#so if your party of one's world is pallid

[everysongineverykey]

difficult to explain the emotions the stupendium's shine through evokes in me but suffice to say. wough💙

[thecreaturecodex]

Lloigor

"Monster Concept" © devinatArt user CobraVenom, accessed at her gallery here

[Sponsored by @tar-baphon. The name "Lloigor" is related to multiple traditions in the Cthulhu Mythos and Mythos-adjacent works. It initially appears as a proper noun, one of "Lloigor and Zhar", in August Derleth's elaborate family tree of Great Old Ones. It's used as a synonym for "Great Old One" in the Illuminatus! Trilogy, and from there has trickled into the works of Alan Moore. And, in Colin Wilson's "The Return of the Lloigor", it appears as a species of incorporeal psychic dragons. This is an interpretation of that third version.

"The Return of the Lloigor" can be thought of something as a remake of "The Call of Cthulhu", in that the story takes the form of a journal chronicling the narrator's conversion from skepticism to paranoia about a world-spanning cult serving horrors from human prehistory. Only the main action is in Wales, rather than Louisiana and the South Pacific, and the lloigor have a rather more direct hand than Cthulhu. The CR was by the request of the sponsor, which is in keeping with Call of Cthulhu making lloigor top-tier threats, but in the story proper their power is usually limited to causing malaise and pushing old people down the stairs. They can cause explosions, but this seems to be deeply draining for them. In CoC, their ability to drain the mental energy of victims is an area of effect, but I made it a touch attack. Both in order to have a lloigor actually be something a party can encounter and fight, and because I think it's much creepier to catch a glimpse of a tendril-tail actually dipping into your room as your bunk-mate thrashes in their sleep]

Lloigor CR 18 CE Dragon This thing resembles a malformed embryonic dragon with oily, pallid skin. It has two long limbs, each of which terminates in a hooked claw, and a long thin tail that lashes and drips behind it. Its face is something like that of a deep sea fish, all staring eyes and long thin teeth.

The lloigor are the creations of the Great Old One Ghanathoa, created in a fit of pique over the physical perfection of dragons. When the world was young, lloigors ruled openly as masters of humanoid creatures, but as humanoid civilizations grew stronger, they went into decline. Lloigors are the ultimate pessimists—they are literally incapable of feeling joy or hope, and feed by draining these emotions from the minds of others and leaving despair in their stead.

A lloigor is intangible, more a pattern of energy than a physical being, and they move effortlessly through soil and stone. Lloigors slip through the ground into people’s homes while they sleep, draining their joy with a touch of their ribbon-like tails. Doing so grants them access to more psychic power, and if a lloigor is expecting a fight, or intends to punish someone, it typically goes on a feeding frenzy to charge its psychic energy. They prefer to fight in incorporeal form for its defensive benefits, but if enemies are capable of injuring it, or if it runs out of psychic magic, it can temporarily assume corporeality and fight with claw and fang.

A lloigor radiates malaise in a wide area, and many benighted towns and areas with unusually high crime rates are under the lloigor’s influence. Those that succumb to a lloigor’s touch too often may have their personalities warped and become evil, and lloigors use their telepathy and ability to shape dreams to encourage people to rob and murder one another. As such, a lloigor’s influence can be subtle and felt throughout an adventurer’s career, long before they are powerful enough to confront a lloigor themselves, or even know what they are. Lloigors keep themselves secret, and have a habit of killing people who speak openly about them.

Lloigor    CR 18 XP 153,600 CE Huge dragon (incorporeal) Init +12; Senses darkvision 120 ft., Perception +31, thoughtsense 120 ft. Aura malaise (1 mile)

Defense AC 28, touch 28, flat-footed 15(-2 size, +1 dodge, +12 Dex, +7 deflection) hp 324 (24d10+168) Fort +20, Ref +26, Will +21 Immune ability damage, ability drain, death effects, fear, paralysis, sleep SR 29 Defensive Abilities incorporeal traits, negative energy affinity; Weakness hopeless

Offense Speed 40 ft., fly 60 ft. (perfect), burrow 40 ft. (earth glide) Melee touch +22 (drain hope) Space 15 ft.; Reach 20 ft. Psychic Magic CL 18th, concentration +25 (+29 casting defensively) 15 PE—crushing despair (4 PE, DC 21), dream (4 PE), fear (4 PE, DC 21), greater invisibility (4 PE), invisibility (2 PE), nightmare (5 PE, DC 22), telekinesis (5 PE, DC 22), telekinetic storm (9 PE, DC 26), utter contempt (6 PE, DC 23)

Statistics Str -, Dex 35, Con 23, Int 25, Wis24, Cha 24 Base Atk +24; CMB -; CMD 56 (cannot be tripped) Feats Alertness, Combat Casting, Combat Expertise, Combat Reflexes,Dodge, Flyby Attack, Mobility, Multiattack, Skill Focus (Stealth), Spring Attack, Toughness, Whirlwind Attack Skills Acrobatics +29, Bluff +27, Diplomacy +27, Fly +25, Intimidate +27, Knowledge (arcana, dungeoneering, engineering, geography, history, local, nature, nobility, planes, religion) +31, Perception +31, Sense Motive +31, Spellcraft +27, Stealth +30; Racial Modifiers +4 Knowledge (all) Languages Aklo, Draconic, Terran, Undercommon, telepathy 120 ft. SQ assume flesh, compression

Ecology Environment underground Organization solitary Treasure none Special Abilities Assume Flesh (Su) A lloigor can, as a move action, become corporeal. It loses its deflection bonus to AC and incorporeal traits, but gains a natural armor bonus equal to its Dexterity modifier, a Strength score equal to its Dexterity score, and natural attacks. It has a bite, two claws and a tail slap, gains powerful blows with the tail slap and rend with the claws. While corporeal, its statistics are as follows: AC 33, touch (-2 size, +1 dodge, +12 Dex, +12 natural); Melee bite +34 (2d6+12), 2 claws +34 (1d8+12), tail slap +32 (2d8+18 plus drain hope); Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. (20 ft. with tail slap); Special Attacks powerful blows (tail slap),rend (2 claws, 1d8+18). A lloigor can resume its incorporeal form as a move action. A lloigor can remain corporeal for a number of rounds/day equal to its Hit Dice (24 rounds for an ordinary specimen). Aura of Malaise (Su) All creatures within 1 mile of a lloigor suffer a -2 penalty on all saves against emotion, fear and madness effects. This does not function in a consecrated or hallowed area. Drain Hope (Su) The touch of a lloigor’s tail deals 1d6 points of Wisdom damage. A creature that takes this damage must succeed a DC 29 Will save or be affected by the pessimism spell for the next 24 hours. This is an emotion effect and the save DC is Charisma based. A creature that succeeds this save cannot be affected by the pessimism effect for the next 24 hours, and takes minimum damage from that lloigor’s drain hope attack during that duration. If the creature fails this save, the lloigor gains 3 PE. A lloigor can gain PE above its maximum in this way, capping at twice its normal value. A creature that has its Wisdom reduced to 3 or fewer with this ability must succeed a DC 23 Will save or be afflicted with the moral insanity madness. This is a madness effect with a flat DC. Hopeless (Ex) A lloigor can never gain morale bonuses, and suffers an additional -1 penalty whenever it would suffer from a morale penalty.

[averyangrytissuebox]

I'm going to level with you for this campaign. I am very biased because I love this campaign. I have lots of fond memories of playing this campaign with my friends by the seaside. Passing nervously as we did the last scenario or doing absolutely busted shit because we didn't realise how overpowered double or nothing can truly be. This doesn't mean you should take my review with a 3 autofails worth of salt because I stand by what I say, I just wanted to gush first.

Path to Carcosa: The perfection of the base formula

This is a big claim to start the review so let me explain what I mean. Path to Carcosa is the quintessential arkham campaign which every future campaign will deviate from in different directions with stuff like Edge of the Earth's large maps or Scarlet Key's open world. If you loved the base game set up in Night of the Living Zealot and Dunwich Legacy then Carcosa is for you.

Path to Carcosa follows our investigators as they investigate a bizarre performance of a mysterious play which pulls them across the world to France as they try to understand exactly who they face before venturing to Carcosa in an attempt to escape their influence. This campaign spans a variety of locations from high society parties to the streets and catacombs of france but always followed by the Man in the Pallid Mask.

The campaign plays with an interesting dynamic where depending on whether you believe what you see or doubt its very existence changes how the campaign is played with whole scenarios being inverted depending on the route and even the final boss being changed. This is a formula which other campaigns follow suite on to varying levels of success (Scarlet Keys doing it well while Forgotten Age's only matters if you want the secret ending / which companion you want and Circle Undone changes some stuff but not noticeably in my opinion.) This does make saying a favourite scenario hard because there are lots of variance.

If I had to choose a best scenario (and I am writing a review here with a specific format so I sort of do), I'd name the last one but this will require some spoilers. Skip to my complaints to dodge spoilers. Dim Carcosa is the culmination of the decisions you've made across the campaign because depending on whether you had conviction or doubted all that you see. If you doubted the existence of the other world, now you have nowhere left to run because he is all around you but if you hold to your convictions, now you must face him head on at his strongest because you fed his power.

That being said, there are some complaints to be had with this campaign. Echoes of the Past snowballs one of two ways: If you get the cultists under control, it is easy but if you don't, you will struggle to get it back on track. Secondly, Dim Carcosa is harder than most other scenarios. I don't have that many complaints about the campaign as a whole if my gushing doesn't make that clear enough

In terms of investigators, brain is the name of the game. Mental damage is way more common than physical so having a decent sanity is needed unless you plan on buying Elder Sign Amulet. Keep relics and spells handy because there is an enemy which can't be beaten quickly unless you use them. An investigator capable of evading is also super useful depending on the route you take. Finally Calvin Wright can achieve godhood in this campaign so yknow go apeshit if you want.

Overall, I love this campaign. It is classic arkham perfected where the scenarios themselves aren't complex but the theming is rich and gameplay is interactive. This is the perfect introduction campaign to try with friends. If you are reading this and are even vaguely interested in trying it out, try it out (If you know me personally, message me pls pls pls pls). Finally the end of review ranking, this is the best campaign so far with Dunwich Legacy 2nd and Night of the Zealot last

Other reviews in this series:

Dunwich Legacy: Good but with Growing Pains

Night of the Zealot: Let's Start at the Beginning. It is a very good place to start

[irlkdj]

ORV AND THE POWER OF CHOICE

I’d like to start with Kim Dokja. From the very beginning of the novel, he made the claim that it was easier to be alone. That is was “comfortable.” Despite this proclamation, he lays his life down time and time again for his companions. He /chooses/ a harder path: a path of love, a path that he was never shown personally.

"I really don't understand it. Why are you helping me, Hyunsung hyung and the noonas? If you are alone... you would be able to survive better."

He could calmly speak such words before his death. Maybe this kid's mind was already dead.

"Yes, you are right." Another ground rat fell to the ground with its head cut off. "It is comfortable to live alone, eat alone and survive alone. But..."

The “But..” really takes me out because he’s saying it is easier. But I don’t want easy. I want you. I want all the problems that come with saving you. I want to die for you. I want to be with you until the end of this.

He makes the conscious choice to protect his companions, shielding them best he can from the dangers of the scenarios, even if it comes at the cost of his own life. He doesn’t ever consider the unhealable wounds his companions are left with when he sacrifices himself. I think this is him attempting to protect people the way he yearned to be protected. I see this especially with Shin Yoosung, Lee Gilyoung, and Lee Jihye. 

“I saw the party members screaming in despair.

[ Why are you trying to save them? You can see the ending even if you live alone. ]

‘The ending is only meaningful if they are there.’”

“It was all planned and ahjussi used us for your purpose. Let's say we are characters of that damn Ways of Survival and everything is set!" Lee Jihye was crying, watching me while biting her pallid lips. ‘Then… why did you throw your life away for us so many times?’”

“Answer me! If we are really characters in a fictional novel, why did you die for us over and over?”

“Tell me that I did good until now – whether I made the wrong choices or not, whether I would get to see the desired conclusion when I reach the end of this story or not.”

“Kim Dokja's salvation was cruel. Like rescuing a drowning person with a blade, those saved by him were inflicted an unhealable wound.”

Now I’d like to talk about Han Sooyoung. The woman who made the conscious choice to save that boy who thought he couldn’t be saved. I want to remind you, Kim Dokja isn’t anyone extraordinary. Which is why Han Sooyoung’s love for him is so.. special. At the end of the day, Kim Dokja was just a kid struggling with abuse and the arrest of his mother. A kid who liked to read. A lot of Kim Dokja’s story is about learning that it’s actually /okay/ to let people care about you. It’s not selfish to want people to love you, or to yearn for a family. To wish you could’ve had more than you did. Han Sooyoung gave up every single one of her nights and slept her days away to write for him. To most, Kim Dokja was just a lousy employee, a quiet guy who wasted his days away on his phone. But to Han Sooyoung, that man was worth destroying the entire world for. She made the /choice/ to save him. Her actions prove that you don’t need to be amazing to be worth saving. You don’t need to be the “main character,” and you don’t need to sacrifice yourself to be worthy of the care others so desperately want to give you. Sometimes, people just genuinely love you. Even when it feels impossible, or as if we are undeserving. Han Sooyoung making that decision. The decision to save Kim Dokja, to /love/ him. I think that’s one of the most powerful things we can do as human beings. To choose to be there for someone. To choose to show up every day. To /choose/ to do things that hurt because we want to ensure the wellbeing and happiness of another. Han Sooyoung would do it all over again. She wouldn’t take a moment back. 

This brings me to YooHan—something we need to talk about more. Han Sooyoung essentially crafted Yoo Joonghyuk, looked at him and said: I am going to destroy your life to save someone. And Yoo Joonghyuk said: okay, I will let you destroy me. I will watch my world fall to pieces over and over again. I will suffer. I will be put through agony. I will question why any of this is happening to me. I will struggle every day with the meaning of my miserable life. And I will carry this burden with you. Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk did everything they could to save that lonely Kim Dokja. I often think about secretive plotter when he found out about Oldest Dream. When he was exposed to the reality of his agony, when his tormentor was finally revealed. But when he set his eyes upon that sad, pathetic, lonely little boy crying and repeating “I am Yoo Joonghyuk,” it was all.. okay. His story had saved someone. Secretive plotter who has been drowning in an eternal misery was almost.. content. And Kim Dokj was confused by his reaction. He couldn’t comprehend why Secretive Plotter wasn’t lashing out at Oldest Dream as Dokja had tried to do. This couldn’t possible be the ending he wanted, right? How could he be okay with this. He should kill that monster. That /monster/. He should end his miserable life for all the torment he put him through. That monster.. is me. I am a monster. Who could love us. Who /would/ love something so vile and useless. Who would possibly care about the well being of me. 

Yes. Han Sooyoung created Yoo Joonghyuk. And much of his story is about his sense of agency, struggling between the lines of what was written for him, and the choices he made based off his own free will. And while Yoo Joonghyuk was written /for/ Kim Dokja, Han Sooyoung never wrote that he would /love/ Kim Dokja. Again, he made a conscious decision. He made the conscious choice to love that man. Yoo Joonghyuk always felt as though things were out of his control, like his actions were not his own—a puppet, just as Secretive Plotter described him. But he /did/ make his own choices. He loved his companions. He loved Han Sooyoung. He loved Kim Dokja.

Han Sooyoung /chose/ to write that story. Kim Dokja /chose/ to read it. And to some extent, Yoo Joonghyuk /chose/ to live it. 

I think orv has a lot of themes. But at its core I really do believe it’s about learning that even when we feel like the worst person, the most horrible, disgusting, and unlovable monster on planet earth, someone out there will choose to love you. Again, I say choose intentionally here. To choose to remember the things someone loves. To choose to be there when they need you. To /choose/ to shoulder their burdens despite your own which you are already carrying. Someone out there wants you to exist. Someone out there wants you to live. Orv teaches its readers that if we are all a little patient, maybe someday someone will choose to love you. Someone will decide that yes, you are worth moving Heaven and Hell for. I love you, despite your issues. I choose to love you because you can’t love yourself. I will show you how much I love you when words can’t express it. One day, I hope someone writes a story for you. And I hope that one day, you will no longer be lonely. And finally, understand what it feels like to be loved. 

[thescribeoflostmemories]

Decretum x Somnium = Insanity

Knight! Capitano x Witch! Yan(?)Reader

Tags: Angst?, blood, friends to enemies to ???, malpractice, cycle, Reader kinda lost her marbles. Help, I lost track of time and I should be doing other fics right about now instead of this. Comfort/hurt or hurt/comfort, unrequited love? Disturbing implications if you squint.

Thank @capitanossanctuary for this infected brain rot last night. And @mellowwillowy, I did it y'all...

“To find one's self, one must destroy the image built upon you by others. Only then will you have the answer in your grasp.” - Scribe

This time, it will- no, it MUST work! The potion’s effects are in motion, the ruffles from the bed sounded. Any previous doubt has been pushed aside by another notion.

“Morning, I have breakfast ready.” A chance to see him again, your beloved Knight.

