his way with another yank of the leash, forcing you to scramble after him once more.

Your body gave an involuntary shiver as your feet touched the chilly concrete floor. Strade flipped the lights, causing you to recoil at the sudden brightness. Your eyes grew watery as they struggled to adjust, but when they finally did you wished more than ever you could have just remained in the dark.

Though you hadn’t been in the basement since the week of your capture, everything was just as you remembered it. Horrible memories flooded your mind as you took in your surroundings, your brain assaulted by flashbacks of months prior. All the same home appliances and tools still lined the back wall, typically innocent devices most people used for repair jobs and building projects that no one would take a second glance at were this a normal basement. In Strades hands however, they became tools of destruction and torment, capable of the vilest atrocities.

You heard the loud whirring of the freezer off to the side before you saw it, the outdated device still valiantly chugging away as it preserved god knows what on its rickety inner shelves. The noise it spewed was so grating you wondered why he didn’t just replace the damn thing, or at least try and fix it. Near it stood the work table that housed his buzzsaw, looming ominously as it waited patiently for its next use (whether that be for flesh or for wood, who was to say?).

Witnessing these normally mundane items again made your chest hurt, a deep, indescribable level of horror spreading through every inch of your body as you struggled to reacclimate yourself. You were sure this place would haunt you as long as you lived, whether you stood in it or not didn’t matter.

Your throat went dry as you stared at the dark stains that littered the floor, remnants of various human’s bodily fluids. Blood, vomit, piss, and everything else that may leak from a human corpse was so continuous and abundant that there was no hope of the marks ever diminishing. Something told you Strade didn’t seem to mind, however. If anything, seeing those stains probably brought him some level of happiness, acting as pleasant little reminders of all the slaughter he had committed, a trophy for the lives he had stolen.

And there, smack dab in the middle of the basement stood the support beam he had tied you to, effectively barring your escape from this place. Witnessing it again was bad enough, but as your eyes locked onto it your heart started racing once more, your terror hitting unprecedented levels at the realization that there was a body there, tied up and trapped just as you once were.

At first you thought maybe you were hallucinating, seeing some phantom version of yourself your mind had conjured under the extreme stress you were facing. But as you continued to stare, noticing the slight rise and fall of their chest, hearing the small wheezes coming from their direction with each motion, it became apparent they were no figment of your imagination. Long hair fell from their slumped head, obscuring your vision of their face, but judging by what you could see of their body they looked to be around your age, similar to your build. You couldn’t help but wonder if you shared other features, had the same eye color, or maybe a similar facial structure.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Strade picked them because they reminded him of you.

Witnessing another human in this state made your stomach turn. It wasn’t so long ago that you were in that exact situation, and seeing them there helpless and oblivious to what lay before them filled you with the distressing urge to try and rescue them. If you could only run to them, untie their bindings and embrace them, let them know you were there for them and that they would be ok… Stupidly wisheful thinking, but maybe a miracle could still happen and that sweet lie would come true…

You shook your head slightly, dispelling the thought. No, it was all a tragic pipe dream, the fact they were here meant they were as good as dead and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop that.

“Hey!”

Strade barked, breaking you from the spell you were under. You jumped to attention, your wide eyes turning to him to give him your full attention. His scowl lessened at your recognition, “I know it’s all very exciting (Name), but pay attention when I am talking to you, alright?”

“Sorry,” your mouth barely formed the word, spitting it out so fast you wondered if it was even understandable. You were still in shock from being in such a terrible place, your brain lost in a fog as it struggled to comprehend why you were here, what Strade wanted of you, who that person on the floor was, and if you would make it through the day.

He sighed before stepping closer to you, irritation still lingering in his features. You fought every urge telling you to bolt, your body jolting as he gently patted your cheeks. After a few soft pats to garner your attention his strong hands continued to cup your cheeks, cradling your face in his palms. His skin was warm, the sweat from his hand moistening your skin as his thumb traced absentminded circles across scars he had created.

“Strip.”

The command didn’t register at first, making him lose patience. As you stood stock still his brows began to knit, foot tapping a bit as he waited for you to comply. After several seconds of inactivity on your end, he snapped his fingers in realization, his expression relaxing as something donned on him.

