#“the wire” made me scream i can't

[urghblergh]

I recently started watching DS9 and to no one's surprise became obsessed with these two idiots. 🫠

[hedgehog-moss]

Look, friends.

Do you think this is a post about my adorable baby succulents? No. Look harder.

It's about the GIANT HOLE IN MY FENCE that I had to patch up with cardboard.

I can't blame Pampérigouste for this one; the brutish nature of the damage is not consistent with her usual modus operandi. Pampe outsmarts locks like Arsène Lupin; she doesn't charge at fences like a bull who saw a red cloth. This is Pampe Pondering A Fence Problem:

No, the damage to my fence looked a lot more mindless this time. Boorish. Boar-ish. I'm blaming a boar. A deer would have destroyed the whole thing rather than just the lower half. Note that there is not a single tuft of llama wool on the damaged wire mesh.

(Note no.2: the boar's smile was originally meant to be a tusk but it really just looks like a sardonic smile)

I brought some chicken wire to patch up the hole—but there wasn't enough of it. Then it started raining and I felt persecuted and decided to just cover the hole with cardboard and go have my morning coffee and get back to this later.

This is not an Innocent Pampe post; there is no such thing. My temporary cardboard solution lasted 8 to 10 minutes. I'm not sure exactly when she got out, but by the time I went back outside to repair the fence there was a Pampe-shaped hole in the cardboard.

(Not really; she just kind of lifted or ate a corner then wormed her way through the very small opening. I think.) (See, this is how you recognise a Pampe escape: you're not entirely clear on what went down, you just know there was a llama inside and now there is a llama outside.)

It was still raining and I didn't feel like going after her, plus it felt pointless to bring her back in her pasture before the fence was repaired, so I went in the barn to look for my tools and rummage through leftover pieces of previously-destroyed fences, hoping to find something the right size.

Then I heard Pampelune's hyena shriek, aka the llama alarm call. It was followed by:

horrified chicken screams and frantic feather noises; the soundtrack of a violent fox attack

infuriated barking from Pandolf

very loud panicked braying from Pirlouit

basically, chaos.

I ran outside just in time to see Pampe emerging from the woods at a full gallop, pursued by a bear. I didn't immediately identify the animal that was chasing her as the giant dog that he was, because he was running with a weird gait, with his legs going everywhere like he was frolicking at top speed (I now know that this dog is a puppy that has learnt to run just a few months ago, but that didn't occur to me at the time because this puppy is the size of a calf.)

Pampe was running towards the cardboard through which she had escaped and she managed to squeeze through her small corner hole again (I assume—there were trees blocking my line of sight and I only saw her again once she was in the pasture, running for her life along with the other 2 llamas + donkey.) Meanwhile, the dog didn't see the corner hole and tried to power through the cardboard much like a boar, or was carried away by his momentum and didn't brake in time; I don't know. In any case, when I reached him, he was stuck.

My large piece of cardboard was tied to the fence posts and still holding strong, but the middle was a bit soggy with rain and not too solid, so the dog's head went right through it. The rest of his body didn't.

He could have probably finished breaking the cardboard quite easily, but for some reason he instantly gave up. On life. By the time I got there the dog was half-in and half-out of the pasture and he looked defeated. Which made my piece of cardboard look like a mediaeval beheading apparatus with just a hole for the head.

I went to lock an angry Pandolf in the barn and checked on the chickens along the way (ruffled & offended but fine); I was hoping the dog would figure out how to extricate his head from the cardboard in the meantime. He did not. I tried to call him in a friendly tone (from behind) to encourage him to free his head by stepping back, but the concept of taking a couple of steps backwards in order to extract his head from the hole might as well have been advanced engineering. He clearly had no idea where his head was, where his body was, how to make the two a coherent whole again, and he started whining pitifully.

I untied the rope I had used to attach the cardboard to the fence posts, then wriggled the piece of cardboard a bit to try and free the dog's head. The dog was alarmed by the wriggling and took several steps back—but I didn't manage to hold on to the cardboard so it just moved with the dog. He clumsily ran away, taking the cardboard with him, wearing it around his neck like the world's largest cone of shame.

He immediately got stuck between two trees.

I was starting to find the situation hilarious, but the poor dog did not—he lay down and started making sad broken noises like a malfunctioning dog-robot. He didn't look very threatening but he was still a very big (and stressed) dog so I felt a bit wary of touching his head to help him, and decided to run home to get a box cutter. I figured I could easily rid him of most of the cardboard and leave him with just a soggy cardboard collar that would soon fall apart. I heard my landline phone ringing from afar and ran faster, and it was one of my nearest neighbours, the retired lady who lives on the plateau.

"I've been trying to reach you!! I saw your llama in my garden earlier, I was going to give her a little treat—" (she loves Pampe, for some reason) "—but then my dog saw her too."

I know this woman's dog—he's a tiny thing with fragile nerves who thinks the whole world is out to get him, so I asked anxiously, "Did Pampe scare your dog?" and she said "Oh no! Domino is here with me; but I have a new dog. His name is Texas."

I thought of the gigantic puppy currently sobbing in my woods, held prisoner by two trees, a self-inflicted cone of shame and his total lack of reasoning skills.

"Yes", I said. "I've met Texas."

The old lady asked worriedly if he'd scared Pampe ("Il est un peu zinzin" she said—he's a bit crazy. "I wanted to call him Rex, but then I met him and thought—Texas!!") I told her I was pleased with her dog for scaring Pampe, because she needs to learn that her pasture is her only hope for safety in this cold uncaring world and as soon as she steps out of it she returns to her lowly status as a prey animal. Then I ended the phone call because I was worried both about Texas and about the large hole in my fence. Thankfully all my animals were still terrified and hiding far, far away from Texas.

Texas actually managed to free himself before I attempted to cut the cardboard, but he still thought of me as his saviour and was very happy to follow me through the woods back to his owner's place. Before we left I propped up the cardboard against the damaged fence, and despite the hole in the middle no llamas escaped in my absence; I think the whole area still smelled like Texas and fear.

I'll admit I was initially tempted to leave Texas with his head stuck in the cardboard in a more permanent capacity in order to patch the hole in my fence with this amazing anti-Pampe Cerberus. Like this

(I know this artistic rendering makes my llamas look like frightened carrots and my donkey like a bunny but I will not be taking constructive criticism at this time)

[yandereshingeki]

The Antithesis of Decay

made for @ficsforgaza’s Kinktober!

⬑ please check them out! ⬏

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2k

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x afab!reader

Content Warnings: Stuckage, fingering, dub/noncon, no gendered pronouns, but reader is described to have bigger hips than their waist (no big specifications though). meant to take place between s3 & 4

Summary: An escape through the alleyway ends in a terrifying run-in with a wanted villain.

Managed to write this entirely in a single day 😵‍💫 it gave me a headache doing it that fast but thank god i got it done! It was a lot longer than I intended (stuckage is hard to keep short akhsheja & i originally wanted to go full smut but then wrote too much) and was a little bit difficult to navigate cause I don’t think about shiggy in a sexual way BUT !! I DID IT!

This is also the first time I'm posting something I've written in present tense, I'm just trying to experiment and figure out how I like to write lol

Shiggy lovers i hope this is adequate!!

Another crash. Another roar. Another Nomu.

You're in the thick of it, beside a building, half-destroyed, and another one completely toppled to the ground. There's screaming and panic, citizens running in every which way to escape the crossfire. Another building is about to collapse, and the monsters take no hesitation in using it as leverage to fight.

There are other heroes here, maybe three, or even more now if there were any on patrol nearby; it isn't clear through the fog of dirt and smoke. It isn't enough though. None of you had the strength or stamina to fight against the group of Nomus that appeared. Especially not by yourselves, even if you barely outnumbered them. The rubble is building. The ground is practically shaking under their destructive hands. They have the absolute advantage.

  Your quirk isn't built for such a fight, even as a pro, and your combat skills would prove useless against those monsters. You're meant to be more of a support hero than anything, someone usually waiting on the sidelines to rush in and heal the defending heroes in fights. The limits of your restorative quirk meant it was wise to steer clear from the heart of the battle and avoid being hurt, so the best course of action would be to run. Run and find backup. That's the most you can do for now; the most you can try to save what remains of that small city sector.

You choose your path quickly, remaining observant of the chaos around you. Cracked asphalt and concrete, dust flying everywhere from the destruction, debris from the second half-collapsed building scattered everywhere. The Nomus remain distracted by the other heroes, so despite the obstacles, there's a clear path to the closest alleyway. From there, if you can just reach the other side of the buildings and escape harm's way, you'll be safe to make the call.

You can make it, you believe — as long as you're fast. Confident, you take off, bound for the crack between two untouched office buildings nearby, the spring in your costume's boots allowing you to move more efficiently. With such quick speed, you nearly run face-first into the wall, entering it at an angle that's easy to correct with a simple push off against the brick. From there, the path is a straight shot to the other side, only separated by a feeble chain link fence. There's a hole that looks just big enough for you to crawl through at the bottom of it, the wire pried upward to create a gap. You can make it, you repeat in your head. The coast is clear, you can make it.

  Stumbling to a stop in front of the mesh barrier, you drop to your knees as quickly as your body will allow, planting yourself onto your stomach afterward. The opening is much smaller up close, but it's nothing you can't army-crawl your way through. Your costume was made to be dirtied and protect you in the heat of conflict, so having it scrape across the rocky ground while you drag your way under the fence isn't an issue. Its durability was the least of your problems — until now, that is..

  The elastic fabric snags on the wire once you squeeze your head and arms through the hole. Time is sensitive, you don’t have any to waste on something trivial like this. You try to reach back to untangle it, only to find the wire completely stabbed through. 

  With a heavy sigh and adrenaline crawling in your veins at the delay, you manage to move back a sizable distance before you try again, but it’s useless. The ends of the wires are sharp and stab into your suit with ease, holding you back. You needed to try something else, you needed to be fast.

  Before you can attempt to force your way through the hole, a voice arises behind you. Raspy and hoarse, you don’t even realize he's there until he speaks.

  “Oh, look at what we have here. A hero, is it?”

  His approach is slow, and you only hear his footsteps once he's standing over you. Your entire body goes stiff, your blood running cold as you curve your spine back to look at him.

  "Shigaraki," you whisper, terrified, under your breath. 

  "Oh, you know me already? How nice, I suppose we can skip the introductions then." 

  You can hear your breath hitch in your throat when he speaks and feel his presence as he looms right behind you, bending at the knees to crouch down over your legs.

  "I've seen you on TV," he starts, and you hold back a scream when you feel four rough fingers gently touch the back of your thigh, "You've got quite the impressive quirk, you know. Restoration quirks are hard to come by. And yours…"

  He pauses again, glides them up to where your hip and femur jointed together, and relishes in the way you shiver before he continues, "It's the exact opposite of mine. I guess you can only restore organic things, sure, but — it does make me wonder."

  You're hardly listening to his little ramble, your heartbeat drumming too loud in your ears to process anything — but then, your head goes blank when you feel all five of his fingers cup around your hip. Panic sets in fast, and you find yourself writhing before you can think, trying to force your way through the fence. The metal wires only dig into your skin, causing even more pain as you realize you're hips are too big to fit, and you wouldn't have made it anyway.

  Tomura only chuckles lightly at your reaction, watching the bottom half of your hero suit disintegrate into dust. You don't even realize it until you're already crying, and a cold breeze hits your face and bottom half. His hand is on you. Touching you. Feeling you, and yet.

  You don't feel any pain. His touch is simply normal against your skin. His palm is surprisingly warm, but dry. And you don't disintegrate. You don't disintegrate.