Risen from the bed, there presented to you, your latest result of your endeavors. Just as handsome as you last saw him. Not minding the loss of his cheek muscle that you could see his teeth and inside of his mouth.

Sat upon the pure white chair, you had prepared all the necessities for the little welcome tea party for the Knight in shining armor. Soon, the clanks of metal made their way to you upon the seat across from you. Reassembling him would require extensive work.

“Eat up, if you’re lucky enough you won’t rot.” You jest, even though it is to see if he still has any recollection. Gesturing for him to reach in for the treats and sweets prepared for him, sandwiches included. Even without his blade, the mere strength in his flesh still remains.

He seems to be taken aback, the man before you is a witch hunter. Your partner under the reign of the Queen that ordered the extinction of a whole race. How ironic that you’ve turned to such craft when life snuffed out of his body, leaving you all alone. You still remembered how he had revered his ‘Lady’ as this perfect being, a true witch in disguise!

“There is no poison.” He spoke in a hoarse yet still deeply rich voice, you tried your best to preserve his body for so long, so lovingly. The thought alone made you shudder of how many adventures would take place once he had adjusted to the current body just like before.

“There isn’t.” You confirmed, leaning back to your chair. The rather large witch’s hat jingles with the bell at the end of it. Your dark colored robes have long since been tainted by the dark spell that binds you to its will.

Even without direct words, the gestures, intense gaze at your ‘ruined’ state. Eyes once shown light and bubbly attitude, now reduced to a slave of your own twisted desires.

“I could say the same to you, dear friend.” You picked up your tea cup and took a sip.

“My partner wouldn’t betray me like this, who are you witch that dared to replicate my friend’s face?!” He snarled, fist made contact with the table making an audible dull sound,

Dainty hands slammed the cup onto the table rather forcibly, a smile only cracked, “Even if you inverted this entire world with your bare hands, this is reality!” That is the truth, and nothing but the truth. Going against what you two were fighting for, those don’t matter to you anymore, none of it.

Standing up, flap the tatters of your robes, “Wipe off your pus darling and grind down your vitamins.” scarred hands rubbed against the deteriorating skin of your beloved. The food may not be a staple necessity to him anymore in this form. But you had crushed all herbs and elements to sustain him further, knowing he treasures strength above all.

“Page six-seventeen.” Tossing a worn tome that reveals the gruesome scheme of the various experiments to reanimate him. Such witchery! It cannot be allowed, you aren’t allowed anymore!

Fuming with rage, Capitano had raised his hand to smack your hand away from him. “Don’t act so irrationally, Ga1ahad. Don’t be like your father, Lancel0t." You teased, though that attack did hurt. Leaving a bruise on your frail and pallid skin that had longed to see the light of day.

“Hm, this is an improvement, dear. Let your blood oscillate, results, generate more!” You had pretended this is part of your devious plan to make him feel good about himself for figuring you out.

To be frank in this battle of sorcery and steel. Both of you are such morons, Don Quixote. Giving so much of yourself to him yet it does not reciprocate. Blinded by ideals to how much have been destroyed and only the essence of yourselves are laid bare. No code of morals, nor the law would approve any of their relationship. Your profound adoration and love exceeds what he can take and couldn’t give back.

One wouldn’t admit their mistake to the other, as this vicious cycle of torment spirals out of control. All for the sole person to just look at the other. ‘My God/dess never looked at me’ The pure idolization is sickening, smothering even.

Until such a point, seeking forgiveness is merely an option they had not explored. Battered, bruised and bleeding. Il Capitano stopped and looked at your pitiful state.

“Think about it, __. If you are a witch, it would cost you everything. Such sin cannot be forgiven! What is left for you after everything is said and done?! After a millennia worth of damnation, what else is precious to you that wouldn’t leave?”

“You … I’d… Still have you, my beloved Captain.” You choked out, wholeheartedly. Truly did love him, more than the one he so dearly admired.

[momotonescreaming]

Zombie AU loosely based on the old tv show In The Flesh about the aftermath of a mini zombie apocalypse. So tw for talks of death and allusion to suicide.

There was a Zombie rising in Hawkins but it wasn’t like the movies. It didn’t destroy the whole world, humanity destroyed and living in ruins for hundreds of years. All the dead didn’t even rise. One night, only those who died in the last few years rose from their graves across the world. They were dead men walking, they could smell blood, and killed, and ate peoples brains but there was one major difference. Their bites weren’t contagious.

So while the army and small town militia protected the living and hunted the undead - there were scientists working on a cure. And they actually sort of found one. A new drug, that when injected into an undead’s spinal column once a day - will restore restore consciousness to the undead and all memories of who they are. They will no longer be rabid and desire to kill.

So the government rounds up all the undead left, forcibly medicates them with open wounds at the back of the neck, and entered into a rehab program in ‘Treatment Centres’ so they can be re-entered into society. They are given shitty therapy, thick make up and contacts to cover up their pallid skin and colourless eyes, and a new name. They aren’t “Zombies” - they’re Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers. PDS. All the undead fucking hate that name. And there’s a whole range of them, from the very young to the very old.

There’s Will Byers. Small and scared, who went missing from his house and was found floating in the Quarry. He doesn’t talk about how he got there, but will silently draw during group therapy sessions. Drawings of broken coffins, of pushing through the dirt, of the quarry, of monsters, of ripping a person apart. Joyce and Jonathan take turns driving the hours it takes to get to the centre, both of them bursting into tears when they see Will. Small and timid, dressed in plain government issued clothes and a trash bag in hand - his funeral suit. What he rose in. They take him home and his bedroom is exactly the same as it was.

There’s Robin Buckley. A tragic accident. Hit by a car when riding her bike home from school. The school band played at her funeral, and she was buried in a dress she’d have hated but her mother would have loved. The therapist in the treatment centre talks about hobbies. Something to do when she goes back home. Robin doesn’t mention the trumpet. She tries not to think about how she doesn’t know if she can even play it now that her lungs no longer breathe air. She goes home and her parents are simultaneously too overbearing, and not bearing enough.

There’s Barb Holland. Went to a party at Steve Harrington’s house, had a drink, injured herself, slipped, hit her head, and then drowned in the pool while her best friend was having sex upstairs. The Holland’s mourn, Nancy blames herself and Steve, while Steve tries not to think about it. Barb comes back and has to learn to deal with a best friend who moved on without her. How do you learn to live with the consequences of your own death?

There’s Steve Harrington. He wanted to be a normal teen again. He didn’t want to the be the rich kid who had someone die in his pool. He’s heard the rumours. That he killed her and his parents paid to cover it up. Steve fucking hates it. The whispers in the halls, the stares. Steve fucking hates that a part of him can believe that his parents would. Anything to save their reputation. The famed Harrington name. They came back home from their trip because of this. And his father was pissed. Not upset that a girl died. He was angry at Steve. He yelled and screamed and threatened and berated and Steve shrunk down under his father’s steely gaze. He was a fuckup and useless and a good for nothing waste of space. He let a girl die. He continued to date Nancy, he loved her but she didn’t love her back. She tells him Barb was dead because of them. Because of him. He was bullshit, his love was bullshit, and she didn’t love him back. Steve goes home alone and bleeds out in the bath.

He’s one of the last ones left at the treatment centre and his parents hire a taxi to take him home. They couldn’t sell the house. Not when two kids died there. So Steve goes home and realises his parents are never coming back. He is dead, and he is alone.

There’s Chrissy Cunningham. A suffering girl keeping quiet. Headaches and nosebleeds and nightmares and shaking hands. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her but she knows she can’t tell her mother about it. She goes to parties and cheers at Jason’s basketball games and shopping with her friends. It doesn’t get better so she goes to the table in the woods and asks to buy drugs. Eddie makes her feel calm. Safe. He’s ridiculous and silly and isn’t as mean and scary as he seems. She has a seizure in his living room and dies on his floor.

There’s Eddie Munson. Wanted for a murder that wasn’t a murder and on the run from a homicidal basketball player and his stirred up mob. By the time the coroner rules the death the result of an undiagnosed medical condition it’s too late. He hides at Reefer Rick’s place until he runs out of food and has to venture out. He spies the green of a letterman jacket and ducks into an alley. Only he’s too late. He gets cornered by Andy and Jason and they kill him in an alleyway for murdering Chrissy. They call it justice. He slowly bleeds out and his last thoughts are of his Uncle Wayne.

His Uncle Wayne who picks him up from the treatment centre as soon as he gets the call and greets him with the biggest hug Eddie thinks he’s ever had. Wayne cries and Eddie would’ve bawled his eyes out if his tear ducts still worked. They go home in the middle of the night when no one can see them. The papers weren’t kind to Eddie and people aren’t kind to the undead neither.

All the undead go home, get their makeup, their medication, and find out that as part of their rehabilitation into society the young undead need to finish school. The adults have to go through community service. No other options. Government mandated. There are others like them at least, and they’ll try to keep them together, but they’re unable to say who. So they trickle back to school, hope that enough time has passed that no one recognises them, and try to spot the other undead in the halls. Solidarity and all that.

And Eddie doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when his now undead crush Steve Harrington is walking the halls. He remembers Steve’s death. The rumours. The funeral. The way everyone pretended to know him after death, just for a hint of his popularity. The way his parents packed up and moved town. And Eddie sees him now, hunched down over himself, not making eye contact. A shadow of his former self as he moves through the Hawkins High halls like a ghost.

Ah fuck. He's talking to Harrington, isn't he?

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: Menagerie of Lament

Don’t let the howling of our collection bother you, as the canticle of our soverign makes a nest within your skull you will find it becomes a soothing resonance with the screaming of your own thoughts.

One of the many domains of the crawling king, this horrifying demiplane takes the form of a shattered moon and asteroid field hanging somewhere in the astral sea. Though lifeless and barren on the surface, the deep fissures and innumerable crags of these floating rocks have been hollowed out to serve as massive prison for horrors from across the cosmos, ranging from run of the mill aberrations to living nightmares to kingdom destroying kaiju. 

While the Menagerie began as a sacred vault to keep the worst of the multiverse’s horrors sealed away, over centuries the order that protected it became corrupted, falling under the sway of the god of torment and madness and straying from their sanctified path. Now the Monks of Lament (Or Menagerics as they are sometimes called) deal in the monsters they were supposed to contain, selling them off to despots as curiosities or warbeasts, then turning around and using their riches to breed more horrors, or reward hunters across the planes for bringing them more.

Adventure Hooks:

After successfully clearing a monster contract or two, the party are approached by a group of professional hunters known as the Savage-Rationals who recognize their talent and give them an in on better contracts. Ornim, grizzled leader of the Rationals is a valuable mentor to have, as his hard won lessons will likely keep the party alive through the most difficult challenges they face. All is not how it seems however, on some jobs, Ornim receives orders from a pallid and offputting courier, and though those missions pay the best, the Rationals must take extra risks to ensure their quarry (no matter how horrible) is captured alive and delivered somewhere particular.  Should the party get nosey, they’ll discover that Ornim has dealings with the Menagerics, and many of the creatures the party have helped track for him are still alive and waiting to be sold off, rather than being harvested for alchemical components as he’d always said.

While venturing through the cavernous highways of the underdark The party stumble into a caravan of monks guiding a reinforced cage, out on its way to be delivered to some tyrant of the deep. Both groups appear to be travelling in the same direction, laving the party in an awkward position: the monks aren't openly hostile and travelling along with them may provide additional safety through the world below HOWEVER, there’s no doubt that great harm could be done should Menagerics reach their destination, to say nothing of what might happen should their beastly cargo break free during transit.

Though shifting underdark tunnel and teleportation circle account for most of the Monks’ transportation needs, the largest and most dangerous of their inventory requires a special means of conveyance: locked into its own meteor cage and hurled at the client’s world through the astral sea. This delivery method is only so accurate which gives the party a chance to fall back and escape after their current villain delivers a one-two punch of buying a kaiju off the monks and then slamming it into the countryside outside their hometown. The Tarrasque does not qualify for free shipping but boy howdy does it arrive in style.

[bamf-jaskier]

on Goblins and Harry Potter

I know this isn’t my blog’s normal content so I don’t know if this will get any traction but seeing all the backlash John Stewart is getting for outright stating that the Goblins in Harry Potter are antisemitic (and having to apologize for it?) I thought I’d talk a little about Harry Potter and how fandom has weirdly internalized some of these biases present.  

So first with the Goblins, this is how JKR described them in the books:

The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet

Now to me, as many people have been saying for years, this sounds an awful lot like antisemitic caricatures, in fact here’s a famous antisemitic political cartoon from 1898 that seems to match this description perfectly:

It’s very common in Harry Potter fandom content to see the Goblins as the characters who know everything, who secretly control the Wizarding World. It’s practically an accepted trope for a character (normally Harry) to get a blood/lineage test done at Gringotts that reveals he’s the heir of Slytherin/Griffindor/Peverell/Merlin/Whatever and then the Goblins show him all these secrets about magic. Or the Goblins are the ultimate “neutral party” and are just interested in controlling all the money. Or they hate all wizards and want to wear society fall apart as they puppeteer its demise. JKR made this super antisemitic-based trope and then fandom went the extra step and went full Elders of Zion on the Goblins and made them shadowy figures controlling the world. 

The same thing happened with House Elves. In the books, JKR tries to make it seem like Dobby is such a silly house-elf for wanting to be free, most house-elves love to serve wizards and Hermione’s little abolitionist plan is ridiculous. The issue is the bad wizards treating house-elves bad, not house-elves being enslaved. 

Hermione brandished the sheaf of parchment at them. "I've been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can't believe no one's done anything about it before now." 

"Hermione - open your ears," said Ron loudly. "They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!"

But in fandom this has been expanded even further, with many authors choosing to say that house elves NEED the magic of wizards to survive or they will wither and die. That house-elves not only love being enslaved but they actually demonize Hermione for even thinking about freeing them because it amounts to genocide. Again, JKR started off with the damaging myth of “Slaves are Happy to Be Taken Care Of” (echoing damaging stereotypes of figures such as the Mammy and Uncle Tom) but many fandom tropes make this even worse by doubling down on these issues. 

To an even more extent, JKR loves to demonize female characters by pointing out masculine features or making them less conventionally attractive such as in the case of Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge. 

“Rita Skeeter’s hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson.“

Umbridge looked, Harry thought, like somebody's maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly, mouse-brown hair in which she had placed a horrible pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes. Then she turned her face slightly to take a sip from her goblet and he saw, with a shock of recognition, a pallid, toadlike face and a pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.

And fandom also runs with this, making Umbridge’s conceived “toadish” and “ugly” features out to be just as bad as her supremacaist views and even at times suggesting the two are correlated. The fact she has “bad” features directly ties into her being a bad person. Of course this is common across media, but JKR has a special emphasis on insulting women by pointing out masculine features. 

It’s odd that while many people openly reject JKR’s antisemitism, racism, transphobia, etc, fandom has taken these issues and instead of rejecting it has assimilated it and in many cases outright embraced it. I like to think that people in fandom are not aware of the level that they have assimilated her bias views and harmful stereotypes. But it doesn’t change the fact that they are there. And I’m sure there are many other tropes than the ones I listed here people could state (and feel free to add them). 

This is one of the reasons why I think it’s hard to look at Harry Potter and say “Death of the Author” because JKR’s views are not only translated into fandom but expanded by fandom, doubling down on them through fandom tropes. Like I said, this isn’t something I normally talk about but since I know Harry Potter is very popular here I thought I would just sort of bring up how fandom can amplify an author’s views without even directly expressing so. 

[90stvshowgoth]

—THE BET

summary: you thought that as a member of the phantom troupe you were supposed to be smarter than this, yet here you were betting against hisoka. everyone knew that hisoka was a master at poker, cards were his weapon after all, but you couldn’t resist wagering one more bet on a drinking game.

w/c: 4587

tags: dubcon, drunk sex, creampie, blood kink, hate sex, begging, brat taming

a/n: this originally started as a chrollo oneshot, you can kinda tell from how the opening paragraph is about him, but once i started writing the poker game i was like “okay no i gotta make this its own thing,” and because of that decision we now have loose ends getting ch.3 rn :) also no, i couldn’t help but kinda reference phantom of the opera cause it slaps and nobody can tell me otherwise. also, no, before anyone asks, this is a oneshot. it aint getting a sequel.

big thanks to the lovely miss @sealedrosewater for beta reading this clownfucking nightmare.

The heist had gone off without a hitch, Chrollo’s plan worked like a charm and before the night was out you had all flawlessly extracted each and every one of the gilded texts being held in the museum. You still remembered the childlike gleam in your boss’ eyes as he ran his fingers over the aged leather, its binding parchment laced with gold. The faintest ghost of a smile fled from his pallid lips as he admired his new conquest. It made your chest swell with pride, happy to help the man you respected so much. Besides, your cut was nothing to sneeze at.