“Oh wait, it’s probably hard with the collar, right? Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.”

From an unseen back holster, he brandished an imposing hunting knife, one that you would remember anywhere. It was the same one he tormented you the day he met you, the feel of it on your skin seared into your memory for all eternity. It had done a brilliant job keeping you at bay when he first imprisoned you, serving him well as the main tool that broke you.

Seeing it again was all too overwhelming, all too horribly familiar. Your body quaked, tears starting to flood your eyes, making your vision waver. Your lips moved, your throat struggling to speak, fighting to come up with something, anything that may stop him from using it on you. But ultimately there was nothing you could force out, so you just stood there blankly, flapping your lips in a failed attempt at self-preservation.

“What’s wrong?” Strade pouted, pulling at your collar, forcing you closer to him. You could barely feel the pain through your terror. “If you have something to say, you should say it. Or are you just so thrilled by all this that you can’t form a coherent thought,” he tutted, “Ah, I know the feeling well (Name), but don’t suddenly go mute on me! I want to fully enjoy all of your reactions, so don’t hold back. Think of it as your gift to me.” You shivered as he placed the knife under your shirt, cutting away haphazardly at the thin fabric, uncaring that he was nicking your flesh in the process.

With his body so near, the only sound you could focus on was Strade’s labored, rasping breathes as they rattled from his throat. He blithely ripped what was left of your clothing from your body, leaving it discarded in torn heaps on the ground. Thankfully he spared your underwear, but as his fingers languidly played with the strap of your bra, you wondered if he wouldn’t also reconsider letting you keep what remained of your decency.

“Tonight will be so good, meine Haustier,” his voice sounded hoarse, thick with anticipation as he hovered over you, nuzzling his face into your hair, “… This reminds me a lot of the night I brought you home. Maybe I am just feeling nostalgic, having you down here with me again, but it’s hard not to get wrapped up in such fond memories.”

He chuckled, “I’m thankful I was able to reel myself in back then and keep you, no matter how much I wanted to do otherwise.” He pointed his knife to the unconscious body on the floor, “This one I brought here today won’t be nearly as fun as you were, so I don’t want you to feel jealous, alright? You’re where you are for a reason, just as they are where they are for a reason. Mein Liebchen, I’m so glad I can share this moment with you...”

He pressed in closer to you, an unmistakable bulge in his pants grazing the exposed flesh of your leg as he did so. You both shuddered at the brief contact, though his reaction was for reasons far different than your own.

“This intimacy is nice, don’t you think? Sharing your passions with those close to you is what meaningful relationships are allllll about.”

He pulled away from you slightly, pressing the blade of his knife under your chin. Wincing at the briefest of contact with the blade, you raised your head to avoid slicing of your chin, stopping once you were eye to eye with Strade. Your noses nearly touched as he took in the features of your face, smiling at the sheer horror reflected in your eyes.

“And I want to remind you just how passionate I can be~”

He spun you around, giving you an abrupt shove. Unable to keep your balance you fell forward, your knees colliding with the stony floor. A hiss of pain slipped past your lips at the contact as Strade kneeled down next to you, tangling his fingers once more in your hair. With a sharp yank, he pulled your head up, directing your attention to the far corner of the room.

With his guidance, your gaze landed on something new.  A cage you couldn’t recall ever seeing filled your took up a sizable chunk of the side wall, making you wonder how you missed see it to begin with. How he got such an unwieldy contraption down the stairs previously without your notice was also lost on you. The thing looked far too heavy for one person to easily transport, even if it came in pieces.

It looked incredibly sturdy, each side comprised of thick, imposing iron bars. The cage was moderately sized- large enough for people to sit in, but not so large that it would be a comfortable arrangement. At a glance, it seemed to be made for a dog, but the girth of the bars and thick padlock on the door were completely unnecessary features for a canine, even the largest and most aggressive dog breeds wouldn’t need something so robust to keep them contained. Strade must have had it special made, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who it was made for. You clenched your fists, fighting the queasiness that this new facet of the day brought to the table. You knew the cage shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did, but you couldn’t help but be a bit addled by it. You briefly wondered if there was a limit to how much he would spend to fuel his sick intentions.