  Tomura laughs again at wide eyes and gaping mouth as if you should have expected his quirk to cancel out with yours. He slides his palm across your bottom, down to the back of your thigh again to caress it up and down slowly. Carefully. His touch lingers far longer than you're comfortable with.

  "Your quirk activates automatically when it's your own body, right? I wonder how long I can keep doing this for, then." He speaks so casually, acting like you weren't trapped and half-bare under him.

  "I've always wanted to be able to touch someone like this again. No gloves, no barriers. Just skin. When I saw you on the news and heard about your quirk, I thought you were perfect. Aside from that pesky hero stuff, that is," he frowned slightly behind the hand on his face, moving his own to grip at the fat of your ass, "You have no idea how frustrating it is to be unable to touch something without it falling apart."

  You let out a loud squeak, feeling his weight on the back of your knees when he sits on them, squeezing and kneading your flesh in his hand. There are tears in your eyes, and you struggle to twist around to look back at him, where he sits proudly like a king on his throne. Seeing such a widely known villain — being face to face, but being stuck and having him touch you like this. It felt humiliating. Humiliating to who you were as a person and a hero. You felt sick to your stomach.

  He frowns a little at the pathetic look you give him, only tightening his hold more, "Come on, don't look like that. I haven't done anything yet."

  As he speaks, he slides another hand underneath you and pulls your hips up slightly, your spine beginning to ache at how it was strained. You can only shake as you watch him, the hand that was gripping your ass moving to slide a single finger down the center of your underwear, sending a large jolt up your spine.

  In an instant, you look forward again, covering your mouth to hold back any noise you'd almost let out. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of making a sound, let it be cries or anything. So you force yourself to silence, even as tears roll down your face.

  Tomura only grins, running the finger up and down the fabric a few more times just to feel you jolt before hooking around the lining to pull it off to the side, stuffing it between your thigh and outer labia to keep you exposed. You clench up at the cold air, another shudder roving through your body as Tomura holds back a chuckle.

  Without another thought or word, he immediately dives in, his two fingers sliding between your folds, feeling whatever you can offer him before moving down to the bud below. You shiver, but are otherwise completely frozen as he does this, not even knowing half of what to do to retaliate.

  "Not too wet yet, I see. That's ok, I can fix that." He says, beginning to prod around for that extra sensitive spot he knew you wouldn't resist. A lightbulb goes off in his head when you jolt suddenly, your hips shaking extra whenever he squishes or pokes at it. With a grin plastered under that embalmed hand, he starts to move his fingers around in slow, gentle circles.

  The coarseness of his fingers doesn't help the sensation they bring on, that feeling of soft ecstasy pulsing through your body slowly like a drum. You hold back your sounds, at least, only your breathing growing heavy as he watches you clench around nothing. 

  It isn't enough for him. He needs more than this, he needs you prepared, and that wouldn’t come from just a few measly touches. 

  His fingers move faster, gaining enough friction that he has you audibly gasping, slick already building up just below. It doesn't take as long as expected, like your body is reacting on primal need. It almost makes him wonder — maybe you're getting off to the position he has you in, even if you don't realize it.

  He gives you a few more minutes of soft touching, allowing a good amount of wetness to accumulate between your shaking thighs before moving his fingers up. He gathers your natural lube on his digits, humming as he slathers it all over your pussy to make it nice and glossy before dipping them back in, finally allowing them to take the plunge.

  As if you weren't already amply humiliated, the way his fingers toy with you before pressing in is distracting enough that he manages to draw a squeak out of you the second he dives in.

  "Ohh, give me more of that. Don't be shy." He says, sliding his digits out slowly, licking his lips at how slick they are before shoving them back in.

  His fingers are so long, soaking knuckle-deep inside of you and reaching parts that your own couldn't. You would rather die at his hands now than ever admit it to anyone, but god, it feels good.

  He's already moving them so fast, curling them all around like he's searching for something. It felt too good to be touched by someone like that. You haven't slept with another person for over a year, so it's like a new foreign feeling and an old friend all at once. You can't stop yourself. Your brain grows foggier with each drag of his fingers, like he's scratching an itch you couldn’t by yourself. You couldn't hold it back anymore.

  You let out a quiet, croaked moan, covering your face with your hands to hide how embarrassing it is to indulge in something so crude with someone like him.

  A wretched smile immediately dawns on Tomura's face, and he moves his hand even faster, trying to milk more sounds out of you before he moves on. He wants you to make more noise, to hear how good a disgusting villain like him is making a great hero like you feel.

  From there, the sounds just spilled out. He’s surprisingly quick to find the smooth spot inside of you, pumping over it repeatedly until you’re a wriggling, gasping mess. The coil inside of you is winding up tight, growing ready to burst at almost any second. 

  It's so degrading, being face down in the concrete while a villain is digging his fingers so deep into you. But you weren’t thinking about that anymore. Your mind is too focused on how good it feels rubbing against your walls, the friction driving you crazy with how fast it builds up.

  Then, like electricity in your veins, it comes crashing through your body all at once. The pleasure, the ecstasy. Your body practically vibrates against his hand, an unforgiving orgasm ripping through your entire system until you’re panting like a dog, still pulsing around him as he slowly removes his fingers and wipes them on your thigh.

  As you return from your high, the quiet chuckling unnerves you. And then you feel sick to your stomach again. You’re still recovering, but you’ve come to your senses enough to look behind you.

  The sight you see has bile rising in your throat. He’s already grabbed onto you again, unzipping his pants with one hand while he speaks.

  “So, what do you think your little hero friends would think if you had sex with a villain?”

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Don’t take my sunshine away.

Warning ⚠️; Character death, blood, injuries, mental breakdown, denial isn't just a river in Egypt. 🔞

Relationship; Batman(Bruce Wayne)/Male Reader [established] and Jason Todd & Male Reader (son/father relationship)

Summary; When Jason was kidnapped by the Joker, you acted as fast as you could to find your son. You did, it before Batman. Yet, it didn't change anything even if you can't accept it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night chilled you to your bones as you ran up toward the warehouse. Your feet sank in the snow, slowing you down and making you curse like a sailor. Sweating, panting, you still reached the damn place and grabbed the doorknob. Of course, it was locked!

- “Jason! Jason, baby can you hear me?” You screamed, falling into your knees and picking the lock.

- “Papa! Papa, it's you.” Jason’s voice came right from behind the door. “Pa… Papa hurry, there's a bomb!”

The reveal almost froze you on the spot. Almost. Instead, you accelerate and finally open the door. Jason was on the floor, bloody and shaking. The sight broke your heart and you grabbed him quickly in your arms. Under your hands, you felt his broken body arch in pain as you picked up Jason.

- “I got you. It's over, Jason, you are safe now.” You said, cradling your son against your chest.

Turning around, you saw the single light from Bruce’s motorbike. You ran, or rather tried, toward him but your leg sank in the snow.

- “Papa…”

Pain exploded in your body as you were swallowed by a bright burning light before only darkness was left.

Papa.

…

Papa.

Jason’s voice echoed in the darkness, calling for you. You searched for your son, hands up and trying to find anything to help you navigate.

- “Jason, were are you? Jason!” you called.

Papa…

Again, you could hear Jason. His voice was weak, tired and seemed to come from so far away. You felt panicked and worried, because Jason needed help. He needed to go to the hospital for his wounds.

Papa…

You gasped for air, a painful moan escaping your lips before you opened your eyes. Immediately you recognized the bed you shared with Bruce. Next to you a damn machine biped to your heartbeat. The sound only made your headache worsen and each bip seemed to bring more pain.

You couldn't hear Jason anymore, which only made your heartbeat race and the machine louder. Grabbing the wires and tubes, you tore everything off your body. Finally, the damn thing went quiet as you slowly got up from the bed. Like a fawn, you walked with difficulties toward the door.

The manor was empty, quiet. It made you uneasy. Shoulder pressed against the wall for support, you walked toward Jason’s room. It was the only place where he could be. And he was.

You smiled, stopping on the doorstep and looking at him. Jason was lying on his back, hidding under the cover. Unlike you, there was no machine or tube stuck on him and the room was cold and quiet. You approached and sat down on the bed, your fingers finding his hair and brushing them tenderly.

- “Really Jason? Hidding under the covers?” You chuckled and pulled off the covers from his face.

Jason’s eyes were closed and he seemed so peaceful in his sleep. You couldn't resist the urge to stroke his cheek, but the texture was wrong and his skin so cold. You frowned, staring at your fingers as you found makeup on them. You clicked your tongue in your mouth with distaste. It was probably a joke from Alfred or Bruce because Jason hated makeup.

- “What an idiot. They really had to prank you in your sleep, didn't they? My poor sunshine, you are so cold. Don't worry, papa’s gonna find you more blankets.”

Looking around, you noticed how dark the room was. His mirror was covered by a black thick fabric. That was unusual. You put it on Bruce’s back again, wondering how far your husband took his jokes. The man wasn't a trickster so it was strange, but you brushed it off.

You busied yourself searching Jason’s drawer when you heard his door open. You froze at the sight as you turned around. Bruce stood still, his face twisted with grief and surprise while his blue eyes were red with tears. You felt your heart drop as you saw a mortician behind him followed by men holding a coffin. At that moment, in the heavy silence, something broke inside of you.

Rage filled your veins as you grabbed a lamp and threw it with all the little strength you had. Your husband barely had the time to close the door before the lamp smashed against it. Panting, you staggered toward the door not even reacting as you stepped on the glass shards. Your fist hit the wood and you scratched it with your nails.

- “How dare you? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU, BRUCE WAYNE? That's too far! My boy… my baby…” Your voice broke into a sob as you covered your mouth and looked toward the bed. Thankfully, Jason was still asleep. You felt a wave of shame flood over you for how you reacted. What Jason would have thought of you if he had seen it? Closing your eyes, you leaned against the door. “Go away Bruce. Just… go away. I’ll tell you and Alfred when Jason wake up.”

You didn't wait for an answer and walked back to the back to the drawers. You find a thick woollen blanket and carry it to Jason's bed. Painfully and slowly, you were able to put it on your son. You sat next to him, caressing his face. You had rarely seen Jason so calm in his sleep and there was no more sign of injuries. It was a relief to know your baby wasn't in pain anymore.

Leaning down, you kissed Jason’s cold forehead.

- “Papa’s right here my little sunshine. You scared me to death, you know that?” You whispered with a smile, tears rolling down your cheek for some reason. “I don't know what I would have done if you had died. I think it would have killed me too.”

Slowly, you lay down next to your son, your hand resting on his chest. It's not moving, you realized, but brushed it off. Of course, his chest his moving, just barely because Jason is too weak. You closed your eyes, feeling so empty and tired.

You only woke up for what felt like days later. You recognized Bruce’s warm and calloused hands on your shoulders. You blinked, trying to wake up as your husband held you tightly against his chest, arms wrapped against yours. Bruce buried his nose in the crook of your neck and you felt his wet cheeks against your skin.

- “Bruce? W-what are you doing? You are going to wake up Jason…” You said with a low voice, pressing your back against your husband’s chest. All anger had left you and you wanted nothing more than for this embrace to never end. “You need to do something, Bruce. We can't let the Joker… we can't let him get away with it. He almost killed our boy! So either you take care of the Joker or I do.”

Bruce’s arms wrapped tighter around you, almost painfully and you knew just what kind of monstrosity you were asking. Bruce wasn't a murderer. He refused to take a life. But Jason had almost died because of that clown!

- “I will. I will avenge Jason. You won't have to do anything.” Your husband whispered in your ear. “I am so sorry. I didn't expect you to wake up before we moved Jason. I never wanted you to see this.”

- “Bruce? What are you…”

But you didn't have the chance to finish your sentence. The door opened again and this time the mortician entered as Bruce pulled you out and away from the bed. Away from Jason.