Your rendezvous was inside a long-abandoned opera theatre where dust clung to the red velvet of the seats and the chandelier was seemingly hanging by a thread; your boss always had a flair for the dramatics. Once all members of the spider had finished reconvening at the empty theatre to gather their spoils it wasn’t long before someone, probably Uvogin, brought out the drinks. Nobunaga had already begun nursing a rum and coke, all while Feitan kept turning down Shal’s insistence to “Just try some, Fei,” Even Shizuku cracked open one of the ice-cold bottles, knocking back an impressive swig. As soon as you saw Machi pulling out a deck of cards you knew you had to stay for the after party.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of your leader. He’d gone to his room with the book you recovered tucked under his arm. A few other members who couldn’t be bothered took after your leader and went off to whichever side room they’d stashed a futon in the week prior; the Phantom Troupe’s equivalent of picking out a bedroom. A shame, really. You’d seen Feitan drunk once before and it was truly a sight to behold.

You sat crosslegged on the wooden floor, watching your comrades slowly get comfortable for a night of fun. Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat above you, looking up to see Pakunoda with a soft smile on her face and an opened beer in her outstretched hand.

“Paku, have I ever told you how much I love you?” You couldn’t help but shower the woman with praise. She had been the one who recommended you to Chrollo after all, and she served as your mentor for your first few months until you found your feet.

She scoffed at the compliment, “Far too much,”

Sticking your tongue out playfully at the mindreader, you took a deep sip of beer, enjoying the familiar taste. Paku sat down beside you and it wasn’t long before the two of you were drinking shoulder to shoulder.

“Machi! Deal us in,” You raised your drink to the transmuter and she flicked two cards towards you both.

Scooting away from Paku, you quickly scanned the cards you’d received before pressing them face down. A queen and an ace. Not great, but not awful either.

The others had formed a haphazard circle, each glancing at their cards with an unreadable poker face. Well, all except Hisoka, who seemed pleased as punch with whatever hand he’d been dealt. Silently, Nobunaga took out two coins and threw them into the center— the Troupe’s house rules counting it to be equivalent to 2 billion jenny.

“Call,” you answered, matching the swordsman’s bet with an unreadable expression on your face.

“Oh? Well then, I’ll raise you,” Hisoka purred, pushing five extra chips into the pot without breaking his gaze from yours.

‘What was he planning?’ That smug look of his just made you want to win that much more. The same seemed to be true of everyone else, each calling the clown’s bet in a row. After all, to a member of the Phantom Troupe, five billion jenny wasn’t that much of a loss.

When Machi turned up the first three cards your heart skipped a beat. Two queens and a seven. Winning a round of poker against some of the smartest criminals the world had ever known was an uphill battle, seeing as how you’d been a member for years without winning a single game.

‘Three of a kind already... what should I do?’ Your face was as stone-cold as before, even with the excitement bubbling in your gut. As nonchalantly as you could, you raised another two billion. At that, Uvo and Shizuku both folded, the enhancer grumbling with a disappointed frown.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I haven’t got enough coins~” Hisoka slapped down a twenty, and a chorus of annoyed groans broke out like a choir, the abandoned theatre’s acoustics amusingly echoed the loud noises of displeasure.

After that little stunt only three others remained: Pakunoda, who’s facade hadn’t cracked all game, Nobunaga, who was glaring daggers at Hisoka, and the aforementioned magician holding up his cards in front of him like a child playing for the first time.

All three of you matched his bet, but none were happy about it. As Machi flipped over the fourth card you found yourself holding your breath. Not because you particularly cared about the money at stake, but because you felt closer to a victory than you had in months. The caricature of a medieval jester being illuminated under the light made you dig your nails into the palm of your hand.

Joker. That meant you had four queens.

It never felt harder to fight a smile off your face than in that moment. Without betraying your excitement, you called, and to your surprise so did Hisoka. Was he bluffing? Or did he have something else in mind? Nobunaga took a deep breath, knocking back the rest of his drink before calling alongside Pakunoda.

All eyes were on the card beneath Machi’s fingertips, the seconds it took to turn the paper on its head filled the theatre with a suspense liable to bring its fragile walls to the ground.

An eight of hearts. Oh well, no big deal.

Nobunaga muttered a curse under his breath, revealing a simple jack and ten of the same suit. Pakunoda was unreadable when she showed the pair of kings she held in her hands. She must’ve thought that the three of a kind would’ve won her the game. The smile on your face felt sweeter after holding it in the whole round, and Nobunaga rolled his eyes when he saw your hand, pushing the pot towards you.

“Well, look at that~” Your victory was interrupted by Hisoka’s insufferable tone, the cards he held up making your jaw drop.

A nine and a jack of hearts. A straight flush.

“That’s bullshit!” You cried, enraged over the loss. It wasn’t even that you cared so much about losing, It only mattered because you lost to him. In an instant you had summoned your nen into the palms of your hands, ready to lunge at the clown when Pakunoda grasped your shoulders, holding you back. Sometimes you forgot how much brute strength was hidden under that pantsuit.

“Just flip a coin, don’t give him what he wants.” Your first reaction was to ignore her, squirming against her iron grip to try and get to Hisoka, who was dramatically scooping all your winnings into his arms.

Uvogin tossed yet another empty beer can over his head, “C’mon Paku, I say let ‘em fight,”

“I concur~” The magician chirped, dramatically stacking each and every coin he’d won while boring his yellow eyes right into yours. His tongue parted his lips, a manic excitement hiding behind the coy expression.

Although every muscle in your body screamed at you to rip into him, you knew you wouldn’t win. He knew your abilities and you couldn’t say for certain you knew all of his.

“Never-mind,” You spat the words out at him like they tasted sour, “You’d probably get off on it anyways.”

A few laughs from the peanut gallery followed your words and Hisoka shrugged, the intense bloodlust from a few seconds ago vanishing as if he’d changed his mind about fighting you on a whim. “You may be right, darling,” your face scrunched up at the nickname you knew he only used to get on your nerves, which it did. “but what if we played a different game?”

Despite how badly you just wanted to ignore him and laugh the night away with all but one of your comrades, you couldn’t turn down the idea of a rematch. Your pride wasn’t nothing to you. “What kind of game?” You asked hesitantly.

He hummed, standing up from the towers of coin he’d made, sauntering over to the cooler of drinks Franklin had provided. After digging around the cold box he pulled out a bottle of fruity tequila and two empty shot glasses.

Your eyes narrowed at the “innocent” smile on his face, looking over to Pakunoda for reassurance.

“You’ll kill him if he spikes my drink, right?” You asked your mentor, who nodded resolutely.

Paku was staring at Hisoka like she was already thinking of ten different ways how to kill him. After sizing him up she flashed you a reassuring nod, “Without question.”

Resolute in your decision, you marched forward, snatching one of the shot glasses from his hand. The stage lights shone above him, making his eyes gleam like the plastic gloss of a doll.

“Shall we begin, then?”

You raised an eyebrow, “What are the rules first?”

He waved his hand in the air, brushing it off, “Nothing too complex, I assure you. The first one who taps out will lose. The loser will do something for the winner. That’s all.”

You still weren’t convinced it could be that simple. “What’s the catch?”

That smirk from before returned to his painted face and he suddenly leaned forward, feeling far too close for comfort. Still, you didn’t step away, your face expressionless as he whispered into your ear. If you did you felt like he’d somehow win whatever stand-still the two of you had on.

“If I lose, I’ll leave the Phantom Troupe,” You reeled away, stunned at his declaration.

Being accepted into the Troupe was the best moment of your life, it always would be. When you looked into the mirror at the tattoo that curled under your ribcage you felt such a warm swell of pride. You couldn’t imagine throwing it all away over some drinking game.

“And...” You blinked rapidly, trying to collect yourself, “If I lose?”

The laugh that echoed from his chest was far from reassuring.

The evening slowly ran into the early morning, each of the other Troupe members wandering off eventually in varying stages of drunkenness. Even Pakunoda headed off to bed after confirming that Hisoka hadn’t spiked your drinks with anything other than a strawberry vodka base. It was unnerving at first, to be completely alone with Omokage’s replacement. Luckily his tastes ran strong, and your vision was spinning before your knew it.

“Match.” Another shot went down your throats, the taste disgustingly sweet, and you watched as his Adam’s apple tensed from the burn.

You’d long since stopped counting how many drinks you’d had, losing track once you got to the double digits. You were both using nen to reinforce yourselves, obviously, but it wasn’t infallible.

‘How is he so good at this?’ You wondered, because as the bottle ran low you started to question just what had made you so confident as to enter a bet with Hisoka in the first place.

“My dear, why not rest for a minute? At least try to enjoy each others company?” His legs were crossed, resting his hand on his palm as he not-so-subtly checked you out. It wasn’t uncommon, and certainly not unexpected from someone like him, but what you hated wasn’t just the nerve of him, but how it made you feel. His scrutiny sent chills down your spine, the unnerving edge to his tone only making you shift your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure.

“You’re the worst, Hisoka,” you knocked back two consecutive shots, unable to hide the wince it caused on your face. Good, you wanted it to sting. Anything to take your mind off the magician in front of you.

He pouted as he poured another row of drinks, “Aw, now why’s that?”

You answered his question with another, pointing towards the half-empty bottle of liquor, “Whats in this, really?”

The magician rolled his eyes, “I did pick an unopened bottle for a reason, dear, I do so want you to trust me.”

Without much fanfare he threw back four shots, over your stunned reaction.

“Just give up already, Darling~ I promise to make it worth your while,” You were reaching your limit for sure, but you were far to stubborn to give up without a fight.

“Fuck you,” you took the first of your next four shots slowly, not managing his fast pace.

He grinned a cheshire smile, “Oh, say that again, will you?”

If he were to call you out on the blush slowly spreading across your nose you’d just blame the alcohol, but the truth was that his words just egged you on even more to the point where you were almost—barely even considering...

“What do you mean, make it worth my while?”

He leaned forward like a cat, agile and silent, whispering his words against your temple, “I’ll tell you how I won that hand,” He got you, hook, line, and sinker.

“You’ll tell me how you cheated?”

Hisoka nodded, a clawed hand coming to stroke a stray piece of hair behind your ear, the action far too intimate for someone like him.

There was no way you’d win against him in this match, that much was clear from the very sober way Hisoka held himself against you, inhumanly still, so what did you have to lose?

‘Your dignity,’ A part of you answered back, but it wasn’t all that convincing. You’d left your dignity behind four shots ago.

“If I lose...”

“If you lose,” He mouthed the words into your cheek, his eyes closed in thought, “You do know what I’ve decided my prize shall be, right?” Of course you knew what he wanted. You weren’t stupid, and the way he nuzzled himself into your neck was far from subtle.

Were you actually so desperate to learn how you lost that you’d sleep with him?

No, you weren’t. But the ache between your legs was getting harder to ignore, and the idea that you could write off what you were about to do behind the excuse of gathering intel sounded like a win-win.

You dug your hands into his hair, not trying to be anything but rough, basking in the moan that spilled from his lips, breath hot against your neck before you yanked him back to meet your gaze.

“Fine. You win, Hisoka,” He smirked, and although he was on his knees he still towered over you, “so how did you cheat?”

Before you could blink his hand had wrapped around your throat, the magician slamming your head into the wood of the stage. You’d had plenty of time to block the damage with your hatsu but the action left your brain rattling inside your skull.

“I’ll tell you later,” He promised, the disorienting blur was slow to fade from the alcohol, and distantly you could feel his other hand stroke your face, his nails like filed daggers trailing over your cheekbones.

“What to do with my prize, then, hm?” He mused, tilting your head from left to right as if examining a block of wood he was about to carve. You coughed on impulse when he let go of your neck, guiding it up instead and taking both your small hands into his palm with an iron grip.

With a flick of his wrist he drew a card, the eight of hearts, seemingly out of nowhere, his nen sharpening it into a thin blade, “Don’t move,”

“Wait... Hisoka, don’t—!” You were far too late to stop him, the frigid air of the ghostly theatre rushing to meet the bare skin of your chest.

Your shirt fell to ribbons along with your bra and you thrashed desperately in his grasp, angry over the loss of your favorite top. He paid your escape attempt no mind, enraptured with the way your tits rose and fell with the timing of your breath and the way you tried to wriggle yourself free.

Still holding your hands to the floor above you, his head bent to wrap a skilled tongue around your tits, a soft sigh involuntarily falling away from you.

“I fuckin’ ha-ate you, Hisoka—ah,” His teeth bit down on your peak at the comment, peering up at you from under his fiery hair.

“Oh? Then why is it you’re moaning like a little whore?” He shifted his weight above you and you saw an opportunity.

You kicked with all your strength between his legs, pulling your knee back and shoving him off with a dig of your shoe into his stomach, “I’m not, don’t call me that shit!”

He actually loosened his grip on you clearly not intending for you to get free from his grasp, a choked sound of what you thought was pain devolving to something much more heated as he stared into you.

“You... are well worth the wait, my dear,” His bloodlust seeped out from every pore, grounding you to the spot. You could usually hold your own against someone like him but it wasn’t hard to see the disadvantage you were at.

Within a fraction of a second he was on you, twisting your waist in his clawed grasp until your ass was hiked into the air, a sharpened playing card slicing through the denim until he could rip it from your legs, yelp echoing like music in the long-silent theatre.

“I knew you’d have some fight left in you,” He crawled forward and you started to realize why he wore exclusively baggy pants, his length hot against you through the fabric as his hips caged you in. As he began to remove that street-performer getup he always wore he’d occasionally curl his hand around your waist to mercifully tug on your ignored clit, your groans muffled and cursed, “I love it. That resilience? It just turns me on.”

You could feel your confidence fade as he tugged those sweatpants down, the weight of him grinding into your ass made all your bravado vanish.

“It will make it so much more satisfying...” He pointed his finger upwards, and suddenly your hands became magnetized to each other, no amount of struggle even budging the rubbery nen substance. “...when I break you.”

Without warning he slid himself inside you, hands holding your hips still as he forced your back into an arch. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, the flailing of your bound arms useless as he shallowly began pumping his cock deeper inside you.

Your muffled curses whispered into the floor made him laugh, pulling his hand back and cruelly slapping the vulnerable flesh of your ass without a warning.

“Wh.. Why?”

“Because, darling, I want to hear you beg for me.” He pouted, teasing your clenched walls with only the tip of his slick head.

Despite the desire coursing through your veins you still had your pride in tact, “Never gonna happen, asshole.”

Gripping your hips, he dug himself into your dripping cunt as far as he could, both of you unrestrained with a moan at the feeling of his cock brushing near your cervix, your hips traitorously snapping back to meet his eager thrusts, movement near impossible as Hisoka forced you into the ground.

You cried out softly with each quick pull and stretch, only able to say his name one syllable at a time,

“Hi-so—kah...” It was hard to turn your head to the side from his brutal pace but somehow you manage, craning yourself in order to see him; His head was thrown back with a sheer bliss softening his glistening skin, his eyes closed and lips parted. The sight made your keening grow louder, the simple image of him losing himself in your twitching pussy sending a wave of slick dripping around his length.

He must’ve felt your gaze on him because soon enough his was staring at you, his pupils blown wide with desire in a way that made them look like a sun eclipsed, black outlined with a ring of fiery gold.

All at once his hips froze, digging his cock so far as to leave an indent in your pelvis. For a confused second you thought he’d finished, but his gaze was cruel and focused, his lips in a smirk, and you felt no more full than you had a moment ago. He was doing this on purpose.

“Wait, no-nono, wh..y?” You hiccuped, taking his break as a moment to wipe unshed tears from your glossy eyes.

He sighed, “I don’t like repeating myself, darling,” He accentuated the infuriating nickname with a slap to your thigh, face unchanged as he trailed his sharpened fingertips along the reddening skin.

“His..oh.. fuck, Hisoka—“ The banished tears returned, falling silently down your pink face as you whispered, “please,”

“Hmm? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you, my dear, mind saying that again?

Your voice hiccuped as you spoke, “Please, alright? Please,” You thought it’d be enough, that he might finally go back to toying with your clit while he fucked you into the old floorboards, but you’d underestimated the magician’s self-control.

Innocently, he tilted his head, “Please what, dear? Please hit you again?” Hisoka didn’t blink as he slowly brought up his palm, giving you plenty of time to try and wiggle free from your punishment just to show off how futile escape really was, lashing his hand down on the same patch of skin as before, grinning at the shriek he yanked from your lungs.

“No! No, fu-uck.. just—“ You whimpered, brain seemingly disconnected from your mouth as you struggled to form the words, “just fuck me, Hisoka, please.”

“Look at you, huh? You were a slut after all,” He purred, letting the weight of your words hang lifeless in the air along with your stubborn pride. Before you could argue again his hand had returned to your clit, pace unforgiving as he pulled your nerves ever closer to snapping only to halt the second he grew bored, “Say it,”

Mindlessly, you nodded your head, “I’m yours, I’m your slut, Hisoka,” you intentionally clenched yourself around him, mumbling lucid pleas for more as his hard cock twitched, pre cum dripping from your heat onto the floor as your conscience trying to deny what your body so willingly accepted, “want you to fuck me, Hisoka, fu-ck,” you whined, the still presence inside your sensitive walls drove you insane.

With each word a truly unhinged aura began to surround him, and by extension, you, the intoxicating menace dripping over you like a drug as you faced forward once again, wiggling your ass as best you could in his grip.

