#seems like i break down in the middle or near the end of every term at school

[little-mouse-gardens]

Random idea that came my mind awhile back, rambled about this on discord but-*plops this here* I am rattling this around in my brain

Tw : mentions of violence, yandere behaviors, blood

I was Thinking about elderitch forest god Donnie basically making this cottagecore dreamscape for researcher reader so he can keep them by his side.

For reader, a researcher and selected member of a team that would be sent to go out and find some ancient ruins and study the wildlife in an unexplored forest, It was just supposed to be a simple trip to study the wildlife and old ruins in an unexplored part of the forest. Nothing more.

However, readers team didn’t seem to read the signs near the entrance……nor did they feel the same set of eyes burning into their backs like reader began to feel the second they stepped foot over the old stone gates that led into the forest.

The silence in the forest is almost deafening…everything in the forest-hell the forest itself seems to have all eyes on them. Watching their every move or trying to train themselves on every word they whispered to eachother.

Reader even seems to pick up how, for lack of a better term, kind the forest is towards them compared to their friends.

A lot more rare wildlife seems to suddenly approach them out of nowhere. They stand in one spot for a few minutes and when they start to walk they notice how a trail of flowers seems to follow right behind them with every step. Their favorite flowers too.

Maybe, every so often, they may catch a glimpse of Donnie’s smiling face every so often. His smile is seemingly so soft for that brief moment. So soft. Warm. Welcoming, and almost loving if reader manages to get a better look before they blink and He’s gone again.

He’s been lonely for a long time, and the moment he set eyes on reader while they were carefully saving some wild ducklings stuck in the middle of a river or scolding their team for breaking some rare plants, he’s head over heels in love.

Their smile…their laugh, the way they care about his forest and the creatures within it. How respectful they are to his old monuments and they ignored their teams complaints about stopping so they could fix one of his statues they’d bumped into.

In his mind he finally found the one. He wouldn’t be lonely anymore. He’d have someone to share all the love he could give with. He would give reader so much love and attention, he’d do everything he could to make them happy.

…which reminded him that he needed to take care of their little…friends first after he spotted them walking off to find some place to camp.

When nightfall comes…..everything goes down hill so fast. A storm hits. During the panic of being chased by wild animals and avoiding falling trees, reader whips their head around to look for their missing friend and ends up getting knocked out by a tree branch.

Everything is a blur from there. Screams, roaring and snarling of animals, soft whispers against their temple as their ears rang. The feeling of being scooped and cradled to someone’s chest. The scent of blood in the air.

By the time readers up they are in a completely different space. The sound of soft music is playing when their eyes flutter open and the feeling of warm fluffy blankets surround them.

They don’t even remember exactly what happened-all reader knows is that when they woke up they found themselves bundled up in the comfiest cottage they’ve ever seen and to the soft sound of his voice. They turn and spot a particularly peculiar sight. A mutant softs-hell turtle wearing nicely embroidered sweater, shorts and an apron that read ‘genius chef’ on the front on lavender stitching.

Before they can even say a word he’s already glancing over his shoulder at them with a warm smile and nice tray of their favorite comfort foods in hand. This loving look on his face as she sets the tray down on their lap and helps reader sit up, “well, good morning start light. I was worried you’d got caught up in the rain again” he says, nothing but warmth and tenderness in his tone as he fluffs their pillows and lifts the lid off of the delicious smelling soup, “here, my darling, I made you some nice warm vegetable soup to help chase that nasty cold away”

readers mind is so fuzzy…that they don’t even register him calling them darling until they’re halfway through eating the meal he made or the ring that’s been slipped onto their finger.

However everything about him feels so…familiar. Very brief memory’s of them and Donnie going out on picnic dates and working on the garden out in the backyard.

This wave of familiarity seems to wash over them as they relax into the pillows and they give him a shy, “oh….sorry about that, you know how I get when I get focused with gardening”

Donnie just chuckles and sits himself on the edge of the bed next to reader to make sure they like the food he made them. His heart practically jumping for joy as he looks at that sweet smile on their face.

Sure he may have….replaced a few memories of theirs with a few that would keep them with him

But hey….in his mind, what they don’t know won’t hurt them right?

After all, their friends can’t wander his forest forever in search of place they will never be able find.

[rattlyglitch]

The Breaking of a Apple

(tell me whatcha'll think of this in the the comments. Hope you enjoy I was waiting the whole time I was writing to get to this part of the story)

It was nearing the end of the third week since Epel talked with Vil. Rook seemed desperate and Epel often saw him talking with Vil. He looked distressed every time they spoke. Like he was screaming out for help but couldn’t get any. Epel knew that wasn’t the case but the last thing he wanted to do was approach Rook about what he was thinking and end up being forced to talk with Vil.

The others also seemed to stop trying to talk to him about the situation and let it be. Epel knew they would and was glad it happened sooner than later. Cater had only approached Epel to try and see if he was ok to which Epel simply replied yes.

The orange-haired influencer didn’t even push Epel to talk about what had happened when he visited the spelldrive museum which was an added plus. Another thing that was a good thing was that Epel had been able to practice his magic more at night.

Vil always had been strict about making sure Epel went to bed at ten and wasn’t practicing magic past eight but since he hadn’t approached Epel he had been able to work on his normal magic and his unique spell. His durability and ability to hold the coffin that Epel used would help if there ever occurred another problem like the one that had happened when visiting Nobel Bell College. That sure was a scary time but they all made it out in the end.

Epel had decided to have lunch in the courtyard when Rook approached him. “Epel, can you please come with me? I wished to talk with you.” Epel placed down his lunch. “Sure, is here fine or do you want to go somewhere private?” Rook looked around and there was a lack of students in the courtyard for sure. “Here is fine.” Rook sat next to Epel and gave him a stern look. “We need to talk about what happened at the museum Epel.”

Epel could feel his own disappointment when Rook said those words and stood up. “Rook, it's fine. It’s blown over and maybe by sometime next month me and Vil should be back to talking. Anyways I should start heading to my next class.” Rook grabbed Epel’s wrist before he could leave. I’m sorry Monsieur Crabapple but you aren’t going anywhere.” Epel looked at Rook confused. “What do you mean?” Epel could hear the yelling of three people from behind him. “You need to talk with him now. This isn’t being discussed about or ignored” a familiar beastman said.

Epel turned around and was surprised to see Jamil and the now-graduated Leona escorting Vil over to Epel. Epel didn’t stay still though he tried to get Rook’s tight grip around his arm off but the hunter seemed to be holding onto him like his life depended on it. When Vil looked at Epel neither of them said anything. Epel wasn’t sure if he should say hi or wave so no reaction was the best reaction he could come up with. Rook looked between the two of them before beginning to talk.

“I know since the museum incident neither one of you has been on good terms. It hurt my heart to see the two of you shoving it under a rug which is why I enlisted the help of Jamil and Leona.” Epel wasn’t sure whether he should give the two of them a death glare or raise his middle finger at them. He knew disappointingly though that Rook looked prepared for both of those outcomes and paused for a moment before Leona started the conversation again.

“It’s not good to leave family issues like this unsolved. Look what happened to me or Idia or Malleus. Someone is going to get hurt if this keeps up.” Epel glared at Leona. “No one's going to get hurt. If we just let it pass it'll be like it never happened for the most part.” Leona gave a tired sigh at Epel’s response and pintched his brow. “You both seem to think that but that’s not the case.” Vil looked at Leona. “I never thought that exactly. I was hoping Epel would open up to me about the situation." Leona rolled his eyes at Vil's response

“Epel was most likely too nervous to talk with you about it. You need to be the one to initiate the conversation Vil. He is your underclassman and can’t exactly read your mind.” Epel felt like everyone’s attention was turned to him when Rook spoke again. “You know you can always come talk to us Monsieur Crabapple if you need to. You have no reason to be nervous.” Epel looked at them all confused “I wasn’t nervous. If you want my honest opinion I didn’t think Vil would want to talk with me after everything that happened.”

Epel looked away from the other four. He didn’t want to see their reactions to what he said. A gentle hand was placed on Epel’s wrist replacing Rook’s. He looked up to see Vil. “Epel, why wouldn’t I have wanted to talk with you?” Epel lowered his gaze. “I ruined your image. My mom ruined your dad’s so it would have been the same for you.” Vil’s gaze softened as he looked at Epel. “You being revealed as my brother would have caused shock but I highly doubt it would have ruined my image. You didn’t need to stay away.”

Epel looked at Vil and saw the pity. It was those same pity stares Rook had been giving him. It was those same pity stares the villagers had given him. It was those same stares that told him he was a poison. Epel ripped his wrist out of Vil’s grip harshly and held it in his hand as if it had just burned him. “Y-you’re lying. I know you are. Th-there’s no way you're not.” Vil reached his hand out to Epel who only backed away from it more.

“I know you’re lyin! I’m a poison to you jus like ev'ryone else! So jus say it! Say I’ma poison to you! SAY IT AND STOP LYING!” Vil looked worried or scared when he looked at Epel. He didn’t care though he knew what Vil was thinking and hugged himself tightly trying to ignore Vil. “Epel you’re not a poison. Who’s been telling you that?” Epel shook his head. “Stop it! Stop lyin! No one else in my town hid the fact I was a poison! So stop it please. JUST ADMIT I AM! ADMIT IT DAMMIT!”

Epel gripped his sleeves and started laughing hysterically. He was sure it was tight enough to rip but he didn’t care. After the laughs came coughing and it felt like something was leaking from Epel’s mouth and dripping off his body.

“IT'S FUNNY REALLY. I'VE BEEN A POISON SINCE THE DAY I WAS BORN SO STOP ACTING LIKE I’M NOT! I HURT EVERYONE!”

[magnetictapedatastorage]

“Ask me to kill for you.” “No(t at that price)”

i have fem sniperspy thoughts. okay. the first time that spy hired sniper was the most satisfying mission of sniper's career. and now shes got an itch she can't scratch because for some reason, little miss ive-got-enemies doesn't want any more of them shot in the head! or, at least, she doesn't want them shot at the price sniper is charging. it would be idiotic to lower the price. unprofessional. needy. really, it's not that much lower. honestly. same number of digits.

it's hot in the Maldives, even in the shade. she barely remembers the way the way the target's greasy, balding, sunburnt head split like rotting fruit. instead she remembers the hotel phone, heavy in her hand, sweat dripping down her back in the freezing air conditioned room. it was barely 36 hours since she'd received a single black and white photo, and the entire time, she'd worked like a woman possessed, until he was dead. shot in the middle of one of his company's fields, while the farmhands were busy elsewhere.

"ma tireuse, perhaps I can find more work for you, if you are always to be so..."

when the silence stretches on in lieu of a compliment, sniper tries to complete the sentence, by offering "efficient." her voice is strained. she feels halfway suffocated by some kind of emotion, but she doesn't want the feeling to stop.

there is a sound not quite like agreement on the other end of the line, but the words give her enough of a rush to live off of. "Yes, efficient, you were certainly faster than I had expected." Sniper breathes a near-silent sigh of relief. The bed she's sitting on is still made, from when she checked in yesterday morning, before spending all day and night on the stakeout. "Nonetheless, there are, shall we say, economic concerns. I'm not asking for a bulk discount, nothing of the sort, but if you're to become my on-call, I cannot be forced to keep such a conspicuously liquid account in order to access you."

It takes sniper nearly a full minute to try and parse all of that, especially with the way her client's voice seemed to drip like honey over every word. and how tired she was from the heat. but sure, she can go a little cheaper. nothing crazy. "What kind of budget limitation are we talking about?" she steels herself for a crushingly low number. somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she'd accept almost anything.

"ma tireuse you misunderstand me. I am giving you full access to my account. I trust that you will be able to control yourself."

the change is so fast, she feels lightheaded for months. no matter where she goes, what hotel she books, she is simply never billed. and far from needing to buy ammo in cash out of the back of a pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, she's shaking hands with the 5th-in-command of the Sicilian mob, and taking home a rifle in a bassoon case.

spy made the calculation that she was worth more as a loyal, long term investment than as an exploitable source of cheap kills.

sniper is living in an apartment for a month or whatever, there's down time while spy is under the radar for a very delicate plan. sniper goes to bed alone. she wakes up alone. but in the middle of the night She Was Not Alone. 

and it's not like spy had to break in or anything. technically it's her apartment. she's the one paying for it. she'd been a bit surprised to find herself so thoroughly wrapped in long limbs, and it had been a challenge to extract herself, but she slipped away eventually, and long before the woman awoke. it was an acceptable way to spend the night, and to lose the tail that had been following her the past few days. 

sniper awoke fully wrapped around her pillow, as if she'd been afraid of it trying to escape. and the coffee machine was on.

she'd never take a trophy while out on a job, but she does take the bullet casings home (more out of hiding her tracks than anything). and if those casings make their way on to spy's desk on a regular basis than who's to say what that's all about.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

if you're still accepting prompts, #14? fine if not!

Jane hobbled from her unmarked parked a block or so away to Maura’s front door. She shoved her hands in her pockets, not because it was cold out, but because balling her fists in her coat pockets somehow dulled the already dull, heavy pain slithering from the middle of her back into her hips. Work had been long already, with the murder of a social worker starting their morning. But then, it ended with Jane in a foot race with the suspect, which in turn ended in a chasedown tackle worthy of the NFL. 

Jane had gotten her man.

But, she wondered, as she fished for her keys, if it was worth it. Thirty-five wasn’t old by any means, but sports and academy training and drug pursuits and near-death by serial killer had all taken their toll. And now, every morning when she woke up, she dealt with a twinge in her lower back before popping some over the counter pain meds and draining a cup of coffee. Usually, it was all she needed. When days like today rolled around, however, nighttime was filled with beer and heating pads until the moment she could respectably shuffle to bed and try to sleep the pain away.

She’d promised Maura a drink, however, to celebrate their break in the case. The compromise they came up with when Jane had texted that she didn’t feel like going out - in actually she didn’t feel like she could go out - was a bottle or two at home. 

Well, Maura’s home. 

“Knock knock,” called Jane when she pushed into the warm air of the front hall, though she didn’t knock and didn’t wait for Maura to reply before heading to the refrigerator. She pulled three bottles of Peroni from the top shelf, two for her, one for Maura if Maura was in a beer mood. She banged the first bottle against the countertop, and the cap popped off, clattering against the granite with finality.

“Jane is that you?” Maura did reply eventually, her voice carrying from the hall before her. She appeared, in leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweater, barefoot as she padded toward Jane. “It is.” she answered for herself.

Jane bit back the satisfied little sigh that settled in her chest whenever she saw the soft skin of Maura’s neck, sloping uninterruptedly into the soft skin of her rounded shoulder. 

Just like Jane could admit she was aging, that her body wasn’t as resilient as it used to be, she could admit that she liked Maura. She was attracted to her. There never seemed to be a right time to say it, especially after Maura’s sadness, her anger at Jane shooting herself, but Jane regarded it as the most adult crush she’d ever had. None of the butterflies or the embarrassment or the fear of rejection could compare to the eventual net positive that confessing would be, it just… hadn’t happened organically yet. “It is. You want a beer? Or should I get out that cabernet?”

Maura smiled for the smallest of moments, until it bled away into a furrowed brow and a frown as she marched toward Jane, who had reached up for the cabinet with the wine glasses in it -something about Maura’s countenance that told her the answer to her question before Maura’s mouth could. Jane regretted wincing, though, because it apparently derailed the entire moment. “Lumbar radiculopathy,” Maura stated just before she palpated Jane’s mid-to-lower back, causing a couple ego-bruising yelps.

“Jesus,” Jane exclaimed when she regained the ability to say English words, “is it fatal?”

Maura huffed, and continued to feel. “Pinched nerve, sciatica,” she said. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since I was twenty-three?” Jane joked. “Ouch!” she screamed when Maura put pressure. “Sorry. Uh, it’s been bad since I took down that chucklehead.”

Maura stopped. She forewent the wine for the beer that already sat on the counter, though she used a bottle opener rather than her expensive countertops to bust it open.  “It’s been bad? Does that mean it was present before taking down the chucklehead?”