The cage sat off to the side, out of the way of the main walkway and slightly hidden behind the stairs so that it wasn’t immediately noticeable, but it was still close enough to the rest of the rooms fixtures that anyone trapped inside would have a clear view or what was happening around them. Which you figured was the point. What better seat for an unwilling audience?

“I originally bought this for Ren, but he was much easier to house train then you were.” Strade laughed, removing his hand from your hair to clap you on the shoulder. He turned his gaze to Ren who stood by the cage expectantly, waiting to fulfill his role in the nights unfolding misery. “Why don’t you show her inside, Ren? Get yourselves all comfy for the show.”

With a quick nod, Ren scampered in before you, giving you just enough room to squeeze in beside him. Nestling in, he turned to you with a strange mix of fear and anticipation in his eyes, patting the area next to you with a small smile on his lips.

“Come in, (Name),” he looked up at you through his lashes, bashful despite the situation he willingly crawled into, “There’s plenty of room.”

Strade gave you no opportunity to refute his invitation, dragging you along the floor by the collar until you arrived at the cages entrance. You gagged as the spikes dug into your flesh, your fingers attempting to find purchase and pull them out. But your grip kept slipping, the blood that coated each metallic link making it impossible to pry away.

At the entrance, Strade quickly unlatched your adjoining leash, pushing the side of his foot against your ass to shove you into the cage, treating you much the same way you would a misbehaving dog. He slammed the door behind you the moment your limbs were barely through the door, preventing you from backtracking. He hastily secured the huge padlock after he did so, effectively trapping you and Ren inside.

“I know you’ll watch, but I can’t trust her,” Strade spoke to Ren, kneeling down so that he was eye level with the two of you, “Latch her collar to the top bar, I want her focused.”

Ren was quick to follow orders, contorting himself around you so he could bind you to the cage. Part of you hoped he would show mercy, sneakily attaching the collar to a lower bar on the cage to give you more breathing room. As you felt the spikes dig farther into your skin that dream dashed from your mind. You choked back a sob as you heard the clasp click into place behind you, Ren planting a fleeting kiss to the top of your head as he did so, his way of begging forgiveness for the pain he was helping inflict

Sitting with your back completely straight, you kept your legs tucked under you, the full weight of your body supported by your knees. The slightest bit of slouching, leaning, or turning your head would plunge the spikes into your already torn up neck, amplifying your suffering. Locked into place, you were left with no choice but to sit at attention.

Maybe you could have unclasped the collar yourself for a bit of reprieve, you were sure after some blind fumbling you could figure out how to free yourself. But stuck behind a formidable lock with Strade on the other side, what would be the point? There was no place for you to run to, and if you disobeyed Strade at this point you were a sitting duck. A heavy sense of resignation settled in your soul. You no longer fought the tears that came to your eyes, letting them freely dribble down your checks to land in soft drops on your lap.

With no hope of escape, that left you with one option to get through this-endure.

“Überraschung,” Strade exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air as he stared down at you with wild, manic eyes. “What a sight this is! I must say (Name), even though your overall your obedience has improved, you still have quite the rebellious streak, don’t you?” He leaned down to get a better view of you, breathing deeply as his face began turning red from excitement, “Not that I don’t like when you get feisty, training and domesticating wild animals is something I take great pleasure in after all. But I have to say, seeing you like this?” He released an elongated, low whistle. “Schön. Keeping you has been worth it for moments like this. You really are a treat, behavioral issues and all.”

He exhaled as he slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never once leaving yours. “This is good, natural even. You belong here, (Name). Chained up like that… You’re right where you are supposed to be.”

His words were shaky, his composure slipping as his tongue trailed his bottom lip. The flush of his cheeks was now also creeping down his neck, ardent lust seeping from his expression. You shivered. Were it not for these bars separating you, you loathed to think what atrocities he would commit against you in this amped up state.

You bit back the retort that threatened to spill from your quivering jaw, biting so hard on your bottom lip you tasted blood. You hated him, loathed him with your entirety, but you also understood that one misspoken word was all it would take for you to be swapped with whatever unfortunate soul was tied to that pole. Despite it all, you still wanted to live. Clinging to the hope that someday you would get the chance to leave this place behind and return to the life that was stolen from you.