That was his breaking point, ripping you away from his cock only to drive himself back in, digging the full blade of his nails into your hips, blood pooling around the crescent cuts.

“Fuck, ah.. Darling, ‘doing so good, so good’fr me-ah,” He slurred his words together, more drunk on you than the vodka as he leaned back, forcing you to meet him as his thrusts became so quick that it was getting hard to breathe, your ribcage creaking with discomfort as you were nailed into the stage.

“M..o-re, more...” You begged, and he was happy to oblige. the smearing crimson of blood running hot down your thighs, the pain only making you more pliant in his sculptor’s hands as he folded your body however he liked, ignoring your pained weep from the stretch as he slung one of your bleeding legs over his shoulder.

It was almost weird to hear him say your actual name, so often he used a pet name to mock or flirt with you, sometimes both, “So good for me like this, taking me so goo-uh,” He choked on his words as your cunt tightened around him, your hands clinging for balance in his hair, and Hisoka clearly didn’t mind if the slew of moans from his lips was any indication.

The angle his hips cut into had the edges of your vision turning into a vignette, “I’m close, so close, gonna cum inside you, yeah? Right here,” The hand that had been toying with your clit changed angles, his fingertips spinning spirals onto your aching bud while the flat of his hand pushed against your stomach, your shout swallowed by his pretty lips, tongue toying with yours.

“Ye-es cum inn-side me,” You were too far gone to care, anything he said sounded good as long as he said it in that sultry purr, arms numb as they lay suspended above your head.

“Take it, take it, Darling,” With what little strength you had left you curved your calf beside his neck, pulling him in until his cock brushed your cervix, the pain indistinguishable from the pleasure, “Uhn, cumm-fuck, i’m cumming—“

His cum was thick, the curve of his cock jutting inside you as he filled you up, mercifully swallowing your hallowed scream as he kissed you deeply, almost all feeling in your raised leg lost until he lowered it to his waist, involuntarily snapping his hips up although they had nowhere left to go until your moan turned into a broken sob of lingering bliss.

“Shh, dear, I’ve got you,” With a whirl of his wrist your arms were free of his bungee gum, shakily pulling them to your sides again as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your neck, whispering a slurred mess of sweet words, stopping to suck a particularly deep hickey into the vein of your flesh.

“Hisoka, quit it!” Your fight had returned along with feeling to your fingertips as you wrenched him back by the hair, his cock jumping.a bit inside you at the grip, “I’ll have to wear sweaters for weeks now, you jerk.”

The capillaries had already begun to burst as he laughed, reaching up behind your head to pull his discarded top forward, digging out what looked like a piece of smooth cleaning cloth from its pocket and lying it over your neck with a simple point of his finger, gyo revealing the pink gum of his aura that controlled it before he smoothed the fabric over your skin, the texture so light you could barely feel it.

“A deal’s a deal, love, I’ll tell you how I cheated,” He smiled as satisfied and smug as he could ever be, a tingling sensation overtaking the patch of covered skin.

As he pulled your hand away you ran your fingers over the cloth, not finding a seam among the normal tone of your chest. Eyes wide as you looked at him for answers he was already happy to provide, “It’s called texture surprise. I can apply it to any flat surface and change its appearance. It’s quite handy,”

“It works on skin, paper, even playing cards,” You felt like an idiot. During the match you kept analyzing him for a sleight of hand trick all while he was using a second nen technique to win. It was so simple but genius, and you felt a little bit better knowing you weren’t outwitted by something obvious.

“You’re the worst, Hisoka,”

He chuckled, kissing along the new unblemished canvas of your neck, “I know~”

[everysongineverykey]

did you guys know that ummm this world's not half as blue as the one you think you're passing through this fantasy that you've fabricated's desaturated and gray and you have to see that you can't escape it if you keep running away you've got this power inside and it's frightening drowned in emotion this ocean you're siphoning chromatose down to the tide that you're hiding in no one should be as alone as you try to be family trees don't need be organic the branches you graft are as equally valid so if your party of one's world is pallid go plant some paladins packing a palette

[bellasgreensweater]

✨Why I Think Bella Swan Is On The Autism Spectrum ✨

In this post I’m going to talk about why I personally believe that Bella Swan is autistic. As an autistic person myself, I really relate to Bella and I see a lot of autistic traits in her.

Disclaimer: This is just a headcanon- I don’t think Stephenie Meyer intentionally wrote Bella as autistic, and she or the movie producers never confirmed it, so I’m not saying to everyone that she is CONFIRMED to be autistic and that every one has to see her that way, I’m just saying that I personally think she is, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Autistic people hardly have any representation in the media, and with the representation that we do have, it is almost always stereotypical, inaccurate and offensive. You do not have to agree with me on this, but just please be respectful in the comments and don’t hate :)

Ok let’s go:

1. She always felt different from everyone/she felt like nobody truly understood her and that she never really understood anyone either: this is what basically all autistic people feel, myself included. Feeling like nobody understands the way your brain works and the way you see the world. (And this is true, because autistic people do see the world differently than non- autistic people and autistic peoples brains are wired differently from non- autistic brains). Bella mentions this multiple times in the books and movies, at one point in the first book in the car with Edward, she tells him that she thinks he can’t read her mind because they’re a probably a glitch in her brain and that it’s not like other people’s. There is also this quote from the 1st chapter of twilight which sums up how she feels: “ Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn’t just physically that I’d never fit in. And if I couldn’t find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here? I didn’t relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn’t relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain”.

2. Her motor skills: She’s constantly tripping over her own feet, has bad balance, doesn’t realize that she’s walking into things, constantly dropping things ect, a common thing for autistic people is to have poor motor skills and find it hard to navigate their body.

Another disclaimer about autism: not ever autistic person is the exact same, every autistic person expresses their autism in a slightly different way, for example, some autistic people are overly sensitive to sound, and some are under-sensitive to it, these are just the specific things I’ve noticed for Bella in this post, it’s not supposed to be a generalization of autism in any way! :)

3. Social disinterest and difficultly: all throughout her childhood and her time in forks, she wasn’t very interested in making friends or hanging out or going to parties, and she found that she could never make friends with someone easily, she just never fully clicked with someone. She did have some very nice friends in forks, however she never related to them too well or was very attached to them.

4. Dresses for comfort and not fashion: Bella typically dresses in what feels most comfortable for her, not what is the most fashionable thing, this is a common thing with autism. A lot of autistic people like myself are quite sensitive to clothing and fabric and will not tolerate uncomfortable clothing.

5. Limited interests/special interests: Bella doesn’t really have many interests, but the ones she does have, she’s very passionate about. A special interest is an autism-specific term used to describe interests and hobbies that autistic people have that are very important to them. They help regulate emotions, calm people down, provide escapism ect. Autistic people can hyper fixate on these interests for hours and hours and not get bored, they can get so engrossed that they forget to do basic tasks to take care of themselves like drinking or going to the bathroom. These interests can last for years, sometimes a lifetime and they are very important to autistics. Bella swans special interests would be reading, wuthering heights, and vampires. Bella says in midnight sun that she has loved reading all her life and it is one of the few things that bring her intense joy. She said she could read for hours at a time and would try to sneak books into her lessons and read any chance she could get. Bella says that her favorite book is wuthering heights and she has read it so many times that it is beaten up beyond repair and the spine is so cracked that the book lays flat. This would clearly be her special interest. Her other special interest is clearly vampires.

6. Burnouts and meltdowns when Edward leaves: when Edward left in new moon, Bella obviously fell into a huge depression, but I also think she fell into an autistic burnout (if you don’t know what that is pls research or ask me cause this post is already too goddamn long). And in eclipse, when Edward leaves to go home in the afternoon or to go hunting, she can barely focus without him and gets very anxious (this is obviously because she loves him and is literally obsessed with him lol, but I also think it could be a meltdown from separation anxiety and also a change in routine (a lot of autistics get very upset when their usual routine is disrupted or changed))

7. Sensitive to sounds: In the book, often Bella cannot concentrate or fall asleep because of little sounds like the rain, sometimes it takes ages for her to sleep because the rain or tapping is too distracting. (This is a common autistic struggle).

8. Stims & facial twitches & stuttering: in the movie, she is constantly stuttering over her words, and her face and body twitches a lot. She also stims a lot in the book by playing with her hair or sleeves or the zip of her jacket, or her hands or edwards hands. She also covers some of her face with her hair, this could be to do with sensory overload, seeing too much in her field of vision may be overwhelming for her, like a lot of autistics.

9. Trouble expressing feelings/ thoughts: bella struggles a lot sometimes with communication and telling people how she feels. You can see this in her relationship with Charlie. They both love eachother very much but they never say it and when they do it comes out very awkward and sometimes they use the wrong words. You can also see this when she is hesitant to tell Edward in eclipse when she doesn’t want him to leave for the fight, it takes her ages to work up to telling someone how she feels. She also tends to be quite private. This is common for some autistics to feel.

10. Sensory experiences: bella loves the sun and heat, she says that she loves feeling the sun seep into her skin- a lot of autistics feel the sensory world very strongly and love certain sensations and detest others. When Bella moves to forks, she hates the sudden change in weather and gets anxious and upset at the feel of the cold, and the rain against her skin. This links back to my other point where I was talking about how autistics fear sudden changes in routine. Bella is very relieved when there’s a sunny day in forks and goes and sits outside, savouring the weather which reminds her of home.

11. Not too concerned with how she looks: obviously not every autistic person is like this, but quite a few autistics don’t really focus on how they look/present and what they wear. They don’t really know about the social norms and what other people wear so they do what they want. This is something I often see in Bella in the books especially.

12. More quiet/ reserved and socially withdrawn and awkward: this is basically self explanatory. Bella is very well known for this. I touch a bit more on this in point 3.

If you made it this far then thank you so much! This took a long ass time to write and I’ve been thinking of making this post for months. There are more things that make me headcanon her as autistic, but these are just from the top of my head. When I re-read the series (for like the 100th time lol) later this year, I’ll annotate the book so that I can update this post in the future with more supporting this).

Again this is just my opinion and my personal headcanon, it is not factual (but I’d obviously want it to be canon) so please no hate :)

If you have any more things to add on then please do!! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

[gemma-collins-ily]

Hello, I really like your writing, and I just had an idea and saw that the requests were open so I thought you could write it :D. It's with Jesper and a fem reader. My thought was, that Jesper and the reader have this unlabeled relationship where maybe like, at parties where they are both kinda drunk and the moment calls for it they share some kisses here and there, but it never went beyond that and they never talked about it. However after a while Jesper starts to fall hard for her, like really in love, and it makes him panic a bit. And maybe the next time they end up kissing Jesper acts completely different, he's super gentle and loving, and idk, caresses her face and gives little pecks after and just doesn't want to let her go, and she notices that something changed and there's emotion there. I think it would be a really interesting and adorable scenario. You can decide how the confession goes and how the reader discovers her own feelings, but I would love to see jesper realizing his and then pouring his emotions on what would be just a casual fun kiss. Much love 💕

Route Home To Yours

a/n - guys, I really was stuck on this but after re-reading I found it to be less terrible than I thought xoxo ❤️💖. This is maybe one of the most kissing involved things I've written haha.

Warnings: Jesper being an asshole(for only some of it I swear!), a swear word at one point and mentions of drinking!

It was a dalliance of sorts, a twist and turn of events that were so interlinked yet so disconnected.

Jesper was supposed to be a casual summer fling, and he was, until summer passed.

Then autumn. Then winter. Spring.

After that, it had been a full year since something had started between the two of you, something so indescribable, no matter how many times and how often you had tried to weave it into coherent words on paper, always ending with splotched ink strewn over the blank, yellowed parchment, the back of your hand coming to deliver a firm blow to the inkpot as you became increasingly frustrated.

You recalled when he had first leant forward to kiss you, your mouth easily loosening to allow his tongue to explore as a result of both your shock and awe.

Your first kiss occured when you were almost blackout drunk, only remembering the sharp stinging sensation of bourbon snaking into your nostrils and the short gasps of air before the feeling of warm lips pressed fervently against yours again. That was until you had begun to drink your coffee the next day, propelling it past your lips and the beverage ending up spilling over an unimpressed Matthias.

A few curses had been yelped in Fjerdan as he had hopped around, trying to get up the stairs so he could change his shirt that was now plastered to his skin with just under boiling hot liquid.

Normally, you would have chuckled heartily, muttering a half-hearted and not at all meant apology, bathing in your amusement with eyes twinkling and smile spreading over your features.

But right then, your face had become pallid and sickly pale, heart racing as your thoughts loomed over you, daunting and evilly fogging over your mind efficiently, making it so you could not think of anything else for days after.

Would it change things between you?

But it never had and maybe, just maybe, you were silly for thinking it ever would. Ever could.

Jesper Fahey practically ruled the dating world, always on the prowl for his next snogging session, and no matter how predatory and different it sounded in contrast to his normal sweet nature, it was factual information.

You should have known, you should have promised yourself never to allow your mind to wander to him, to fall for him.

One silly kiss had not changed your world, not rocked it as you had predicted, barely influencing it at all really, only making you less oblivious to your ever growing affection toward the sharpshooter. A lot less oblivious.

All it was was one silly kiss.

Silly: that's all it was.

Until it wasn't.

Because at the very next party, when you had so gracefully indulged in drinking one too many shots, hoping to drown your sorrows and confusion in alcohol, he had magically shown up beside you, arm wrapping strategically over your shoulders.

And then he was kissing you fiercely once again, a strange sense of déjà vu trailing after his lips as they made hot imprints against your own, teeth clashing together, a slight bite drawing out your bottom lip.

You must have looked insane, suddenly letting yourself be tempted by him, reeled in just as all the others were.

You had told yourself for weeks, months even, that you were not one of his escapades, you were not interested in him whatsoever. However, in that moment, you admitted to yourself you were very much enamoured by Jesper Fahey, and if that was what being a challenge to him felt like, you didn't currently mind, floating in the clouds already from your previous drinks.

You had fully acknowledged openly it would hurt like hell in the morning, waking only for your head to flop back to the pillow, your spine stiff and heart sunken.

But you had allowed yourself to have that fantasy dream, that phantom memory of his lips the next day, even if a tear was shed at the thought of your imminent agony soon to arrive.

You had supposed they all said they weren't interested in the beginning.

And every time your lips would lock after that, some type of alcohol burning your nose and causing your eyes to water, a feeling of immense disappointment would settle itself deep in your stomach, almost as if to boast how long it would be there for.

And every time Jesper kissed you, you would kiss back with a single salty droplet incorporated into the sort of embrace, your lips feeling so right together, although they too felt so wrong, so scandalous.

Most painfully of all, a thought would float to the surface of your mind, plaguing it for hours after.

Maybe, that's what they all said.

Jesper knew it was wrong, to use you so, probably some sort of sin to Inej's saints. But as far as he had been concerned at the start, he committed unforgivable acts everyday, stealing and killing and taking ruthless revenge on all in the streets.

However, that was in the beginning.

Now, he felt you were too fragile, delicate, prescious for him to carry on this way. And each time he approached you at the bar, ordering a whiskey of some irrelevant brand, he knew it was horrible to do this.

But he had. All because he had felt good, all because he had wanted to wrap you in his arms and have his hands dug into your hips.

But you were so complex, so unimaginable, in ways he had never thought of before, sharing breathless whispers of information about yourself he would at first dismiss between long kisses, only raising an eyebrow before diving right back to your lips.

Later though, he had begun to really listen, taking complete interest in the little snippets he now knew of you, far more than he had ever thought possible engraved in his brain, stored away in his memory and the one section of retained information he promised himself to treasure and never forget. Ever.

But, Jesper reasoned with himself, that he had too promised he would stop using you in the way he did, instead learning to cherish you and love you, adore you and allow himself to let him be his true self around you.

And that had not happened.

He was in love with you, that was clear, and he had been from the get go.

He just hadn't known it then, too busy enjoying whatever you had going on. But once he did, he had panicked and decided to do what he did best.

Improvise and carry on with what he was previously doing. When he looked back on this later, he knew it was a dick move.

But he had drawn out the dalliance, letting himself fall further as he listened carefully to your unusual facts you spouted mindlessly, head nowhere near clear enough to think of anything else except the things you'd had memorised for years.

It was just another night, nothing special happening or anything to look forward to.

Well, that was what you told yourself, though another part of you was so enthralled, wanting to feel his lips upon yours again and a little too ready to do so. You were also just a little too dressed up.

You couldn't help wanting to have a good time while looking good, choosing to ignore the reasoning that you could also be trying to look good for him.

Jesper.

He too was dressed in a much more formal way, yet he had somehow been able to make his outfit so... Jesper. So him.

His top two buttons were stylishly undone and his cufflinks too rolled over themselves once; his hair was tussled and a lock of chocolate brown fell over his coffee eyes, obscuring them from your view for just a moment or less, yet still one moment too many; and his collar was drawn outward at the sides, almost popped although not quite.

You didn't know if it looked like him as clothing because he was wearing it and that was also his general style or because you couldn't envision anyone else fitting it as he did.