- “No! NO STOP IT!” you screamed, fighting your husband’s grip. But Bruce had always been stronger than you. “Please, please don't take my baby away! My boy! He isn't dead, stop it!”

- “I am sorry darling. It's not your fault, you did everything you could. I’ll take care of everything, I promised.”

Bruce kept holding you, his lips kissing your shoulder as you kicked and screamed. You felt a wave of pain as you reopened your wound, still trying to break free. You collapsed on the ground, watching those strangers touch your son. Powerless you could only witness them putting your son in the coffin and leaving. Bruce never let go of you no matter how much you screamed and cried. In the end, you two were left alone in the empty bedroom, crying the loss of your son.

[therobotmonster]

I know I wasn't supposed to.

But I went into the woods.

Another me came out.

We seem to be equally suspicious that the other is the imposter. I keep checking him for roots and he keeps doing the same to me. Is it a double bluff? Is he gaslighting me into thinking I'm the neverwas thing and he's the human being with organs and anxiety? Is he truly unaware he's a mockery given shape? If he can be unaware of it, I can be too.

That's kind of a lonely thought, really.

-

It's been several days and the tests are all inconclusive. We both bleed normal blood that doesn't turn into a spider and jump to the ceiling when you touch it with a hot wire. We know the same trivia. We pretended to know the same stuff we forgot that we were embarrassed not to remember. We both got uncomfortable at the exact same time when we walked into the cathedral.

We arm wrestled and didn't tie somehow, but we weren't sure if winning meant he was more likely to be fake or less likely.

I worry that we don't really know anything about accursed other selves from the woods.

Wikipedia has been less than helpful.

-

Mom claims she knows which one of us is her 'first boy' but refuses to tell us on the basis that she loves us both and thinks we should get along.

He thinks she can't tell and is too embarrassed to tell us. I think its because she wants to double her chance at grandkids. The difference in opinion is interesting, but is it a sign of an imposter, or the divergence of our experiences?

-

We've decided to flip for the job. I won, so I don't have to find new work. I don't know if that's a win.

I think the curse is that neither one of us is an unnatural imposter out to kill the other. Or else whichever one of us is the monster has realized they don't think my life is worth killing to steal.

I know I think about smashing that copy of my own face open with a rusty fire axe, a gush of sea water and blasphemous screams roiling from the empty hole that should contain bone and brains, and it just seems like a lot of trouble and effort.

I think I'm going to start going by my middle name.

-

Another me just showed up on our doorstep.

He's caked in mud, sticks and twigs in his hair, babbling about harrowing experiences. I'm fixing him some tea while the other-other me hands him the pamphlet we made just in case.

Now he's telling us about the Night King. Like we don't know.

I need a bigger place.

[gamesetart]

me when dilf!art breeding kink but im feeling horribly masc so the actual idea of pregnancy grosses me out - anyways i support transmasc breeding kinks guys

nsfw below the cut - reader is afab, one use of 'good boy' but other than that its very neutral. afab terms for reader's parts.

tags: breeding kink (sort of? they're not actually trying to get pregnant), cheating (sort of, tashi allows it. orchestrated it, actually), mentions of the arttashi marriage, overstimulation, the mildest of crying. technically an age gap (art in his early 30s, reader in 20s) but it never comes up.

his hips slot against yours like he was made to be there, made to press your knees to your chest, to fold you in half, to settle between your thighs and jackrabbit in and out of your cunt like he owns it, like there isn't even a person attached to the rest of it.

it's not the first time you've found yourself like this, praising his athleticism whilst cursing his absolutely unfair stamina. you've cum around him twice already - on his tongue, because art donaldson wouldn't dare try to fuck you stupid without coating his face in your spend, first, then on his fingers, a futile attempt to open you up for his cock. but nothing feels like enough prep for art, especially not when you're whining for him, telling him you want it to hurt, you don't care, you need him now.

"fuck," art groans, breath hot against the crook of your neck. "fuck, you're so fuckin' tight f'me, jesus, baby."

"don't bring him into this," you manage, nipping at his ear.

he huffs a laugh. even when he's like this, fucking you like a man posessed, snapping his hips into yours like he'll die outside of the sweet clench of your pussy, he manages to find lightness. you both do. it keeps things sweet, keeps them from slipping too far into uncharted territory. you have tashi's permission to let him ruin you as he pleases - tashi duncan knows all, and she's sanctioned your existence as the perfect outlet for all pf art's pent-up fantasies - but art doesn't want to be rough with you. not yet. he likes that he can hold you and feel strong, protective. likes that he can bend you in two and still kiss your temple. art likes that you can be sweet, soft, lovely.

"shhh, you can take it, baby," art soothes, and it's far too kind with the way he's fucking you. "doin' so well for me."

"art-" it's a warning as much as it is a plea.

he just nods, strokes your hair from your face, gentle as sin, and presses his forehead to yours.

"go on, babe, cum on my cock, c'mon, that's it, that's it-" and he feels it, the moment your walls clench around him, the fluttering of your cunt as a broken cry of his name falls from your lips. "oh, god, there you go."

he doesn't stop, though, barely even slows as he wipes a tear from your cheek and continues to slam his cock right into your overstimulated cunt. no amount of whining, of red scratches raked down his back, could have stopped him. you have a word, a signal. if you really couldn't take it, he'd know.

but you're his good boy, you'll take it, you always will. you might be the only one who can. you're the only one he wants, certainly. the only person he can fuck into like this.

"'s too much," you sob weakly, clawing at him with shaking hands. "art, please, can't-"

art just shushes you with a soft, quick kiss. "got one more f'me, don't ya? i know you do, know you can, baby, c'mon."

the tears fall freely, the press of his cock inside you so ridiculously filling you wonder if you'll split in half, if you'll simply die from the overstimulation. and then you think that'll be such an excellent way to go out, crying under him, safe between his strong arms.

art's right hand slips from where it rests on the back of your knee, holding you spread open. he hooks your leg over his shoulder, using the now-free hand to rub torturous circles on your clit. it burns, it's good, too good, white-hot sparks of pain crossing their wires with pleasure as you all but scream, sounds torn from your lungs in ways you didn't know you could make.

"c'mon, babe, wanna feel you cum around my cock before i pull out-"

your eyes go wide and you shake your head. no, not this time, wait, but the words don't come out.

"what, what's wrong?" art slows, pulling his hand from you. his blue eyes are doe-like with concern, eyebrows knit in the middle, lips settled into a familiar worried pout as he stares down at you.

you get a second to catch your breath. "in me," you gasp hoarsely. "inside. art. want you to cum in me. fill me up, please."

it's like something snaps.

there's a look on his face you can only liken to how he looks on the court: wild, fierce, a calculated cruelty he uses to systematically destroy whoever's on the other side of the net. and right now, a version of that look is fixed on you, a hungry glint in his eyes, pupils blown so wide you'd think his iries had vanished.

"fuck," he groans. "you want me to breed you, that it? fill up this pretty little pussy?"

and you moan, because neither of you are trying for a baby, not in the slightest, but the idea of being owned so thoroughly by art donaldson is enough to make you clench around him, fresh heat coiling in your core, and you could probably give him a hundred more orgasms, as long as he keeps talking to you like that.

"yeah, yeah, fuck me, art, 'til it takes, please," you babble, and maybe one day you'll start meaning it.

his pace begins anew, and this time, there's barely any rhythm to it. he's seeking release for himself now, too, for the first time since this has started, pulling out almost entirely before snapping back in so hard, you're sure you can feel it in your throat. deft fingers make rough circles on your clit, quick and dirty.

it pulls another orgasm from you faster than you'd like to admit. you don't even have time to warn him, but he can feel it in the way you tighten, your legs shaking, can hear it in the sharp note of your voice when you call his name.

"that's it, there you go," art groans. "gonna fill you right up, baby. 's what you want, right?"

you nod, so far past words, so far past anything more than lying there and taking it. but that's all he needs from you. his pace stutters.

"fuck, yes, you're so perfect, so good to me, you feel so good-" he's babbling now, grinding into you with all the grace and decorum of a fucking animal. "made for me, made for this cock, god, yes-"

and with a high keen of your name he's cumming, driving his hips into you, pushing his cock in as far as your cunt will allow, so far you're almost worried his sheer willpower is enough to override the birth control pill you're on. he stays there for a while, holds it in like he really is going to force it to take. and when he pulls out, his fingers push it back it sloppily.

art presses a soft kiss to your temple and all but collapses next to you with a sigh. when he catches his breath, you know he'll vanish to the bathroom, return with damp cloths and the bath running. he'll massage all your sore joints and rub oils into your skin and kiss every inch of you. but right now, he just needs to feel you. to lie next to you and try to memorise the pattern of your breathing.

"that was... something," you mumble, a soft smile playing at your tired lips.

"good something?" art asks.

"great."

"oh, thank god, because i really enjoyed that."

"so did i."

he kisses you again, on the lips. it's slow, sweet, drawn-out, as he weaves a hand into your hair and trails it down to draw circles on your shoulder. both of you know a child isn't in the cards right now, but your purpose here is to let art play pretend. you don't even actually want kids, it's just hot to think about making art a daddy again. tashi is the mother of his daughter, will be the mother of any of his future children. you, you're the outlet she hand-picked for all of art's needs, because while she can do everything, she won't let him fuck her the way he wants to fuck someone, and art doesn't want to fuck tashi the way he fucks you. you're okay with that. you like being someone he needs. someone he wants.

and who knows? maybe tashi will change her mind. maybe you will. maybe she'll let you have his next kid, and maybe you'll want it.

god knows art wants it. he'd let you. he'd give you anything. everything.

"thank you," he mumbles against your hair. "that was... i love you."

"i should be thanking you, i haven't cum thag much in one night in... ever."

you pause, tip your head up to meet his eyes. he's smiling, soft as silk, sweet as sugar. in the dying light of the sun, his hair looks like it's on fire, haloed by the sky itself. apollo incarnate come down from the heavens.

"i love you too," you say. and mean it.

[agatharkn3ss]

Lilia's premonitions theory (contains spoilers)

Well, my brain has been in overdrive and I love puzzles so... "buckle up!"

If it's too long for you - you can jump straight into the last section titled "How does it all fit"... I really think there could be something there.

OTHER THEORIES

There have been many theories about Lilia's powers and her moments of visions. Some think it's just some loose wiring on most part, some think it's past traumatic events catching up with her, some think they are predictions of the future, some even went as far as suggesting that Lilia (loosely) predicts the last words of the next person who's going to die (based on the fact she said "Get off me!" in ep.2 and we hear Sharon shout "Don't touch me!" in ep.3). But we keep seeing more and more of Lilia's blips in ep.4, they make less sense to any of the above theories, so personally I am not sold on any of them.

There is also a possibility that her premonitions could just be linked to the events that follow - but the words aren't accurate because Lilia can't quite see the "full picture". So her screaming in her shop could be linked to Teen's reaction when Salem Seven attacked in that same episode. Or when she says "Alice, don't", we see Agatha pleading "Don't" with Rio.

BUT then I saw people discussing that maybe these are actually "misplaced" moments in time - from the future AND the past. And that they will make sense if they were said in the correct moment, but somehow got lost and sent to a different time. For example - when Lilia talks about the vampire by the campfire "You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning, but now..." then zones out. We could assume she's still talking about the vampire, but this pause could actually be easily filled with "I love you guys!" from the "botox" scene in ep.3, because she was actually touched by their campfire stories. Or when she shouts "Get off me" in ep.2, it could be taken right out of the ep.4 scene where she's burning on the floor, shouting "Get it off me!".

WHAT WE KNOW

All those theories got me mighty intrigued, so of course I made a list of all of Lilia's apparent 'blips' and tried to make sense of it! I believe there are two types of Lilia's visions - one where she has "wrong messages" and one where she exclaims names of tarot cards.