Jane laughed at Maura’s use of the term. “It’s uh, it’s always there, kinda barkin’. But I can usually manage with some tylenol and a few stretches.”

Maura shook her head. “Upstairs. My room please,” she ordered, taking the beer from Jane’s hand so that she held two. 

Jane blinked. Not where she thought this was going. “Uh, what?” She sputtered. What the hell was there to say to that? She reached back for her drink but Maura pulled away.

“I will bring these up,” Maura answered. “But you need heat and some site-specific stretching,” she said, “and I happen to have a new massage oil that smells like mint.”

“Oh no,” Jane put her hands up and waved them. “I don’t need that. You don’t need to do that,” she backed up when Maura stepped closer, and shook her head. Her entire body tensed and she stood as straight as her spine would allow.

“You have degenerative disc disease,” Maura admonished. But, she softened when she saw the apprehension on Jane’s face. “It will help,” she said softly, “trust me.”

Jane let that sigh go finally, but for a different reason altogether. “A’right,” she said. “I’m goin’.”

___

When she had stumbled from the driver’s side of her car to the front door, Jane had no idea she’d end up half naked in Maura’s bed. Under Maura. Christ.

It was almost as sensual as it sounded, given how thin Maura’s leggings were and the heat Jane could feel from between Maura’s thighs resting on her own ass, but…

“You’re stiff,” Maura said quietly. Her fingers had warmed up the skin on Jane’s back, and the oil on them made a wet sound in addition to the very moist pressure of each rub. “And not because of the pain. You need to relax. This isn’t any different than any other massage you’ve gotten.”

Jane detested the mood lighting Maura apparently insisted upon, because it made Maura’s voice syrupy thick and deep. Jane wasn’t sure how, but it did and she had to contend with its potency. “Well I wouldn’t know,” she snarked just to grasp onto some wisp of control. 

Maura’s hands stopped moving, but stayed heavy on Jane. “Wait. You’ve never had a professional massage?”

Jane shook her head this time. It swished on the pillow. Maura felt good putting all her weight on Jane despite the awkward conversation. “Do I look like I’m made of money?”

Maura resumed a light rub, more affectionate than remedial. “Well… then treat it like any other back rub you’ve been given. Obviously relaxing is paramount,” she said. Jane froze, stiffened under her, and she gasped. “Jane. No one’s ever… for you?”

“Never,” Jane answered, into the feathery down below her face. At least it hid her blush. “I don’t really… trust a whole lot of people. After Hoyt. And imagine some guy puttin’ his paws all over me when I’ve got sciatica. Sounds like hell.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Maura said. “That’s a shame.” Immediately her touch shifted from medical to loving. 

And the vulnerability actually felt kind of nice. Jane couldn’t move, especially not injured, but at least Maura couldn’t see her face, and at least Maura was being kind. If Jane weren’t so thrown off by her own feelings, she’d think that Maura was also communicating something else. Something more. “Hey, listen,” said Jane, deciding it would be improper to wait any longer. “I gotta tell you somethin’.”

As if to make whatever forthcoming confession easier, Maura leaned forward, curling herself on top of Jane until her face nestled between Jane’s shoulder blades. “What?” she asked, her breath hot against Jane’s already hot spine. 

“I… I am so into you it hurts,” Jane whispered, emboldened by their positions. 

Maura laughed rich and loud into the cavern of Jane’s stretched muscles. “Is that what caused all this pain?” she asked. “Your attraction to me?”

Jane laughed, too, because it was the best response she could have expected. “It is a heavy burden to carry, let me tell you. Especially when you show up to work in those heels,” she teased.

Maura settled into her further and slid her arms up until they rested on top of Jane’s under the pillow. “Hmm,” she exhaled. “I can’t say it was on purpose even if I’d like to.”

“I just… things seemed to be getting a little hot and heavy in here,” Jane explained. “And I wanted you to know before anything went any further. I don’t wanna be a creep.”

“It’s sweet that you think this was hot and heavy,” Maura responded. She kissed the back of Jane’s head before sitting back up and stretching the skin around Jane’s lumbar spine all over again. “And it’s sweet that you would want to warn me. But I feel the same. Ok? I feel the same. But we really should work this out; it’s only going to hurt worse if I don’t finish.”

Her thumbs picked up the pressure in their work again, and Jane slammed her fists into the mattress. “Youch, fuck!”

“Maybe later,” said Maura, with a smile that Jane could hear in her voice.

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXVI | Far From Perfection

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: self-harm, body horror, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, ambivalence toward suicide AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXVI | Far From Perfection First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hollow attempts to answer their sister. Hornet comes to terms with things, and washes a mountain of laundry. Ever get into a cleaning frenzy and then suddenly everything needs to be cleaned? While you're possibly avoiding intrusive anxiety thoughts about the fate of the world and your sibling's serious injuries and how your request for help might get ignored? Yeah.

○

Hornet startled, her head snapping round, and it froze.

Its chest pulled tight. Void churned deep below its shell. Was it—was this what she wanted?

It knew what it meant to do, to say. It knew the answer that it meant to give. The pain was not gone, and it was not small, not while its shoulder ached and throbbed, not while the keen ache of void-loss thrummed in its veins. But it was nothing like the all-consuming fever heat, nothing like the splitting, screaming cold of running itself through with its own nail, so the middle sign seemed like the correct answer.

It could not move.

Sister’s eyes, when she looked back at it, were dark and sharp, a deep and shining color, nothing like… like the other stare it remembered. Nothing like the white-hot glow that cut and tore and burned all at once, that it could even now feel in memory, probing its mind with fire and malice.

The chill crept back over it, despite her steadying touch on its mask.

I do not wish to harm you.

It knew that, it knew that, and even if she had, it had no right to say otherwise. But this twisting contradiction, this never-ending loop of terror in its mind, laying down groove after groove until it wore a rut in the ground—it did not know what to do with that. It—

It was stuck.

The word seemed humorous, suddenly, absurd even, like a gangly hatchling that had tangled itself up in its own sleeves. But it was not a hatchling, it was meant to be a knight, meant to be perfect, and this was so, so far from perfection that the bubble of amusement broke and left behind only a haze of disappointment.

It was still sitting—or lying—motionless, only its hand had pulled tight now, rather than remaining open for the sign. The prick of its claws in its palm was bright and new, and it pressed harder. She had said it could not answer wrongly, but what if it did? What if it was mistaken—what if this was not what she wanted after all?

Wrong, wrong, wrong, it was not supposed to speak, to think, and this was both—

Hornet glanced to the side again and startled when she saw all its fingers clenched, its claws near to drawing void in its trembling hand.

I do not wish for you to hurt yourself.

A pulse of shame rushed through it, heavy, queasy. She had taken its hand before it could loosen its fingers, pulling it close with the speed of a hunter reeling in prey from her web.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I—

“You don’t need to open these wounds again,” she said, working her thumb under its claws until they were forced to relax. Her words were carefully neutral, though the vessel examined them for anger, for frustration or sorrow or cold satisfaction, until it was her voice repeating in its head instead of its own.

Was she not displeased? It had failed twofold—it could not follow her orders without breaking the constraints that had been placed on it, and yet it had tried, and in the trying, those constraints were broken anyway.

It showed itself faithless with every action it took, and still she would not punish it.

Would not even let it punish itself.

It trembled a little as she wound its hand with silk once more, softening its claws with careful layers of padding, then folding its fingers inward until they rested against the linen she wadded into its palm. She did not notice the shaking until she let go and its hand remained suspended, held aloft by the muscles that had locked tight, immobile in its uncertainty.

Its sister hesitated, then took reached out again, sliding a hand down its forearm to lift its elbow from the floor. The position she placed it in alleviated the tension in its shoulder, and gratefulness welled up before the vessel could quash it. She handled it so gently, though even the gentleness had an unsettled edge to it. Even then, as she laid its hand across its abdomen, she pet the back of its hand twice before she withdrew, stroking its carapace in the one place her silk did not cover. The sensation sent prickles up its arm, as if its circulation had faltered, its strange, voided heart fluttering traitorously.

Was it meant to feel this way? It could not help it—there was no conscious thought involved at all, nothing it could smother or stow away. It simply was, and there was nothing the vessel could do about it.

“I am not displeased with you,” she said softly, and its heart skipped in earnest this time. It was as if she had read its mind, as if she saw through every layer of restraint it placed on itself to the treacherous thoughts that hid beneath.

Could she? Father had possessed a measure of insight into other minds along with his foreknowledge; might its sister have inherited that? The Pale King had never indicated awareness of his vessel’s impurities, but that had been when its repression was flawless, when it could feel the glimmering traceries of his mind interlacing around it like silver tripwires.

It felt no such thing here. Sister was half-mortal, which might mean she had no such ability—or that it merely could not sense it, as it had sensed its father’s, and that was definitely the worse option. Still, she had not shown any sign of his prescience, and unless her surprise at its previous actions was part of some elaborate ruse, she had not perceived its pain, its impurity, until it became too obvious to ignore.

“We will revisit the question later,” she said now, and it couldn’t help the jolt of unease—quickly pressed down, for fear it might become overwhelmed again. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Tomorrow. It had until tomorrow. Perhaps something would change before then. Perhaps it would find a way to satisfy her.

Perhaps, it thought, with a wild sense of dismay, the cavern ceiling would fall, and then it would not have to.

○

Hornet pushed down a creeping disappointment as she stood and stretched, turning away from Hollow so they would not see the slump to her shoulders. The rattle of the rain seemed to grate against her mask like sandpaper. She had told them she wasn’t upset—and it was a lie.

Not that she was upset with them. They had done better than she anticipated; she had tried not to anticipate much, knowing that the last time they spoke to her, they had been forced into it by her callous, unthinking actions. For them to choose to speak openly when there was no threat of imminent harm—either to her or to them—was something she had hoped for, but not expected to get.

And she hadn’t, though they had tried. What else could that have been? She had not seen them so badly shaken since two days ago, when she’d returned to find them huddled into a ball, all but sobbing, hiding their face in blankets stained dark with their own void.

It was herself she was displeased with, for driving them back to that. For asking a question that scared them so much that they stopped breathing altogether.

Looking at them then, she wondered how she had ever thought they could not feel. The thought had been distant, made small and faint by the immediate emergency of her sibling refusing to breathe. But she could not ignore the way the void twisted and squirmed behind their eye sockets, or the way their heel-spurs dug into the mattress, or the slight bristle in their shoulder-plates as the muscles beneath clenched in rigid stillness. Thankfully, they hadn’t torn anything open this time, though that was likely because they seemed to have little control over the remaining muscles on their left side, withered and burned as they were.

She would have hoped that meant they didn’t hurt, but she knew better.

Measuring and communicating their pain had seemed like a good place to begin, and now she was back where she started. Hollow had returned to a fragile peace, still wheezing gently as if their chest pained them, still tense, still watchful, still waiting for whatever doom they seemed to expect for themselves.

And she had no way to reassure them. Without knowing what they feared, without knowing why they panicked at the mere mention of their pain, she didn’t know what to say. The reassurances she had given them already did not appear to be adequate.

And she did not know what might set them off again. When something as simple as describe your pain sent them into a spiral she had to drag them free from, how could she be sure that any of the things she might say were safe for them to hear? What if she said something that sent them over the edge, back into the mindless terror that she suspected nearly made them lash out at her? She did not know how well she could care for them if she was injured herself. Last night was testament to that.

She pressed her fists to her eyes, disguising the motion with a restless sweep of her hands down her face when she realized they might be looking at her. She avoided their gaze, studiously looking elsewhere, then gritting her fangs with the realization that everywhere her gaze fell was a disaster.

Papers on the floor. Pillows strewn about. Drips and splatters of infection and void on the blankets, the mattress, the rugs, the flagstones. And Hollow was filthy again, smeared and splotched with black and gold where their wounds had bled down their shell.

Air hissed out between her mandibles. Irresponsible of her, to leave them like this. In more ways than one. She couldn’t have stayed long enough to ride out the guilt and fear that had seized her? To ensure that Hollow’s wounds were cleaned, that they were comfortable, that they would heal adequately? And that wasn’t even mentioning the damage they had done to themselves by crawling to her side when she passed out on the floor. The wound they had reopened still looked uglier than the others, crusted with a wet-looking orange-yellow that refused to fully scab over.

As awful as she was at being a princess, she somehow made an even worse sister.

The urge to swear in front of her sibling was near-impossible to resist.

Did they even know how to swear? She had learned it from her mother, but she could not imagine the Pale King swearing—he had hardly spoken in her presence at all.

Well, if they didn’t, she would not be the one to teach them.

She hissed again, low enough that they hopefully did not hear her, and forced her thoughts into order. Top of the list was getting Hollow back to bed. The rug could not be as comfortable as the mattresses, and the pillows she had propped under them had gone flat. But before she could do that, she really ought to strip and wash the blankets, and spot-clean the pillows, and wash Hollow off so they didn’t get the bedding dirty again, and—

The curses had dissolved inside her mouth, and now there was only a wet-metal taste, the sharp edge of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. What was wrong with her?

No, she would not cry for the third time in as many days. She had not gone weeks in the wilderness alone without a single flicker of expression or sound, hardening herself to stone against the constant wear of the world, for a messy house to make her break down now.

She could get more blankets. Replace the soiled ones. There were a few left upstairs, and it wouldn’t matter if those got dirty while she washed the first set. As long as she had enough for two sets, she would be fine.

She would be fine. And more to the point, Hollow would be fine. They had hung from those chains in the temple for years, while the Radiance cracked them open and spilled her rage down their body from the inside. They could tolerate a dirty blanket.

Now move.

Move.

She grabbed the corner of the topmost blanket, dragging it free of the tangle Hollow had made of them. Then the second, and the third, until she was down to a single layer—the void had soaked that far. She scooped the pile of dirty rags into the center and deposited the whole lot by the door, to spread outside in the rain and soak.

The pillows were next—either stripping the covers from them to go outside with the blankets, or tossing the whole thing into a pile she would deal with later. How much later was not worth thinking about.

Now that she looked, the rugs were nasty, too, fuzzy with dust, the fibers caked together where Hollow had bled on the floor. She shuffled all her papers into a pile—some were already beginning to smear, the damp house and smudgy charcoal conspiring against her—and stacked them out of the way, on the shelf full of rotted ledgers she had never bothered trying to salvage.

Come to think of it, those should go too, so she swept all the ledgers off the shelves and into the bucket with the cast-off bits of her kills.

The room blurred into one incoherent mess, still revealing itself no matter how far she dug. The rugs came up to reveal an equally dirty flagstone floor, blossoms of mildew sprawling across it like landmasses on a map. The tapestries, so faded as to be unrecognizable save for a general impression of opulence, cascaded down in gales of dust, only to reveal that the peeling wallpaper behind them was nearly as bad. The top layer of charcoal in the fireplace was fresh, but sweeping out the faded embers revealed a congealed mass of greasy ashes that made her wonder just what the last owners had burned there.

She was conscious that she was going too far, exhausting herself for no good reason—or, perhaps, a very good reason she was not willing to confront.

She could not heal Hollow, body or mind, but she could clean this disaster of a house.

Well. Clean might be an overstatement. She paused in the wreckage of the room, dirty hands held away from herself, with the impression that if she touched her face or her shell or anywhere on her body, she might explode. Her cloak was no better, and it did no good to wipe her hands on it, leaving streaks in the dust that actually made the fabric look cleaner than before.

How many cloaks was she going to need?

She turned to Hollow, who had been watching, though she tried to ignore it. They had to be questioning her—any sane creature would be—and she was not used to having to explain herself to anyone.

That was one benefit to being alone. You could act as bizarrely as you wished, and no one felt the need to stare at you.

“I need to change your bedding,” she began weakly, and trailed off. Her tram of thought had already taken her so far from that goal that she could not begin to explain how it had gotten there.

Right. They didn’t need to know that; they only needed reassurance that she was not leaving when she stepped outside.

She stepped over to the now-formidable pile of laundry and nudged it with her foot. “I am going to take this outside, but I am not going far. You can see me through the windows. I will be back very soon.”

No acknowledgement at all. They were breathing quieter, at least, though that had been a gradual change she had overlooked while she was busy.