It was as though the fabrics were snipped through by delicate hands, tucking away fraying strings as they sewed carefully along the allocated pencil lines, all for Jesper.

Maybe they were. Maybe he had a personal tailor and you made a note to ask him for a reference later. If you could remember, that was.

Forgetting was easy when even glancing at him, as it was he for you. Many a time on a heist, he had become severely distracted by you, listening to the lowered silk on your voice spinning through the air, wrapping itself over him and descending in a web, keeping the sharpshooter trapped and only seemingly able to attempt to detect the sound waves gracing his ears.

He would not actually listen sometimes, getting lost in your eyes, admiring the strokes of rich and deep pigmented power beneath when on a heist that required an expensive costume.

Or generally, when he'd find himself observing the similarities between the beverage before you and the shades of your irises, the flecks and how they compared to the surface of the drink.

Whenever he saw bitter coffee, he would glance at you, aware of how your eyes seemed so much warmer than it, despite the rising swirls of steam appearing above the liquid: he would see the weak yellowy-ivy shade of fresh green tea and instantaneously scan your eyes for similarities once more.

Everything was held in the eyes, and Jesper knew it.

And as he started towards you, you swore your heart stopped, halting in its movements. His did too, admiring you closely, pupils flitting over the small lock of hair left untamed and hanging over your left cheek, looking as though it was tickling it slightly.

He also admired you in every other way: one in which he gazed upon you, wondering if he had a million canvases would he be able to replicate such beauty; the way in which Jesper looked at your clothes from head to toe, even taking your dainty yet thick rimmed rings into account, adoring how they pulled the outfit together completely; and the simplest form of glancing at your drink, comparing once again.

He didn't think he would ever stop that. Or be able to even if he tried.

Suddenly, as he slipped into the seat beside you, now perched upon the smooth oak stool with his face turned in your direction, he was overcome with emotion, something it was rare for him to feel when taking part in a quick fling.

The answer was already mapped before him - you were not just a person he could look at, you were a person he could really see. You were everything, so much more deserving than how he had been treating you.

And so, when he leaned in, his hand followed to your jawline, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the unruly strands of hair away from your cheek, finding himself wondering how you could make blinking look so good, your lashes falling upon your lower eyelid before lifting.

As the moment he had waited for arrived, he was gentle and soft, moving his lips against yours tenderly and sensually, no longer caring for the pacing.

Maybe, if he couldn't tell you he loved you with words, this was the way.

And it certainly seemed to be as you reciprocated his actions, albeit how confused you were.

As he pulled away, he pressed a lingering kiss upon your cheek before apparently deciding that was not enough. His lips found their route home to yours, giving a succession of drawn out pecks.

He had never tucked the out-of-place wisps of hair behind your ear, instead choosing to use them as an excuse to keep his hand pressed on your cheek, his fingertips holding them against it too.

As he finally pulled away, the hair came to rest between his forefinger and thumb and he cautiously rubbed it between them, humming at the soft feeling and the slight aroma of the conditioner you always used filling the air.

Before you could say anything, his lips landed upon yours once more and despite everything, you grinned against his.

Because you knew this would be a night to remember. And in both of your hearts, you knew it would be the first night of many.

[arminhug]

hello, pumpkin || annie leonhardt x reader: chapter two

series masterlist

。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

BIRTHDAY GIRL

Annie and I never established that we were friends until her eighth birthday.

In the blossoming spring warmth, I nestled myself in the corner of the bench in the playground’s garden. It was an unspoken fact that nobody really played in the garden; it was a quiet haven for a few of us to read or enjoy solitude, yet it had also become a spot where I waited for Annie every day, and almost every day, had she not been sent home or busy with other obligations, Annie joined me, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. I didn’t mind; I just loved to be in her company.

On this particular day, Annie stood before me, and despite her being the same height as me, her air always made her seem much bigger and powerful.

“My dad says this is for you.”

She handed me a white envelope into which I fervently tore, revealing a gaudy invitation card.

“It’s your birthday on Saturday?” I quizzed.

“No, my birthday is today. But my dad said it was too short notice to invite you to my house today, so you can come on Saturday.”

At this news of Annie’s birthday, I immediately leapt to my feet and braced her in a hug. “Happy birthday! What cake are you having? Are you going to hand out sweets to your class?”

Annie did not hug me back but did not resist. “I don’t like cake, and I don’t like anyone in my class.”

I gasped. “How can you not like cake? Also, who’s going to be at your party if you don’t like anyone in your class?”

“Cake is too heavy and sweet.” She responded monotonously. “Also, you’re the only one coming; it’s not a party, my dad just knows I have a friend now and wanted you to come. You don’t have to.”

Unlike Annie, I didn’t actively avoid the other children in my school. I was still invited to many class birthday parties, I spoke amiably to my peers and I could name a few schoolchildren whom I could consider a friend— yet Annie, the stoic, ash-blonde girl confessing she saw me as a friend elicit such joy within me, I can still remember the feeling to this day if I think about her enough.

“So if I’m your friend, I have to get you a present, right?” I had reminded her of the title that she gave me moments ago.

“No. I don’t want a present.”

“Yes you do, everyone wants presents!” I retorted. “What do you like best in the world?”

“Cats.”

I sat down, sulking. “I can’t get you a cat, Annie. What else do you like?”

Silence.

“Mummy and I can make you something.” I continued, desperate to find something that I could give to my friend. “She’s really good at baking. Do you like cookies?”

“No.”

“Cupcakes?” I refused to give up.

“No! Cupcakes are tiny cakes, you know I hate cakes.”

“Brownies?”

“No.”

“Doughnuts?”

This time, Annie turned away, not meeting the question with a monosyllabic “no”.

“Doughnuts! Annie, I’ll make you lots of doughnuts, okay?”

Annie still refused to look me in the eye. It never bothered me, but I had gathered that she was more inclined to refuse eye contact when she was upset or shy. Before I had the chance to attempt to pry into which flavour of doughnut she would have liked, the bell signalling the end of recess rang. I leapt to my feet and pressed a chaste kiss to Annie's cheek.

“See you later, you doughnut!”

She shoved me towards my line with no malice in the action. “Whatever you say, pumpkin girl.”

“Earth to (y/n)? You’ve been glazed over for the past five minutes. What’s so exciting about the window?”

I blink, snapping out of the saccharine memory of Annie’s birthday. Four pairs of eyes are fixed on me, and I animate myself, taking the doughnut from my plate and shrugging. “I was just thinking,” I respond.

“You sure? Not looking at any hot dudes?” the only other female at the table, Sasha, suggests. Her hazel eyes flicker suggestively over to the group of men kicking a ball about in the park over the road from our favourite local café, which has baked goods to die for (or so Sasha and Connie, the food fanatics of my friendship group claim. I won’t argue—the doughnuts are heavenly.)

“Yeah, c’mon, (y/n)! There are three dashing fellows right here, why do you need to stare at those losers?” Connie chimes in, gesturing to himself and my other two male friends, Jean and Marco.

“Yeah, you wish. My type isn’t idiots,” I playfully smack Connie’s head, the growing stubble brushing my fingertips as I find any way to bring the subjects away from men that I would apparently find attractive.

“On all seriousness, what is your type? We’ve never seen you have anyone about.” Jean interrogates. Great.

It took me a while to figure out that I’m likely not into men. I never quite knew why I got so uncomfortable when middle school brought an array of boy bands that prepubescent teenage girls loved to swoon over, and why I could never answer when somebody asked me who was the hottest, but at the age of sixteen, when I realised my heart was racing upon seeing two women kiss in a film my friends and I had watched, it hit me like a freight train that I was definitely attracted to women.

I chose not to indulge anyone in this knowledge; realistically, I know I don’t have too much to worry about. Sure, my parents aren’t screaming about supporting gay rights from the rooftops, but I know that they have no prejudice towards the community, and my four closest friends would accept me no matter what — hell, Marco told us he was gay when we were fifteen and sixteen years old over a game of Mario Kart and we embraced his queerness with open arms.

So what’s the big deal? I think to myself.

“Does it matter? I’m too busy to date. These university decisions are killing me!”

“Simple,” Jean interrupts, pointing the straw of his ridiculously large iced coffee in my direction. “You come to Marley with Marco and me. Good university, far enough away from your parents, and you get your favourite friends with you for the ride!”

Jean and Marco are one class above Sasha, Connie and I, and decided that Marley University, a small, public school that gained a decent reputation despite it being so new, was the place for them. It was hard to say goodbye once they left school, but the holiday breaks came frequently, and soon enough, they were back for Easter, helping their three younger friends decide on which school to go to.

“Tempting, but probably not. I can’t get over the English department in Sina,” I responded dreamily.

“Yeah, and the crazy entry requirements. You’d have to be a robot to get those grades! Just come to Marley with us, I’m sure the English stuff is fine there, too!” Sasha whined, poking at my hand. I take another bite of my nostalgic treat, shaking my head.

“Guys, I love you all, but I can’t make such an important decision based on my friends. You understand, right?”

“It’s fine, (y/n),” Marco interrupts, his familiar comforting smile gracing his freckled face. “We’ll come to visit you up there, right?”

“Nope. Four of us, one of you. She is coming to Marley.” Jean retorts.

“Jesus, fair enough. I’ll book the plane tickets now!” I tell him sardonically. He elbows me jovially in response and stands, coffee in hand. “Right, we can finish our drinks and snacks on the way outside. It's too nice to be spending it indoors.”

Ignoring the protests from Sasha and Connie, who forlornly protest that they haven't had the chance to order a baked good after their main courses, the majority of the group tail towards the double doors, leaving the duo no choice but to begrudgingly follow suit. The late March sunshine is glorious, beaming down on my face, much like the day twelve years ago I was daydreaming about. It suddenly hit me that today, March 22nd, Annie would be turning twenty years old. This newfound knowledge makes my stomach drop and I cannot control the grief coursing through my being.

It's ever so odd how I can remember every detail about my childhood friend; every memory we shared together, her favourite colour, (black, which I insisted was rather morbid for an eight-year-old, so I coaxed her into putting blue as a second favourite) how on Sunday mornings her father would always pick her up from my house after a sleepover at 10 am sharp to take her to karate, even though she had told me in confidence that she much preferred kickboxing. I couldn't tell you many facts about any other childhood friend who I lost to time; it's only Annie. Every detail of the girl who made my infancy etched into my heart, refusing to leave.

As I force myself back into the present moment, I am aware that maybe Annie was more than just my best friend.

But I was so young. How could I have truly differentiated between innocuous childhood affection and romantic yearning?

“Marco?” I punctuate the spring silence before I can even stop myself. “How did you realise your first crush?”

Marco raises his eyebrows. “Jeez, it was so long ago. I was eleven and I was having a sleepover with my friend. We were on his bed playing Minecraft on his laptop, but I wasn’t even paying attention; I was just admiring his face, how he was so engrossed in the game. My heart was racing because I realised I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t even think it was biologically possible to like the same sex, so I brushed it off. Now I look back…” he laughs awkwardly, before looking me in the eye, his tone suddenly earnest. “Why, what’s up? Anything you want to talk to me about?”

I stop in the street, completely oblivious to the speed of modern day life around me. Suddenly all I care about is how my stomach leapt when I saw her pallid figure walk through the double doors, into the garden, how I found any excuse to hold her hand, how obsessed I was with the topography of her curved nose, icy eyes, lips stark against her pale skin.

“How do you know for sure you’re gay if you’ve only ever had a crush on one person in your life? Somebody who you haven’t spoken to in eight years?”

。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

[prettywordsyouleft]

The Devil in Red and White

Pairing: Im Jaebum x female reader

World: King Of Demons

Genre: fluff / demon au / christmas-ish au (I know it’s January, don’t come for me)

Warnings: none, aside from if you’re not familiar with this world, then nicknames won’t make much sense.

A/N: I had this idea immediately when I started thinking about what to write for Jaebum’s birthday. Then I cursed it out for not coming to me earlier in December so it would make more sense to use it. But hey, Sheol and Earth never really line up with the same time and date, now do they XD (I also need to write this now before the next story for Princess and Jaebum in this world and since I plan to do that before Christmas 2021, please just humour me a little longer!)

Word count: 1321

King of Demons series: Havoc // King of Demons // Unfathomable // Sacrifice // King of Demons: The Return // In The Night // Identity // Prophecy // Someone // The Devil Contained // The Monsters Witch

Jaebum was more than ready to see you again.

It had been far too long, so he thought, since you had returned to Sheol, and this time apart especially had been harder to endure, knowing you were with child.

His child.

Still, to anyone who wasn’t close to the Devil himself, they would merely think of him as curiously awaiting the elevator from the Gatekeeper’s lair. The smirk on Mark’s face beside him, however, gifted Jaebum with the knowledge that his closest friend was amused by him.

“Now is not the time to taunt me, Mark.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” the demon mentioned too airily and Jaebum eyed his friend carefully. “You might combust into flames if I were to try.”

“Am I that noticeable?”

“Only to me,” Mark answered with a wicked grin that gave Jaebum little assurance. “No doubt the servants of this area merely think you’re awaiting a new supply of mint chocolate chip ice-cream.”

“Perhaps Y/N will bring some,” he murmured, clasping his hands together, only to let them go a moment later. Jaebum sighed heavily, looking at Mark once more. “Do you think she’ll be much different?”

“Physically, or…?”

“I suppose there could be mental changes,” Jaebum replied, pacing the area until one of his workers looked his way. Silencing the attention with a glare, the Devil frowned. “I’ve read some on the topic.”

“Of how to become a father?” Mark openly questioned, and Jaebum’s eyes widen immediately. Mark and Jinyoung were the only two to truly not fear him in these parts, and for once, it irked Jaebum. He wished Mark’s easiness would damper down.

Then again, he was an experienced demon. Mark had spent far longer up on Earth than he had.

And Jaebum needed the advice. “You’ve seen pregnancy up there, have you not?”

“Can’t say I took it on as an interest. Perhaps you should have done more research before ending in such a predicament?”

“We all know my brother is hardly one to study,” Jinyoung stated upon arrival, and Jaebum glowered at the Prince of Sheol. It was not effective. “Come, brother. I’ve outgrown your glares, have I not?”

“Why is she taking so long?!” Jaebum exclaimed impatiently, throwing his hands up into the air. Flames sparked at the ends of his fingers, and he groaned.

He was evidently too worked up.

Just then, he heard the cranking of the brakes to the elevator down below, his hands reaching for his hair before smoothing down his silk shirt. Ignoring the sniggers from those awaiting your arrival too, Jaebum’s gaze grew earnest.

Just what was he to expect?

When the ancient elevator reached its destination, and the doors opened, all the nerves he felt evaporated when he saw your face. Your eyes connected with his and he rushed forward to your side, pulling you into a much-awaited embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into your ear, now uncaring of how much affection he showered you in within the company of others. Whenever you were present in his world, Jaebum could hardly care for normalities and ranks.

You turned him into a vulnerable man, every time.

However, when he pulled away to inspect you properly, Jaebum was immediately concerned. You had bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and your skin looked pallid. The size of your stomach was smaller than he expected, and yet, it seemed to be sucking the life out of you.

Whilst your death would end the constant separation whenever you were obligated to return to Earth, he wasn’t quite prepared to accept your heart stopping anytime soon either.

“My love…”

“First, allow me to get my things before you fuss, Jaebum.”

He blindly allowed you to turn back for the elevator, where a large suitcase waited for retrieval.

“What’s that, Princess?” Mark enquired for the three men watching on, Jinyoung stepping forward to help you when you struggled to get it over the lip of the door.

“Supplies.”

“For?”

“You’ll see,” you announced with a bright smile, returning to Jaebum’s side and taking his hand. “Will you take me to our quarters now? I think I need a rest before I begin.”

You had only rested until the evening when suddenly you had enough energy and wished to use it for whatever you had planned. Jaebum whined, hoping you could stay in bed with him just a little longer.

However, you were far too animated to contain.

Unlatching the suitcase, you started pulling out sparkly strings of tinsel and random ornaments, dashing around the room with them. It confused Jaebum greatly. “My Queen?”

“Yes, my King?” you hummed happily, dressing up the grand fireplace with something far too festive for his liking.

“Wasn’t it Christmas time last month up there for you humans?”

You turned to give him a pointed look, and Jaebum was ashamed that the accusing expression he held softened immediately. “Yes, it was.”

“Then why are you bringing such ghastly things into our home?”

“Ghastly?!” you echoed, your efforts doubling. You placed a plaid cushion on the armchair by the fireplace. “You have no regards for my feelings at all!”

“Your feelings are ones I regard above all,” he shot back, and you rolled your eyes.

“Once again, I spent my holidays without you, without our family down here. Whilst I understand the agreement made with the Gods for my travelling back and forth, it’s different now.”

“Why?”

“Because we have traditions to start!”

“In January?”

“As parents,” you corrected, and Jaebum frowned.

“I’m going to need more information.”

“Christmas is a joyous occasion, and our daughter will grow up knowing of it,” you insisted, and Jaebum nodded.

“That I agree with, but isn’t it a December thing? It’s a new year now.”

“So you suggest that we don’t celebrate it as a family?”