The tarot cards she mentioned so far:

Three of Pentacles - right after she wrote the coven names down

High Priestess - when she meets Jen at Agatha's house

Three of Swords - as Jen is trying to heal Teen

The "blips" are:

shouting and flailing her hands - when Agatha and Teen ask her to join the coven in ep.2

writing the coven names (same scene as above) - this is the only premonition where we see burst of power - the electricity flicker around her, the water boils and it all seems really intense.

shouting "Get off me!" and looking like she was pushing someone away - just before the witches begin summoning the Road

"I love you guys" - when Jen questions Sharon about her poison symptoms in ep.3

"Try to save Agatha" - when she and Agatha are searching for potion ingredients

"Which is it, am I wispy or am i kooky?" - when talking to Alice about her mum during the trial in ep.4

"Alice! Alice don't" - shortly after the one above

Zones out - during the campfire scene when she talks about the vampire scar

We also know that her Air trial will be all about tarot (confirmed by Patti herself) and the promos show Lilia in some sort of princess dress and tiara, Agatha as the green Wicked Witch of the West and Jen looking like the Evil Queen from Snow White but in the old hag form. This makes me think in her trial she will have to confront all those stereotypes about witches that she always said she hated so much. She will likely have to do a tarot reading too. There is also a room with ceiling full of swords that could fall down on them. And finally, in that same room there is a brief shot with her and Salem Seven, flowing mid-air.

One promo also shows one of Salem Seven (Vertigo) opening her mouth to release a swarm of cicadas (her spirit animal).

We know the witches slowly regain their powers once they passed their trial.

There is also this thing about Alice (I will need to make a separate post to explain this) - where my prediction is that in ep.5 she will try to protect the coven by attacking Agatha while she's in her "possessed" form. Unfortunately, Agatha will (willingly or not) completely syphon her powers and Alice will die.

HOW DOES IT ALL FIT?

Well. I think we will potentially get some answers during or after Lilia's trial, once she starts regaining her powers. I think Lilia will try to send a message to the witches in the past, but she will still be struggling with getting the times right.

I could almost see a scene where she sits at her crystal ball or does a tarot reading and talks, not realising that EVERYTHING she says is "sent out" without any filter.

Something like...

.........

Lilia is in a room with other witches, it is a high pressure situation because the Salem Seven are chasing them. Her task is to send the names of the witches to her past self so that Agatha can form her coven - they realised that without the list, they would've never gotten there. Maybe their existence or memory depends on it.

So Lilia starts a tarot reading and begins "tuning in" to her memories, saying the names of the revealed cards out loud - "High Priestess" (she says it in a surprise voice as her vision suddenly flickers to the moment of meeting Jen), "Three of Swords" etc. Maybe one of other witches in the room starts antagonising her kookiness, so that she would just hurry up, because this is not working and Salem Seven are close. So Lilia responds in annoyance "Which is it, am I wispy or am I kooky?!" But then she realises she is standing in front of Alice from the fire trial (in spirit anyway, Lilia is still physically in the scary room). She exclaims in relief "Alice!" and realises this is also her chance to warn Alice so that she doesn't die. She begins saying "Alice, don't try to save Agatha!", but mid way through, her spirit gets transported to the first trial, searching for potion ingredients. So Alice only hears "Alice don't..." and Agatha hears "...try to save Agatha". At some point Lilia is transported to sitting in front of the campfire, reminiscing their stories. This is a fond memory so she starts saying "You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning, but now.." and before she can finish, she gets transported back to the "Huge tiny lies" house "...I love you guys".

Maybe at some point Salem Seven break their way into the tarot room and one of them attacks Lilia. She screams "Get off me!" and pushes them away (while her spirit is transported to the moment before they opened the Road). Vertigo releases her cicadas, flying around Lilia's head. She flails her hands and screams, while her spirit is inside her shop where Agatha and Teen just approach her. She realises she's close, focuses all her energy and channels her spirit to write the list of names herself. It takes enormous effort to stay focused on that one moment, hence the energy around her is bursting. She either doesn't have enough time to finish writing Rio's name or feels cheeky and draws a black heart instead. She finishes by revealing and naming the last tarot card: "Three of Pentacles". She completes the task, the End!

....

So..... What does everyone think?!!!!!!

[unholyhelbig]

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.  

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid. 

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

[Taglist💕: @dannipotatoo, @non-binary-frogking, @mysticalmoonlight7, @metanoiablxxm, @coxlong, @b3nzzzzz, @simpforlizzie, @delulu-bayolet-era, @dorabledewdroop, @crescentcrush, @roselockwood, @ellieromanov, @leenasayeed, @theowlappears, @pitifulbinx, @pepemyfantasy, @tekanparadiae, @skittlebum, @mariabeloskivismyoc, @natsbiggestfan1, @marvelwomen-simp, @cinffy23, @kyky-maximoff, @natalierushmansstuff, @bstvst, @lezzylover, @404-almostdone, @mishimrno, @maxidentbby, @shayarshucky, @merlinsouls, @neothepotato]

[ghosts-cant-sleep]

unrequited love with male reader having feelings for Leon but Leon has feelings for Ada

i've hoarded your name in my mouth for months

leon kennedy [re4] x male! reader warnings: yearnmaxxing, mc is awkwardly put into a pre-existing scene but its okay but the intention is for you to feel uncomfortable, i listened to a lot of kimya dawson while writing this. so. notes: anon you single handedly found every single trigger word in my brain, i owe you all my worldly belongings

fem dni

"Who was she?" His voice scratched against his throat, creating an awkward, unpleasant sound, mouth dry and weak with lack of use. At this point, [Name] was just begging to have his feelings hurt.

But he couldn't keep his focus in check. Like a thirsty hound in sweltering heat, eyeing its bowl of water, Leon sat right across from him. Their desks shoved together, wires of their respective computers entangling themselves, stuffed in the space between them.

Leon's eyes are reluctant to meet [Name]'s, his chin rising before his gaze catches up. The warmth from the desklamp and the blinding blue light from his computer meet on the planes of Leon's face like a painting. They catch in his hair, casting it in it's hues as tousled locs fall over his brow, highlight the contours of his cheeks, deepen the creases beneath his eyes while his brows pinch together. He considers the question for a moment, pen stilling mid letter. "She...?"

[Name]'s pen anxiously rolls between his fingers, palms growing clammy, making his skin feel sticky. He wanted to take the question back as soon as his eyes met Leon's. He didn't mean it, he didnt really want to know, but the question had plaqued mind for weeks now. He didn't care how badly the answer would hurt him. He just needed an answer.

"Uhm, like that woman, I mean. The, uh, the one from Spain." Dread swells in his throat. He tries to clear it with a dry cough. His hands slip beneath the table in a way he hopes is casual, palms drying themselves against his jeans.

He pretends not to remember her name, like it'd make the truth easier to bear, like the sound of her name falling of Leon's tongue hadn't been rotting in the back of his mind since.

He can't even begin to comprehend where his mind had managed to twist all of this the entire time. It made him feel sick, embarrassed to even think about. Leon was his coworker at the least and a good friend at most. How can a single man manage to be that delusional? Twisting every little meaningless moment into a sign, a glimmer of hope for whatever deluded rom-com he thought this was.

But god, he really swore sometime that he could feel it-- really feel it.

During late nights just like this, catching up on whatever boring bureaucratic paperwork their missions came with, alone in a dimly lit office, muttering to each other like every word that left their tounge was some grave secret, leaning over desks, smiling like fools, nearly nose to nose.

"Oh."

Spain wasn't a mission either regarded fondly. They never spoke on it, not to anyone, not even to each other. Grotesque bodies twisted into horrid creatures better left to the imagination had burned itself into their brains. There was a unique sort of fear it'd conjured up in the pits of his stomach. That feeling came back every so often, waking him in a cold sweat, a shriek of fear catching in his throat as he meets his empty, desolate bedroom. It was a shit show.

"I mean, you don't have to like, tell me or anything-- I'm sorry for asking, it's not my place, I was just... I don't know."

Nauseating notions of love and affection had been harbored behind [Name]'s ribs. The lines of want and need blurred indefinitely whenever his eyes settled on Leon, whether it be the lines of his back as he moved, or the small grin he tried to force back to keep up whatever dorky 'cool guy shtick' he thought people fell for.

The impulse to let his thoughts be known, to scream and shout, to hum them through through a shakey melody, to sob them out into Leon's lap, grew stronger and stronger whenever [Name] felt the heat of Leon's body against his own. Fingers brushing together in a breath of a touch, bumping against each other as they walked, crammed together into whatever impossibly inconvenient vehicle they had at their disposal; knees knocking together, shoulders squished, broad back against chest.

And he nearly did let it all out. They'd been through many near death experiences together, yet this one was the breaking point. This one was the one that scared [Name] down to his bone.

Humid air and muggy water clung thick to his skin, sweat and lake dripping down the bridge of his nose as his hands clutched at the soggy fabric of Leon's shirt. His hair was dripping wet, a few shades darker, put cold as his head fell into [Name]'s lap. Blood violently hacked out seeped into the cracks of the blond's lips.

The boat they resided in swayed and rocked despite the earrie stillness of the water. Blood floated in clouds suspended in the water, surrounding them.

He'd dragged Leon's dead weight out of the flooding boat onto the rickety wooden platforms of the boathouse. The stentch of old, rotting fish surrounded them, yet most suffocatingly, the fear of what Leon was even going through, what he'd failed to let him in on.

[Name]'s hands stayed on Leon. An innocent hand on his chest, making sure it rises and falls, a gentle touch against the thin skin of his neck, a finger hovering over his top lip, feeling the shallow breath hit his skin.

And just like that, the second Leon came to, gasping for breath as his body lurched forward, was the same second [Name]'s mind decided it wouldn't do to hoard that aching yearn that rested heavy in his chest, like it was eating him from the inside out.

"It's fine," his tone feigns indifference, waving off [Name]'s uncertain blabbering with a wave of his hand, silencing him then and there like a well trained dog. His gaze leaves [Name] and settles back on the papers, but his pen doesn't move. "She's just a merc. Met her a few years back."

[Name] hums, fingers fiddling with the folds of his jeans stretched across his lap. He nods, teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard he almost draws blood. He was better than this. He was more mature than this. He wasn't still some lovesick school boy fixing to throw a fit. Right?

"Yeah, that makes sense." He sounds smaller now. "I dunno, I guess I just thought the two of you were close. Guess I was wrong...?"

"Hm."

Whatever 'plan' he had conceived while trudging their way through that village, letting it furthe waste away behind thick forest had died shortly thereafter. When he saw her.

In a castle acquainted midway between opulence and decay. It stood out in comparison to whatever humble community used to reside on the other side of its stone walls, one built from rudimentary inventions, or brick and wood, of community, of labor. The castles corridors were filled with death, twisting labyrinths covered in marble and gold.

There was a dread that followed him like out of time footsteps as his feet hit the cracked floors beneath him. He tried desperately to ignore it, but it hung over his head like an omen.

It was one he should've paid more attention to, one he shouldn't have pushed to the back of his attention-- focusing instead of the suits of armor that towered over him, on the distant sounds of metal squeaking against itself, on Leon.

In spite of it all, of failure risked at every turn available, of the thick smell of dust and cobwebs, of creaking floorboards, his heart sunk only whe his eyes settled on her.

"You can stop right there, Leon." The lul of her voice was cold, almost bored, but there was a playful fondness settled in her throat.

She was gorgeous. He hated it.

A red knit dress hugged the curves of her form, its ridges following down the line of her body, sleaves following through the elegant length of her arm, stopping just where her hand met her gun.

The leather of her glove squeaked as he grip tightened, the cold barrel brushing against the fabric of Leon's shirt as she stepped closer-- a warning, a tease.