She was tempted to add “Sign ‘yes’ if you understand” but it was probably best not to push, not when her ambitious attempts at language scared them so badly this morning.

She’d make several trips, then, to reassure them she wouldn’t be gone long. She would probably need several trips anyway, with how much washing she had accumulated.

Her first trip outside did not seem to affect them, though their head moved minutely to track her, and she thought their hand clenched more tightly than before, though it was hard to tell beneath the silk. She stayed out a little longer the second time, and when their status did not appreciably change, she made a final trip, positioning herself carefully in view of the windows as she deposited the rest of the pile. Then, with a long, heavy sigh, she stripped her cloak off too, letting the rain streak down her back and legs. She would be drenched before she finished anyway; might as well throw her cloak in with the rest of the laundry.

The corded strap that held her spare soul vessels knocked against her chest as she leaned forward to drop her cloak into the heap. It was heavier than usual, and she caught it on its next swing, lifting it to stare at the charm still pinned to the end.

She’d almost forgotten about it, except for the welcome strangeness of her soul vessels being completely full. In the diffuse, blue-stained light under the City’s skyline, she could see details that she hadn’t before, while crouched in the shadowed doorway of the Black Egg. How there were looping lines carved on the face beneath the wrapping, how a sharp-edged crack ran up between the eye sockets, though the charm seemed sturdy enough when she squeezed it in her hand.

Where could it have come from? Its purpose was obvious—soul was a formidable force in combat, and a seemingly limitless supply would confer advantages she had never had cause to consider. If the little vessel had gone to the temple expecting a fight, they could hardly have been better armed.

Then why leave it behind? Such a powerful charm was not something one carelessly cast aside or misplaced.

White sparks spun upward where her clawtips touched the surface. Even after so long equipped, it still had more to give.

Another sigh, and she let the charm fall back against her chest-plates, a cool weight, a heavy question she might never hear the answer to.

She glanced over her shoulder at the window, to the pale blur beyond the rain-mottled glass. Hollow was waiting inside—patiently, as they always did, though now she wondered how much of that was an act. She should not be standing here idly, mossgathering.

Hornet hunched her shoulders beneath the rain and got to work.

Rain gardens were one of the fads that had swept the noble sectors of the city before the plague took hold, and this house had a decent one, though shabby with lack of upkeep. Cascading pools of stone fed the rainwater into each other, some sprinkled with shimmering mica, some studded with ten- and twenty-geo pieces, others lined with mirrors that reflected her face back at her, warped and wavering. She didn’t know why staring at the water in a fancy pool was any better than staring at a puddle, but it worked to her advantage now. The lilypads had long since died out of the largest pool, and she had thought before that it would make a good washtub, if she ever needed to wash anything the small tub upstairs couldn’t handle.

The mass of blankets, pillowcases, and tattered rags clogged it admirably. She set to scrubbing, though with less vehemence than the fabric deserved. The water was a cold shock down her limbs, but rather than energizing her, it only emphasized how much she ached, how her claws trembled with fatigue as well as the chill.

Hornet leaned on the edge of the pool to squeeze out a pillowcase and had to pause to catch her breath, vaguely grayish water spilling out over her feet and bleeding into the puddles between the cobblestones.

This was… perhaps not wise.

Hornet had endured worse, many times. Hours spent curled in caves or under leaves or beneath woven silk camouflage, waiting for her strength to return after a narrow escape or a bad injury, sorting her rational thoughts and panicked instincts out from each other. Utterly alone, her only company whatever wall or thicket she placed at her back, drained of silk and soul, legs still shaky with battle rush.

The thought of her mother surfaced often, in those circumstances. Herrah would understand, she thought—though her mother had never been as solitary as Hornet was forced to be.

Allies were few and fleeting in the dead kingdom. Herrah had tried to instill in her the importance of trusted friends, advisors and companions who had nothing to gain from you, but as seldom as Hornet found a friendly face in these ruins, it was even less likely to be someone who would linger for the pleasure of her company.

She could count on one hand the number of times she had asked for help.

The memory of meeting Quirrel at the lakeshore sent something hot flashing over her shell, like a pocket of gas exposed to flame. Something more like anger than embarrassment, something that set her scrubbing as hard as she could at the towel between her claws.

Where was he?

Did she care?

She found that she did, but only in a circular, impotent way, like a beast pacing the confines of its cage. Whether he was lost in the City’s twisting, silent streets, or had changed his mind after she left him, it was for the best that he was not here. Perhaps he had decided to go through with his original plan after all, and she could not bring herself to feel more than a quick flicker of shame at that thought.

Anyone else would have tried to persuade him to abandon those plans, or reassure him that they were unnecessary. Anyone else would have stayed with him, or taken him somewhere—not safer, for there was almost nowhere safer than the lands around the Resting Grounds, but somewhere not so quiet, so serene and empty.

She was not anyone else. She was who she was, what the falling weight of the world had molded her into, and she had nothing else to give. Regret would only go so far, and she could not go back and change what she had done—or failed to do.

That meeting on the lakeshore would be the least of what she’d change, if she could.

Regardless, she did not need Quirrel. And he would likely have tired of her soon enough, even if he had come to find her.

Companionship was transactional, when every waking hour was uncertain. She would require more from an ally than witty banter and another body to warm the blankets. And she could not count on others to keep up with her, or to uphold their end of a bargain she would never plainly state, or to understand what she had to do—

She would not make good company, in any case. Not now. She had been left on her own too long, like an unruly plant; she had grown too many spikes that would need pruning.

She hauled the towel out of the basin and dropped it in a clean one, then started in on another, nearly ripping it with her claws. She scrubbed harder anyway. Towels were one thing she could mend.

Despite her best efforts, she did not manage to finish the laundry.

She stopped halfway through, leaning on the basin again as dizziness swirled in her head, like water draining from a hole in a bucket. The sheet tangled round her hands gained several more claw-holes as she gripped the stone to keep her balance.

There was foolish, and then there was downright stupid. She had to rest, or she would pass out again.

The thought of what Hollow might do if they saw her fall was enough to make her sigh and push the sheet aside. It wouldn’t hurt the fabric to soak for a few hours, long enough for her to eat, and rest a bit, and perhaps get her sibling back into bed.

She gathered up her newly clean cloak along with the rest, wringing everything out as best she could once she ducked under the eaves. They would take a long time to dry in the damp air of the house, but having a clean cloak again, rather than cycling between whichever one was less dirty, was something she was willing to wait for.

The house was quiet as she pulled the door open and slipped inside, the muffling of the rain welcome after the better part of an hour spent outdoors. It was darker than she’d thought it would be, and she had to blink a few times before she could see any more than the glow of infection in the shadows.

Hollow still lay as she had left them, head turned toward the window, bound hand resting on their stomach, rising and falling slightly as they breathed. They did not sound any more agitated than usual, although they took a deeper breath when she shut the door behind her.

“Well done,” she said, forcing a little lightness into her voice. She was so tired, and it sounded false to her own ears, but they should know they had done what she wanted. “Thank you, for waiting patiently for me.”

The void twitched behind their eyes, making one sharp, abrupt motion before returning to its normal slow swirl. Were they surprised that she was thanking them? Or did her words startle them in some other way?

She was too tired to try and figure it out. She patted herself dry with some of the remnants from the new cloaks she had cut, and then she made herself hang the laundry to dry, draping it over whatever clean surfaces she could find, until the room resembled a festival booth, festooned with banners advertising—she didn’t know what, exactly. Blue dye?

Gods, she hated blue.

Maybe she could try scavenging something to liven up the room, if Hollow would let her leave for that long. The run-down mansion had to be more interesting than staring at the same wall in the temple for a hundred years, but if they had no choice but to be laid up here, she might as well try to make it more cheerful.

She ate, mechanically, sitting on the hearth with the still-unhemmed cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and considered the problem of getting them back to bed.

Moving them herself was out of the question; she was too tired, and she would have no way to know if she hurt them, or worsened their injuries, especially since they did not seem capable of telling her. If they had been able to crawl to her side the night before, perhaps they could move back—but she would need to phrase her order carefully, to ensure that they did not push too far while trying to obey her. Awkward as it might be, helping them across the room as they moved at their own pace seemed the best option.

Or, she could wait nearby should they need help, and take the opportunity to observe how they moved, assessing whatever damage remained that she could not see.

It might be the only way she had of getting information they could not—or would not—convey otherwise.

Before she lost her nerve, she set her food down and stood.

Hollow tracked her silently as she approached, but made no motion otherwise. She had to swallow before she could speak, mouth still dry from the tasteless jerky, and even then the words were quiet, hesitant, as if something choked her voice back.

“Listen carefully.”

Taglist: @2amtime @moss-tombstone @slimeel Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[cofa]

A long winded rant about creator of Wank

Kryy is the creator of White Hank as we know it and also the creator of the Madness Iceberg and Madness Rozpierdalation 4: The Death of Madness And Its Consequences.

In this post will rant about him and give points on why you should not support him, too though I am biased and will be open to hearing your side of the argument. I do hope this will inform you all, and the bias isn’t too strong.

If you don’t not wanna hear about drama, slurs, or mentions of pedos or zoos, please refrain from reading this

I acknowledge he had a big impact on the community by posting the Madness Iceberg among other informative things, but I feel I should criticize the messenger, especially if the way he presents information is bad. I will state that do not support the specific people he criticizes, because he had a reason to criticize them. Now I will talk about his actions in no particular order, though the less proven things are near the top.

Wank:

White Hank is character by him that has been inspired by Heather of the Dadness series which known to be offensive parody of the Madness series, which isn’t a great start to this section. She has also have been supposedly referred to as a “he” in a comment even though, within the collab it seems like Wank is transfem and refuses he/him pronouns.

Though evidence is thin, and this could just be a issue with differing minds making a collab since I don’t know how much authority Krry had over it.

The Dadness Combat entry of the Madness iceberg:

In the Madness iceberg part 2 he features one of Dad’s Enlightenments without warning, if you don’t know what that is, it’s basically a nsfw action with flashing lights in the background which is harmful to those with photosensitive epilepsy. He should’ve put a warning or slowed down and censored the footage instead of irresponsibly showing the raw footage.

Click bait and response:

Even though this is the least worst thing, this is the most infuriating. His Madness Iceberg videos where not labeled to have anything that indicated it was about the community, maybe except that people hidden in the thumbnail that would fly under the radar of those who are ignorant. Krry’s response is not fixing the title or admitting that it wasn’t a good choice, he instead said it was necessary to the wake up call. Purposefully deceiving people to watch content discussing horrible and distressing things so that history can’t repeat, and from personal experience the iceberg was painful to watch and taught me nothing as my memory blanked it out. It would have been better if he was honest or apologized, but he instead doubled down, which caused my biased grudge against him. What made it worse was passive aggressive lore facts segment which in the end, his friend Pyro said “back to the actual madness facts” which is a big middle finger to those deceived and wanting an apology, and considering Kryy is the one editing, it is likely he agrees with Pyro in this.

N word in the community post:

Is there much to say

The Pedophile call out video:

This unlisted video found in “the community saga” playlist where it is another bait and switch, it being complete click bait instead of a slight deception as it called “shooting test coop w/raff” with no hints at all what the video is actually about. This video calls out Cethic and other pedos in the community, but he does things like call Cethic "a rapper, like that one in the one game Friday night funking" when breaking the news she is a zoophile and groomer, and called Fleetwire a “sussy imposter.”

He also constantly misgenders Cethic, who is transfem, even though he released the video the month after that she publicly came out the closet

The video:

Her coming out:

So uh, yeah...

“Neo Madness” the term that is every new fan’s nightmare:

Putting this last because it is the most relevant to our current situation. In the end of the second part of the Madness Iceberg as he proposes two different routes, neo madness and traditional. Before his he advocates gatekeeping or else it won’t be real Madness. Even though he says that he doesn’t think Neo Madness is bad, he says that its removing “everything that made madness what it is” and “desecrating the history behind it” and will make it “a fanbase doomed to be lost to time.” He also uses an image of Hank on pedo flag to represent it:

This bugs me because also uses “inclusive” describe it and uses shipping and "furry Trickies and gay Deimoses" as examples of it. Yikes.

Why I talk specifically about him and not any other person in the madness combat is that I have seen his work used time and time again as an excuse to bully newer Madness fans. I also discuss this because one of the most popular fan characters of the post fnf release era is White Hank as she continues to get fan art.

Though I think Kryy has some good points and informed the community, I do not support him.

[fistsoflightning]

light up the dark

ffxivwrite2022 29: fuse n. a continuous train of a combustible substance enclosed in a cord or cable for setting off an explosive charge by transmitting fire to it.

zaya & g’raha. post 5.0, near the end of ‘for every child a star’. 583 wc.

In all their adventures, there had been very few times where Zaya had been entrusted with fireworks—or really any manner of explosives, and for good reason—but even they could tell that these ones were heavy for their size. The shell that the Exarch—that G’raha had handed them was about the size of a sad La Noscean orange, but it weighed like it was filled with titancopper chunks; given that the First didn’t seem to have bombards in abundance like the Cascadiers back on the Source did, it made sense, but Zaya was given the faint impression that these fireworks could take down a behemoth.

Potentially-overclocked fireworks still didn’t seem like a good enough reason for G’raha to break the unspoken agreement that he and Zaya hadn’t been on speaking terms since surfacing from the Tempest, much less invite them into the Tower in the middle of the markets for a private talk. They looked up at him and tilted their head, waiting for him to explain.

He gave a faint, nervous smile in response, no longer the unshakeable and confident Exarch. “Perhaps it was a selfish decision on my part, but I was hoping I could beg your assistance in a matter I find myself advising,” he said, echoing in the wide space of the Tower’s throne room. “Katliss and the Crystalline Mean have been hard at work creating lights for the children of the Crystarium, you see, and each of the Facet leaders has taken it upon themselves to create a source of light uniquely their own; for her part, Katliss wished to avoid infringing on any one lantern’s design and hold a fireworks show instead, inspired by a book from the Cabinet. However, as the last fireworks in Norvrandt were created over a century before, she asked for my help in both the creation of and privately grading the appearance of her attempts.”

Zaya’s eyes widened, relaxing their shoulders as they considered what, exactly, he might need from them. It was no great ordeal to set off some fireworks beneath notice, especially when he had the entirety of the Crystal Tower practically to himself, and by all means it seemed he’d been able to tell Katliss what went into firework shells…

“You don’t remember fireworks,” they signed back to him, after a few long moments of consideration. For anyone who had lived in Eorzea for long enough, the notion seemed ridiculous—every Moonfire, Rising, and Heavensturn it was impossible to avoid them—but G’raha had only given himself a year before he gave the rest of his life to the distant future, most of it at the foot of the Crystal Tower. They’d only managed to drag him out to see the Moonfire Faire properly because the entire expedition of adventurers had banded together to get a break from climbing up and wrecking the Allagan terrors inside.

“It is as you say,” G’raha said, almost resigned. “My belief was that someone who had been on the Source more recently would have better judgement of what constituted a ‘good firework’, but on short notice the only one I could find with free access across the rift was… well, you.”

Zaya sighed, only slightly exasperated. They were the only one who had crossed back over after delivering the news of the Scions’ safety to Tataru, the rest of their friends choosing to tie up some other loose ends on the Source first. 

“Help me make Ryne a lantern and I will be your fireworks judge.”

[esther-ti-designs]

ah, yes, it’s that time again.  the end of another term and i’m having another breakdown

[astridthevalkyrie]

A Scene Popped Into My Head But Instead Of Writing A Whole AU I’m Just Going To Write That One Scene <3

—> Scene Capture Fics Masterlist

—> Today’s Feature: Swimmer Levi!

—> a/n: god fuck me i want to make out with him so bad

Swimming is, in every sense of the word, a complicated sport. Unlike other sports, which someone could easily claim they're good or bad at, swimming fell somewhere in the middle, where people could either not know how to do it at all, they could do it well enough, or they could move so gracefully it was almost as if they were meant to be in the water.

You, for example, are in the first group. Your boyfriend, however, is in the last one, almost like you're made for each other.