“No, I-”

“I grew up believing in the magic of Christmas, of Santa,” you explained, placing a red and white hat upon Jaebum’s head in the process.

He glanced at the pompom hanging off the end with some bewilderment.

You giggled then, and that eased the tension within the room. “You’ll make a fine Santa Claus one day.”

“Me?! Can’t we make BamBam do it?”

“So you’ll accept me kissing your Gatekeeper? I haven’t ever thought about doing that before but-”

“I love you,” Jaebum intervened, kissing you to compliment his statement. Rubbing your shoulders gently, he then sighed. “But I have no intentions of letting you kiss another, nor any understanding of what you talk of.”

“I know. Christmas is a human thing,” you mentioned, and Jaebum nodded softly.

“And one that is more in alignment with those in the heavens above, don’t you think?”

“Still, can’t you come on board with me about this? I’ll explain it to you more so you understand.”

“I’m already trying to comprehend parenting, which is a novel concept for someone like me. Surely, this Christmas thing can wait. And have you forgotten, much like what Christmas celebrations were started upon, I too have a birthday worth rejoicing over.”

“When is that again?” you teased, and Jaebum went to object when you popped a candy cane into his mouth. His eyes widened once the peppermint taste hit his senses.

The sweets of the human world never failed to impress him.

You smiled knowingly. “I want to have a belated Christmas party tonight.”

“Tonight? With everyone else?”

You nodded, and Jaebum grew glum.

“Were you hoping to keep me to yourself for days on end again?” Jaebum’s lack of immediate answer drew a soft chuckle from you once more. “Who knew the Devil could be this adorable?”

You cupped his face and eyed the hat still upon his head before smiling. “Let me tell you the story about Mummy kissing Santa Claus first. I think then you might be more willing to dress as the jolly man himself next Christmas.”

_________________

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[dear-yandere]

hiraeth (ii).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @ddarker-dreams​​. read part one here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission.

› warnings: angst, blood and gore, poisoning, canon-typical violence, death. › word count: 9.3k. › art credit: spearthymint.

Intrusive, lifeless eyes watch on from afar with tangible disgust. Hatred being the driving point behind his entire existence, all positive emotions are but a long forgotten memory of the past. To see the devil incarnate rejoicing in the fine pleasures of life is sickening, enough to make his head spin in further abhorrence. Observing from a safe, undetectable distance has been a rough challenge. All for the sake of procuring revenge, to fill the hole in his heart Giorno Giovanna tore out all those years ago.

Fueled by malice, the Stand, Snake Oil, slithers in the shadows of false paradise. More akin to a hybrid between human and snake, Snake Oil is the size of a fully grown man when stretched out to his fullest. His appearance is similar to that of a cobra, clad in ebony scales that serve as armor and dull, ruby eyes. Despite his imposing physique, it is truly unfortunate; having seen Giorno up close, Snake Oil knows killing him is impossible. So he’ll go for the next best possibility, inflicting the same pain he felt all those years ago. Having what you love most in the world ripped from you, torn apart before your eyes until nothing but blood and flesh remain. This is the bleak world of gangsters. To take and be taken from. To maintain equilibrium, vacillating between the highest of triumphs and lowest of defeats. Snake Oil has known nothing but the latter, surrounded by loneliness and bitterness that festers like an open wound. The scars of that day remain, the corpses of his family attempting to defend one another a grim reminder. A reminder that he’ll grip until his last breath, his only anchor in this world.

An eye for an eye.

The two of you are a picture perfect scene; pity how such beauty is fleeting. All it’ll take is a single opening. Giorno’s guard is lowered considerably, but he clings to you like an insistent shadow. How irritating. If only he left your side for a few more moments, then you’d be within range to kill. To have revenge just within grasp feels surreal in the best of ways. It brings a rush that the Stand hasn’t felt in years. The pain that makes up his resolve has yet to fade, pulsing and growing stronger as he searches for an opening. 

There’s a visible shift between you two. 

Snake Oil’s uncertain of the nature of things from this distance, gathering clues to the greater picture through body language. You’re on edge, impulsive, as you separate from Giovanna’s clutches, however momentary it may be. Snake Oil realizes this is the best opportunity he’ll be afforded. It isn’t the ideal set of circumstances, with your insistent shadow nearby, but it’s enough to be out of Gold Experience’s range. The Stand possesses great speed, a skill that will be fully taken advantage of in this course of this plan; in this moment, it seems more like a blessing than a skill, given who he’s going up against.

Checking to make sure the Don doesn’t follow you and remains seated, fate finally seems to have smiled upon Snake Oil today. This is the best opportunity he’ll get. 

Slithering from his hiding spot amongst thickets, he lunges at you from behind. A horrified shriek leaves your lips at the constricting sensation surrounding you, body feeling like it may explode at any second. The air is forcefully pushed from your lungs, breathing growing erratic. Out of instinct, you struggle in hopes of freeing yourself, to no avail. 

Two, phantom-like apparitions phase through your neck. You cry out, but the sound is pitiful and choked, dying mid air. The skin of your neck is raw, the insides slightly turned out and exposed in order to accommodate the invisible fangs of your attacker. The area pulses, quickly numbing when a venom is injected into your veins. The change is immediate, your eyes widened to their brim and your screams choked into your throat like spit. Your vision darkens slowly, the grip you once had on your consciousness now gone; the last thing you remember is the shock on Giorno’s face.

Giorno rises in an instant, a flash by his side procuring Gold Experience Requiem to come to your defence. Before any more movements are made on either side, Snake Oil takes control of the situation by speaking in a booming voice. It commands authority, knowing that leverage is within his grasp. That this wicked man wouldn’t dare endanger your life.

“Make one, tiny move, and I snap her neck.” 

This is the plan, for better or worse. For Snake Oil to utilize its ability, a fast acting venom that’ll kill you within minutes. The in-between time of injection and subsequent organs shutting down will take place. During this period, he’ll finally find satisfaction in Giovanna’s suffering, helpless to aid you in fear of making it worse. Changes in your skin should be taking place now, veins growing dark as it carries the lethal dosage to the rest of your body. It’s acting slow, Snake Oil realizes. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light, a false concern born from his anxiety about the situation.

It's a tricky situation, one which requires Giorno to act fast and tread carefully.

“I take it you won’t tell me who you are.” Giorno chooses his words with the utmost care despite the shock and anger rolling from his body. Gold Experience Requiem hovers closeby, the same rage thinly veiled beneath the Stand’s imposing and threatening presence. As Giorno’s Stand, GER has always been utterly taken with you, having no need to hide its affections like its user must. He is a pure amalgamation of Giorno’s love for you; the sight of your life endangered is no doubt a blow to its usual composure and restraint. Neither party wants nothing more than to destroy their enemy in an instant, but there’s no guarantee you wouldn't be caught up in the fray.

“You say that as if you remember the names of every person you’ve hurt,” Snake Oil does little to hide his animosity, keeping an eye out for any tricks Giorno may have. “It made no difference who I was before. Not until I threatened your little prisoner, that is.” The Stand sneers, its arm coiled around your neck. Its tail is strung around your lower half, restricting any flailing and movement should the poison’s effect be prolonged. 

“What is it that you want?” Ignoring the Stand’s treatment of you, to the best of his ability, Giorno tests the waters. Every word the Stand speaks is funneled into his mind, searching for hints that can be taken advantage of, for any cracks that can be slipped through. The top priority is to get to you out of harm’s way, no matter the cost. Composure on either end is unfaltering, a duel of wits to secure a victor. This is a matter of life and death. And still, Giorno hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see your body, your skin pallid and your limbs motionless, cradled in the arms of a man who intends you harm. His composure falters at the mere sight. That Stand isn’t just holding you; he’s holding Giorno’s happiness, his future, his heart in a vice grip. He sees the way your eyebrows knit and your body winces, the Stand’s grip far too tight to insinuate any goal other than to kill.

Snake Oil only smiles in response, not yet wanting to ruin this moment of pure distress radiating from the Don and his Stand. The sight itself is rapturing; it’s not everyday that a lowly civilian such as himself gets to see one of the most influential men in the world come apart.

Unabashed, Giorno considers what information is presented to him. From how this Stand speaks, its user is older, if not a bit inexperienced. No slang or other terminologies from a younger generation are present in his words, it’s far more removed and bitter. As if the user has seen the worst the world has to offer, callous in his direct approach; as if the user is betting everything on the line for a small chance at attacking the Don of Passione.

He needs to get you out of the Stand’s range. Since the Stand didn’t attack him, the main source of his user’s ire no doubt, it’s likely a long-range Stand. Any suspicious movements will lead to your death. And, from a quick look around, there are no suspicious vessels within a 10 km radius of the island; he would have seen them approaching long before, had there been. Its user must be far, and the Stand must be operating at its maximum range. Engaging in close-range combat would be the best bet if you weren’t engulfed in the Stand’s arms, its poison already blackening the veins around the entrance wound. Killing it might prove to be the only antidote, but on the other hand, it’s a risky trade. Perhaps the Stand’s power doesn’t include producing an antivenom — killing it early would slash any chances of saving you before the poison spreads further into your system. The only option for Giorno now is to provoke him, upsetting the Stand to the point where a mistake is made. In that opening, Giorno will strike.

“It must’ve been a lot of work to make it here,” Giorno begins his plan with a cautious comment, searching for any outward reaction. Nothing. Assuming he’s safe to continue, he offers his observations. “If you have any demand, make them known now.” 

It’s not so much stalling, but rather, testing the waters. To see how much resistance he can offer without you being placed in any more danger, igniting sparks that will only gain strength with time. Each word is selected with great care, not wanting to further upset the emotional user and trigger an undesirable outcome. Under the face of immense pressure, Giorno steels himself. It’ll do you no good otherwise.

The Stand lets out a distorted chuckle, its grip on you unwavering. “Demands? Of course, someone in your line of work would naturally come to that conclusion. You think I’d go this far for power? Money? Drugs?”

Giorno’s eyes narrow, and he mentally checks off one motive. 

“There’s nothing then? No affiliation, no desire for material gain?” Giorno’s incessant line of questions come to a halt when the Stand tightens its grip around you. Sensing that Snake Oil’s growing irate, Giorno can only assume it’s because this encounter isn’t going as planned. Given how frail you are, the poison should have spread to major points in your nervous system, your death imminent. While Giorno has his theories, ones he can only hope to be true at this very moment, they’re placed on the back burner for the time being. 

“How could I forget? That’s all that matters to people like you.” The Stand’s tone is low, prudent. Giorno’s interrogation is getting somewhere, it seems. The Stand’s grip on your shoulders have loosened slightly, only to retighten within a moment’s notice. Giorno’s heart tightens in response, the unpleasant feeling not showing on his face in the slightest. “Gain. How to make more at the expense of others, a greed that cannot be sated no matter whose life is taken in the process.”

Ah. Perhaps...

“You say that like nothing could satisfy you.” The tempest unfolding in Giorno’s mind begins to calm. His answers lie at the eye of the storm, waiting to be found. It’s an easy enough feat for someone of Giorno’s caliber, as his job requires quick-witted thinking and observation. So he presses forward, his words more daring, his answers more confident.

The Stand can’t help but grimly agree, darkness spreading over its inhuman face upon realizing how unaffected the don is. “Nothing can.”  

It’s brief, but Giorno catches a glint of sadness cross the Stand’s features. A trick of the light, perhaps, as he’s yet to see any Stand capable of showing emotion; and yet, this one reeks of resentment and regret. He’s closer to his answer.

“Not even her death?” 

“It’s a place to start.” The Stand hisses in a displeased tone. This isn’t how he envisioned this encounter in his mind, the countless outcomes that all ended with Giorno Giovanna in the pits of despair. He should have known better; the Don of Passione is cruel. A monster who wouldn’t be phased even by the loss of his beloved. Still… an element of unknown is always present in Stand battles. Your immediate death should’ve been carried out by now. That’s how it was meant to be; the venom is fast acting on normal people, only slightly less-so on stand users. He draws bated breath and lets his expectant gaze flicker toward you. The moment you breathed your last, Snake Oil would have true satisfaction, witnessing Giorno lose everything he holds dear, just as he had all those years ago. Ultimately, he’d be killed for his transgressions. But he’d come to terms with that long ago, the final chapter of his life ending in Giorno’s grief. The ultimate satisfaction, even if it sends him to Hell. Even if it keeps him from his family.

But your face is pristine, calm despite the painful wound on your neck and the quickly blackening vessels under your skin. You… you’ve stolen that opportunity from him. Why won’t you just die already, like you’re meant to? Why can’t you die as quickly as his own family died before him? It can’t be due to Giorno’s Stand. If you were within Gold Experience Requiem’s range, that meant Snake Oil would be as well. The battle would be hardly fought, the Stand’s sacrifices for nothing. If that were the case, Giorno wouldn’t be watching from afar, the great Don of Pasione helpless to save his own beloved. 

Something is wrong.

He can’t let it be for naught. Not after all the sacrifice, after all the hellish years that plagued him. Even now, Giorno waits patiently, an air of dignitary grace and poise befitting someone of his position. His eyes never once stray from the Stand’s physique, not even to check on his beloved, presumably searching for an opening to end the Stand’s life. There’s no chance to give it more thought. The power the Stand wanted to hold in this moment is faltering, slipping between his fingers like fine sand.

“How long ago was it that I took something from you?”

He’s going out on a limb, an educated guess more than anything else. He almost feels pathetic, betting your life like this, as if you’re another bargaining chip in Passione’s plans, another expendable pawn. But there’s no other option in his sights, his thoughts filled with saving the light of his life from the darkness of his own past. 

There’s no longer an immediate response from the Stand, nor a sarcastic quip full of loathing. It felt like the most logical explanation, revenge being the greatest motivator known to man. Giorno knows he made the correct assumption, or something close to it, considering Snake Oil’s change in attitude. Did the Stand think Giorno would remain in the dark until the end? 

“What… what do you mean?” 

Hesitation.

Giorno’s lips twitch into a small, satisfactory smile, his nerves having earned some rest upon guessing correctly. He continues, this time with a barrage of thinly-veiled accusations rather than questions. “It must’ve been longer than a few months, with how much planning this would’ve taken. So when was it? A year, two maybe?”

The most drastic changes were made within Passione during the first six months of Giorno taking over. 

“Why does the time even matter?” He bites. “All the people you’ve killed, they’re nothing but faceless names on a list to you.”

Giorno wants to laugh; for someone so bent on killing him, he took the bait far too easily.

“While that holds some merit, you’re no better in that regard.” He begins, shaking his head and shifting his weight onto the other foot, looking awfully lax despite the context of this conversation. He takes note of the way Snake Oil’s fingers twitch with arrogant annoyance. “Wanting to involve an innocent life who has nothing to do with this, you don’t know the first thing about her.” 

“You’re wrong. I know plenty about this girl who had the misfortune of meeting you,” Snake Oil’s blank eyes flicker towards your incapacitated form. You look more like a helpless pup than the wife to a mafia boss; perhaps… perhaps that’s why he chose you. For your vulnerability, for your innocence. “Not that you made it easy. Having virtually every aspect of her existence wiped from the planet, going so far as to pay off police to end their missing person search… scum never has hopes of growing, do they?” 

Giorno has no reason to justify his thoughts to a stranger who intruded on your paradise and put your life in peril, no matter what injustices he might have caused the man in the past. Only for the motive of provoking him further does he respond. “For the sake of protecting her from those who’d do her harm.” He quips, his expression unchanging.

“Is that what helps you sleep at night, Giovanna? A pat on the back for kidnapping some girl from her life, taking away all her freedoms? Letting her family search and search, only to be fed lies that there are no leads, that the case has gone cold?” Snake Oil’s grip on you falters slightly, a wave of pity washing over him at your poor predicament. How unfortunate you are to have earned the attention of a demon… “You don’t know the first thing about losing someone precious to you, do you? What you’re doing to her isn’t protection. This is greed, meant only to benefit yourself,” the Stand accuses. “Considering how greedy you lot are, I’m surprised it hasn’t occurred to you that, if it weren’t for your manipulation, she would’ve slit your throat weeks ago.” 

Giorno is wholly unfazed; he has been called worse, by you even. Nothing the Stand says or will say could come close to the unfiltered hatred he’s heard from you. “Believe what you want, Snake Oil. It makes no difference to me.” 

“... So it doesn’t. I suppose labels hold no significance in your life — you’ve come to terms with what you really are. You're a fool, thinking someone like yourself is capable of love. A murderer can experience no such thing.” 

“And that’s what I am to you,” Giorno deduces, scouring the Stand’s mannerisms for any clues that may be of use. “A murderer.” 

“It’s not what you are to me. It’s an undeniable fact.” 

Giorno doesn’t give him the luxury of a response nor the slightest change in his own expression. His stare is blank, even with your life on the line, even when you hang uselessly from the enemy’s arms. The venom is spreading, creating a thick, void-like trail along the paths of each vein it reaches. Starting from the entrance wound in your neck, your blackening veins look like tendrils, crawling up your face and down your chest — toward your brain, your heart. So that is his Stand power...