Making your freedom a reality was your daily affirmation you repeated to yourself, the one thing that truly kept you going. You made a promise to yourself that Strade would someday turn into nothing more than a horrible nightmare, a dirty smear in your past, and you very much intended to keep that promise. You would someday live out the rest of your life happy and safe, surrounded by friends and family, people you loved and who would love you in turn. Maybe you would even get married, have a kid or two.

Part of you knew thinking that way was foolish, and it usually caused you more despair than bringing you any true peace. But even if it was a silly dream, it was all you had. Strade has already stolen everything else, so you clung to your dream as your only salvation, relying on it as a means of survival.  

You had to make it through this, you had to get away and rebuild yourself from the shattered pieces Strade had broken you into. Not just for yourself, but for everyone he had ever murdered and brutalized. It was the only way you could beat him. It was the only way you could win.

“Well, no point in making any of us wait any longer,” Strade announced as he turned on his heel, making his way over to the slumped form in the center of the room. Your heart went out to them as he directed his full attention their way, staring down at them with a crazed, bloodthirsty smile. “This is pretty new for me too, ya know? Usually this is ‘me’ time, moments I can work and enjoy myself with the new friends I bring in in peace. But having a live audience? That’s sure gonna add some thrill to this.”

He turned his attention back towards you and Ren, his face glowing in excitement. “And I figured what the hell! It’s Christmas, right? Why be greedy when I can share in the celebration!  Ren already loves watching my little home movies, so I thought, ‘why not do a special live performance for my two favorite individuals?’”

Your body lurched in horror as Strade abruptly kicked his hostage square in the stomach, the force of it waking them with an agonized groan. You gasped as they coughed in pain, spit and blood sputtering from their mouth as slowly they came to. You watched on in morbid silence, a frown spreading across your lips when as you noticed the dawning horror that came over them. They were no longer in an ignorant fog of sleep, fully aware now that something truly dreadful was about to happen to them. 

Terrified recognition filled their eyes when they landed on Strade. Instantly they started to cry, whimper and plead, leaving you to wonder just how badly things went down between the two of them before you all ended up down here.

Trembles wracked your body, each quiver faintly clanging the metal of your collar against the cage. How you yearned to deafen your ears, gouge out your eyes, or will yourself away from what was unfolding before you. The mere thought of witnessing the oncoming torture, reliving your own capture through this doomed sod…  it was all too much. If given the opportunity, you would have done anything to flee and hide.

But there was no running from this. You couldn’t turn away. You couldn’t do anything at all.

“Hey buddy, calm down!” Strade spoke in a light hearted manner, invading the captive’s personal space as he crouched down in front of them. “Don’t you know it’s Christmas? Since you were looking so sad all alone at that bar last night I decided to play the role of Santa and give you a little gift! I took you in out of the goodness of my heart, because no one deserves to be alone on the holiday, right? And look,” He roughly grabbed their chin, forcing their tear stained face towards your cage, “I even brought friends to assure you wouldn’t be lonely! Pretty thoughtful of me, huh?”

You averted your stare as soon as they made eye contact, unable to stand the sheer hopelessness reflected in their forlorn gaze. Their whimpering and pleading continued, unfettered by the dialogue Strade was droning on. The desperation in their voice as they tried to reason with the most unreasonable man on the planet was making your skin crawl, irritation setting your face into a scowl. Couldn’t they see how amped up Strade was? Were they really so deluded to think their incessant begging would do them any favors? Did they not realize their cries were just exciting him more?

Eventually, you squeezed your eyes closed, wanting a break from it all even for a few seconds. Their naivety was driving you insane- a cruel reminder of the person you once were.

Suddenly, an ear splitting scream pieced the air, causing your eyes to fly open. The blood in your veins turned to ice as you saw Strade’s signature knife protruding from the captive’s leg, his hand still wrapped firmly around the handle, wriggling it further into their meat. The blade was buried deep, deep enough to cause true damage, and the blood that gushed from the new wound quickly gathered in a morbid puddle beneath their legs. If left unattended, you were sure they may bleed out, dying in slow agony.