(Mikasa had made a face the first time you said that, and you couldn't tell if it was because you were talking about her brother or because she didn't think the term star-crossed lovers referred to people who couldn't swim and people who could.)

But swimming had played such a critical role in the two of you finally dating that it feels silly not to mention it.

You'd known Levi your whole life, being best friends with Mikasa since you two were in pre-school, and being only one year younger than him. Since you two went to the same college, you were even in a couple classes together. He was closer to you than some friends, but he was still mostly Mikasa's brother, who'd taught you how to ride a bike almost a day after he'd learned and carried you on his back when the bike tipped over and left you with a nasty scab on your knee.

But it was one fateful day at the water park, where Kenny had basically ordered Levi and Mikasa to "stop being friendless" and invite people they actually liked (quite a small list for both of them). During that mostly-fun trip, you'd gotten overzealous in the wave pool and gone in much further than you should have. Your logic at the time had been, that if you just jumped at the right times, you wouldn't go under.

The problem was you underestimated how doing that would increase in difficulty the deeper you went in.

Arms flailing, you went under, water filling your lungs and nose, in some of the most terrifying seconds of your life. There were so many people at the park that there was no way the lifeguard would even see you in the mass.

So you'd, maybe dramatically, thought to yourself that this was the end.

Until a set of muscular arms wrapped around your waist and hoisted you out, lifting you so your head was nowhere near the water.

At that time, you couldn't even make out who it was, you were too busy spluttering out water with your eyes shut. It'd hurt to breathe.

It hadn't been until Levi had taken you out of the pool, sat you down on the ground and wiped your face with a towel that you finally opened your eyes.

"Are you okay?" he'd asked worriedly.

That might have been the first time you'd ever felt your heart beat so loudly.

What's more is that you had completely refused to go onto any ride after that, at least not until Levi took your hand and coaxed you to join the group. So you'd ended up spending more time with Levi, Isabel and Farlan than with your own friends, but you hadn't minded, and more importantly, it hadn't seemed like Levi minded either.

"He was blushing," Eren had claimed, when the two of you took a break to go grab pizza, "When you held his hand, he was blushing."

And Eren knew all about making Ackermans blush, so you'd been inclined to believe him.

Sure enough, the next time you and Mikasa had gone to one of Levi's swim meets, and you were waving eagerly at Erwin who was all the way on the other side of the pool, Levi had gently placed his hands on your waist. You'd frozen immediately, the second your back came in contact with his bare chest. "Careful," he'd murmured into your ear, "don't want you to slip."

You hadn't thought that anything could be more painful than trying to breathe when you were underwater, but breathing at that moment had seemed pretty damn difficult too.

Mikasa had been close to never forgiving you when she found you practically straddling her brother's lap with your lower lip between his teeth after the meet that day.

Which brings you to now, a couple months later, watching your boyfriend win yet another meet, and more specifically, watching him step out with his hair soaked and water dripping down his chest, down to his stomach and black trunks. "Goddamn," some girl standing a couple feet away declares appreciatively.

You agree, but you also love that he makes eye contact with you first. Not even waiting for him to grab a towel, you throw yourself at him, not caring that your shirt is getting soaked.

Levi hugs you back, arms around your waist once more as he presses a feathery kiss to your ear. "Thanks for coming," he mumbles, "you know how much I like to see you once I get out of the water."

Grinning preemptively, you purr, "I like see you get out of the water too." He squeezes your hip lightly in response. "So, Ackerman, where am I treating you for your win?"

"Bagel bites at your place," he decides definitively, and you snort.

"How about we eat them in the hot tub?"

Even now, Levi becomes concerned at the thought of you in any kind of body of water. "You sure? We don't have to."

"Positive." Placing a kiss to his shoulder that's just PG enough to be allowed, you brush his wet locks out of his eyes. As if you could ever be scared of the water when he's next to you. "Get your medal and let's go."

From afar, Mikasa wrinkles her nose, but then Eren kisses her cheek and she smiles again.

[apocalypticgargoyle]

I read the edgy!karl, I’ve just finished reading the alt!dream, WHEN IS GEORGE GONNA BE NEXT 😩😩

*cracks knuckles* the hcs that everyone has provided me with has hella prepped me and I'm ready. this is dedicated to 🍭 anon, whose fanart always steals my entire heart. i love u babe

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐄. ᶤ 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐤!𝐠𝐧𝐟

± pairings: punk!Georgenotfound x fm!reader

± word count: ~3300

± warnings: smut (18+), language, tattoo work, sadism, pain kink (if you squint), domination, mentions of needles, asphyxiation

song recommendation: Cent Fois by Alice et Moi

George’s mind wandered to his curiosity of the shop across from his tattoo parlor; bright neon signs advertising the local psychic. It was a stark contrast to the dark, wet city housing the businesses. Each night he locked up, he found himself standing on the other edge of the street, staring at the signs and draperies peeking from behind the glass windows and considering shedding his skeptical nature just for one night.

While your business was alluring in and of itself, his true draw to the place came after he had spotted you moving into the apartments above. Your clean appearance completely juxtaposed the business you ran. In his opinion, all natural healers and psychics were born scam artists only focused on the quickest way to pinch a penny.

Yet day after day, he found himself having to tear his eyes from your business just to get home or he would actually venture inside. He was rather subtle about his fascination when it came to his co-workers and regular customers, but each day he prayed you would wander in, requesting some kind of tattoo in a place hidden from outside eyes.

A place he’d like to see again in a less professional setting.

You flipped the textbook page after finishing your paragraph, highlighting a date you were looking for before leaning towards your notebook and scribbling down the fact. You gnawed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly, positive you still didn’t know what your professor had been rattling off about in class a few hours prior. Your sights drifted up to the incense burning across the store from you, the stick on its last few centimeters of wood as the smoke went stale.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, debating if you should light another or wait until morning. You capped your marker and stretched your back, the bell over the door letting out a telling chime as a man peeked in.

You leaned over the counter, closing your books. “Good evening! Welcome to After Life. Can I help you find anything?” You rambled, your mind flashing to the sheet of paper tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror so you didn’t forget the basics of customer service.

The man stepped further into your view, stuffing his fists in his jean pockets as he walked closer in a cautious motion. His dark t-shirt advertised a band you had vaguely heard of, but couldn’t think of a song even if your life depended on it. What really drew your attention were his tattooed arms; branches from a grand tree twisting every which direction to peek out from beneath his sleeves; bright floral designs and litters of birds decorating the dark wood limbs. You bit back a smile at the small mushroom tattoo near his wrist that seemed to be out of place.

The laces of his Chuck Taylors grazed the floor before he was standing in the middle of your store, looking around briefly. “I actually co-own the parlor across the street. I realized I never welcomed you officially,” he stated, hints of nervousness reflecting in his tone. His accent was calming and husky from the season change.

At the mention of the tattooist across the street, your memory flashed to the various walks of life that found themselves in your store after getting work done. You also thought of the fact that you had seen the man before you break up fights in the street stretching between your properties. The tall muscular people seemed to have no effect on him as he’d pull them apart like school children on the playground.

You pushed your books further to the side. “Oh yeah, that’s right! I should have come over and introduced myself, so don’t worry about it,” you eased, swatting the air of his comment.

He chuckled softly before reality seemed to snap into his head, making him step forward and extend a hand to you. “I’m George, by the way,” he introduced. You took his hand, muttering your own name and hoping your attention span would hold for long enough that he would be entered into your long-term memory.

His hand was calloused in yours, something that you wondered came with the job or if he was some kind of carpenter in a past life of his. You gently pulled his hand closer to you, slipping your hold out of his to look at his palm. He tittered nervously, peering at the flesh with you. Your finger traced along the mounts in his hand, finding Jupiter to be the most prominent. “That checks out,” you mumbled to yourself, nodding softly.

His eyebrows perked up. “What? Am… Am I gonna meet a tall dark stranger and take a trip across the sea?” He joked, making you smile as you looked at his Sun line.

“I didn’t peg you as an Outlander fan,” you chided.

His brows flattened for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip and playing with his snake bite piercings. You found it hard to look away from him. “Honestly, I wasn’t. A girl I was fooling around with really liked it. I don’t know…” he trailed off, making you giggle.

Your nail grazed along his heart line. “You guys were just fooling around?” You quirked, eyes meeting his. His expression narrowed smugly as if urging you to continue. “Your heart line begins below your index finger. You’re not the fooling around type.” He let out a snort. “You fall in love easily too.”

He sighed with a slight sparkle in his eyes as he looked at you. You couldn’t tell if he was amazed or mocking you again. “Well, yeah. That’s…” He paused with a swallow, biting back a grin as if he was uncomfortable, but didn’t retract his hand from you. “... That’s why we’re not anymore,” he admitted. He leaned his elbows on the counter as you sat in your chair. “What else does it say?”

Your lips curled into a soft smirk, his curious eyes trailing over your face as if to watch your brain work. “You have a fire element hand which indicates that you’re confident and passionate. Maybe a bit cocky sometimes,” you teased, making him chuckle with you. You could feel his eyes on you, sending heat to your cheeks as you tried not to focus on the mount of Venus under your touch.

You wanted to ask him about his sexual indulgences, mainly because of the prevalence of Venus in his palm. “You have a mount in Jupiter, which means you’re a natural leader, and rather dominant.” You looked up at him again, watching as he bit back a smirk, seemingly understanding the subtle innuendos behind your statements.

George seemed to have some kind of effect on you, your thoughts clouding with the idea of what his snake bites would feel like against your lips. He smelled like cigarette smoke, but there was no discoloration to his skin to suggest he was the one smoking. He watched you through the hair threatening to dangle over his eyes, his gaze hinting at an attraction he had for you below his collected form. “Go on,” he murmured, voice soft and wispy as the space between the two of you seemed to warm.

You made a conscious effort to keep your sultry thoughts at bay as your thumb brushed over the area you had been avoiding telling him about. “You’re driven by desire,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re… very in touch with your sexuality and you thrive on your indulgences.”

You couldn’t help but meet his eyes, the dark irises swimming with some kind of cocky smugness at what you had just told him. He pulled away from you, gently standing up. Part of you wished the counter between the two of you would vanish just so you could be pressed up against George at the mercy of his driven mind. “I feel it's only fair I tattoo you now,” he quipped, making your eyebrows raise. Your confidence shriveled yet you swore you wouldn’t let him know that fact.

You chewed on your lip, looking up at him with a hint of suspicion. “Oh, I’ve never been tattooed,” you avowed, voice carrying the slightest bit of your coaxing nature.

He smirked. “I’ll take care of you, I promise,” he cajoled, teeth playing at his piercings again as you were sure he was already undressing you with his eyes. “You read me, I’d like to do the same.”

And how could you refuse such an appealing offer?

You leaned back on your elbows, your skin sticking to the leather chair beneath you as you watched him pull back his hair, elastic band dangling from his white teeth. Despite securing back his locks, bits of his bangs still hung over his forehead. You liked the interior of his parlor, maybe because it was only the two of you.

George began to fill small caps of dark ink. “I think you should get some crystals in here,” you teased, making him smirk. “I could hook you up.”

“What, like a salt lamp?” He joked, pulling on a pair of dark plastic gloves.

You snorted, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. “It might be good. Lighten the place up a bit.” George swiveled his chair closer to you muttering some kind of line about only getting them from you, but his words fell silent on your ears as his hand pushed up your shirt. You were silently thanking whatever divine force above for swaying you towards slinkier lingerie earlier that morning.

You knew he could see the lacy edges of your bra by the way his eyes nonchalantly flashed up to you before laying out his template on your ribs. You could feel hints of his warm breath against your skin as he studied it. “You can look at it if you want,” he stated.

You shook your head, wanting him close to you as long as he could be. “I trust you,” you muttered, your eyes meeting his again. His tongue pressed against his cheek as he struggled not to smile at your statement. He had promised to cover a small scar for you and by the way he explained it, you were ready to be in his hands. You wet your lips as he adjusted the speed on his tattoo gun. “Will this hurt?” You asked, tucking one of your arms behind your head.

The look of unadulterated lust that he gave you made your toes want to curl. “Probably a bit. It feels good sometimes, though,” he answered. He came closer to you, resting his forearm on your stomach to angle himself in the right position. At the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, you swore your body was on fire. It took everything in your power not to moan. It could have been the adrenaline pulsing through your veins, but his soft breath and the anticipation of the needle made you feel like a junky. “I’ll be gentle, darling,” he leered, his accent muddy and low. He let the needles drag against your skin and you bit your lip, trying not to hiss at the pain. His eyes met yours. “See, not bad.”

You let out a breathy wheeze. “Shut up, you sadist,” you quipped, his chuckle coming out rather roguish as he focused on the work in front of him. Your nerves were more focused on the way George’s hands were barely caressing your body as if teasing and hinting at what he could do to you.

You drew in a sharp breath as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Shhh shh. It’ll be over soon,” he cooed, his voice sending goosebumps spreading across your body as his lips tugged into a light smirk. By your palm reading, you knew he was enjoying having this much control over you.

Part of you found it almost torture when George would look at you with soft and lusty eyes for merely a second before his gaze jutted back down to his work, murmuring soft praises about how well you were taking the pain. You would go under the needle anytime he asked, just to receive the sultry treatment he gave.

He was so close, you could have driven your fingers into his dark hair if you wanted. “How did you get this scar?” He asked, cleaning off some of the ink before continuing.

“A knife fight,” you answered without missing a beat, making him scoff. “Actually, I fell into my grandma’s glass table one time. My cousin was teaching me the Electric Slide,” you corrected, making him laugh, shaking his head slightly as he filled in a spot.

He let his tongue dart across his lips. “That’s so cute. Did you ever get it figured out?” To this you shook your head, the both of you laughing. You let out a groan as the needle dug into another area on your ribs, the sound making his eyes dart up to you. He leaned off of you, slipping one of his gloves off. “Wanna hold my hand, sweetheart?” He joked, but you took his offer, squeezing his hand in yours when it got painful enough. You held it close to your chest, hoping he would feel your heartbeat quicken each time he looked at you.

As he finished up his work, his thumb brushed against your hand absent-mindedly. You could tell by the way he gripped your hand as well that he enjoyed that the tattoo hurt you. Most of your mind was excited by how easily he was stirred up by you, while the rest was completely unsurprised and even threatened to bite out that he was a cliché.

When he was finally satisfied, he cleaned you up and stuck on a SecondSkin, biting back a grin at his work as he pulled you up by the hand he was holding onto you with. You couldn’t help but smile at how excited you were to see, swinging your legs over the side of his hair and walking towards his mirror. You held your shirt up, chewing on your bottom lip as you grinned at the ink. George rested a hand beside the mirror, watching you beam at his work.

All of his lines were flawless, your scar completely disappearing within his shading. You’d pitched the idea of an ode to the Creation of Adam. While it was cliche, what better to fit in the space below your breast and give George the impression that you were cultured. Yet you told him he could do whatever he wanted to it, resulting in one of the hands resembling a skeleton and the other holding a sucker. As you praised him, he shrugged off your comments, murmuring about it being his pleasure. He reached out his free hand, letting his thumb smooth over one of the edges of this bandage, which brought you closer to him.

Your cheeks warmed at the close proximity to him as his eyes grazed over your body before meeting your own. His hand moved from the bandage to your back. You leaned on your toes, pressing your lips to his. The tension between the two of you dissipated as he hungrily reacted, pulling you against him and savoring your moans as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

George’s hands moved down your body, swiftly hooking around your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist to bring you back to his chair. Your hands moved into his hair, letting it loose and wrapping the band around your wrist. The leather was cold as your back pressed to it. George leaned back to pull his shirt over his head, revealing more of the tree painting the expanses of his skin.

If you weren’t so eager to be touched by him, you’d be studying the work of art.

As his lips met yours again, you ground your hips against his, eliciting a moan to vibrate through his chest. You raked your nails down his back, trying to further draw out reactions from him as his hands attentively played with the lace of your bra, fingers ghosting over the skin pressing against the cups.