"Wouldn't make me use this, would you?" The heel of her boots clicked against the hardwood. Her hair laid effortlessly perfect, brushing against the base of her neck. It looked soft, framing her face, skin dewy, and flushed. The depths of her eyes, dark and brooding, held Leon in place without even having to face her. the candles, flame flickering against her form, made her glow.

[Name] was offered no more than a glance. He stood there, frozen, foolishly more perturbed by the familiarity held in her voice than the gun she wielded. He was no threat to her. Wide-eyed, dejected puppy dog look he gave her was evidence enough.

Leon's eyes fluttered at the sound of her voice, a deep breath sucked in between his teeth, like he hadn't been able to breathe before he heard her voice-- or maybe it was her perfume in the air. The corners of his lips twitch, teasing a grin. "Well, after six years, that's a hell of a greeting, Ada."

Leon hissed out her name like he'd rather be rid of it, but it was an obvious farce. [Name] had grown to know very well the same lilt of fondness and longing that very clearly had wrapped their stubborn hands around Leon's neck. It was obvious, even in the tiniest ways.

It made him feel sick. He just stood there and watched, lips parted like he'd ever had something useful to say in the first place. He watched like an idiot while these two... Hell, he didn't even know.

It was utterly loathsome how well they fit together. When they spoke, when they moved, predicting every breath with practiced eased-- No, not even practiced, but something else, something worse, like second nature, like it was thoughtless. They just knew.

Each strike was just narrowly ducked beneath, leather squeeked beneath a calloused grip, a hand closing around her thin wrist, pulling her close, and empty threat of a blade against her neck, the same way her finger hadn't once grazed the trigger.

"Try using knives next time." Something about Leon's hand on her nearly set [Name] off right where he stood. Ot was firm but far from harsh or cruel. It was savoring, reverent, relieving to have her skin against his, even just like this.

"Not a bad move." A grin ghosts her features. Try as she might to fight it off, it settles beneath her skin, eyes crinkling, and [Name]'s sure her pulse beneagh his hand quickens the same way his always did. "Very smooth."

"So who are you working for this time?" Even Leon's own voice carries the weight of desire. Desire not like how [Name] yearned day and night, but like light tease, like flirty smiles, like foreplay.

"Oh, Leon," his name drips of her tongue like a poem, pain and reluctant covertness and heat all heard in the breath she sighed out. Her head lulls to the side, blinking in his gaze like a cat. The look they shared more than made up for what they'd lost in the six years, whatever the hell that was even supposed to mean. "You know I don't work and tell."

Everything else feels fuzzy.

At that moment, he felt as though the castle walls were crumbling in on him, burying him beneagh rubble and dust, the ground ready to fall beneath his feat and swallow him into the earth. He wished it did.

Something about that woman was easy to get suck in someone's head. Her voice, ao soft, so painfully sensual, striking down the center of his brain like ear bleeding static he wished would stop.

Even his own gaze couldn't stop from following her form out the window, her eyes meeting his in a fleeting glace of pity. Fucking pitty.

Was he really that obvious? How desperate he wanted Leon? Hell, how desperately he wanted to be her, just in that very second? Maybe, just maybe, if he were a girl just half as pretty as her, if he had her confidence, her shiny black hair, that voice, if he were here, then maybe Leon would want him back.

He feels like a child as he keeps a lump stuck down in his throat. It's almost painful. He doesn't trust himself to not speak, for his voice to stay steady, for his desperation to not make Itself known.

His jaw clenches as his teeth grind together. Neither of them deserved the senseless anger that reared it's ugly head inside his gut, but anger was easier to feel that disappointed. He braves himself a glance towards Leon.

Leon, who without a word, picks up his discarded gun off the floor, like nothing had even happened. Whose gaze first settles on the empty window, its framed panes swinging in the breeze, the [Name]'s, and there's nothing when they finally lock.

Quick as that, the realization dawns on him. All those late nights they spent together, hours stretching into the early morning were just work, all glances were just eyes aimlessly wondering in a need to cure boredom, touches, fingers brushing, shoulders knocking, all just mistakes, all fleeting moments were just that. Fleeting moments, not meant to extend past that brief second. They meant nothing.

Whatever sappy speech he'd prepared was stuffed back down his throat. He'd sooner die than hurt himself by entertaining the idea of him and Leon, so he clutched at his chest, feeling everything writhe beneath his skin, desperate, yearning, wanting. They clugged up his lungs, swollowed back like thick tar as they crept up his throat. He'd either suffer or allow them to die behind his mouth, drowning to silence himself, letting it weigh his body down further into the ground.

He couldn't help but be relieved for all the wrong sorts of reasons when that damned island finally went up in flames. It warmed the cast sea surrounding them now, at just the safe distance from the destruction.

That sluggish mess in his chest swelled and bubbled and screamed as he saw Leon. His hair caught the glow of the rising sun stretching its rays out behind the horizon , the water reflecting back in the grayish hues of his eyes, the sleep that pulled heavy at his lids, the bags beneath them, that reluctant look of relief. A tired grin played at his features, crooked teeth peaking out behind a crumpled smile.

Leon similarly peered over his shoulder, right back at [Name] and just... Looked.

[ashen-char]

brace yourself

ship: amber freeman (scream) x fem reader

warnings: some jokes about blood/murder since its amber yknow, not much tho

summary: after getting braces, you feel insecure about it. your girlfriend amber reassures you about it

word count: 1100+

notes: requested here. thank you <3 i dont know too much abt braces but i hope you like it regardless

Awkward would be the first word that jumps into your head about how you're feeling right now. Your mouth feels weird, your lips and cheeks feeling crowded like there's suddenly not enough space in your mouth. You can't help running your tongue over the brackets and wires as your orthodontist speaks to you. He's telling you about how to take care of them, what foods not to eat, things to avoid. You're not really paying attention. Instead, you nod along to pretend you're listening when internally all you're thinking about is whether Amber would totally hate it.

When you had told her about the possibility of you getting braces, you couldn't really read your girlfriend's reaction. Amber was a big part of why you had grown to accept your old smile. She had made you confident in something you used to hate when you were younger, always telling you how much she liked it, always trying to make you smile so she could see it.

Your orthodontist hands you a pamphlet that sums up all the care he was describing, and after thanking him you stuff it into your pocket. That's when your phone buzzes with a text from Amber.

Hey, babe! Can't wait to see u. How was it?

You take a deep breath and type back quickly. Walking out of the clinic, you get into your car. You two had planned a date for after your appointment so that Amber could treat you while your gums and stuff were still all achey. It's cute how much she wanted to take care of you.

ah it went alright. give me a few? omw to pick you up

You catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror. You flash a smile to inspect how the braces look, if it's really as different as it feels. The braces are clear as day in the bright pink you chose, like they're mocking you. You had picked a colour you liked in hopes that it'd cheer you up but maybe that was a bad idea.

Sitting on your driver's seat, you think about Amber's perfect smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs. What if she notices the braces first thing? What if she thinks they’re ugly? Or what if she'll be disappointed that they're just... different?

Your thoughts are interrupted when Amber texts back. There's no time to worry about what she'll think - she'll see you in a few minutes whether you like it or not.

Getting changed. See ya mwah

Sighing, you buckle your seatbelt and turn the ignition key. There's no stalling when Amber's waiting for you.

By the time you pull up in the driveway of her house, Amber is already waiting at her front door. She lights up upon seeing you, walking out to your car before you even had the chance to go to her front door.

"Hey, babe," she says, sliding into the passenger seat. "How was the orthodontist?"

"Hey. And fine, I guess," you answer, barely even turning to look at her. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should go in for a kiss like you usually do. You've heard these stories about braces getting stuck together when people made out, or the brackets cutting lips. You don't wanna hurt Amber.

You hadn't even realised that you were pursing your lips shut until Amber calls you out on it. "What's with the frown, huh? Hiding them from me?" she asks teasingly.

"I-" you go to argue back, but inside you know she's right. It might have been unconscious but you didn't want her to see yet. Didn't want the opportunity to be judged.

"It can't be that bad," Amber says. "Come on. You haven't even kissed me hello yet."

You bite your lip. "I'm just nervous to kiss you with these," you mumble, still trying your best not to talk too much. "I dunno how to. It could scratch you or something."

Amber rolls her eyes. As if something that small would prevent her from kissing her girlfriend. She goes to playfully nudge your arm. "I'm tougher than that. Kissing you 'til I bleed sounds kinda fun, actually. Kinky."

You can't help but to smile at her playful tone. Amber made you forget that you were trying to keep your lips from parting too much. "I should've known you'd say that."

When you speak, Amber goes to hold your face in your hand, holding your jaw to keep your mouth open. "Ah, don't close 'em again. I wanna see!"

And well, you're a simp so you tend to do whatever your girlfriend wants. You feel your cheeks heat up as she studies you, your mouth pulled to a smile to show them to Amber.

"Cute. Pink," she notes. Amber tilts your jaw, looking at you from every angle. "You're always cute."

You avoid her gaze. When she has your face tilted back to look directly at her, relief flows over you when you can see she's being genuine. She likes it. She still thinks you're cute. "Shut up," you say, but you're smiling now.

"Is that all you were worried about, babe? Can I get a kiss from my girlfriend now?"

It's not like your nerves can go away with a few words. As much as she says it's OK now, you don't wanna ruin kissing her. You don't wanna scratch up those soft pillowy lips you love kissing so much. But still, Amber always gets what she wants. And if she thinks a little bit of blood would be hot, well so be it.

"Alright," you breathe out, weak to how she's cupping your face. "If you do it softly. Don't scratch yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do," is her jokey reply. Still, Amber closes the distance, pressing a soft and tentative (on your end, at least) kiss to your lips. You’re hyper-aware of the braces, but her kiss is gentle, careful, and all your fears of metal mishaps melt away. When she pulls back, she’s smiling, her eyes sparkling. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You laugh, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “Not bad at all.”

"Were you seriously nervous?" Amber laughs. She swats your arm, thinking you're ridiculous. "As if you could be anything but cute to me. Why would I care about some braces?"

"I dunno... You think the others will say anything?" you ask, of Amber's friends.

"They're not gonna laugh. And if they do, I'll knife em' in their sleep for ya. You know me, babe. I wouldn't let anyone make fun of my girl." Amber smirked, her trademark dark humour helping lighten the mood. She squeezes your thigh in a show of quick reassurance before going to do her seatbelt. "Now hurry up and take me out, I'm fucking starving."

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Oh no... Sad cyborg!König from your first drabble did something to me HELP!

Looks up at reader with devotion and so much longing while she goes bananas riding his hightech cock. Does she love him too? Will she ever see more in him than just his vibrating super dick that's currently deep down her pussy? The man behind all the wiring and carbon fiber skin? He'll wipe out all of humanity if that's what it takes for her to be only his... While she loses herself in ecstasy, a small cooling liquid tear escapes his eye as he watches her.

Detaches his cock when he has to go on a mission and gently hands it to her like a present. Keep it safe for him, while he goes out there and fights for you. Let him come back to you and he will fuck you with it until you see stars... And afterwards... Maby you can just hold him in your arms a bit?

I think there's a difference between robot!König and a cyborg!König and this one would def be the latter one, a Robocop type of guy who continues to live on in a body-turned-war machine 💔❤️

Lonely, touch starved and sensory deprived, he desperately wants to be loved for more than just his hightech cock. The König who always dreamed of satisfying women until they cry can do exactly that these days, but the price is high. Too high, it seems.

He dreads to come back after detaching his cock; what if his girlfriend hasn't even noticed he was gone? She had his dick with her for pleasure, after all. Why did he do it, what demon of love possessed him to give it to her? He could've just selfishly left it on so that she would have at least something to look forward to when he comes back... She's so addicted to it that he could easily deprive her of it, make her beg for it with tears in her eyes.

