#*drops this out of nowhere and slinks back into the shadows*

[uhhlifeig]

Monster - October 17 - word count: 730 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius watched the door creak open, the familiar shuffle of Remus’s steps echoing in the flat. There was no sound of a greeting like there used to be. 

Just Remus, slinking inside, shadowed eyes hollowed by exhaustion, a ghost of the man Sirius once knew. 

He looked older, weighed down by something Sirius couldn’t see.

“Moony?” the noiret ventured quietly from his seat, half afraid his voice would shatter like glass. 

Remus didn’t respond, just dropped his coat on the floor, and staggered towards the couch.

Sirius stood, stepping forward tentatively, slowly. 

He could see the strain in Remus’s every movement, the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes flickered but never settled on anything for long.

"Remus…?" he tried again, quieter this time. The man on the couch barely glanced up, his features rigid, before he dropped his head into his hands.

The older man’s heart twisted. There was no warmth left between them. 

Only distance. 

Sirius couldn't understand what had happened. It had been months since Remus stopped talking. 

The dog animagus, in all his desperation, still clung to some foolish hope that maybe it was the missions- maybe it was the war. 

Every time he reached out, the werewolf withdrew further, spiraling into a silence that Sirius couldn’t penetrate.

Now, Remus wasn’t even here, not really.

Sirius sat on the edge of the couch beside him, hands fumbling in his lap, unsure of what to say or do. 

There was so much he wanted to do- scream, to demand answers, but it wouldn’t help. 

Instead, he leaned closer, trying to catch a glimpse of Remus’s face. "Where did you go tonight?"

Remus didn’t answer. His breath was shaky, shallow. His lips moved, murmuring something incoherent, lost in a haze.

Sirius swallowed, forcing down the knot of fear in his throat. It was like Remus was slipping through his fingers- and no matter how hard he tried to hold on, he was losing.

He slowly reached out and put a hand on Remus’s back, rubbing it slowly, soothingly. 

“Moony, talk to me,” he whispered, voice strained.

The dirty-blonde man didn’t talk. His eyes were far away, clouded over as if he was seeing something Sirius couldn’t. Then, out of nowhere, the younger man flinched violently, jerking away from the gray-eyed man’s touch. His eyes darted around the room, wide, terrified.

“Remus?” Sirius’s voice cracked, and he reached for him again. The werewolf recoiled, shaking his head furiously, muttering under his breath.

“No… no, not real… not- not real,” he mumbled, his words fractured. His long, calloused fingers dug into his hair, pulling harshly as he rocked forward.

“Remus!” the noiret’s hands hovered helplessly, terrified to touch him, terrified not to.

“Not real,” Remus whispered, eyes squeezed shut as tears began to leak from the corners. “Monsters. Everywhere… I can’t- I don’t-” He cut off again, curling tighter into himself.

Sirius’s heart shattered at the sight, every piece of him aching to reach Remus, to soothe him, to hold him like he used to. 

However, Remus had pulled away so many times that now, the older man didn’t know how to close the gap.

“Moony, please. I'm here. I'm real. It’s just me," Sirius said, his voice trembling with desperation. "I'm not a fake."

Remus’s breath hitched. “Don’t lie,” he rasped, “You’re not real. You-” His voice broke, and his eyes- those beautiful, beautiful amber eyes- finally met Sirius’s. 

But that was before. Now, they were shattered, broken- and it made the dog animagus’s stomach turn. 

“You’re just another... vision.”

Sirius shook his head. “Remus, I’m right here. I’ve always been here.” He reached out, cupping the taller man’s face gently like he used to after moons, his thumb brushing away a tear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Remus’s expression crumpled. He leaned into Sirius’s touch for a fleeting second, then pulled back with a sharp gasp. “Don’t… I don’t-”

“You don’t…what?”

The taller man shuddered, hands trembling as he sank further into the couch. “They said you’d leave me because... because I'm a monster."