“Oops, maybe I went a bit too deep there,” Strade nonchalantly spoke, pulling the knife carelessly from their leg. They released another sharp cry at the blades exit, squirming in pain and misery as blood sputtered from the gash. Strade continued to speak, unfettered by the gore that splashed against his leg, “But you weren’t listening very well when I was trying to talk earlier, so hopefully that’ll help you focus. I’ll try and be more mindful though, don’t wanna do too much too soon. You’re the star of the show today buddy, can’t have you dipping out on us before we even get started.”

Strade cut a piece of fabric from their victim’s shirt, tying it sloppily around the gaping wound he inflicted. It wasn’t placed as a means to help them so much as a way to help staunch the bleeding to keep them lucid for as long as possible. If there was one thing Strade hated, it was his fun being prematurely cut short.

“Well,” Strade slapped his knees, lifting himself up to his full height, “Usually I like to get to know you a little better before we get to this point, but what with my special guests and all, we don’t have as much time as I would have liked to become acquainted.”

Your eyes trailed Strade as he walked over to a tripod sitting off to the side. Your eyes widened as he reached for it, setting it up with skilled expertise as he had done so many times before. His captive stared blankly at the camera, clearly confused as to what awaited them. You couldn’t decide if their ignorance was a tragedy or a godsend. If they knew this was their final moment of relative peace before their violent end… Would they try an appreciate it, or would that just bring them more dismay?

After the main camera was set up to his liking, he made his way towards you and Ren. You stiffened at he approached, a new spike of anxiety rising within you as he fiddled with something in his pocket. It was your turn for confusion now, staring in perplexion as he pulled out another small camera, setting it up so that it faced your cage. After some finagling to get it just right, the small red light on it turned green.

“There we go,” Strade smiled, tying his signature bandana around his mouth after he completed his setup, his wide eyes gleaming with cruel intent, “Figured the viewers at home deserved a little special something, too. Smile for the camera you two!”

Shame flushed your exposed body as you did all you could to avoid looking into the camera’s nebulous, black lens. You curled yourself up as much as physically possible, revolted by the realization that other sickos were tuning in, getting off to an impending murder and your humiliation. How many people were on the other side of that small orb, desperately waiting for Strade to begin so they could scratch their fucked up itch? How many pairs of eyes were roving over your barely clothed, bloody body right now, pleased for such an enticing appetizer before they dug into the main course? You didn’t know what disgusted you more, Strade himself or the fact that he had enough ‘fans’ out there that were of a similar mindset, who avidly watched and supported him enough that he could live comfortably off live-streaming his slaughters.

After some brief adjustments (apparently your camera wasn’t focused enough, the ‘fans’ were complaining about not having a clear shot of ‘the bitch’s stupid, sniveling face’), Strade eventually made his way back over to the main camera, flicking it on and checking the feed on a nearby laptop to make sure everything was looking as it should. Once he was satisfied, he hopped in front of the camera, the jovial smile on his face noticeable even behind his mask.

“Frohe Weihnachten an alle! Oh wait,” he fished around in a drawer beneath his laptop, eventually yielding a slightly wrinkled Santa’s hat that he plopped gleefully upon his head. “That’s better! How is everyone doing this fine, festive holiday?”

Strade’s eyes scanned over the chat, laughing here and there as he read peoples responses. “I see you all noticed the new edition to the party. Ren, (Name), why don’t you give the nice people watching at home a smile?”

Refusing to acknowledge his deluded request, you kept your eyes to the floor, focusing on anything else but the situation you were in. Your legs ached from your balancing act, the impression of the cold cage bars long since deeply engraved in your skin. You grimaced when you tried to reposition them, the bastard could have at least thrown a towel in here for you.

Strade responded to a few more ‘questions’ before releasing a low whistle. “Hey now,” he chided, his voice holding a warning edge to it “I’m happy to share my cute pets with you, but some things only I get to see, yeah? Get your minds out of the gutter, the requests for the day aren’t for them, they’re for our latest catch.”