Half expecting to hear the familiar buzz and whirr of the vibration mode of his dick, he enters home with a heavy heart. Almost crumbles on the floor when she runs to him, screaming from joy. She jumps into his lap and dangles from his neck, covers him in kisses, even wraps her legs around him as if he was her husband. As if he was a real man. And there's no sounds or scents of sex here: she hasn't had a human when he was away. She hasn't even touched his cock. She has kept it clean, and picks it up like a treasure, holds it close to her heart but says it's not the same without the rest of him.

And then she comes close, so close, and says she's missed him.

He's not going to cry in front of her: emotions are not what he was built for. But he will carry her to bed. Let her attach the treasure back to him, she looks deep into his eyes while she does it. She says she has missed him, again, laughs shyly and asks if she told him that already... After adoring her soft gasps, the needy moans induced by his shell, after worshipping her from a distance that always seems too wide, he tries to hold her close. Excited to see his attempts at snuggling, she practically forces him to lay his head on her breasts. Plays with his hair, conveniently cut short, and tells him about her week while he's trying to keep his shell from shaking.

It's he who gets cuddled, then, after all these years, and while he can't feel all of her, while he's just a ghost of himself, he feels like a man that night. A human man, who drifts off to sleep, resting on his lover's breasts after a hard day of work. A human man, who just came home to his lovely wife, feeling all kinds of good and weary after making love to her, pleased with having made his chosen one smile and giggle and relax.

He feels like a human man, in love with a woman...

[sinkovia]

Civilian casualties

John Price x GN!Reader

Angst with comfort, reader has mental health problems, price being a father figure.

Your hands moved with urgency, fingers dancing across the intricate wires of the bomb strapped to the terrified civilian. His pleas for help, mentioning his wife and kids, echoed in the tense air.

Your breathing was labored, a mix of adrenaline and the weight of the ticking clock bearing down on you. Price, ever vigilant, watched your back as enemy operators closed in on the rooftop.

With only 30 seconds left, panic clawed at the edges of your determination. The seconds seemed to slip away faster than your fingers could work.

The civilian's tear-stained face and desperate words fueled your determination, but the complexity of the bomb defied your efforts. Price, sensing the diminishing time, placed a hand on your shoulder.

In your focused desperation, you shrugged off Price's hand. "I can do it, Price, I just need more time," you assured him, Price swiftly moved, eliminating another operator with lethal precision.

Your heart pounded, your mind racing to keep up with the urgency of the situation. Glancing at the timer with only 10 seconds left, Price made a tough call. He forcefully pulled you away, urgency etched across his face. "We don't have more time."

The man fell to his knees, desperate for your help, and you stood there with tear-filled eyes, a silent witness to the impending tragedy. Price, without hesitation, pushed the man off the building, and his scream echoed in the air just before the bomb detonated. The blast reverberated through the air, the shockwaves reaching every corner of your being.

Price grabbed your arm and ran towards the fire staircase clinging to the side of the building. The world around you blurred as you ran behind him, your senses overwhelmed. Running became a blur, the disorienting sound of ringing in your ears accompanying each step.

Reaching the ramp of the exfil helo, you found yourself dissociating, the traumatic events unfolding in front of you leaving you numb. As you boarded the helo, Price's hand on your shoulder brought you back to the present.

"Y/n, look at me. It's not your fault, okay? We didn't have the luxury of time," he reassured. Nodding, you took a seat as the helicopter lifted off, carrying you both back to the base.

You sit alone in the dimly lit room, a heavy weight on your chest. The familiar voices of doubt and self-loathing echo in your mind. "You're worthless," they whisper, a cruel refrain that plays on a loop. You think about the times you've let people down, the mistakes you've made, and the unshakeable feeling that you never get anything right.

The darkness within you seems to grow, feeding off every one of your failures. "Why bother trying? You'll only disappoint them again." The faces of your team flash before your eyes, each expression a mirror reflecting disappointment.

You remember the times you promised to do better, to be better, only to fall short once more. "You're a burden," the voices taunt. "No one needs you. No one wants you." The weight on your shoulders becomes unbearable, and the room feels smaller, closing in on you.

The thought of being a constant source of letdown gnaws at your insides. "Why can't you be like them?" the voices hiss, comparing yourself to an idealized version that seems unattainable.

Your achievements, no matter how significant, are overshadowed by a relentless sense of inadequacy. The room feels colder, and the isolation intensifies. The battle within your mind rages on, a relentless war of self-deprecation.

The next week was hard for you; the haunting images of that man begging for his life played over and over in your mind. The weight of it bore down on your already fragile mental state.

Despite being accustomed to civilian casualties, this particular event seemed to cut deeper. You withdrew from your team. Weeks passed, and you spoke less, ate less, and your sense of self-worth deteriorated day by day.

Even before this incident, you battled self-doubt. Every glance in the mirror reflected someone you hated, convinced that you couldn't get anything right. The guilt over not being able to save the man only made these feelings stronger.

If only you had been better, that man might still be alive. You felt like a constant disappointment, failing those who depended on you. The weight of your failures bore heavily on your shoulders, and with each passing day, your mental state crumbled.

Price noticed the toll it took on you. Without a word, he approached your room, gently knocked, and you ushered him in. Silently, he closed the distance, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. As tears streamed down your face, you allowed yourself to release the pent-up emotions against his chest.

His hand went to the back of your head, holding you a bit tighter before he spoke. "I'm proud of you, Y/n. I hope you know how worthy you are and how much you bring to the world. You're stronger than you think."

Tears streamed down your face as he continued, "I'm proud of you for not giving up, no matter how many times you've wanted to. For choosing to keep on going, for continuing to show up each day despite what you've been through... You bring so much light to the world."

As his comforting words washed over you, your breathing steadied, and you sniffled against him. He spoke with genuine care, "I hope one day you can see yourself the way the team sees you. We love you so much, Y/n. Never forget that."

Your voice, shaky and vulnerable, responded, "I'm pulling everyone down with me. I'm not the person they think I am."

He shook his head reassuringly, "No, you're not dragging us down. We're here for you, through thick and thin. Your struggles don't define you. You're stronger than you realize. Just one step at a time, Y/n."

The weight of your emotions pressed on, "But what if I'm too tired to take even one step? What if I just want to give up?"

"Then let us carry you for a while," he said softly. "It's okay not to have all the answers or to be strong all the time. Lean on us, share the burden, and let us help you find the light. Giving up is not an option."

Your pain surfaced again, "I don't want to burden anyone. I just want the pain to stop."

"You're not a burden," he emphasized. "Your pain matters, and so do you. We're here because we care, and we want to help you find your way back to the light. You deserve happiness and peace. Let us be there for you, even when you feel like giving up."

He pulled you away gently, and you gazed up at him with tears in your eyes. "We are a family," he declared, handing you a tissue as you wiped your eyes and nose, a small, understanding smile shared between you.

"One day at a time okay." he put his hand on your shoulder and you smiled, "One day at a time." you say softly. "Come on, the boys were in the kitchen cooking.

“They wanted to cheer you up." you let out a small laugh and follow price out of your room. "Let's hope the kitchen isn't on fire."

Price laughs next to you patting your back. "I have strong doubts."

Father when will you say any of these things to me.

[bcofl0ve]

i don't particularly like to get political on here but man is terribly horrifically hard to be a school shooting survivor in this country. i found out about the new one because i logged into facebook and my feed was

someone i went to high school with posting about it

a survivor i know from a different community posting about it

a parent of a dead child i met through politics posting about it

someone in a support group saying not to watch the news

repeat. repeat. change the order. repeat.

i'm too wired to sleep because i don't know the kids that were in that building today but yet i do because i am them, because a part of me will always be 17 years old in my algebra three class hoping god would really forgive me if it came down to it. i just texted a friend from another survivors community that i haven't talked to years because he tweeted something that worried me. i've gotten a handful of those check in texts today myself. i hate flying because i'm terrified of plane crashes and don't feel the least bit comforted by statistics. i hate intercom systems and police sirens and going from a women's undergrad college to a co-ed law school was hard because i became very aware that the chance of it happening again ticked up. the shooting at my high school was my english teacher's second. i spent a week in dc after the uvalde shooting and all i could think as i looked at my friends is that the only thing that had changed in four years was that we all looked older. i had to leave the political sphere because i sat in meetings- with republican staffers and well-intentioned democrats alike- and just wanted to scream. nonprofits forced "gun reform not gun control" down our throats but it rotted on my tongue and i wish you could say repeal the 2nd in polite company but you can't. good survivors tow the non-profit respectability line. good survivors don't get blocked by shannon watts from moms demand action for years and only unblocked after being part of a direct action that made international headlines. good survivors aren't in the facebook support group for survivors that moms demand and everytown hung out to dry.

to live in this country as a school shooting survivor is to take every breath through a gaping open wound in your chest.

cut that always bleeds i wish i knew how to sew you up right. i wish the stiches didn't always pop. i wish this place was different and that america didn't leave a generation of children behind to just live with their neatly tied in a red, white and blue ribbon trauma or die trying. fuck it all. i'm so fucking tired.

[yanxidarlings]

hello !! I've been really interested in your "not slytherin" writing and i think i have reread it more than 20-ish times hahahah since it's really good and you're the reason why i am invested in all these fan characters (since i didnt see what their appeal was before reading your work).

and now speaking of it, I'm now thinking about a specific "what if?" scenario, and that is; what if the suffering the reader goes through becomes so much to the point it transforms them into an obscurial? they have pretty much oppressed all their emotions, all their negativity, for four years— and it broke them. and the angst would be so good for this. the reader would definitely be more than distrustful. they're afraid that since their name has already been burnt off their own family; they would soon be expelled or even worse taken into the ministry for how dangerous they are to the other students. and this would definitely up the yandere factor to another level. they're aware theyre at fault for most of the reader's suffering, and that a single trigger would cause them to burst but then they can't do a single fucking thing about it or else.

not a request, but it's something ive been thinking about for a long time now !! (I'm really new to the hp fandom and ur writing definitely made me want to read more into them so I'm glad i stumbled upon it suddenly ^^)

dude, broski, broskilenski, ur a wizard of some sort because HOW ELSE COULD YOU READ MY MIND

i was considering making the reader an obscurial (my favourite fanfiction trope by far) but hesitent incase it was too farfetched but I HAVE BEEN GIVEN A SIGN

was sitting on not slytherin aye p2 but this ask has given me the inspiration to write

so without further adieu, with compliments to the other not slytherin p2 ask

jaythes1mp asked:

Could you do a part two of your latest fic (at this time) — YANDERE SLYTHERIN BOYS: NOT SLYTHERIN, AYE?

Where all the sudden suffocating affection they’re showing him after years of tournament makes him leave Hogwarts because he’s so terrified. He knows they couldn’t have changed, since they’re still threatening anyone near him. But once news gets around to them that he’s leaving for good? How would they take the news? And if they learn that he’s been disowned from his family? Would that be a good or bad thing — because now they can’t arrange a marriage. And it would be harder to find him if he got out of their grasps.

Would they be forced to team up? Would they force him into an unbreakable vow or blood pact??

Please do my request, I’ll beg. Just ask, I will actually get on my knees and beg. 🙏🙏🙏🙏

i present

YANDERE SLYTHERIN BOYS: NOT SLYTHERIN, AYE? P2

“remember, you have to do anything to be slytherin, no matter what it takes” draco's words replayed in m/n's head. he'd replayed that sentance so much it had become distorted, is that even what he said m/n thought to himself, watching the train pass by.

under his eyes were bags the size of boulders, he hadn't slept in days. not since..