“No. No, Moony, you're not-"

The other man’s gaze had drifted, unfocused, staring at nothing. "It’s all falling apart... and I don’t know who I am anymore."

“I’m not leaving. You’re not a monster. I swear to you. You’re not.”

“You can’t save me, Sirius. You can’t stop me from becoming what I am.”

(loosely based off of @moutainrusing's "hallucination" (ch 7 of their wolfstar microfics on ao3) (my fave one btw <3333) (check it out :D . THIS IS A THREAT.) anyways RUE ILY)

@estellethewriter here ya go pooks

[owlespresso]

Leander coddles you. Ais would teach you learn how to fly by dropping you.

Ais abides by your requests for assistance, suspiciously often for someone who acts so disinterested. He stalks your shadow, and ultimately sends you headlong into danger. The best way to make someone honest is through fear. The best way to help someone learn is similar. Danger provides a motivation that he knows can elevate you. 

He stalks your shadow and banters with you as you head towards your destination, sometimes quiet, sometimes playful. Regardless, there’s almost always a steadying hand on your shoulder, accompanied by the knowledge that he believes in you, and what you can accomplish.

Minutes or hours later, when you are surrounded by enemy gang members or a pack of bloodthirsty soulless, he is nowhere to be seen. He slinks away, keeping careful distance as he observes your reactions, notes your capabilities or your lack of them. 

Upon reuniting with him, he takes your petulant rage with easy coolness, pointedly educating or reminding you about his philosophies and methods. 

This is the most efficient way to teach you, he reasons. He chases away your anger with placating words and genuine compliments. He strokes a soothing hand down your shuddering spine, sweeps you into the strong cage of his arms to rock you back and forth. His chaste comfort quickly changes into something carnal, something a deeper red when he glides his sharp canines down the side of your throat, noses over your pulse. Your blood races now for a different reason.

Or perhaps, it is a way to carefully let you know how much you need him. 

Leander is steadfast to your side whenever he catches you leaving the Wet Wick. His followers and partitioners are left abandoned, business shoved aside for later for the lone purpose of tailing you. He’s not sure if you’re aware of how valuable his time is, how in demand he is across Lowtown—but that’s also what may charm him.

He eagerly assists you in every task. He slings spells at your foes to defend you, pulls you away from the line of fire and into his side. He opens doors for you, pulls out chairs, extends a hand when you have to jump down from a fence or a crate. Like a prince helping you off a horse.

He wants you to depend on him. The Bloodhounds and regulars of the Wick become increasingly aware of his attachment to you, the claim he has silently staked. Even when he is not by your side, there’s almost always a green cloak in the vicinity, ready to help you with a disconcerting smile and dead eyes.

He second guesses your decisions, subtly, politely. He insists, on occasion, that you misremember smaller details that, well, perhaps you really did. He disarms you with his fond smile and blatant willingness to assist you with whatever you ask. He provides you with a roof over your head, with food and drink—and he is quite insistent on handling the drinks.

Leander doesn’t need you to get stronger. Leander prefers you pliant and differential, willing to depend on his strength and his connections. He wants to surround you with himself and all he has. You may second guess his decisions, but you always sleep easily at night.

friendly disclaimer: this was written before the game's release and as such may contain portrayals that are inaccurate. all you see above is purely a predictive interpretation that may be disproven with the game's full release.

[total-drama-takes-takes-2]

ttwt episode 15

“Last time, on Total Takes, World Tour: our remaining competitors had a sweet Swedish time in lovely Scandinavia! Hearts were broken, spirits were crushed, and shrines dedicated to tumultuous relationships were built! Team Friendship got a little ahead of themselves, heh- and Team Mojo swept in to steal first class. Luckily, this was a non-elimination round, meaning that every loser got to stay. Who will be immortalized in plywood today? And who will finally take the drop of shame? Find out now, on Total Takes: World Tour!”

The entirety of economy class feels as if it’s stuck in a time loop. 