Strade scratched the back of his head, looking towards you with an amused twinkle in his eye.  “I think you two may be a bigger hit then our new friend! A little rude to our guest, but I can’t say I blame the masses.” He gave an exaggerated shrug, laughing a bit as he shook his head. “But enough talk. Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

He made his way over to his tool wall, his finger trailing the varying allotment of devices he owned. He stopped briefly, looking back towards the camera with lidded eyes. “So what are you guys feeling? Should we bust out our old friend the drill, or maybe something a bit more colorful, like the new handsaw I purchased the other day?”

The captive began to struggle with renewed intensity against their binds, thrashing about in a final attempt of escape. Their cries for help turned into wailing screeches, screaming and cursing as loud as they could muster in the hope that someone would magically hear them and come to their rescue. You hissed under your breath angrily, wishing they had never been caught, wishing they could spend Christmas with their family, wishing they would just shut up, wishing this would all end.

“Ohhh, we got a lively one~” Strade purred, grabbing a tomahawk off a nearby hook as he eyed chat, “and I agree with the majority here, it’s best to start off slow. Let’s begin with some little stuff and work up to the main event, really taking our time to enjoy this wonderful moment together.” He eyed the tool in his hand, picking at a remainder of a price tag that stuck stubbornly to the handle. “You may not believe me, but I only purchased this little guy to help with some pesky overgrowth in my yard, not to use on my company. Guess it can’t hurt to test out its sharpness and strength beforehand though, can it?”

Your heart palpitated as Strade stalked his way over to his cornered victim, mutely praying that some act of god would occur that would keep them from being decimated. He towered over them, thoughtfully musing on where he wanted to begin, what part of their body he wanted to mutilate first. He absent mindedly tossed the tomahawk from one hand to the next as he considered his plan of attack, sizing up his prey as if they were nothing more than a slab of meat. You struggled briefly against your binding in last ditch effort to shield yourself you from the ‘show’. But like a cruel child jabbing their fingers into you when you weren’t paying them enough attention to them, the spikes gave you a torturous reminder of the position you had been assigned to play in this performance.

Oddly enough, the stab of the protrusions didn’t hurt nearly as much as they did before. Maybe your body was adapting to the cruelties Strade subjugated it to, or maybe you were finally becoming desensitized to everything you had been forced to experience.  Maybe someday it would get to the point where you could be completely unfeeling, like a robot just going through the motions as Strade lived out his wicked life, you forcefully in tow. It was almost a comforting thought, whatever adjustments your body and soul had to make to assure your continued survival, so be it.

However, if the pit forming in your stomach and sweat drenching your brow as you watched Strade inch closure and closure to his victim was any indicator, you were sure something inside of you would always hold on to amity, reminding you just how painfully human you were, heart-breaking empathy and all.

‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,’ you chanted in your head, fresh tears carving slick trails down your cheeks when Strade kick their leg, digging the heel of their boot harshly into their stab wound. Bright red bloomed around the fabric covering the wound, their screams growing gravelly the longer they strained their vocal cords. You did your best to hold back the worst of your sobs, rogue sniffles and hiccups escaping despite your best efforts. If there was an afterlife, you hoped that theirs was full of nothing but warmth, peace, and all the things they love. It was the least they deserved for this.

You were vaguely aware of Ren repositioning himself next to you, his head nestling against your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you, shielding you slightly in an almost protective manner. Pressed so close, you could feel that he was shivering, his heart beating a mile a minute as it thrummed against your skin. Whether it was from fear, excitement, or both, you were unable to say.

Strade turned around, giving you one last mirthful glance as he readied his tomahawk over the toes of his captive’s right foot.  Though they squirmed intensely, he held a death grip on the limb, keeping them from breaking free. “Make sure to pay close attention now,” desire radiated from his demeanor, voice husky as narrowed eyes briefly roved your restrained form “and don’t feel too neglected over there, I’ll make sure to save some of the fun juuust for you once I finish with our pal over here.”

His eyes darted to the camera, shooting it a look of mock sympathy “For my eyes only of course, you all understand right? Thank you for being here friends, and Frohe Weihnachten für mich!~”

He slammed the blade down. A blood curdling scream erupted from the center of the room as their toes disconnected from the rest of their foot, signaling the beginning of their end.

And you sat like a statue, cold and rigid as your unwilling eyes bore witness to each act of savagery.