His lips left yours only to travel the length of your jaw and inch his way toward your waistband. Your pants were discarded with a swift tug from him before he pulled your thighs flush against his, grinding his hips against yours, hands gripping onto your sides to keep you in place. You tilted your head back, relishing in the friction as your body screamed to finally feel him take advantage of you.

You reached between the two of you, tugging at his zipper as your hunger for him escalated. His tongue flattened against your collarbone before his teeth pressed into your skin. You could feel his arousal through his jeans at the sound of your whimpering.

He pumped himself in his hand before pressing into you, the feeling of him inside of you making your head spin as if you were on some kind of ecstasy. Your moan came out needy and desperate as he thrust into you, gripping the edge of the leather seat as his breath hummed against your skin. Your fingers threaded into his hair, raking your nails down his neck as he groaned in your ear at the feeling.

One of his hands grasped your wrists together, pinning them above your head while the other wrapped around your throat. His eyes burned into yours as he leaned back, leaning his weight on your wrists and squeezing your throat, the lack of oxygen making each of your senses more heightened as he pounded into you.

Your moans of George’s name were grated as they slipped through your mouth, his relentless pace and intense hold nearly making you drool from the stimulation. By the practice of his actions, you wondered how long he had been stewing on demolishing you in this way.

He loosened his grip on your neck, leaning down to press his lips against yours, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip just to hear you groan from the rough action. You rolled your hips against his, letting him slow his pace to reach deeper within you. A sadistic grin spread across his face as he rubbed a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the makeup smudging around your eyes from his antics and the heat between the two of you.

He pressed his lips to your neck, wrapping his hand around the edge of the chair again to drive himself into you, the new angle muddling your mind and vision as your body ached to come undone. You sank your nails into his back, earning his low, raspy whispers of your name.

At his praises, you came, tugging on his hair as he bit into your shoulder again, basking in the feeling of you clenching around him.

The next day, George stretched his shoulders, peering through the front window of his shop. His mind sparked with the feeling of your legs around his waist and the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He could practically hear you whimpering his name in his ears as he went back to touching up a fading tattoo on his friend’s arm.

“OW, George,” Clay rumbled, thigh flinching at the jab from George.

George snorted, his mind still on the high he got from your pure trust in him as you laid out on his chair. “I’ll give you something to bitch about,” George grumbled, releasing just how gentle he was during your tattoo. The way your voice got soft and quiet when he rolled over a spot that was rather tender already would most definitely be a guilty pleasure of his.

Clay barked at him again as George jerked his hand, fulfilling his promise. “I’VE BEEN NICE TO YOU ALL MORNING.”

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[inumakitten]

headcanon — ❛ inumaki’s ways of asking for affection ❜

note! since inumaki can’t actually ask for affection, i made a set of drabbles on how he’d ask for kisses, hugs, + cuddles. 

includes! pda, inumaki being adorable

synopsis! inumaki’s different ways of telling you he wants affection.

ʚ hugs ɞ

while you’re talking to maki, you feel a hand slithering around your waist. it hangs on the small of your back, circles rubbed against the fabric. there was no need to look behind you to see who it was, without a doubt you knew it was inumaki.

arms encircled your stomach. the inhales and exhales inumaki took could be felt on your back, the heat of his breath warming the nape of your neck.

chuckling, you turn while in inuamki’s arms. flashing a grin towards your boyfriend, you ask, “is there something you need?” a teasing glint in your tone.

inumaki rolls his eyes. despite his reaction, you can’t help but notice the red blush coloring his ears.

“salmon.”

a laugh escapes your lips, finding humor in the way that inumaki huffs, pinching lightly at your cheek. batting his hand away, you pull him closer to you. guiding his chin to rest on your shoulder. one of your arms lay on his back, surrounding his waist.

maki watches in slight amusement as you kiss inumaki’s temple, seeing him nuzzle the side of your neck in response. small smirk edging across her lips, when you carry on with their previous conversation. not bothered by the fluff of white hair squishing your cheek.

the discussion continues, as if it hadn’t paused. though the wandering hands finding their way underneath your shirt and heating the expanse of your exposed skin, was rather distracting. you couldn’t help but feel content in the moment you were in.

ʚ kisses ɞ

the touch of a warm hand nudges against yours, fingers brushing the palm. encasing the digits with their own, as the thumb caresses what it could reach on the back of your palm.

glancing to your left, you’re graced with the sight of pretty violet eyes starting at you.

without so much of a warning, inumaki raises a finger to press against your lips. two gentle taps in the middle. it’s there that what he wants becomes apparent.

kissing his forehead with a smile, you pull away to watch pink flood his face, reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. he’d always get like that after every kiss, it was such a cute habit of his. despite his outward pda and clinginess, every touch by you seemed to fluster him. despite it being him who initiates such touches sometimes.

a sudden shake of inumaki’s head breaks you from your thoughts. bangs swayed side to side at the movement. undoing the zipper of his high collar, inumaki quickly points to his own lips. eyes closed and face scrunched in embarrassment.

holding the side of his cheek, you give a tiny boop to his nose. right before kissing the curse marks near the corners of his lips. you were about to pull away, to tease him some more, but you’re caught off guard by inumaki pushing closer. his lips making sure you don’t leave his own, like you previously attempted.

just as inumaki pushes in, he pulls away. probably at the expense of teasing you, as you did him. the laugh that comes from him at seeing you pout, makes your stomach flip. observing his wide grinning smile and hunched shoulders, feeling your own cheeks burn and increase in heat.

you kiss him again to shut him up.

ʚ cuddles ɞ

scrolling through mindless internet content on your phone wouldn’t have ended in such a bruise to the stomach, had not been for inumaki. at the sight of your back laying in bed and stomach exposed, he had taken the opportunity to jump on top of you. landing roughly, as his body collides with yours.

letting out a pained groan, you fix a glare at the boy curling against your chest. feet intertwined with yours, as his arms find their way under your own.

sighing, you let it go. there was no point in getting mad, when all you could see is a head of white hair. plus you really couldn’t stay mad at him. not when he’s cuddling you like this.

relaxing into the bed’s warm blankets, you idly pet the head laying on your chest. nails lightly scratching the scalp, massaging it. you sweep his bangs back, hands combing the strands away from his forehead.

you feel yourself relax in the moment, humming a sweet melody you heard when you were little. not caring in the slightest if you don’t remember the lyrics.

a minute passes and inumaki stirs in your arms. moving his head to look up at you, chin planted on his hands. legs tangled with each other, while your chests rose and fell in tandem.

you’re still brushing the hair from his eyes, ones which seem to glisten with adoration and love. you catch yourself smiling, caressing his face, as your thumb glides along his lips. the digit traces the curse marks across his face.

he was always so insecure about them. sometimes hated that he had such a curse power. not being able to tell you how he feels, can’t convey how much he loves you through words. you remember him writing all his feelings down on a purple scratch notepad. how he cried in your arms. how your shoulder was soaked with his tears.

it was the same day you told him you loved him. that no matter what he was the only one for you, nothing will ever change that. and it was the same day he told you he loved you too.

that day you both cried in each other’s arms.

“i love you, toge.”

those lovely violet eyes blink towards you. a blush creeps up his face, still he doesn’t let that deter him. grabbing your face with both of his hands, squeezing your cheeks together at the pressure. inumaki kisses all over your face, the sensation tickling each time his lips meet your skin.

“tuna mayo.”

there was this twitter thread, which shows the meanings of inumaki’s onigiri language and there was this one headcanon that “tuna mayo” was inumaki’s term of endearment.

[diaphragmjellyfish]

I Have This... Thing

Not My Gif

So as someone with vaginismus, it’s sometimes frustrating to read fan fiction, specifically smut. Y/N always has sex so easily and with very little foreplay, finishing with no issues. And it’s so great for people who can do that, but it’s not the case for all of us. Some of us can’t have any sort of penetration without pain. Some people can’t finish without toys, or hours of work. Some people will never be able to have penetrative sex. There’s all kinds of people, and there’s all kinds of sex. But not near enough fics featuring Y/N’s with these issues. So I’m going to write some, and feel free to request any issue with any character, and if I don’t know that character, we can collaborate to find a character you like that I do know. 

Paul Lahote x reader smut. 

You had lived in Forks for about 6 months now. You’ve known your new friends here for 5 months. And you’ve been the imprint of Paul Lahote for 3 months. Well, you’ve been his imprint since you guys first locked eyes at La Push when you first hung out with Emily, but he didn’t tell you about the whole werewolf/ imprint thing until 3 months ago. Safe to say it came as a shock. Your friends, the people who had welcomed you so easily, helped you move furniture around, and gave you tours of the new town, were WOLVES. Or engaged to wolves. *cough* Emily *cough*. You had to take a few weeks break from them after they told you. After Sam explained the legends, the lore. After Paul told you that you were basically his soul mate. It’s a lot to take in! 

But you quickly realized that you had grown to love the pack. And now that you knew the big secret, things were easier around them. No more lies about where they had all been. No more avoiding talking about their mysterious injuries that only seemed to last for a couple hours. No more awkwardly dancing around why Paul stared at you constantly and wouldn’t let any other guy get within 6 feet of you without having a rage attack and sprinting into the woods. Things were going good. 

Well… as good as they could be without sex. Yep. You and Paul had been together for 3 months and you have not had sex. You didn’t give each other head. You didn’t take your clothes off around each other. You didn’t even dry hump. And you knew it was your fault. You could tell that Paul was getting nervous about the fact that you wouldn’t let him touch you like that. He would never ask you about it, because he wouldn’t want you to feel pressured or rushed, but you could tell it was on his mind. The little sad smile he would give when you stopped things from going further. The hover of his hands over your ass before landing back on your waist. The way he looked almost guilty after looking at you in a swimsuit or crop top. 

See, vaginismus made relationships difficult. You never had a long term relationship before Paul. You were either too scared to tell partners about it, and just dealt with the excruciating pain, which would lead to resentment and breakups, or you would tell them and they would ghost you. Guys don’t normally go for girls who’s opening line is “Hi! I cannot have sex without crying.” You’d been dilating for almost a year now. It was going okay. Some days hurt more than others. A lot of times, Paul would ask you to hang out when you were in the middle of your physical therapy, and you would have to make up some excuse as to why you couldn't. Too tired. Headache. Stomach bug. He was starting to catch on. 

One day, you guys were hanging out at your apartment watching a movie. You had been making out, but as soon as it started getting slightly heated, you had pulled away and got up to get a drink refill. Paul, having gotten used to the routine, didn’t question you. While you were in the kitchen pouring some more juice, Paul asked “Hey babe? Do you have a charger I can borrow?”

“Yeah it’s in the top drawer of my bedside table,” you haphazardly yelled back. 

You heard him get up and go into your bedroom, rummaging around a little. Then silence. 

“Hey babe?” he said hesitantly. You thought he just couldn’t find the charger, so you began walking towards your room to grab it for him. Once you got to the doorway, you stopped dead in your tracks. Eyes wide. Face bright red. Paul held up the dilator you were currently on, which was about 5 inches long and looked… well let’s be honest. It looked like a dildo. The bottle of lubricant that was also in the drawer didn’t help your case. How the fuck were you supposed to explain yourself? You expected Paul to tease you, make some sex jokes, and maybe try to make out with you again, but he didn’t. He looked absolutely crushed. 

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” He asked, sounding on the verge of tears. 

“What?! Paul, of course I want to have sex with you!”

“Then why this?” he pressed.

“You don’t even know what that’s for. Let me explain,” you pleaded, afraid he was going to lose that infamous temper. You’d never witnessed it before, but you were scared you were about to. 

“I think I have a pretty good guess about what this is for!” He exclaimed, holding it up. “You won’t even let me kiss your neck but you have this that you obviously use when I’m not around. You don’t want to have sex with me. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Paul! That’s not true at all!” You were starting to get irritated at his assumptions. “It’s for physical therapy.” 

“Oh, is that what we’re calling orgasms now?” He questioned, exasperated. 

“I’m not talking about orgasms! If you gave me two seconds to explain, you would know that that does not bring me an ounce of pleasure. I hate having to use it.” You started to tear up at this, all the memories of your struggles surging back up. At this, Paul stopped. He looked super confused, but also worried about you. God forbid you shed a tear, Paul would rip the world apart to make you happy again. “Come sit down,” you said, resigned, as you moved to sit on the edge of your bed. Paul, still holding the dilator in his hand, sat down next to you. The silence seemed to last an eternity, but you knew that the longer you went without explaining, the more hurt Paul would feel. 

“I wasn’t lying when I said it was for physical therapy,” you whispered. “I have other ones. All different sizes.” You realized you might not have been helping your case with this. 

“I don’t understand. Why do you need them if you don’t use them to get off?” He looked like a kicked puppy. 

“Well… I have this thing. It’s like… a condition? And I need them so maybe one day I can have sex without any pain.” He still looked wildly confused, and you knew you were going to have to elaborate. “When I first started having sex, it hurt. A lot. But I always heard that it was supposed to hurt the first time. So I just kind of put up with it. It was bad though. I always tapped out, couldn’t go for more than a couple minutes. It felt like this really intense stinging. Like a rugburn all inside me. And it didn’t stop, even after I started doing it more. It never went away… I ended up googling it, and it’s actually something that a lot of women struggle with. I made a doctor’s appointment and was lucky enough to get diagnosed the first time. Lots of women are told they’re making it up. My doctor gave me these dilators, told me how to use them, and said that with enough time and physical therapy, I could have painless sex one day.” When you finished, you turned to look at him. He was staring intently at the dilator, thinking. 

“So, you have to like… stretch yourself? Were you just born too small?” He phrased it delicately, but you knew what he meant. 

“Basically, it’s an anxiety disorder with very physical symptoms. My pelvic floor muscles constrict when I try to put anything inside me, which makes it super painful. It’s like an involuntary reflex. Like blinking when something flies near your face. And I have to condition my body to learn that penetration doesn’t hurt, and that it doesn’t have to tighten up like that. The condition is called vaginismus. You can google it yourself if you want.” 

“Oh.” A pause. Paul knew you had some anxiety, but he never guessed it could cause something like this. He knew you were embarrassed. He could tell. And the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you couldn’t be open and vulnerable with him. Did you think he would leave you? Or get mad? “Why didn’t you tell me?” Was the question that came out. 

“It’s humiliating. I could tell you were getting antsy about us not having sex, and I guess I didn’t have the heart to tell you that it’s not going to happen anytime soon. This physical therapy, it takes a while. I’ve already been doing it for almost a year, and I still have three sizes after this one.” A tear fell. You wiped it away quickly, hoping he Paul wouldn’t notice, but he did. He moved to wrap his arms around you, putting the dilator back on your nightstand. He embraced you, and the reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere was more than you could handle. You burst into tears as he pulled you onto his lap and rocked you both, rubbing his hand up and down your back. You guys stayed there until you stopped crying, and then he finally spoke. 

“Y/N, I don’t ever want you to feel like there’s something you can’t tell me. I love you. And yeah, I would love to have sex with you one day, but I’m with you because of who you are. I don’t care if we never do it. You are my person, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you the happiest you can be. This? This thing you think is such a problem? It’s irrelevant to me. To my love for you. And I will be here every step of the way, supporting you, cheering you on, until you don’t want me anymore.” He brought your hand up to his mouth and kissed it. 

“I love you, Paul,” was all you could say. You leaned in and shared the sweetest, most loving kiss either of you had ever experienced. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb rubbing your cheek. When you pulled away, the tension in the room was gone, replaced with you and Paul’s usual light, fun energy. 

“How do you use them?” He smiled as he asked, nodding his head towards your nightstand where the dilator still rested. “Do you like… just ride them? Or..?” 

You laughed, which made his smile broaden. “It’s not a sexual thing. Basically I put a towel down, cover the dilator in lube, and put it in as far as I can without pain. Then, I just sit there and leave it for like 20 minutes. And then I take it out.” 

“So you just like... do homework while you do it?” His concerned face made you laugh again. 

“You have to make your body associate it with pleasure, so no, I don’t do homework. Normally I’ll watch a funny show or eat some candy or FaceTime you.”

He froze at this. “You do this when we FaceTime?” 

This made you blush and look away from his piercing gaze. “Sometimes. I can stop if it makes you uncomfortable. It’s just a nice distraction.” 