Max sulks. Kelly shifts uncomfortably and stares out the window. Phillip hums and sharpens a rock into a spearhead. Julia glares. Courtney sighs. And Mal is nowhere to be found. 

Complete stillness, as if everyone had transformed into a painting. For hours, nothing changes. 

In the early hours of the morning, the distant sound of door creaking accentuates the sighs and groans of the hull. Mal walks in, yawning, her soft footsteps are the loudest noise anyone’s heard in hours. 

“Morning!” she says cheerily, breezing past the toxic energy of the room. She takes a curt seat between Julia and Courtney, humming merrily as she taps on her phone. 

Julia’s eyes narrow. “And where have you been?”

“Uh, duh, I told you. My fave VTuber was streaming for their 100k sub special, and I needed to get to the cockpit for a better connection,” she rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t get it.”

The blonde’s tone sharpens and she glares back. “No. I don’t think I do,”

Mal shrugs and pops in her earbuds, humming along to a KPop song merrily and pacing around the room. Julia leans over to Courtney, lowering her voice to a dull hiss. 

“She’s conning us. Somehow, she’s conning us,”

Courtney taps their chin, thinking. “Well… in the second season of Total Drama, DJ was getting secret help from Chef. This could be a similar situation. Maybe she has an alliance with Albert or Michela, and she was talking to either one of them. Or she could be using her phone to hack into the Total Takes mainframe to see what our next challenges are going to be, and have access to all the cameras and footage, so on and so forth,”

Julia snorts. “Please. As if she’s smart enough to pull that off,”

“You’d be surprised. She got into my computer webcam once and livestreamed me sleeping when I told her to stop sending me thirst traps of her favorite anime boy,”

Julia blinks, and then shakes her head. “Okay, whatever. But I highly doubt it anyway. The Total Takes firewall has to be pretty impenetrable, or someone would have tried it before. It’s more likely that she’s meeting with someone behind our backs,”

“Like an alliance?”

“No, like…” Julia sighs. “She’s got someone on the inside. She’s a plant.”

“A plant? Hah. Mal is a lot of things, but her crazy is genuine,” Courtney crosses their arms. “She does all that for free.”

The blonde leans back, gazing out the window. “We’ll see. We’ll see…”

---

JULIA: “Back to my good old scheming self. It feels nice, you know- back in my element! Who cares about being a good leader when I can slink back into the shadows where I work my magic,” her eye twitches. 

---

Michela refuses another smoothie from a well-dressed flight attendant. 

“Again, not hungry. Thanks,”

The attendant walks over to Albert, who accepts the drink. He stirs the straw around it for a few moments before taking a long sip. “Still upset?”

Michela sighs, putting her chin in her palm and slouching forward. “Yeah. But now I feel crappy about ignoring Max, too. I know he feels bad. Maybe I should just-”

She attempts to stand, to which Albert grabs her wrist and pulls her back to her seat. 

“Why should you? He betrayed your trust. You deserve the time to heal, Michela,”

She sighs and resigns to her seat, slouching again. “Yeah. You’re right. I deal with it later,”

“There you go,” Albert smiles contentedly, kicking up his feet as another attendant delivers a plate of breakfast sausages. He skewers one with a fork and takes a bite. 

Michela lowers her eyes at him. 

---

ALBERT: “It’s all going according to plan. I have Michela wrapped around my finger, Team Friendship is falling apart, and Team Yaoi is on the brink. Chaos unfolds so nicely, doesn’t it?”

---

MICHELA: “He was eating meat. He was eating meat,”

---

“Welcome one, welcome all, to fabulous Las Vegas, USA!” Chris’ ever-annoying voice trills over the intercom. “We’ll be landing shortly, so buckle up and enjoy those desert views!”

Kelly turns and leans to stare out the window, eyes widening. “Ooh… pretty!”

“If you like the desolate, barren soul of late-stage capitalism,” Max mutters, head in his hands. 