"excuse me, sir" a voice rung in his head. m/n shook his head, he wanted it all to go away, go away, go away- "mister, i'm gonna have to ask you for ID" somesort of internal wiring within him snapped "GO AWAY" m/n screamed, finally turning to face to the person- man.. muggle police officer, that had been addressing him.

the officer moved back, taking a strange device off his uniform and speaking into it "i'm gonna need back-up, barkley" whilst the man was engaged, m/n made a run for it.

"GET BACK HERE YOUNG MAN" the police officer bellowed, chasing after the teenage boy.

running through, down the subway and onto the train tracks, the officer gave up the pursuit. sooner or later the boy would be run over by an oncoming train in the tunnels.

after running for who knows how long, m/n finally slowed to a walking pace. then he stopped. the sound of a horn filled his ears, the pitch black tunnel illuminated by the vehicles headlights. i

it was getting closer

m/n looked around, there was nowhere to go in the narrow tunnel

closer

tears filled his eyes, but instead of sobbing he began laughing, only to break out into a fit of sobs and then revert back to laughter.

it was too close

suddenly a BANG was heard as the train came to a stop, the tunnel filled with black mist, which had somehow crushed the head of the train.

it was not natural, it was.. dark magic.

• it was on the front page of the daily prophet the next day 'OBSCURIAL SIGHTING IN SOUTH LONDON SUBWAY' obscurials were no common occurance, the last one was reported in the 1930's, new york.

• it wasn't a cured illness, no, the circumstances of it's development had simply become less common. children of all blood status' had access to education in order to facilitate their powers, and there were muggleborn programs across the world to ensure they did not develop one either.

• it had the ministry stumped. there were no leads on the obscurus, nor was a body found to sugget the outburst had caused the hosts death.

• albus dumbledore was no stranger to obscurials, he had lost so much to them, his sister, his nephew — but he knew well what power the host of one held. and the key role one could play in the coming war.

• which is why he had to find the obscurial before the ministry, or lord voldemort did.

"i am not here to hurt you, m/n" the headmaster called out, slowly approaching the young wizard, who's wand was drawn. "what spell do you plan to use, child?" the older man chimed, it was no secret m/n l/n was never the best with applied magic, like he was with potions or magical creatures

m/n's wand arm shook, "petrificus totalus" upon speaking the words, his wand shot out a spell, of which dumbledore blocked. hitting into the ground, the concrete began to degrade.

terrified, m/n dropped his wand, eyes glassy and wide "i didn't- i have to go" he stuttered out

"there are people who will hurt you, who will use you as a weapon" dumbledore moved closer to the boy who was now shaking "i can help, you can help, you don't have to be the monster the obscurus compels you to be" they were now face to face, or beard to cheek, as m/n couldn't break his eyes away from the concrete.

when the boy nodded, the headmaster took his arm, and a loud POP sounded through the air.

the next day, m/n attended breakfast as if he had not been missing for the past two weeks.

the headmaster had given him his own room under the guise of spacing issues, perhaps having an escape would make this year less hellish, or maybe spending too much time alone would exuberate his growing instability.

at least he could kill one of his tormenters without any witnesses now.

a couple people stared at him as he made his way to the great hall, lovegood had even greeted him. albeit she held the quibbler she had with her close to her chest.

"salazar!" he heard a familiar voice exclaim from behind him, arms wrapping around him "where have you been, l/n" he didn't like the way malfoy was looking at him, it was soft "i thought- i thought you had done something stup-"

m/n was quick to shove off malfoys embrace, rather roughly, before turning around to walk away.

he was pulled back, he now saw malfoys eyes were glassy, as if he was about to cry. what a baby, m/n thought, he wasn't listening to whatever bollocks was coming out malfoys mouth, instead he just glared "and i'm sorry if i was the reason-"

"malfoy, just go cry about this to the house elves, they get paid to care i don't"

and with that, m/n was off, ignoring zabini and nott who were staring at him as he shoved past.

• as the days went by, his tormentors wouldn't leave him alone, but they weren't doing what they always had, they were being nice. which scared him even more. perhaps because niceness was so foreign or because he knew it had to be a ploy for their next big trick.

• he wanted to be left alone by them but there was no way out. they held him in chokeholds they called hugs and suffocated him with what they called kisses.

• they sat with him in class and one of them was always partnered up with him, but they just wanted to sabotage his grades, and get him expelled.

• they were no longer hostile towards him but towards each other, whenever one caught him with another, they'd fight each other with wits or fists.

• they dragged him to their dorm every night and drew sticks to decide who he would be stuck with for the night. he never slept those nights, they were just waiting for him to fall asleep so they could do something horrible.

• but he rarely ever slept at all these days, which is what contributed to the paranoia that led him to leaving.

• the only reason he stayed was for headmaster dumbledore, who had been attempting to help him learn to control the obscurus, to no avail. when the headmaster was outcast by the ministry, there was no reason to stay and wait to get caught for what he was.

"do you understand your fault, mr l/n" the sickeningly sweet sound of umbridges voice filled his ears, it was more painful than the cuts inflicted on him by the quill he had been forced to write with.

blood was trickling down to the floor, the words that he had been made to write indecipherable, covered in the blood they had drawn. "i must not disrespect the high inquisitor" he uttered, teeth clenched.

"i don't think you understand, mr l/n, twenty more lines"

he remained still, staring at the blood on the carpet, then at the decorative plates embeded with cats, and then at umbridges face.

"i quit"

"pardon, mr l/n?"

m/n stood up out of his chair, dropping the quill on the floor "i'm leaving hogwarts" he threw his wand on the table he had been forced to maim himself at, before storming out of the room.

• the news soon reached the slytherins that their beloved m/n had left the school, leaving them bewildered.

• when draco tried to find the reader by having his father get in contact with the l/n's, it finally hit them that m/n had been disowned, rendering their previous efforts to keep him useless.

BLAISE ZABINI

• blaise is probably the most crushed. his entire plan involved arranging a marriage with the reader, which was now impossible. but what upsets him more is that m/n never even told him. five months and not one mention of being disowned.

• he's mad at the reader until he comes to know the reason for the reader being disowened - because of all he and the other slytherins had done to make it seem like he was a blood traitor.

• blaise hated himself for being a part of it all, but above all, he hated the other slytherins for starting it all. it was draco's fault they all started tormenting him, it was mattheos fault they took it to the extreme.

DRACO MALFOY

• draco had his suspicions from the moment m/n returned, his father had mentioned in passing about the l/n's and how dissapointed they were in their son. but it usually ended in lucius praising draco for being such a good son, so he had never paid it much mind.

• it was his fault, he knew it. he hated feeling powerless but that's what he felt as his father told him m/n hadn't gone back home. m/n didn't have a home. he could be out there all on his own, exposed to the dangers of the muggle world..

• his obsession only grew after m/n left hogwarts, every moment of every day he wondered where he was, if he was okay, if he was with anyone. if he was with anyone he'd end them.

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

• enzo had been told by his parents a few months ago they were unable to arrange a marriage because m/n had been disowned. not that he told anyone else, let them think they have him whilst lorenzo makes m/n fall in love with him.

• except his every advance was met with rejection or hostility. and when m/n left for good he was devastated, how were they supposed to live out their love story now?

• lorenzo confronts the other slytherins when the news m/n had left reached them, which is what led to the realization that they were all sickly obsessed with the ravenclaw.

MATTHEO RIDDLE

• something had been strange about m/n the moment he returned, mattheo saw it in his eyes. whether it was what he had gone through the previous years still haunting him, or something else, mattheo tries to get m/n to talk to him, but he's.. mattheo, who once broke m/n's ribcage from beating him.

• it was impossible to foster any trust no matter what he did. he tries to talk about his own struggles, his cruel father and upbringing. he tries to treat m/n like a porcelain doll, but the walls never go down.

• hell hath no rage like a riddle scorned, mattheo would have killed umbridge if tom hadn't stopped him. but he wasn't done with just her, the l/n's were next on his path of rage, and there was little anyone could do to stop him from inflicting a painful death on them

THEODORE NOTT

• theo could barely handle m/n's reluctance to warm up to him, it took every bit of strength in him not to yell and force m/n into opening up, accepting his affection, but m/n not being there at all? theo goes off the rails.

• he fears the worst, what if.. m/n.. theo thinks to himself every moment he's not thinking about how to get him back. when draco tells him m/n was disowned, he broke down crying in the bathroom when he was alone later.

• the world was not safe for a young wizard with no wand or money. what if the dark lord went after him for being a blood traitor. theo went with mattheo to threaten umbridge, and figure out where m/n would have gone.

TOM RIDDLE

• tom could see all the pain m/n was going through when he used legilimency on him. he saw the abuse, the torment, the self hatred, and he knew what the reader had been through and become.

• he's furious that m/n's own parents would disown him, as if he was disposable. it reminded him too much of his own father. but he puts his emotions aside to focus on what really mattered, finding and keeping m/n.

• tom was the only one who had figured out m/n's condition, and used it to his advantage, telling his father that the reader was the obscurus the ministry had been looking for, making m/n voldemorts new target for capture.

tracking down an obscurial was not as simple as the dark lord had anticipated it to be, which is why he delegated the task to his eldest son who had first hand experience with the boy, m/n l/n.

coming to a stop as the sight of the boy filled tom vision, the young death eater watched as m/n stared down his reflection in the water. tom slowly came closer, wand at the ready, until his own reflection revealed his presence.

"you look horrible" the boy turned to face tom as he spoke "you here to kill me, riddle?" m/n sounded resigned, like he had already accepted it.

but that was not what tom was there for. "the dark lord wants you within his ranks" tom stated, avoiding m/n's dead gaze. "what the dark lord wants does not concern me" m/n took a step back, he was scared, tom could tell.

"are you going to make this difficult for me, m/n?" tom took a step closer, snaking an arm around the males waist.

before m/n had the chance to try and stab him in the eye with his own wand, tom stunned him, knocking him out, as lord voldemort came out of the shadows "well done, son" tom looked down at m/n's unconscious face as they apparated. you'll love me oneday.

• the readers condition certainly complicates things for the slytherins, it's no longer simply just subjugate him whether he likes it or not, the readers stability is the difference between life or death, freedom or azkaban for them.

• he becomes the dark lords puppet project, a weapon to use against the order of the phoenix and a tool to keep the future of the death eaters loyal.

• he never returns to hogwarts, tom made sure he was outted as the obscurial so that he'd never have anywhere to run, everywhere he could go he would be seen as a threat, a monster.

• an all-out war breaks out bewteen the slytherins once they have the reader in their grasp again. no one is willing to relent, m/n belongs to them. not the others, them.

• the slytherins would slowly come to the realisation there was no single 'winner', none of them could ever have a normal life with him now the dark lord was back and he had developed an obscurus.

• instead the focus would switch into keeping m/n safe, from voldemort, from himself, from the ministry, from everything.

TOM RIDDLE

• out of all of them, tom can handle m/n's obscurus the best. mostly because he's level headed enough not to set him off. sure he has some sadistic tendencies but at the cost of his own, and surrounding lives?

• tom's obsession was exuberated by the obscurus, it made his darling all the more appealing. to hold such power over someone so powerful is what drives him to sometimes provoke the obscurus, to see what potential m/n truly holds.

• sometimes he goes to far and gets someone or himself seriously injured. he wants to help his darling learn to control the obscurus, but it's hard to acheive when he himself also wants to control his darling.

THEODORE NOTT

• theo is frankly horrified when he finds out m/n had developed an obscurus. he had only ever heard stories about obscurials dying young, after an outburst they can't control.

• he wonders how long m/n had suffered with it for. in the back of his mind, he hopes it was before hogwarts, or else he truly was an absolute piece of shit, to help torment the one he loves most into such a despairful illness.