“No, no. I don’t want you to stop. It’s just… can I see you do it?” This question shocked you. Not just the question itself, but the fact that you didn’t hate the idea. You loved kissing Paul. What better way to associate therapy with pleasure than by kissing him while you do it? 

“Are you sure? Like I said, it’s not exactly sexual. Or sexy. Like at all. I literally just sit there.” 

“I know, it’s ok. I want to be able to help you, but if you don’t want to we can just go back to the movie.” 

“I mean I do still have to do it today.” You thought for another second, before jumping up and saying “Okay. Let’s do it.” 

Paul looked happy and excited, but also lost. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, or with his eyes. Did you want him to touch you? Or just watch you? Or just sit in the corner of the room and face the wall? You were spreading a towel across the middle of the bed, and went to untie your sweatpants before looking at him. 

“Guess we haven’t really gotten this far, huh?” alluding to being naked in front of each other. It did make you a little nervous, and nerves equal tight muscles, which means pain. 

“Why don’t you put a blanket over yourself? That way there’s less pressure,” he suggested, and you could have kissed him for it. You smiled, nodded, and grabbed a throw blanket from the chair. He turned around to face the wall while you took off your pants and settled under the blanket. 

“Ok, I’m good.” you said. He turned back around, coming to kneel beside you on the bed. 

“Do you want me to just… hold your hand? Or sit here and talk to you?” 

“Would you want to sit behind me?” You suggested nervously, leaning forward slightly. 

“Of course! Yeah, I can do that.” He took this seriously, and you appreciated that. This was a scenario you had thought about many times, and though you knew he wouldn’t be the type to ask you to have sex with him despite the pain, it was always a possibility. The fact that he didn’t take your pain lightly, and let you be in charge so you would be comfortable, meant more to you than he would ever know. Paul gently climbed behind you, putting his legs on either side of you, and hesitantly rubbing your shoulders. You leaned back into him, as if to say I’m okay with this.

“Can you hand me the… “ You nodded your head towards the nightstand, and Paul didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence before he leaned over and grabbed the dilator and bottle of lube, holding them out in front of you both. You muttered a “thanks” as you took them from his hands, and brought them under the blanket. After slathering the dilator with a good amount of lube, you closed the bottle and tossed it towards the foot of the bed, leaning back and shifting your hips down. Paul clearly didn’t want to overstep his boundaries, so he was slow and careful as he wrapped his arms around your torso, giving you time to say stop. You didn’t, though. He felt your body tense slightly as you dragged the tip of the dilator around your entrance, so he started to rub his hands up and down your sides, kissing your cheek. You turned your head to look at him, and he met you with a sweet kiss. You guys pulled away slightly, before going back in as you began to push the dilator in further. He kissed you with love, tenderness, and care, so as not to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable. It was clear that you had the reigns, and Paul would stop as soon as you gave the slightest indication that you were uncomfortable. The dilator was about half way in, and you felt a slight stinging sensation, but kissing Paul distracted you. You brought one hand up to cup the side of his face, pulling him back in. 

Paul kept kissing you, waiting for your lips to part so he could brush his tongue against yours. This is normally where you would stop him, but he knew everything now. There was no expectation of more, and damn. Paul was a really good kisser. He sucked lightly at your lower lip, before nibbling it and letting it go, coming back in with his lips. The combination of Paul’s kisses, the slight heat they brought to your body, and the pressure of the tip of the dilator inside you had you shift your hips, and involuntarily let out a small moan. It was barely audible, but Paul and his super senses heard it. You pulled away and slapped a hand over your mouth, your face turning bright red. He chuckled deeply, the sound going straight to your body, and brought his hand up to pull your hand off your mouth. “Don’t you dare hide those sounds from me,” he teasingly whispered into your ear. You shivered, and Paul started to kiss your cheek, down your jaw, and onto your neck. He sucked on the soft skin, hands squeezing your waist and rubbing up and down. You wanted to try something. For the first time, dilating actually didn’t feel so obligatory, so mechanical and stiff. You pushed the dilator deeper in, just about a centimeter, but enough to give you that feeling you had moments ago. You let out a breathy sigh as you tilted your head to give Paul more room on your neck. He felt you shift your hips again, and brought one of his hands to rub circles on your lower stomach. Skin on skin. And it felt good. 

You kept going like this for a few minutes, and Paul could feel your skin grow hotter by the second. Your back was arched, your neck covered in light red marks, and Paul had the intense desire to see you unravel. He brought his lips from your neck up to the side of your face, getting as close to eye contact as he could in this position, and said “Can I touch you?” 

You knew what he meant. The thought of it made you nervous. No one had touched you without it hurting before. It was almost as if he read your mind when he followed with “I can just stay on the outside…” Oh. You could be down with that. You turned your head to him and nodded. 

“Just try not to touch the dilator,” you said softly. You trusted Paul. He was already being so kind and patient with this, and you knew he would die before he would ever hurt you. The hand that had been rubbing circles on your stomach travelled lower. Lower. Lower. Until he could feel the slight stubble of a past shave, and then your soft, wet skin. You gasped as he touched your most sensitive parts, even more so because of how turned on you were. He gently made small, tight circles over your clit, your eyes rolling back in your head as you fell completely slack against him and let out a moan. A real moan, that Paul swore he would never forget. And he made you make that sound. It only spurred him on. He applied slightly more pressure, but not so much as to overwhelm you. And he knew that when girls were feeling good, the secret wasn’t faster or harder, but to keep doing exactly what you were doing. So that’s what he did, and it had you writhing. Your moans kept coming, and your legs had started to shake. However, because it felt so good, your muscles had started to clench around the dilator, and it was beginning to hurt. 

You didn’t want to rain on the parade. It was going so well. But Paul being the attentive lover that he is, noticed you begin to tense up in a new way. He brought his hand back up to your stomach, concern racing through his brain, and asked “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” 

“It’s kind of starting to. Not you, the dilator. I think I might take it out.” You stared down at his hand still touching your stomach. Such beautiful hands. You didn’t want it to end. 

“Do you want to try a smaller one? Or do you want to stop?” He questioned. 

“I really don’t want to stop,” you laughed. He breathed a laugh as well, and waited for your direction. You had a thought. Paul’s index finger was smaller than the dilator. Much smaller. If you just told him what to do and what not to do, that could feel really good. “Would you want to maybe… Nevermind.” You got nervous. 

“Hey, hey. No. Don’t do that. Tell me what you want,” He brought a finger up to your chin and moved your face towards him. “Tell me. Whatever it is, Princess. It’s yours.” Your whole body shuddered at this. He’s never called you that before, and to say it did something to you would be an understatement. 

You let out a breath, gathering courage, and said “Would you want to… use your finger?” 

He stopped at this. “Like, put my finger inside you? That wouldn’t hurt?” 

“I don’t think so. It’s smaller than this,” you said, bringing the dilator out and up. “And as long as I tell you what to do, it could be really good,” you said the last part shyly. 

“Okay, Princess. I can do that. How do you want me to do it?” 

“Try to do more… pressure, and less… friction? Like try not to go in and out so much, but you can move it around inside.” Your face was once again blushing intensely. 

“Anything you want. You just have to promise that you’ll tell me if it even hurts a little.”

“I promise.” You said it confidently enough that Paul brought his hand back down under the blanket. He circled your clit a couple times, making you shiver and release a breathy sigh, before moving his middle finger even lower, circling your entrance. He gathered some of the lube that was there from the dilator, coating his finger, and you brought your hand down to hold it, guiding it inside you at a speed that was comfortable. It was smaller than the dilator, so he was in you in 15 seconds. He stopped, and gave you a minute to adjust. Your hips writhed again because of how turned on you were, so Paul brought his other hand down and began circling your clit again. Your head fell back on his shoulder as you began to moan again, hips moving even more now. Paul took this as his queue to press his middle finger up against your inner wall lightly, causing a loud moan to leave your mouth. You were too far gone to be embarrassed. 

“There you go, baby,” he praised. God, this was the hottest thing he had ever seen. He was barely touching you, barely moving his finger inside you, and you were a mess. He had been rock hard since you guys started, but your ass was rubbing against him as you moved your hips, and he released a small growl at the feeling. This only turned you on more. He kept moving his finger in you the same way. Pressure, not friction. Pressure, not friction. He kept telling himself this. He wanted to finger bang you into oblivion, but the risk of hurting you was too high, so he kept up with rubbing the tip of his finger against that spot on your upper wall, in a “come-hither” motion. Your moans began to get higher in pitch, your body tensing even more.

“Relax your muscles for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged, and you did. Your release was approaching rapidly, and you wanted to grind against his hand, but you didn’t want to risk pain, so you trusted Paul to get you there. You were panting, hips shuddering, face scrunched, as your climax hit you like a wave. Your legs shook as you opened your mouth in a silent scream, and Paul carried you all the way through it. You came down, and lightly grabbed his wrists. He knew that that meant stop. So he slowly withdrew his finger, brought it up to his mouth, and sucked on it. Head still up in the clouds, you watched him, slack-jawed, as he popped his finger out and moaned. “So sweet,” he purred. Watching him suck on his finger like that made you think of something you’d like to suck on, and you looked down at Paul, still rock hard, and turned around in his lap. 

“Let me return the favor,” you said with a smirk.

[struggling-with-time]

Could I ask for c!Wilbur being a gn reader's father figure? Can be either a one shot or headcanons, whichever you prefer. ^_^

Paring: c!Wilbur Soot x Gender Neutral!reader

Summary: Your life as raised by Wilbur Soot.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, betrayal, hurt.

Words: 1.7k

A/N: I'm not sorry for this, however, I am sorry for if you wanted something different, then you are welcome to request again and I will write another dadbur fic. REQUESTS ARE OPEN. Request here.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Wilbur Soot

He finds you lurking around the outer skirts of the newly established country of L’Manberg. The country that has yet to declare full independence.

“Hey there, what are you doing around these parts?”

From that day on he took you, the bewildered child from nowhere, under his wing. Letting you into the drug van.

You grow up with Fundy being your older sibling. Wilbur in the first years being there for the two of you.

He teaches you how to play the guitar.

And while you don’t become the best player at it, you can play a couple of camp songs.

Then the independence declaration comes.

And everything changes.

Nice nights with Wilbur, Fundy and Tommy turn into war planning sessions you aren’t allowed into.

You are the youngest citizen of L’Manberg, leading to everyone trying to keep your innocence

Especially Wilbur after he drags Fundy in as a child soldier in his war.

But you are there, right on the battlefield amongst everyone, and you are there afterwards as you help patch up the hurt.

Eret is the one who teaches you how to treat a wound after Wilbur gets an arrow in his shoulder after a tough battle.

Leading to you keeping to Eret whenever Wilbur is planning. And Fundy seems to be running off with Tubbo and Tommy.

On the day of the betrayal, Eret and Wilbur make you stay back in the van, Eret hoping to shield you from what’s gonna go down. And Wilbur hoping to keep you away from the battle on the horizon.

You are there to patch up the wounds from everyone as they respawn.

Wilbur is now more determined to keep you sheltered.

However, this made you more determined to stand on the battlefield fighting for your country.

You are there in the middle of the explosions when they go off. Losing your first life. Fighting for freedom. Fighting for your pseudo father.

Wilbur holds you for hours afterwards.

As you cry into his shoulder.

Wilbur makes you stay back when Tommy is meant to dual Dream, leading to you being the first to see him when he respawns.

Ah, two of the four children traumatised by a war they didn’t ask for.

You are there when the declaration of independence gets signed.

Getting credited as the 2nd little champion.

And everything is good for a while.

Wilbur helps you through your nightmares whenever you wake up thinking there is TNT blowing you up. Or you remember the day everyone respawned. Or remember how hurt and wounded everyone was doing the battles.

You watch as your father drowns himself in government work to not process what happened himself.

You try your best to help him out, but there is only so much you can do.

Then the election gets called, and you are there supporting him, while also helping your big brother Fundy with his campaign.

Wilbur didn’t take lightly to both of his children running a campaign against him. But he lived with it and respected it.

Then Schlatt won.

And you watched as your father and Tommy was chased out of the city.

Fundy holding you back as you break down crying over the sight.

Fundy keeps you from joining Pogtopia, stating it is no place for a child, despite him working as a spy for them and Tommy living there.

So you stay put in the now Manberg.

You are there to pick up the pieces of your older brother falls apart after your father calls him a traitor and states he’s no son of his.

So you venture out through the big forest. Barely stumbling into Pogtopia as nightfall has come.

And you get to see with your own eyes as the man you regards as your father yells at Tommy, Wilbur looks deranged and nothing like the man who raised you.

He never spots you that day, but Tommy does as you head back out again. Through the night filled with horrors beyond your imagination, and you barely make it back to Manberg in one piece.

You aren’t there the day Schlatt gets murdered, having retreated into isolation after having your worldview shattered. A child of war, now a child of trauma.

But you are there, right in the centre cheering on Tubbo as he’s granted the title of L’Manbergs president.

Your own fathers’ actions taking your second life too. You die in the explosion.

From that day on your anxiety worsen, loud noises bringing you to your knees in panic attacks. It had been bad after the war, but now it was unbearably bad.

Fundy started talking with Eret about potential adoption, but he only ends up adopting you, stating Fundy is too old.

And that’s how you deal with your father’s death. Living with the traitor of his country.

And you keep living. Denouncing him as your father, returning to your title of the bewildered child of nowhere.

You keep living in spite. In spite of the man who took two of your lives and made you grow up in a war you never wanted to fight in. And there, while looking over the railing of L’Manberg, is where you spot him.

Ghostbur

You watch as a tinted floating version of your former father wanders around the mostly rebuild crater.

“…Dad?”

“Y/N! My child!”

You can’t believe your own eyes, it’s actually him, it’s actually the man who found you wandering the skirts of the nation you now reside nearby.

And you turn your back to him.

You walk home, to your place in the castle, outside the nation that has caused you so much hurt.

Fundy is the one to make you talk to Ghostbur the second time, telling you about what seems to be going on.

“Would you like some blue Y/n? You’re crying.”

You refuse, wiping your tears away because he doesn’t deserve that from you. He doesn’t deserve the tears he caused himself.

You never call him dad again after the day you spot him. Because your dad died a traitor of the country he made. Leaving you at 14 to deal with the damages he had done.

But now you are 16, with Eret in your back, and your big brother Fundy helping you in any way or form he can. This includes, even more, sheltering, keeping you as far away from the Tubbo administration as he can.

Because you are all children of war, and they never seem to make the right decisions.

His heart breaks every time you remind him that he isn’t your father anymore and that you aren’t his child.

You don’t ever really hang around Ghostbur.

The few times you do, he tells you of stories of you growing up, teaching you guitar, finding you walking around the walls of the country. And he introduces you to your Grandpa Philza. A calm and relatively collected man.

A murder.

Whom took your father away from you all to early.

You like Friend, the blue sheep is a nice distraction to have nearby whenever your deceased father tries to be near you.

You appreciate the effort he makes, wishing he would have made the same efforts when Schlatt helps you within the walls of Manberg.

So when Tommy gets exiled and Ghostbur goes along with him, you aren’t surprised.

It’s always Tommy. And you are alright with that. Both you and Fundy knew from the start, it was always Tommy over the two of you. And you’ve had years to come to terms with that.

You keep yourself neutral in the affairs of the SMP.

Although you do visit Tommy twice, trying to get Fundy with you, but your older brother has a small distaste for the exiled ex-vice president, although he claims to have nothings against the blonde.

You keep out of the city as Tommy gets imprisoned, but you are there to greet him when he gains his freedom. Ghostbur beside you. Offering Tommy blue, and empty promises it of everything being okay now.

So when Tommy tells you he’s gonna smuggle himself into the prison with the help of the ghost, you are there handing him the potions.

When he returns only baring Friend on her leash, you break down. You lost your father once more.

Revivebur

You get an eerily sense of déjà vu over seeing him, standing over the now L’Manberg doomsday crater.

And you speak the word you had sworn to never say to him again.

“Dad?”

And he looks back, taking in the sight of you, Tommy, Tubbo & Ranboo together.