“Does she know, Giovanna?” Snake Oil hisses, handling your unconscious body harshly. Giorno bites down on his bottom lip at the mere sight, composing himself; now is not the time to strike, not over something so trivial. If that were the case, he would have used Gold Experience Requiem the moment this enemy laid a single finger on your person. Snake Oil barks out more questions, clarifying himself. “Does she know who you truly are beneath that mask?”

Giorno returns his gaze to his enemy, the look in his eyes hardening considerably as he chews on the question. Is that his motive? To use you as a bargaining chip, a means to lower his guard far enough to strike? It’s clever, if nothing else, but Giorno is poised in the art of manipulation. The chaos unraveling in his head, jumping from conclusion to conclusion over your current state — even that is pushed to the far reaches of his consciousness. Lashing out will do the Don no good. It’s a strength right now more than anything, the ability to stuff his own emotions and humanity into the recesses of his mind. Considering how emotional this Stand and its user must be to find a remote, isolated island and its sole inhabitant — regardless of Passione’s extensive influence over the territory — this man has a personal vendetta against Giorno himself.

But he should have never involved you.

Occupied with their back and forth, the pair of men fail to take notice of how your finger twitches by your side. The movement is subtle, easy to miss; even Giorno is too caught up in the situation to pay you any mind for once. The slightest movements of your incapacitated body are the least of his concerns, right now, his mind filled with one thought: you haven’t awoken. You are dying, and that is far more than Giorno can take.

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

The Don smiles sardonically. Gone is the ray of light that usually graces his features when he sets foot on this island, when his gaze lands on you. This man keeps speaking of you as if he knows you. If you were awake right now, you’d be easily swayed, your thoughts a mess and  your mind easily malleable. This could ruin everything, everything he’s built here, everything he’s built for you, with you. You won’t look at him the same. Not like this morning. Not even like the weeks before, spent in harrowing isolation, flinching at his very presence. You’ll look at him like you would a monster; horrified.  

But you aren’t awake. You are on the brink of death and he’s made next to no progress in your rescue. What a pitiful excuse he is. For all his power and influence, he can’t even protect you. He can’t even protect the very thing keeping him alive, the only person that showed a semblance of genuine love for him, even if it was hidden behind a hesitant and doubtful countenance. He was making progress. You were making progress.

“I am a murderer, as all gangsters are, but my reasons are just. I don’t need to explain them to someone such as yourself.” He laughs blithely. “Who did I kill that was so important to you?” He asks the same way one would ask for the time.

Snake Oil doesn’t answer.

“For you to come here, you must believe their death to be unjust. Who was it?” Giorno dwells on the thought for a second, deducing that these unknown variables must be closely related to this Stand’s user. “I can hardly recall their names, much less their faces. That begs the question: what did they do?” His smile grows, one-sided, as if knowing something his enemy does not. “I wonder… was it human trafficking? Narcotics?”

His only response is a glare, the Stand’s arm tightening around your neck like a noose. But, the Don head only cants to the side, testing the waters further. 

“No matter. If I wasted time doing so myself, they must have deserved to die.”

It’s spoken like an irrefutable fact. An ultimate dismissal of human life, of their own autonomy. An insult to the memory of those Snake Oil held dearest. The words aren’t only indifferent, but spoken with implicit confidence. In the recesses of his mind, he knows what it is Giorno is trying to do. Rationale is snuffed out, replaced with righteous fury. 

“You… you don’t deserve to speak of them. You know nothing.” 

“Do I now?” The Don’s body relaxes, now knowing what the Stand is after. The investigation falls; the interrogation begins. “Ah, I remember.” His lips twitch into a cruel smile, enjoying the act of playing with this enemy’s feelings. To be ruled by one’s feelings, to the point of enacting revenge on a man you haven’t a chance of winning against — this Stand and its user wouldn’t make it in the world of gangsters for much longer. “A wife, and a….son was it? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For revenge.” He tests the waters with a contemplative tone despite already knowing the answer, the Stand’s body language holding a tension and enmity it hadn’t moments before. “I don’t recall their faces or names, really, but I remember their screams. Your wife was groveling at my feet, begging for mercy. She had this look in her eyes — betrayal. You didn’t tell her your true profession, did you?” The Don’s lips twitch when Snake Oil falters, the latter’s eyes wide. “And your son… a prominent member in the very drug routes Passione aims to quell. I remember he tried to bargain with me, sell you out in exchange for my mercy.” Giorno laughs at the irony. To not even be trusted by your own family… “Like father, like son. He deserved to die.”

Snake Oil draws a sharp breath.

“And your daughter… such a sweet little thing. She didn’t understand what was happening.” He recalls with faint disinterest. “The look on her face was so tragic. I almost felt sorry for her. But she is related to you by blood, and scum can only breed scum.” An idea formulates, the words pressed past his lips as easily as breathing. “It’s a pity, though. She got away before I could…” He trails off, relishing in the way Snake Oil chokes pathetically on this information; his daughter… his only family is alive, somewhere, and... “I suppose I'll have to find her, take care of what I started." Giorno finishes.

“Shut up!” In his anger, Snake Oil’s grip tightens around your neck, squeezing at your already-suffocated veins. Giorno’s eyes flicker, taking note of the blackening nerves beneath your skin. “Don’t forget who’s in control here, Giovanna…!”

It’s all talk meant to rile him up, create an exploitable opening. Snake Oil refuses to fall into the trap, a ploy meant to keep him from enacting revenge. The words are heavy, a weight over his shoulders, but the Stand has you. While you should be dead by now from his ability, there are other ways to kill. Messier methods that he didn’t wish to stoop to, not until now. Giorno Giovanna, in all his sadistic glory, has dug a grave for his own beloved; an end truly befitting a monster such as himself.

“The pain I felt that day… you get to experience it now. You’ll pay for your sins in blood,” the Stand sneers, its expression full of countless years of pain. His gaze turns toward your unconscious body, his mind already concocting plans of a painful death. “Her blood.” 

"You view me as a demon, but do you have the resolve to stoop to my level?" Giorno quips, his resolve quickly running thin. The air is tense, suffocating, but he can’t let his mask falter. It would mean the end to this. An end to you. An end to this paradise, this false Eden.

He’s not ready for that. Not yet. Not when you were finally...

“So sure of yourself, so confident…” Every word drips with malice, forced out from a dark place. Every syllable is a shot to Giorno’s heart, to his willpower, Snake Oil feels his goals shift, wanting nothing more than to prove Giorno wrong. That not everything can fall into place as he sees fit, that he isn’t as omnipresent as he believes himself to be. To see those calculating eyes widen in horror, knowing that he made a grave error. 

It’s wishful thinking. Nothing in this world is that simple. If it were, Snake Oil’s family would still be by his side,and he wouldn’t be here, threatening an innocent girl with the displeasure of being involved with the worst scum society has to offer. He wouldn’t have had to stoop to the levels he did, likely disappointing those he cared for in the distant past. He wouldn’t have to stoop to Giovanna’s level and kill a blameless soul.

Monsters can only breed monsters.

Should the poison fail, so be it. It’s a messier death, a far less merciful one, but Snake Oil no longer has the capacity to care. How could he, after being taunted, when it was Giorno who was meant to be cowering away in anguish?  The Stand’s grip around your limp body strengthens, intent on strangling out all signs of life. This is it, the final act of dishonor to end it all. Within a few seconds, you should be reduced to nothing but a corpse, a shadow of your former self, that sadistic light in Giovanna’s eyes long gone.

Time is at a standstill. It all happens in the blink of an eye. 

At his torso, there’s a forceful shove that sends him sprawling backwards, air knocked from his lungs. Snake Oil lets out a shocked gasp, noticing the surprise on Giovanna’s own face; it’s clear he wasn’t expecting this turn of events, either. This attack… it couldn’t have been him. So that means you’re…

Before Snake Oil can dwell on his revelation, Gold Experience Requiem phases into the Stand’s field of vision, its speed unmatched and its strength beyond anything he’d prepared himself for. He knew death was coming should he mess up, should he let that monster creep under his skin. And yet, it still ends like this, a hole driven into his chest, just as it was meant to be. The pain is nothing new. The loss of everyone he’d ever cared about hurt far worse, but this… this is comforting. A release, a mercy. A promise that he will soon see his family, again. 

The gentle wave that washes over him is short lived; the blow had sent him flying, his back pierced by a nearby rock. There’s pain, briefly, before it washes away all the same. Washes away into nothing. Death, he’s come to realize, feels like nothing, and yet everything all at once. Even death has a heart, it seems, a vague sense of clemency and calm that life lacks. All the memories of a time long past, all the regret and the pleasure that comes with living. Sweet memories, bitter memories… memories of his family, killed at the hands of a man who acts like a God dictating who should live and who should die. A God who slaughters innocents, under a false moral code. A God who locks away his own lover, as if her life means nothing; a God who looks at her the same way the stars admire the sun.

And yet, in Snake Oil’s last moments, that same God looks down at him the same way one would a fly before you kill it. The same insignificance, the same detachment. Like he meant never meant anything of value. And he realizes...

Death does not discriminate; life does.

Giorno gazes at the dying man with a look of vague disinterest, a sight he’s grown accustomed to. There’s no anger, no pity, no emotion. Those were stolen the moment your eyes snapped shut and your blood started rotting. Snake Oil will find no satisfaction in this squandered death, his life squelched out and amounting to nothing. 

“Go to Hell. They’re waiting.”

The words fall from his lips so easily, so listlessly, without a shred of remorse. Snake Oil’s last moments are far from peaceful, those precious moments prior having lulled him into a false sense of security. They? Who are they? The Devil? His enemies? Or…. 

Realization hits. His blood has started to clot, and yet it boils with anger with indignant realization: he will go to Hell for his sins. He will go to Hell, and his family won’t be there. A sinner has no right of choice, only a punishment and its executioner. Even in these last moments, he’d hoped Giovanna would grant him the mercy of solace, the sympathy of a human rather than the malevolence of a monster. But that hope was misplaced from the start.

“Y...y-you’re a…. dem—”

But it’s too late. Snake Oil worked with diligence, but the devil works faster.

The storm has passed. The corpse, in its final moments, is gagging on thin air and it occurs to Giorno that its user is dying. Gagging on his own bile and vomit someplace far off, someplace Giorno can’t reach in his current state. If your life wasn’t in immediate danger, he’d hunt for the bastard himself, ensuring that his life has come to a permanent end. But you are more important. You will always be more important.

When he turns, he expects the worst. He expects to see your skin sallowed and your face sunken. He expects to see a lifeless husk, a goddess without the glow he’s come to admire. But that light is still there. You are still there, just as radiant as you were before your Eden was corrupted. The rise and fall of your chest is unmistakable, no matter how shallow your breathing may be. You’re alive. You’re alive, and Giorno’s legs nearly give out at the thought. Seeing you this close again, even as you cling to life, feels too good to be true. Giorno’s not sure who to thank, be it fate or having the devil’s own luck, but you’re still here. Still with him. This was too close to the chest. Pesky little details will be examined later, to ensure nothing like this ever has the chance to repeat. Security being tightened, loose ends removed… there’s an abundance of work to be done. For now, he allows himself to think only of you. 

He’s by your side in an instant, checking your pulse and breathing. Gold Experience takes note of the movement beneath your wrist, pulsing as it should be, yet rapidly dimming. Any flesh wounds he can spot are immediately healed with a featherlight touch, fearing the unattended wounds may harm you further. He holds your limp body to his chest, gently trying to shake you back into consciousness. To bring you back to him. 

“Let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours, amore.” His voice is so quiet and weak, it’s drowned out by the ocean waves. “I’ll be here as long as you need me. We need to finish our date, right? There’s still so much we have to do. I’ll clear my schedule, so just open your eyes and...”

He chokes, eyes wide with bitter tears. Your color is paling at an alarming pace, lips becoming a sickly blue. The flower he made earlier now looks out of place against your skin, its vibrant yellow petals so vivid in comparison — mocking you. Giorno chokes on his own spit; there’s no escaping it: you are dying, and he may as well be too. Giorno’s grip on you falters due to his own trembling, forcing him to steady you entirely against his chest. Every breath he takes is laboured, the weight of the world dragging him down. He’s seen this sight too many times before, and in his heart, he knows what this means. Without full knowledge of Snake Oil’s ability, there’s no way to treat whatever wounds were inflicted on you; he can only grasp at ideas from the previous encounter.  It’d take hours to find and deliver the proper antivenom, and by then, it’d be too late. He knows this, and he hates himself for it. He hates his knowledge, his experience that allows him to come to this horrific conclusion. Giorno wishes he were a fool so he could delude himself into believing you’ll continue to live with him.

“You said you wanted a frog for a pet, didn’t you…? I’ll make as many as your heart desires, I swear it. So, please…” The words die at the back of his clenching throat. His entire life, he’s told himself that crying is useless. That it achieves nothing, a waste of time and effort. Action is always the best course, the only path that amounts to overcoming grief. It’s been the philosophy of his life, and yet; he kneels here on the verge of tears all the same. “Please, please, please…”

Another shake, more urgent than the last.

“I wanted—” he gulps back a telling lump forming in his throat, “I wanted to do so much with you. Cooking together is just the start, there’s so much more...” His voice is a low whine, like a child begging his parents for their time and affection. It’s a battle against time, a battle that he’s losing. “So much more…” His words are incomprehensible at this point, slipping from his mouth before he can gather himself. “I love you, [First]… I love you, I love you. Please, God…” The words are unschooled, said without thought — genuine. There has never been a moment in his life where he believed God to be real, not after everything he’s seen, not after everyone he’s lost. You can’t be another causality — he can't lose you too.

For the first time since he was a child, Giorno cries.

He cries for everything he put you through, for everything he took from you. Every wish you had, every dream he never got to hear. He stole them like his family stole his own. He promised to be better, a better man — someone who could change the world, someone with a good heart. Growing up, he wanted nothing more than to prove his parents wrong. His step-father, cynical and drunk and good-for-nothing. His mother, neglectful, always chasing a high, as if her own family was the lowest of the low. And his real father, his origins and identity unknown; a man who no doubt would not want to be part of Giorno’s life, his own son’s life. Giorno didn’t want to be like any of them, didn’t want to grow up to become a monster in the shape of a human. That sentiment feels hypocritical right now, having just lost his composure and temper. The remnants of a man’s own soul is not too far off, mangled and destroyed beyond recognition, its user dead on the shores of a monster who stole his family.

Giorno Giovanna is not a good man. His tears are more for you than anyone else; you truly did have the misfortune of meeting him. The Devil could drag him to Hell right now and his last thoughts would still be: “Let her go to Heaven.”

There’s a gradual change. 

To the untrained eye, it might be too subtle to pick up on. Almost like a transparent sheen hovering just above your skin, a low hum of energy resonating alongside it. Giorno’s lip twitches as your complexion practically shines, eyes squinting to combat the light's growing strength. Too much is unfolding before him, a complex mystery where he remains in the dark. Snake Oil… he’s certain that Stand is no more. That’s when a chilling realization hits, like a bucket of ice being poured over him.

Gold Experience Requiem remains by his side, the Stand at the ready to attack as Giorno constructs a plan. Could Snake Oil have had a Stand that stays active upon death, like Notorious B.I.G? Giorno freezes at the thought, knowing full well the power a Stand like that would have. Hunting down its target for eternity. Did Snake Oil place an ability on you that triggered after death? In that case, precautions need to be taken to ensure you’re not placed under any further harm. There’s still a chance to save you; even Notorious B.I.G. had its flaws, no matter how terrifyingly powerful the Stand at first seemed.

But… something about it is off. The energy convulsing from you feels different, almost familiar. Warm and enveloping, unlike Snake Oil who conveyed nothing but bitterness and lost hope. What is this…? 

The luxury of thinking is replaced by a raw desire to act, to salvage what little remains, not willing to patiently assess the situation any longer. Not after that’s what led to your possible death sentence in the first place. Divine light radiates around your limp body, and Giorno reaches out, prepared to fend off the perceived threat. His trembling hand inches closer to your iridescent skin, tingling at the sensation rolling from your person like a barrier, and then— 

He’s flung back against the ground, as Snake Oil was before him. Gold Experience Requiem releases a fierce battle cry, lashing towards the presumed threat that envelopes you. Your person lets out a disgruntled noise at the attack, eyebrows twitching and body regaining itself. Cheeks flushing with color again, long eyelashes fluttering against your face. Rest is a coaxing concept, though something deep inside you commands that you wake.

Your eyes open.

Blood. Your vision is filled with a thick red, the beautiful blues and golds of the beach but a distant memory. The scene before you is a battlefield, its only remnants thick puddles of fresh blood. The liquid mars the beautiful beach sands, crimson revealing a story you weren’t meant to witness. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, dulling various areas that should be screaming out in pain. There’s too much to chew on, your thoughts in complete disarray. Your body feels prickly, vitality making a swift reappearance. And yet, there’s an unfamiliar pain at your chest, where Gold Experience Requiem’s hit landed. It’s dull, as if there is a layer of protection between your skin and the place the Stand’s fist had landed, but the very thought of Giorno hurting you, no matter the circumstance, has your mind reeling.