• theo spends the time he's not with his darling searching through the old pureblood libraries for even a hint of a cure. he wanted to be with his darling forever, but the oldest obscurial only ever lived until 23. theo won't stop until he can figure out how to get rid of the obscurus.

MATTHEO RIDDLE

• mattheo knows he's most likely the reason, above all the other slytherins, for the readers affliction. he was the one who chased him into dark hallways and used the torture curse, the one who said the nastiest things, the one who went the furthest with the torment.

• he wishes he could take all his darlings pain away. because one wrong word, one accidental touch, could send him over the edge. a world without his darling is what scares him the most, above everything fucked up in the wizarding world.

• so he treats m/n like a single bump would shatter him. it's difficult, mattheo isn't exactly the super soft type, but he tries, he knows if any of the slytherins caught m/n looking upset around him they'd end him.

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

• enzo underestimates the readers condition, until he finally see's it for himself one day when snape had called m/n a freak, and he exploded. safe to say, it terrified enzo.

• he's under the impression that if he loves m/n enough, the obscurus will go away. deep down he knows it won't, but it helps him justify the heap of affection he doses his darling in. his heart breaks when he's pushed away and he knows pushing back could result in the worst.

• lorenzo is the readers number one caretaker. he always reminds them to eat and get sleep and not to stress about anything. he tries to treat them as normally as possible but it gets difficult when the obscurus mentality kicks in and m/n starts talking about killing them all.

DRACO MALFOY

• draco isn't quite sure how to approach his dear darling after finding out he's an obscurial. draco is overcome with guilt for the hand he had in it, and abominably frustrated he can't just force the reader into doing what he wants.

• when he becomes a death eater he begins to fear for his darlings safety, he hears what the dark lord says about his plans including m/n, and it scares him. there's no regard for m/n's safety or survival, the dark lords only goal is to set m/n off when he takes hogwarts for a quick and easy victory.

• draco tries to get closer to m/n by playing the dependent rich boy, who doesn't know how to do anything for himself. draco figures that if m/n starts to feel responsible for him, it'll be harder for him to leave or say no.

BLAISE ZABINI

• blaises mother told him to stay far away from m/n when she found out. if it were anyone else he would take her advice, but this was his darling, and he could never abandon him over a small imperfection.

• he's the easiest to be around among them all, he doesn't feel the need to always been touching or talking to the reader which is usually what sets him off.

• blaise tries to help m/n settle back into normal life (normal meaning non socially isolated endlessly tormented), but years of torment has taken it's toll in more ways than one. sometimes m/n will accuse blaise and the others of the strangest things, but they all have to take it in stride, or else risk an outburst.

[alicedash2]

A day with Whitebeard's Crew and a shy trying to socialize

- YN, why don't you join the others?- Newgate asked his daughter, who, until the day she got on board, couldn't get along

-I don't know...- YN said while watching the others fading out of sight.

- I try, but it's hard, when you asked me to join the crew, I couldn't even answer, you were the only one I talked to the most!- YN sat down and bent on her knees, burying her face between them

-...Would you like to go shopping with me? I may be sick, but I can still get out of here-Whitebeard stood up, he stretched and knelt down next to YN, even though the wires were still connected in his body, YN, who had a sweet smile until he refused

-better not, your health is something important - YN said finding her chin on her knees again

- you know, you can't isolate yourself forever, I'd like you to socialize - Whitebeard said getting up

- come on, get up, just because I'm old doesn't mean I should sit all day, is my health important? Well, my children's happiness is over, get up, we're going shopping!- Whitebeard took off the wires and got off the ship

- what if they get mad? I don't want Marco to fight with me or you!- YN said going down behind Whitebeard, who just stops and looks at the ground

-well, he won't fight, at most complain, and why will he fight with you? I'm the one who decided to leave- Whitebeard turns and faces YN, who just holds out his hand, YN takes Whitebeard's hand, who actually can only hold his pinky, and they take a walk through the city

-If I managed to almost fight the redhead inside the ship, it means I can walk!- Whitebeard said with loud laughter

°°•°•°

- it's Whitebeard! What he is doing? - people murmured

- Is that his daughter? Is she in danger?-Others asked as they saw YN beside Whitebeard, Izou, who was closer, finds Whitebeard and goes straight to the captain

-what he is doing ?! - Izou asked

- taking a walk with my daughter- Whitebeard chuckled, while Izou wondered the rational reason for leaving, Izou looks at YN, who just turns her face away in embarrassment

- I decided, we're just going to buy some things and go back to the ship- the man walked again, this time, he takes YN and puts it on his shoulder

- What are you doing?!- YN asked with fear

- I want you to have a good viewof the city, you just stare at the ground, maybe we'll walk all day, so you might not be able to stand it, the city is big-

- where would you like to go?- Whitebeard asked, YN balances on Whitebeard's shoulder

- I don't know... Shall we buy something and go back to the coast? There's a beach there- YN asked shyly

- Alright, let's go - Whitebeard said walking through the city

°••°•°•°•°•°°°°••°•°•

Whitebeard had a father-daughter day, just shopping and talking, they walked around town and found each one of the crew, some in bars, others having fun and even flirting with some women, near the end of the afternoon, Whitebeard and YN were already on the beach , but not alone, the crew decided it would be fun to get them all together, each had bought sake and other alcoholic beverages, YN quickly but with difficulty made friends with Thatch, who invited her to go with him to buy food, and later, Ace, who invited her to eat some good meat with him and Vista, Marco, was a little disappointed, he warned YN that Whitebeard was in bad health, but he didn't fight with YN

- I'm very surprised you managed to get Pops off the ship for just one ride, but next time, at least let me know and I'll come along, what if Pops felt sick? You wouldn't find me that easily-yoi- Marco continued with the gigantic responsible speech while YN apologized relentlessly

- please, Marco! It wasn't she who decided that- Izou arrived together with Haruta

- Do you want to go buy candys with Haruta? - Izou asked YN, who quickly nodded and walked away quickly while the youngest boy followed her

- I didn't finish-yoi! - Marco screamed

- but she interacted, sometimes I forgot she was on the ship - Jozu approached

- in a few days she'll be more talkative than Ace- Izou said sweetly

- I find it difficult, nobody surpasses Ace-yoi - Marco said

°•°°

The party lasted many hours, even at dawn they were still having fun, but soon they noticed that YN was not around, Marco asks Haruta where YN was, but he says that YN had gone to buy sweets with him, but, soon after she said she was going to a stationery store to buy materials, and that he should go back to the ship without her

- I wonder if she got lost?- Marco wondered, they start looking for YN, some in the city and others on the ship, all worried, some created paranoia that someone with bad intentions had taken YN, which increased the crew's anxiety , after a few hours of searching and asking directions to the few people who were still awake in the city, YN is seen walking along the beach with some bags

- Where did you go?! We were worried!- Ace said

- Warn the others that we found her!- Ace said

- Sorry, Ace, I didn't want to worry you!- YN spoke with his tired face, but slightly smiling

- it's just that many stores were closed, so I had to walk a lot to find it, and it ended up taking me the whole day, sorry! I didn't think it would take so long, I came as fast as I could- YN dropped the bags on the floor

- I am tired! I can't walk anymore!- YN crouched on the sand, panting

Ace picks her up and puts her on his back, while picking up the goods and taking her to the ship.

-Is she okay?-Izou asked while others approached

-ah, yes, she's just tired, she walked almost the entire island and it took the whole day!-Ace spoke while putting YN in the chair

- sorry guys- YN said softly

-it's okay, we didn't know it would go this far, here, food- Thatch gave a plate of food to YN who ate it quickly out of hunger

- you walked for 7 hours! Seriously, what's your problem?- Marco said

- and what did I say about responsibility-yoi?- Marco sat beside YN,

- thanks for the food, Thatch, I'm going to take a shower- YN said leaving quickly

- you won't run away-yoi- Marco held her by the shoulders

So, YN spent a good 1 hour listening to Marco's sermon, who besides worrying about YN, did it for her sake, saying that it is very dangerous to go out alone on a deserted street in the middle of the night, Ace tried to defend YN, but he ended up listening Marco's sermons too

[alice-after-dark]

RadioStatic Post-Makeup Headcanons for 150 Followers

Literally have been working on everything but this and now I'm almost at 200 fuck (already know what I'm doing for that though hehehehehe).

Thank you guys so much for all the love and support! You guys are the sweetest!

Theme suggested by @hiemaldesirae. Didn't get into NSFT, but...uh...that will be later...😈

Contains toxic StaticMoth.

Things don't go right back to sunshine and rainbows when they do finally set things aside and call a truce. Both were hurt and there's many years of bitterness and resentment to wash away.

Vaggie gives Alastor the advice to take things slowly and to let them happen naturally. Angel and Husk give similar advice to Vox. There's a wall between them that is years thick. It will take some time to come down.

It's not easy. They bicker a lot and take things very personally when it comes to each other. Sometimes their fights get so bad they have to be broken up by the others to stop them from getting physical.

They never end up apologizing to each other for these fights, just agree to put it behind them.

The thing that finally truly cracks the wall between them is actually one of Alastor's shitty puns. It's Angel who opens the door and Alastor just can't resist and everyone groans except for one single solitary genuine laugh. And every just looks at Vox who's got a hand over his mouth and looks mildly embarrassed. "What? It was funny."

And suddenly Alastor remembers what it was like to make Vox laugh and smile - a real smile, not that fake shit he wears for the cameras, for the public - and it becomes his personal mission to get more out of him.

The tension begins to ease between them. The bickering becomes banter. The jabs turn playful. The fights dissolve almost as quickly as they start.

Charlie nearly faints with happiness when Vox apologizes for starting their most recent squabble. She actually does faint when Alastor returns the sentiment.

"Uh, is she okay?"

"This is normal."

Things take an unexpected turn when Vox shows up at the hotel late one night, clearly upset, and requests to stay overnight. Charlie is concerned, but he doesn't want to talk about it so she doesn't press and gives him a room for the night. Vox thanks her and goes to grab a drink from the bar.

Vox always insists on paying for his drinks since he's not an actual guest of the hotel, but Husk talks him out of it this time ("You're staying the night, aren't you? That makes you a guest").

Alastor pretends he is not at all concerned about how much Vox is drinking. Because Vox doesn't drink. Not in any serious capacity. Maybe a glass or two. Never anything serious and never enough to make him lose control of himself.

The seventh glass has Alastor locking eyes with Husk and joining them at the bar for a glass of rye.

Husk makes some excuse to leave and they sit in silence for a long time before Vox finally speaks.

"I broke up with Valentino."

"Isn't that normal? I'm sure things will smooth over in a day or two."

Alastor bites back that scathing remarks he wants to make about the moth. It is not the time nor the place, not when their renewed friendship is still so raw and delicate.

"No it won't. Because I don't break up with him. He breaks up with me. Always." Vox stares into his drink. "I don't know why it made me so mad this time. It's not like him blowing me off to go sleep around with his whores is anything new. I just...I got so angry...and then he wouldn't stop screaming outside my fucking door..."

"Does he know you're here?"

"No. I left through the building's wiring. Idiot still probably thinks I'm in my room ignoring him."

Alastor wants to do something. Wants to rip and tear that moth to pieces. Instead he takes Vox's drink from his hands.

"Let's get you to bed."

Vox doesn't resist when Alastor takes a hold of his arm and guides him up to his room. The alcohol is clearly starting to hit because the Media Overlord is off balance and needs to hold onto Alastor and the railing to make it up the stairs.

"I'm gonna regret drinking so much when I wake up tomorrow, aren't I?"

"Oh certainly."

Once they reach Vox's room, Alastor loans him some sleep clothes and prepares to leave.

"Hey Alastor?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks."

"Of course, my friend. Any time."