And he smiles.

And you leave.

You don’t end up talking to him again until Tommy seeks you out asking for you to talk to him, and for Fundy to do the same. You don’t know why, but you do it.

So you and Fundy meet him.

“Ah! My children!”

Fundy frowns, and you for the first time stand up to him.

“I am not your child. I am not yours!”

“What?”

“You haven’t been around for a really long time, a lot of things have changed, and so have I.”

You are seething, and for once Fundy doesn’t hold you back, or shelters you. He stands beside you.

“We had to raise ourselves! We had to keep on living after you decided to go blow your precious nation.”

“But you turned out fine! You are all grown up now, and you still have two lives each.”

Fundy pulls you into him, realising Wilbur doesn’t know.

“Y/n is on their last life. You took their second one too. You blew them up yourself. We are done here we are leaving.”

Wilbur calls out to you and Fundy, but neither of you turn around. He might have taken you in, but in the end, the two of you only ever had each other.

Children of war, never get to be children after all.

[yelenasdog]

rebel girl (vic de angelis x fem!singer!reader)

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 REBEL GIRL  𝐁𝐘 BIKINI KILL

(listen while reading for best experience) 

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff with a sprinkle of angst for .0000002 seconds

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a kiss during a shared performance turns into something more.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.3k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, kissing, drinking, my attempts at writing roman dialect and italian, and i believe that’s it.

𝐚/𝐧: ok so i know not a whole lot abt måneskin so if anything abt this in terms of the band or how they perform is inaccurate forgive me! but i think vic is hot and this song makes me think of her LOL. thanks for reading, and enjoy the fic!! <3

(all translations will be linked at the end of the fic)

♀~♀~♀

The cheers of the crowd were deafening, but it seemed the beating of her own heart was even louder. Lights flashed a plethora of neon colors, and those on the stage looked liked silhouettes moving about freely.

Ethan nodded at Thomas, quickly bringing down his stick to the tightly spread plastic.

Thomas bobbed his head, starting to play the opening riff.

Select members of those in attendance began to cheer, just the opening notes being enough to give away what was about to be performed.

“For our last song tonight, we’d like to bring out someone you all know and love.” Damiano spoke into his mic, wrapping an arm around Vic’s neck and allowing her to lean down into the microphone in his hand.

“She’s someone that everyone, including myself, heavily admire as an icon of the generation and a true Riot Grrrl.”


Her eyes closed, a deep breath inhaled and exhaled through her painted mouth. She jumped up and down in her heeled boots, face pointed towards the rickety ceiling of the venue as she did so. She ran a ring adorned hand over her earpieces and made a funny face, making sure they were adjusted to her liking.

A stagehand appeared to her right, handing her a microphone and wishing her good luck. She smiled, responding with a quick “thanks” and a smile.

Victoria looked over from her place on the stage with Damiano, a devilish glint in her eye.

“Here for one night only, London let us introduce” he yelled, leaning down to Vic’s level once more, allowing them to both speak at once, “Y/n Y/l/n!”

A roar erupted from everyone in the building as the aforementioned strutted on stage, lifting the mic to her lips.

“That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighborhood, she’s got the hottest trike in town.” She started, finding her mark in the center of the stage.

“That girl, she holds her head up so high, I think I wanna be her best friend yeah.” Damiano’s raspy voice let out next, both of their voices mixing together like honey as they started the chorus.

“Rebel girl, rebel girl, rebel girl you are the queen of my world.

Rebel girl, rebel girl.”

“I think I wanna take you home” Y/n began, Damiano then taking over.

“I wanna try all your clothes.” He finished, both him and Y/n groaning in unison to the song.

Vic would be lying if she said she didn’t have to clear both her throat, and her mind. Thomas’ fingers worked skillfully and quickly on the neck of his guitar on the small transitional solo, his focus staying on the cool steel.

Damiano held up his tattooed hand, making a talking motion as he sang and rolled his eyes, “When she talks, I hear the revolution.”

Y/n came up behind Vic, one hand running across her hip, the other on her own as she chose to lean into Vic’s mic over her shoulder, “In her hips, there’s revolutions.”

The lead singer then strutted across the stage back to Ethan, propping a leg up on the base of his kit, and then walking back singing, “When she walks, the revolution’s coming.”

Knowing what line was coming up next, the bassist held her breath, and looked down. It was short lived, though, as Y/n picked up her chin with her pointer finger, forcing her to look her in the eyes. She moved his slowly to Victoria, their lips nearly brushing, her touch feather light.

“In…her…kiss…” she slowly sang, dragging it out longer than in the original song and than in rehearsal. She quickly turned her head, falling to her knees with one side to Vic and one to the audience, her hair cascading over her features.

“I taste the revolution!”

She smiled at Vic as she pushed herself up, a goofy grin plastered onto her face as she allowed Damiano to take the chorus. Victoria replied with only a small smirk, her dark eyeshadow glittering under the colorful lights, making her look like some kind of gothic angel, or celestial being.

Resuming singing, Y/n walked back to the front of the stage, her and Damiano switching every verse. She sat down on the edge, letting her legs dangle over the high surface, feeling fingertips barely touch her unclothed thigh.

“That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighborhood.”

“I got news for you,”

They both pointed their mics into the audience as the screen behind them flashed “she is!” Allowing the crowd, as well as Thomas, Vic, and Ethan to all scream the two words loudly and in sync.

“I know she is,” her and Dami both sang, as he wrapped an arm around Vic’s neck,

“My best friend yeah”

The chorus continued for a final time, Victoria stomping her heavy platforms on the wooden stage, biting her lip as she performed.

Y/n made her way over to Thomas’ side, jumping to his left and swaying her hair, a knowing smile appearing on his face upon seeing Victoria’s gaze falling upon her movements.

Victoria made rounds to Ethan and then to Thomas, passing Y/n and lightly tapping her hip with her own.

Y/n skipped over to Damiano as he did to her, the pair meeting in the middle briefly for the “love you like a sister, always.”

Victoria returned to her spot from the start, and Damiano found his way to Thomas. Y/n continued on towards the ethereal bassist. The both of them were simultaneously singing to the aforementioned in harmony, nearing the end of the song.

“Soul sister, rebel girl,

Come and be my best friend,

Really, rebel girl.”

Y/n dragged a hand across Vic’s chiseled cheekbone, and in that moment Victoria had taken on the title of a muse for the woman standing in front of her.

“I really like you” she sang to her, lowering her mic as they looked into each other’s eyes, her chest heaving. It was like the music had been reduced down to a slight buzzing, and the thousands of peering eyes meant nothing. They were untouchable.

Y/n resumed for the last line, never breaking her eye contact.

“Be my rebel girl.”

It seemed like a question, a proposal of sorts from one to another, as Y/n’s hand dropped once more.

Victoria quirked a brow as if to ask “are we really doing this?” To which Y/n muttered “fuck it” with a laugh.

Victoria’s hands found either side of Y/n’s face, her calloused fingers rough, yet gentle. Y/n’s own hands found one lazily draped over waist, the other over her shoulder to pull her close.

And in what probably the entirety of the building could have guessed would happen (maybe just not on stage, in that exact moment) they closed the gap between themselves, their lips connecting in a sweet kiss.

Chants and yells of encouragement were whooped by the band and crowd alike, as Damiano raised the mic and the final notes played.

“Y/n Y/l/n everybody!”

They pulled apart, sweaty foreheads against each other’s sides as they turned towards everyone, waving. They were quickly joined by the rest of the group, and Y/n stepped away, leaning into the microphone still hooked on the stand in the center of the stage.

“Let’s hear a huge round of applause for the wonderfully mad Måneskin!” She shouted, the roar of the crowd even louder. She raised her hands in the air, then moving one to her ear, gesturing for them to be louder. They complied, and Y/n took out her earpiece for a moment, soaking in what the band had created.

Vic shouted to Y/n over the noise, waving her over.

“Come on, bow with us!”

Y/n shook her head, not wanting to intrude any further to which Thomas reached out an arm, pulling her over. A bright smile covered her face as Vic reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist only for a second.

Hands joined, they all leaned forward in a dramatic bow, coming back up and waving.

All in sync, they all yelled “thank you, London!”

They looked around for a small period of time afterwards, still having a hard time believing that this was their new reality.

Looking to her right, and seeing Y/n doing the same, Vic decided that Y/n was a specific part of said “new reality” she didn’t quite want to let go of.

So after saying one more goodbye and exiting the stage, the bassist remained silent. It slightly worried Y/n, who had noticed the girl’s lack of communication while she had been thanking the rest of the band members for allowing her to share the stage with them.

“Is Victoria alright?” She asked Damiano, to which he only chuckled before replying.

“She’s fine, trust me. Give her a little bit of time and she will be back to normal.”

Y/n just gave him a tight lipped smile, not completely convinced.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed as Victoria slipped into her dressing room, locking the door.

The rest of the group, already having had a few drinks, was out the door, waiting on a cab.

“Y/n? You and Vic coming?” Ethan questioned.

She nodded, though she was unsure if that was the case, doing her best to cast a reassuring smile in his direction.

Once she made sure they were gone, she knocked twice on the heavy door. Before she could even announce it was her, Vic’s voice rang out.

“Vattene, Damiano!”

“Victoria?” Y/n’s tone floated through the door to the other side, and Victoria face palmed and silently cursed herself. She quickly got up and unlocked the door, regretting her harsh tone.

“Y/n, hi.”

“Hi.” She responded, slight uneasiness about her. Victoria picked up on this immediately, her brows furrowing and her eyes softening.

“Are you alright, Y/n?”

The other girl scoffed and looked at her feet. Scared to break any boundaries now that they weren’t on stage, Victoria cautiously lifted a hand towards her chin, softly picking it up like Y/n had before.

Her voice sounded wavy as she spoke, her jaw slightly hanging slack.

“Actually, I came here to ask the same thing.”

Victoria tilted her head like a confused puppy, leaning up against the doorframe.

“Why? What happened?”

Struggling to find the right thing to say, Y/n began to trip over her words.

“Well, I just, you know, on stage and everything- we were super, y’a know, close and everything and I didn’t wanna, I don’t know. Make you uncomfortable or overstep any boundaries or anything, and if it was just a kiss I didn’t wanna overthink it or read into but, I mean, I really liked it but you seemed to go quiet so-“

Victoria cut off her painful rambling with another kiss, taking firm hold of her arms and moving her inside with her and closing the door with her foot.

“Wow.” Y/n said when they finally pulled apart, her eyes as wide as dinner plates and her pupils the size of the moon.

“Yes, wow.” Vic chuckled, moving a piece of Y/n’s stray hair behind her ear.

“You’re very different when you’re on stage, Y/n. You know that?” She asked, admiring how the fluorescent lights above illuminated Y/n’s features in the most wonderful way.

Victoria had decided she liked her most like this. Vulnerable, sweaty, and with the biggest heart eyes she’d ever seen.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” She laughed.

“No.” Vic frowned, taking her hands. “It’s not a bad thing. Not at all.” She brought her over to the velvet sofa in the corner of the room. “It’s admirable.”

“How?” She asked with a small smile.

“Easy. Because even though your stage persona is lovely,” she laughed, “I think I like this Y/n even better. She seems like she’s kind, and has a big heart with lots of love to give.”

Stunned, the other girl just smiled like an idiot, leaning forward and pecking Vic’s lips.

“Well, what about you?”

“What about me?” The bassist replied, enjoying the banter forming between the pair.

“Why’d you go all radio silent? I’d never heard of Victoria De Angelis from EuroVision winning band Måneskin to do such a thing.” She exclaimed in what was the worst accent Victoria had heard in her life.

(Though, it was endearing, she’d admit.)

“Truly? I was thinking about how to ask you out. If you even wanted me to ask you out, all of that.”

Y/n’s eyes somehow got even bigger, and she laughed, tucking her legs beneath her.

“How is that even a question?” She exclaimed.

“Like I said, you are different on stage from off it. I didn’t know if it was just a front, a performance.”

This time it was Y/n’s turn to roll her eyes and lean in, encapsulating Victoria’s lips with her own.

“It wasn’t just a show, I’d love to go out with you, Vic.”

They both giggled like school girls hidden under the bleachers, leaning in for another kiss. It was hot and heavy, yet slow and sweet. It was everything either girl had hoped for. 

And thanks to a certain Italian doofus, or 4, it would be momentarily put on pause. Mid-make out four loud knocks startled the girls, causing the two do them to pull away.

“Victoria! Daje! Perché non rispondi al telefono, eh? Stiamo aspettando- oh. This makes sense.“ Damiano burst through the door, Ethan and Thomas stood behind him with not-so-surprised looks painted on their faces.

“Realmente? Realmente, Damiano?” She scoffed. “Stai manzo!”

“Sorry, guys. Enjoy yourselves.” He turned over his shoulder to the rest, slowly shutting the door.

“Sicuro di dire che non verranno con noi.” He snickered, as did the others.

“Eccallà!” Ethan remarked, to which, not that Vic and Y/n knew, Thomas shoved him to the side.

Victoria sighed, returning to face Y/n.

“So. Where were we?”

♀~♀~♀

i hope yall liked that!! mwah make sure to reblog if u did <333 take care of urself!

translations 

[tommyspeakycap]

again, your new john stones fic blew me away!!! Amazing. Please feel free to write about him all day every day!! <3

thank you again!! here’s another sweet one inspired by my own 1am experience tonight :) i wish I had a john stones

My hero

Your heart is quite literally thundering in your chest. There’s no feeling like it, this kind of fear that sticks you to the ground beneath your feet. You honestly feel like you can’t catch your breath, tears streaking down over your flushed cheeks as you hold your phone in your right hand with trembling fingers, one thumb finally letting go of the little microphone shaped drawing in your iMessages app. Even the whooshing sound of the message you knew was about to send to your best friend catches you off guard, making your shoulders clench and raise in fright.

“Are you seriously alright??”

She texts back, her confusion and teasing is something you know is laced into those letters across the screen creating a glow in the dim room. You roll your eyes at her, trying to keep your vision up while sending another voice note back; “No, seriously. Why does this only ever happen when I’m alone??”

“Probably because you live alone?” She replies back, and you curse yourself for a choice of friends who clearly have no empathy for what you consider to be a very serious situation. You know you won’t hear the end of this teasing once it’s all over. But the fear to you is all too real.

“(Y/n) I got your text! Came right here, are you alright?”

The sudden voice makes you literally clench your entire body, nearly shooting off the floor in fright and making one of those internalised fear noises that sounds like you just been attacked with a taser. You hear keys dropping down by the door and then a pause of his footsteps as you try to catch your breath. Your heart swells a little at the thought of him being here.

“John!” You yelp, your voice coming out something more like a strangled cry. The tall defender hears that sound and finds himself in panic, those long legs carrying him quickly and easily up the stairs of your small home until he spots you standing now in the doorway of your bedroom. He rushes towards you, seemingly checking you over for potential injuries the best he can in the darkness only broken by the lowest setting of flashlight on your phone. The first thing he notices when checking over your face with his hands is the wetness still making its way over your cheeks.

“Are you alright? what happened? Is there someone in there? Are you okay? Did someone hurt-“

You cut off his rambling with a finger over his lips, creating even more confusion for the fluffy haired brunette who had very clearly rolled himself out of bed to hurry over here. He was wearing shoes without socks, dirty shorts from training that he’d thrown off before going to bed only to pull back in to come to your, and an old sweater that usually sat somewhere downstairs in the closet closest to the door. It was obvious he had come in a wild rush the second he got your erratic message.

“It’s a wasp, John!” You whisper, as if the little creature that sitting on your lightbulb unwilling to move from the place you couldn’t reach and wouldn’t dare to even if you could, was able to hear you.

“A wasp?” John repeats incredulously. “Seriously?”

You nod vigorously, and and as much as the exhausted footballer wants to complain or even sigh at you, he doesn’t. Maybe he can’t. Because he’s got his arms around you and he definitely can feel you quivering against him. He had expected something more along the lines of a one night stand gone wrong or even someone breaking it, but as his consciousness began to catch back up with his previously very sleepy self, it made a lot more sense. In the event of a break in, you would probably have been bloody calmer than you are now to be honest. John had seen you after a pretty dangerous car crash completely still and relatively calm as you gave statements to police officers with blood still trickling down your face. But put an insect in your path and you scaled the closest thing to you for protection.