It doesn’t take long to piece together scattered pieces of the puzzle. In your delirium, you’d heard everything. It evokes disgust and shame, knowing you willingly went along with Giorno’s qualms. You had lost yourself, giving into him for frivolous comforts. He’s harmed too many, you’re not the only person to be on the receiving end of endless pain; you were just lucky enough to be on his good side. Morality and running a worldwide crime syndicate do not go hand and hand, no matter how many times Giorno tries to humanize himself to you. It’s all a facade. 

This was all a mistake. You shouldn’t have come here, not so willingly, not with him. 

“You’re a monster.”

A fact you’ve known for months now, and yet the words struggle past your teeth. A week ago, you wouldn’t have hesitated to say that and much worse to his face, relishing in the hurt that would momentarily cross his features. You had some semblance of power over him during those moments, using his twisted sense of love against him. You felt powerful, in control for once, having one of the most powerful men in the world grovel in wait for your affection. Before you, he wasn’t Don Giorno Giovanna, boss of Passione. He was just a boy, a psychopath, a man who had taken the world from you and expected your love in return.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last. He will always have the upper hand, some sort of control or advantage over you. You were a fool to think whatever you two possibly had — a relationship, if you could call it that — could work. Humans aren’t meant to be with monsters, and monsters aren’t meant to fall in love.

You realize that now.

“[First]...” For once, he’s speechless. Even saying that much is difficult. Gradually, he stands from the spot he’d been flung to, wearily making his way toward your crumpled body. His hand reaches out, shaking; were you slipping in and out of consciousness the entire time…? How much did you overhear? How much did you see?

“Don’t come closer!” You blink back tears, your vision focusing and unfocusing in the midst of it all. Your fingers, your hands, your… your body is glowing. The light is faint, weak, like the remnants of a flame before its wick gives out. “I-I… W-what happened? What happened to me?”

The puzzle pieces fall into place in his head. Giorno draws a sharp breath, his thoughts reeling to provide an explanation that won’t frighten you any further. In this state, you’re running on a high, coming down from the power your body has just awakened to. Having just defended yourself against a deadly venom, your body is running on pure adrenaline just to keep yourself upright. Your mind is reeling to rationalize what’s happening. Every nerve in your body felt like they were on fire, burning you up from the inside out. It’s as if you’re being overclocked, forced to work at full capacity, threatening to crash at any moment. Power rolls off your body in waves, as if it was meant to be there, as if it was there all along. And there’s an energy in your veins that feels wholly foreign, simultaneously yours and someone else’s at the same time. The ringing in your head is disorienting beyond compare; it feels as if your mind has been invaded, as if there is something else, someone else in your consciousness.

“What did you do?!” You don’t want to look at him, not in this moment, but the situation leaves you no choice. Your eyes flicker, briefly glowing with unadulterated rage when your gaze meets his. It couldn’t be possible, he couldn’t have… “You… you made me a monster just like you.”

“[First], I can explain everything, but you need to rest or—”

“No. God, I’m such a fool.” Your gut wrenches when you accidentally turn your gaze upon the battered corpse, its body mangled and face unrecognizable. Its heart hangs from its chest; you shudder to think what his human counterpart looks like. His death must have been painful,  agonizingly slow — an end befitting a monster more so than a human. And he… he’s surrounded by a sea of blood — your husband is surrounded by a sea of blood. 

“How could I forget? W-what you are…” Your eyes are fully glowing, pulsating with a holy energy when they meet his, but the sight is far from terrifying. You’re trembling. You’re crying. You’re pleading with him, just as  you had when you first arrived on this island. You’re scared. “W-Will you do the same to me?” 

His heart shatters.

Even now, as broken as you may feel, you cannot let yourself fall apart. If you break now, you won’t escape. He won’t let you escape. It will just be worse this time. You’ll always know the truth, the fact that countless lives have bloodied his hands — that he killed in cold blood then looked at you like your life is the only one worth keeping. 

“You’ve already taken everything from me. You took my family from me. My friends. My life. My future. How am I any different from them? From any of the people you’ve hurt?” His expression wavers at your endless accusations, but he doesn’t defend himself and you take that as a confession to his sins. “That man was right. Do you remember all of them? All of your victims? All their faces? Their dreams and ambitions?” Air catches in your throat, realizing something the enemy had divulged; your family. They’d been… they’d been lied to, and that revelation does nothing to quell your anger.“What about their families? Are they still looking for them, too?” Your voice cracks, coinciding with your crumbling heart.

That’s right, your family looked for you. They searched for you; they mourned, they were betrayed. They think you’re dead, that you left without saying goodbye — without saying “I love you”. And you were deluded into thinking that everything was going so well, that you could forget, that you could start anew. You were happy, for once, for the first time in what felt like years. As close as you could get to happiness. Finally having set out on a path of healing, recovering pieces of yourself and putting them back together where no one else could. This illusion you allowed yourself to believe dissipates, the fog over your eyes lifting to reveal barren reality. A reality Giorno himself designed and held full control over, like a God, and you his sole obsession. If he is a God, he is cruel. To think otherwise is to be seduced by the enemy. 

“You lied to me. You said I was safe here, that I could trust you.” Your voice breaks at that word — trust. What a pretty word, for such awful lies. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Giorno gathers his senses, his head ringing with your hurtful words, his heart tired. He is losing you all over again; this is the only thing he can defend, as all your other accusations are more or less true. “[First], I had to. He was going to—” 

“No. There’s never a good reason to murder, not when you have the power to stop them instead.” Your eyes flicker to Gold Experience Requiem, knowing full well of its powers. Giorno holds his tongue, realizing you’re right. He didn’t have to kill the enemy, not… not in front of you at least. Your eyes are not meant to see bloodshed or pain, and yet, he let his feelings get the better of him — and this is his price. “You didn’t have to, but you did. You killed him, Giorno. You killed him.” You can’t bring yourself to look at the corpse any longer. “That’s what monsters do.”

Each word stings more than the last.

He’s analyzing you. Mentally reciting and testing dozens of different explanations that might serve to placate you, even if it’s a temporary fix. Anything to get that stinging look of repulsion off your beautiful face, anything to make you look at him the way you did earlier. This is far more detrimental than the times you spoke down to him before now that a third party had been involved. The damage is already done, nature of himself that he tried to hide from you now out in the open. 

There may be no coming back from this.

“You’ve been through a lot.” Giorno takes one step closer to you, stomach dropping when you flinch at the tentative action. All the progress has been undone, though he can’t mourn that now. He has to keep a straight face, lull you down this high filled with fear and adrenaline. Get under your skin again… make you trust him. “Come, let’s go inside. You must feel tired.”

“No. No, no, no, you liar. You’ve put me through a lot,” you correct with a weak glare, holding your hand to your chest. The same hand that had finally come to accept him just minutes prior. Recalling his touch makes you want to scrub the skin raw, knowing how bloodied they were.  “Just… stay away from me, p-please.” Your demands sound more like pleads, the shock of your new abilities still paralyzing your system. Your wings encircle you still, their transparent silhouette coursing with a power you know not what to do with. Their presence alone makes you feel safe, a much needed barrier between you and him. It even withstood a direct attack from Giorno’s own Stand…

The possibility of escaping is becoming frighteningly real.

Giorno withdraws his outstretched hand, not wanting to scare you any further. It’s clear you don’t want to listen to him right now, and he’s not sure he wants to continue persuading you; the trembling of your body, the look on your face, like a frightened doe — you’re scared of him. The same girl that had looked at him with hesitant admiration, that had played with him, that had gotten to know him, that had kissed him — she’s gone, and some deep, hateful part of him knows she won’t ever come back. He’s walking on eggshells again and he knows it. In the terrified state that you’re in, there won’t be any deescalation. You’ve seen too much, know too much. It’s troublesome, too many factors at play to safely talk this out. There’s still the problem of your safety, and monitoring your body for any further repercussions from the earlier Stand attack. Giorno considers all of this, and with a silent sigh, makes a swift decision on how to best fix this. More roadblocks are set in the path of recovery, but he’s determined to see this through. That’s how he’s always been, and how he’ll always be until the day he draws his final breath. You are no exception; you never will be. Not when everything he does is wholly for you.

You realize something is amiss when he doesn’t respond any further to your pointed accusations. Normally, you’d see a flicker of hurt flit across his features — the only time he ever lets his guard down, even slightly, is with you. That’s not the case now, not after everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve seen. Lips parting, you’re about to inquire what it is he’s plotting, but by then it’s far too late. From the blood by your feet, roots start to form at the base, coming to life by Gold Experience Requiem’s ability. An unidentifiable substance leaks from them, sapping away at the remnants of your consciousness like parasites. It acts as a salve, soothing the snake bite on your neck and the skin covering your blackened veins, but its true purpose is far from that, meant to constrain you, to confine you. It’s a terrifying sight, being restrained by vines tainted in the blood of a dead man, being restrained by an entity that had made you gifts and brought you joy only minutes prior.

He’s using his ability on you.

Gold Experience Requiem, an entity that had excitedly made you a crown to place atop your head, looks almost distraught as he covers you from head to toe, confines you like his user has for as long as you can remember. They are one and the same, you realize; how foolish it was to believe this man was capable of anything but tragedy. You had been charmed by pretty lies fashioned to ensnare you for eternity. His words, his actions, everything about him was a lie — a forbidden fruit.

Standing becomes too arduous a task, your body crumpling to the ground in a pathetic show of weakness. The world around you grows blurry, your eyelids fighting to remain open only to lose and sink into the sweet call of sleep. Everything feels so far away. The call of the birds, the crashing of the ocean… even the sand that rubs against your skin doesn’t register. The only thing that does is the look on his face, so unlike the monstrous, dissociated expression he had when he took a man’s life before your eyes. Even that, all the pain, dread, betrayal, it’s all slipping away, to some place you cannot reach. Not anymore. The light that stems from your back flickers, the remnants of your holy wings shattering like fragments of glass. Giorno approaches you as the disorientation continues and your Stand deactivates, having protected you long enough. He wants nothing more than to take its place as your savior, your protector, his arms reaching out to catch and prevent your body from further harm. You’ve been through enough. You were right; he’s put you through enough.

As consciousness fades, you hear the Devil whisper one final promise.

“I’ll fix everything, just give me time.” 

[heyyyharry]

a ‘my girl’ interview

I did one for the Flatmate series so I thought the MG babies deserved one too :D This is like a boyfriend/girlfriend tag where they answer questions about each other :)

.

Harry: Hi! I'm Harry and this is my wife, Bambi–

Bambi: That's not my name.

Harry: We're here to answer questions about our relationship to show her dad that our marriage isn't a bad idea.

Bambi: Hi, Dad.

(Harry whips his head around, his face pallid, and Bambi bursts out laughing)

Harry: You need to stop doing that!

Bambi: Anyway! (yanks the piece of paper from his hands) Let's begin!

---

Question 1: Who is my celebrity crush?

Harry: Bambi's got so many. She's cheating on all of them with me.

Bambi: Biggest celebrity crush then.

Harry: Easy. Yours is Leonardo DiCaprio. (to the camera) She cried watching Django Unchained because Leo cut his hand on set but kept on acting.

Bambi: Not true!

Harry: You did cry! You wouldn't even let me touch you!

Bambi: (rolls her eyes) I mean, yes, I cried, but Leo's not my biggest celebrity crush.

Harry: You literally said that if you could vote for the Oscars' winners, you would've picked Leo over me. (to the camera) Yes, I was in the same category as Leonardo DiCaprio.

Bambi: (to the camera) I never said that, because Leo would've still won without my vote.

Harry: (gasps) TRAITOR!

Bambi: But no, babe, (clasps his shoulder) my biggest celebrity crush is...you.

Harry: (places both hands on his heart) Aww, really?

Bambi: Yes

Harry: (tv host's voice) AND THE OSCAR GOES TO– (points at Bambi, she smacks his hand away, he laughs) Anyway, who's my biggest celebrity crush?

Bambi: Ruby Ellis.

(Harry stares at her. She stares back, trying to keep a straight face.)

Harry: (tilts his head) Bambi, come on.

Bambi: Okay, sorry, (smiles) Rihanna.

---

Question 2: Where is the most public place we have had sex?

(Both sigh, look at each other, then laugh)

Harry: Everywhere?

(Bambi slaps him on the arm)

Harry: (to the camera) Every sex question is her picks by the way.

Bambi: Answer the question, please.

Harry: Why don't you answer it first?

Bambi: Niall's listening party.

Harry: Wait, we had sex at Niall's listening party?

Bambi: Yeah, we did, we went to the bathroom–

Harry: (speaks at the same time she's speaking) Did you have sex with someone who looked like me?

Bambi: (continues speaking as she covers his mouth with one hand while he laughs) –while everyone was listening to the last song, and you fucked me on the sink, and the lock on the door was broken so you had to keep one hand on the doorknob.

Harry: (removes her hand, eyes wide) Yeahhhhhh, how did I forget that? I didn't even know I could multitask until that night. That was pretty insane.

Bambi: (to the camera) Niall, if you're watching this, we're sorry and we loved the album.

Harry: (to the camera) Our favourite album of all time! (back to Bambi) For me, it was that time on set after we'd finished filming a sex scene, and you were going on and on about me spanking my co-star, and the only way to shut you up was dragging you to the back room.

Bambi: (glares at him) The spanking wasn't on the script.

Harry: I was in character. And you know spanking you is like a habit for me.

Bambi: Yes, you were in character, and that girl wasn't me, so what kind of excuse was that?

Harry: (laughs nervously at the camera) NEXT QUESTION!

---

Question 3: What is my favourite sex position?

Harry: Oh, we've actually discussed this; we've got the same one. Cowgirl.

Bambi: But we don't call it that because it doesn't sound sexy. So...it's the one where I ride his dick.

Harry: Wow, you are blunt.

Bambi: (ignores the remark) I remember you saying you loved me on top because you wanted to watch my boobs bounce. (peeks into her own shirt) Even though they're nonexistent.

Harry: Don't shame your boobs! They're my favourite things in the world. I will fight you! (squints his eyes at her) But wait, I find it weird that you love being on top but at the same time also love being dominated.

Bambi: (shrugs) To be honest, I prefer doggy style, but I hate not seeing your face when you cum.

Harry: Oh my God, same!

---

Question 4: What part of your body is my favourite?

Bambi: My eyes.

Harry: (fakes a gasp) How did you know?!

Bambi: I can read minds. (smiles) What's my favourite part of your body?

Harry: (smile mischievously)

Bambi: My favourite part that's not your dick.

(Harry frowns and huffs angrily)

Bambi: Hurry! (checks paper) We've got three questions left!

Harry: My...(pokes at his own cheeks) dimples?

Bambi: (purses her lips) To be honest, I don't really know. It's different every time I look at you.

Harry: Baby! (heart eyes, pouting) You make my answer sound shallow.

Bambi: (shrugs) I can just say I love your arse.

Harry: No, it's fine. I prefer the cheesy answer.

---

Question 5: What is my best childhood memory?

Bambi: Yours is the first time you skipped Mrs Knox's class with your friends and spent the whole afternoon swimming in the lake behind our school.

Harry: Wait, did I tell you that?

Bambi: You did. You said it was "the best day" of your life. (pretends to look upset as she stares at the piece of paper on her lap)

Harry: Aww, baby (kisses her temple), my best childhood memory is always the night we met. And I assume it's yours as well?

Bambi: (looks up, smiling widely) Nope. Mine's the time you got beat up to bring Thumper back to me.

Harry: I'm glad my suffering and childhood trauma brings you joy.

Bambi: (pinches his cheek) It really does, yeah.

---

Question 6: How old was I when I had my first kiss?

Harry: Ha! You lost your first kiss to me because you kissed me without my consent!

Bambi: Did it even count as a first kiss?

Harry: It so did.

Bambi: A kiss requires two people. You didn't kiss me back so...(to the camera) I was sixteen and it was with Blake Roman.

(Harry glares at her. She grins, throws an arm around his neck and kisses his cheek)

Bambi: Yours was when you were fourteen, right? With a girl with braces?

Harry: (sighs) Josy Sinclair. We were in the closet during a game of seven minutes in heaven. I think she bit my tongue by accident. She also let me touch her boobs over the bra.

Bambi: So you've always been a boob guy.

Harry: I guess so.

Bambi: When Blake and I kissed for the first time–

Harry: (covers his ear) Lalalalalalalala

Bambi: Very mature, Harry.

Harry: (still covering his ear) I can't hear you!

---

Question 7: Why do you think you were attracted to me?

Harry: Because you've got a fetish for older men.

Bambi: I have not! Blake and I were the same age!

Harry: You hated him at first, though.

Bambi: Doesn't mean I didn't want to fuck him when I first met him, though.

(Harry clutches his chest as if he'd just been shot and pretends to fall off the chair. Bambi bursts out laughing and pulls him back up)

Bambi: Honestly, I don't know why you were attracted to me. And I don't even think you know. I don't even know why I was attracted to you.

Harry: Yeah, I think it just...happened, you know? Like I said in my vows, you kinda just...grew on me.

Bambi: Awww (grabs his face and kisses him softly). Same.