It just so happened that closest thing was often John Stones, and he was happy to be that person really.

It has become a norm between the two of you in the years you had been friends. Winter was the worst for spiders, but he generally didn’t mind the mildly irritating insects. He just got rid of them one way or another while you hid as far as you could get and then he’d come get you when the coast was clean. But you hated summer for this particular reason.

Wasps.

They fly in, fly into things and somehow never make it back on the window on their own despite it being the most easy thing one could ever imagine. Then, they try and sting you as if they aren’t in your house. They just creep you out, even the sight of them with their nasty little bodies. Bees aren’t a problem, they’re fuzzy looking and don’t intrude in your home nearly half as much. Also, they don’t try to sting you all the damn time.

“Where abouts?” He asks, his voice showing no hint of any destain or irritation he may harbour. “On the light,” you tell him shakily, following close to him back as you both enter the room. “Right up there- careful!”

John sniggers a little to himself, much to your dismay. He kicks off his shoes by your bedside table and climbs up onto the bed with ease on those ridiculously long legs. By luck, chance or both, he has some toilet paper in his hoodie pocket that he’d probably used to wipe his nose or something like that earlier, he can’t remember. He holds it out at arms length, only inches away form the unsuspecting black and yellow insect. “Where?” He asks again, “I can’t see anything.”

“There!” You insist, pointing up with a shaking finger. “I don’t see anything (y/n).” He repeats, making you whimper slightly, more tears suddenly appearing as you try to come to terms with the fact it might’ve moved while you were outside the room. The thought of having to sleep in your house while not knowing where it was would send you absolutely mental. “It was there I swear, look-“

“Ahhh, I got it. Stand back.”

He leans forward with relative ease, careful with the force he used so close to a live electric source and grips the buzzing creature in his tissue. “There we go,” he hums, stepping down from the bed. “All go-“

As if on cue, it flies out of the paper and you let loose a literal shriek as you dive backwards, crashing into the wall and then jumping forward in fright at that. “Woah!” John calls, “it’s alright, it’s right there. Calm, calm. Take a deep breath. Look,” he tries to calm you. That deep accent with his fatigue coating each word seeps into you, carefully calming your firing heart as he grabs it tighter from the floor, making sure he squashed it this time and immediately takes it to flush it down the toilet. John doesn’t know if you’re supposed to kill them or not, but at this moment in time he genuinely does not care. Was he fuck going to chase a wasp out of a window at half past one in the morning. Not a chance.

When he returns from the bathroom now empty handed, you still seem upset.

“That was scary.” You announce.

John smiles, pearly whites all on display. “I noticed.” He teases, making you scowl tiredly at him.

That scowl falters when his smile breaks into a light, soft laugh and he moves to stand in front of you. You absolutely don’t mind the fact that he’s babying you a little, using the sleeves of his sweater to wipe your cheeks before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and taking you into his strong arms. In fact, it’s very much welcomed. His arms are the safest place in the world to you and even the residual discomforted shivers from the concept of a wasp in your bedroom couldn’t get through that defender. He looks after a lot more than just the Manchester City goal line. No, he’s the sole defender of something much more precious that he doesn’t even realise.

Your heart.

“You okay now?” He asks softly, his tired voice rumbling through you. You nod against him, “Feeling a bit better. Thank you Stonesy.” You mumble, words muffled by the muscled chest that your face his resting against. “Anything for you, lovely.” He responds easily, pulling back from you in a way that aches his heart. The sudden lack of your warmth and presence against him is utterly brutal. He loves holding you, but hates it in the same breath. He would love to hold you if it was something he got to do freely instead of fleetingly.

His eyes are stuck watching you sit down on the edge of your bed to grab your phone and check the time with an element of shock rolling through your eyes when you realise it’s nearly two.

“You got training tomorrow?” You ask sweetly, a yawn following the tail end of your words adorable in a way that makes John’s heart flutter like a teenage boy. He nods, “Not till after dinner though, around 5.”

It’s your turn to nod, seeming to be chewing over something in thought as you lie down in the middle of your bed.

“Wanna stay then?”

John has to pretend to think about it at least a little bit so he doesn’t look like he’s jumping right up at the opportunity, which is exactly what he wants to do. “Why not,” he shrugs, chucking off his hoodie to the foot of your bed, “Scoot over.”

He clambers in, long limbs moving nowhere near as coordinated as they are on the pitch as he lays down by your right. It’s like a familiar dance, one you both know so well as you shuffle around so you can lay against his chest, one leg hooked over him as his arm wraps around you to pull you even closer. A silence falls between you as he feels your eyelashes fluttering shut, tickling his chest. He can’t find that same relaxation, can’t seem to shut his eyes for the thoughts flying through his mind all at once.

“I should teach you how to catch them.” John states, rumbling voice interrupting the peaceful quiet in which you had nearly found sleep. “You know, for the future.” He adds almost flippantly. Almost.

“Why?” You hum groggily, sleep croaking your voice ever so slightly. “I got you.”

John has to pretend your half asleep admission doesn’t send his heart flying into his throat. You do always have him, right there in the palm of your hand. Always.

“I don’t think other guys would appreciate me barging into their house in the middle of the night.” He suggests, making you quirk an eyebrow in question, but you still don’t look up at him and he isn’t even sure if you’ve got your eyes fully open. “No other guys here,” you state, “Single, living all alone.” You add lazily. The words almost make John wonder if he has fallen asleep, each one spoke playing straight into the dream he’s had for years for you to be his.

“Yeah, I know but…but there will be, at some point.” He suggests. You give no response for a moment and he briefly thinks you’ve fallen asleep at some point in this conversation.

“Bet those other guys wouldn’t come get rid of wasps for me in the middle of the night like you do.”

“Maybe,” John shrugs, “but I think there’s plenty of guys like that, especially for you.”

He feels you shake your head against him, your words decisive as you speak;

“There are no guys like you, John Stones.”

His words and his breath are caught on his throat, his heart erupting in his chest as he replays those words in his mind, trying to figure out if he had actually just heard them or if his tired mind was playing tricks on him because it was so late and he hadn’t had enough sleep.

But then you look up at him with tired eyes and a sweet smile. You know what you’ve just done, know the bomb you’ve just dropped and you’re hoping with everything crossed that he feels the same way.

“You’re my hero, Stonesy.” You say softly, your voice now a little sheepish and he can barely just make out the flush of your cheeks in the dim room lighting. “And I love you with everything I have.”

He doesn’t know what to say, his eyes wide as his heart beats as erratically as he had felt yours beating when he first arrived with fear coursing through his veins thinking you were in some kind of mortal peril.

“John?” You ask timidly, voice sheepish as you sit up in fear.

“Sorry,” he rumbles, pushing himself to a seated position, allowing him to lean forward and slide his hand around the back of your head to pull you into him, your lips crashing down onto his.

It’s just about everything he’s ever wanted.

“God I love you.” He says against your lips, a groan leaving his throat from pure satisfaction, pure relief of finally getting those words off of his chest. You giggle, resting back against his chest. “Can we sleep now, please?”

He nods, both of you shuffling so you can resume the position you had been in before a life changing confession that had spun you and the Barnsley brunette into the kiss that had been years in waiting. This was the happiest either of you had probably ever been.

“Guess we have the wasps to thank for this eh?” John lulls just as sleep is about to encompass you. He feels you shiver against him, the hairs on your arms immediately raising to attention at the mention of that which you hate so much.

“Don’t say that! That’s basically an invitation for them to invade my house!” You hiss, giving his chest a gentle swat as he pulls you closer to his side.

“Let them come,” he says almost triumphantly, “You got me now, always.”

You cosy yourself against him, a soft sigh of complete content and comfort tickling his chest as it dances across him. He feels that gentle smile that settles onto your gestures as your heavy eyes allow sleep to truly begin to take you.

“Always,” you mumble, words diluted by sleep “My hero.”

[raggaraddy]

The Basement: part one

Anon request: Hi can I request an assassin!yoongi one shot where yoongi gets jealous over reader somehow even though I know he isolates her so she depends on him but maybe she somehow stumbles into a colleague of his in his living room or a friend and the friend is 👀 looking not so respectfully

A/N: Enjoy lovely. 💜💜💜 Part two

Summary: For the first time ever there is someone else in the house with you and Yoongi. How could Yoongi expect you to resist speaking with him.

Trigger warnings: Violence, intimidation, kidnapping, imprisonment, yandere themes.

Yoongi

Yandere! Yoongi

Assassin! Yoongi

It may only be a few hundred square meters, but this house is your entire world. You know every creak, every floorboard that squeaked, how each door closes, everything. So in the middle of the night when you are woken by an almighty thump, at once you could recognize how out of place it was.

Cautiously sneaking downstairs and peering around every bend, you are just in time to see Yoongi slamming the basement door shut behind him.

Putting your ear to the entrance, you could hear the sounds of banging, of the chains, of low spoken voices. Over and over in your head, you told yourself to ignore it. To go back to bed and let it be. But the signs that there was another person down there with Yoongi were clear, and the temptation of that was too much to bear.

Your lesser instinct winning out, you open the door, instantly coming face to face with an ascending Yoongi. And behind him, in the place where you had been chained up many times before was a hooded man. Seated on the floor in a slumped position. His hands fixed against the wall keeping them high.

"Out," Yoongi demands, shoving your shoulder lightly to push you back through the doorway.

"Who-" is all you can gape, disbelief printed on your face.

"Not your concern." He refuses, closing the door. Continuing to push you back into the kitchen. "You do not go down there. Am I clear?" A finality to his expression not allowing any room for discussion or expansion.

Nodding, with a small pout you look at the basement one last time before faking a smile and returning to bed.

You were awestricken. Not once in nearly 8 months have you seen or heard another person in this house. Also not during the 6 months stretch before that. No one had visited. Not a single person had come past the house or had even driven up the driveway by accident. Your curiosity was burning you from the inside out. Your longing to see, to speak to another human aching your very soul.

Yoongi had gone into town, leaving you alone with the unlocked basement door. You'd always been chained up if he kept you down there, so it had never needed to be locked before. And the very idea of taking a quick peek was so tantalizing. However, on the more sensible side of this debate, you knew that Yoongi's word was final and you had never disobeyed him before.

You would like to say you were smart enough for this to at least be a difficult decision. But you swiftly threw common sense to the wind and went downstairs the second you heard the car pull out of the garage. Your body buzzing as you approached the new man.

With a heavy breath and timorous movements, you pull the hood back from the man's head. Black, straight, short hair. Dark, full brows, a perfect heart-shaped face, and ears that stuck out just a little too far. From head to toe, he's largely built. Taller and wider than Yoongi, making you astounded to think about how dangerous he really was.

For a few seconds, the both of you look equally surprised to see the other. Your pulse coursing through your ears, mouth slightly agape, looking at another human for the first time in forever.

"Hi," you squeak, nothing else coming to mind.

"Who are you?" He snarls.

It's spoken with so much hostility, but that question is one that brings you so much relief. You break down, pouring out your entire story in a rampant monologue. Telling him in detail everything you could about you, Yoongi, this place and your abductions. Fully spilling all that you had been so desperate to tell.

He, however, gives you nothing in return. For nearly 10 minutes you ask him question after question and he declines them all. Not even his name slips loose. He explains once that he can't know if your working with Yoongi, or that lunatic as he called him, and he is not going to tell you a single thing. Every question afterwards is only met with a solemn stare or a shake of refusal.

"If you won't tell me anything," you mope a little, "well, you look like a James Bond character, so I'm going to call you Mr Spy. The Spy? 007. Spy-man? I'll work on it." You mutter completely senseless and giddy from this rare moment. Continuing to overshare and divulge.

"Okay, Y/N. With everything you've told me, we're on the same page. So, if you help me get out of these," he rattles his hands, "Then I can get you out of this place."

The thought is alluring. But also more than you signed up for when you came down here. Firstly, Yoongi always keeps the keys for these chains on him. But secondly and most importantly, if you attempted to escape, if you tried to leave again Yoongi would never forgive you. You can't get away from him. You know you can't. And if you tried he would lock you up and throw away the key. You couldn't- You can't.

"I'm sorry, but no. I can't." You sadly brush his offer aside. Feeling awful denying him help like that. "I have to go back up before Yoongi comes home," you mumble.

Leaning over him you bring the hood up. You need to return him to how he was. He doesn't fight or argue, seeming to somberly accept his fate, but his eyes do dart to the top of the stairs at the last second.

Reacting to his troubled expression, you spin around seeing Yoongi already home, standing at the entrance.

At once your body tightens becoming flushed with sweat. Scrambling back from the man you stand in the middle of the room, trying to keep your breathing slow and deep to hide your fright.

"I thought," He starts to lower down the stairs, punctuating each point in his sentence with an additional step. "I said. You could not. Come in here."

"I'm sorry," you hush as Yoongi snatches the hood from your hand. Your head lowering in surrender.

"You want to save her?" He turns his attention and building anger towards his new prisoner. His fists are tight, knuckles cracking as he clenches and twists them. "You want to get her out of this place?" The challenge, the hash way he spits the words spoken about you is making the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Goosebumps flittering down your skin.

Lurching forward Yoongi's knee bashes into The Spy's head. And again. His foot following down booting him in the chest. And again.

"You think she wants to go with you?!" He growls, beating his fist into his head, over and over. The skin breaking, blood erupting all across his face. The Spy's restrained position not allowing him to protect himself in any way, only able to groan and splutter through the abuse. "You're too weak to even get yourself free. You think you can take her!" Yoongi steps back and lifts his leg, stomping the heel of his boot into the curled up fist of The Spy. Making him explode in a pained howl as you hear the bones crunch.

Not wanting to show any reaction, you stay coiled and fixed. Praying for this to end quickly. You had seen this level of violence and sadism from Yoongi before in the outside world. He doesn't acknowledge or accept any interference and he will only finish on his own terms.

You can't help but think if this is this how cruel and viciously he treats everyone else?

Stomping down again, this time he lines up The Spy's ankle. Throwing all his weight, all his force into the joint. The man's screams turning into cries as he wails in agony.

"No. You're not taking her anywhere." Yoongi straightens up, blowing out a heavy breath. Running his fingers back through his black hair over and over pulling it out of his face. "You're gonna tell me everything I wanna know. And then I'll finally let you die." He swallows hard, rearranging his clothes and loosening his muscles. His fiery explosion now quenched.

You can't lift your eyes as he drags you to the top floor. The basement door sealing, muffling the tears of the man below.

"Yoongi. I told him- I told him I couldn't-" You're starting and stopping, trying to sufficiently explain or plead your case. He's never shown anything near that level of violence towards you, but you were still sure he was about to lock you away endlessly for disobeying him.

He steps into you, silencing and making you jump back, smacking into the wall. Trapped between it and your hovering captor.

"I heard you." He speaks deeply and softly. In complete opposition to how he was moments ago. "Well done." His coarse pronunciation is abandoned as he speaks these words very clearly. Making sure you hear his sincerity.

His hand runs softly over your hair, stroking and cupping your head. Making you fight not to melt. Making you look up at him with big eyes. Any sort of affection from Yoongi instantly impacting you greatly, making you emotional and needy for more. Your bottom lip quivering, you whimper lowly as you lose the internal struggle and lean into his hand. Your eyes scrunching tight, hating yourself for how much his gentle touch affects your heart.

"Come with me," he holds your hand having you trail him upstairs. Taking you into his bedroom where he extends the affection and intimacy. Being with you so tenderly and kindly as your mind and heart tears back and forth between the softness you can feel now, and the horrors you saw him do before.

Despite the risks, your head fills with how and when you could see The Spy again. He was hurt, and he needed your help. And you were too eager to see him again. But when you wake the next day, you find a hefty padlock keeping the basement door sealed.

Yoongi at once reading your reaction. "You should thank me for locking that door Y/N. You don't know how dangerous some people can be."

Part two