Phillip pops up to stare out the window with Kelly. “Ooh… desolate!”

The plane begins its descent as Max groans. 

---

PHILLIP: “I can feel my power… increasing… it runs through my veins… with each poem I write, I grow closer to my destiny…”

---

The plane lurches and Phillip goes flying, the pages of his notebook scattering around the cabin. Julia picks one up and raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t. It’s his original poetry,” Max warns. 

She drops the paper. 

The plane lands amongst one of Las Vegas’ many massive 4-lane roads, coming to a stark stop right in front of the Luxor Pyramid. 

The plane door opens with a hiss and the teens stumble out, falling onto the hot asphalt. Courtney rises first, and then helps Michela to her feet. Julia pops up next. 

“What’s this weird feeling? Like I’m being strangled by the air?” she asks, looking around. 

“That would be the aridity, and the 110 Fahrenheit weather!” Chris says, stepping out in front of the group with a sunhat and a handheld fan. “Welcome to the desert- with a low 10% humidity level in the summer, this is one of the most torturous paradises on earth.”

“110 degrees? 44 celsius? This can’t be humane,” Max says, fanning his face. 

Chris chuckles. “Well, you better get used to it. Don’t worry, though- the casinos are air-conditioned,”

The teens stop their whining to ooh and ah. Mal jumps up, squeaking. “OMG, I am like, SO lucky when it comes to gambling! It only takes four or five microtransactions for me to pull my faves in gacha games!”

Chris rolls his eyes. A large, sleek black limousine pulls up behind them and the doors pop open. The teens eye it nervously. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk about that when we get there. This limo will be driving you right to one of Vegas’ main attractions- the Stratosphere! Your next instructions will be awaiting you there,”

The group mumbles to themselves and file into the limo, squishing between each other awkwardly as it sets off. There are only so many seats, so only about three lucky people- Julia, Albert, and Kelly- manage to secure themselves a spot on the plush bench. Everyone else sits on the floor, feeling every bump in the road. 

Max pulls his knees to his chest and makes momentary eye contact with Michela. She offers a small smile and waves. Albert glares. 

“If anyone would like my seat, I’m more than willing to give it up,” Kelly says. “Or someone could sit on my lap! The more the merrier, after all.”

“You don’t have to do that, Kelly, but that’s really sweet,” Courtney smiles. 

“You really don’t have to,” Albert murmurs. 

The limo speeds up. 

---

“Since the gambling age in the United States prevents minors from being on the casino floor, I welcome you all to the main attraction: the lounge! These 360 windows give you the most beautiful views of the city, and there’s a lovely-”

“Just get on with it!” Julia and Max snap in unison. 

Chris grins. “Fair enough. But before we get to the challenge, we have a special surprise for you all,”

The teens groan in unison. 

Michela sighs. “Let me guess: a bear? Spike traps? Poison darts?”

“All lovely and creative ideas, Michael, but no,” the host beams. “On the last episode of the Aftermath show, your former castmate Caesar held a second-chance challenge. One loser will be rejoining you on your world trek today!”

Everyone gasps- though some are far more delighted than others. Mal squeals “This is gonna do NUMBERS on my blog!” and begins typing away- Julia rolls her eyes, but can’t seem to contain her own excitement as she smiles. 

---

JULIA: “Having Scruffy back would be a huge advantage for me- I mean, for the game. Not like, having a friend around will improve my performance,”

---

“See? Not all of my surprises are bad!” Chris chuckles. “Or are they..? Nonetheless, our winner has asked to perform a little opening musical number for you.”

“I hope it’s Staci! I’ve missed our bestie talks,” Kelly says, clapping their hands together. Albert rolls his eyes. 

---

ALBERT: “Another cruel twist of fate. I should’ve seen this coming,”

---

“He’s a lean, mean drama machine in too many layers, and he’s banned from 16 convention centers across North America: it’ssssss NOCO!”

The teens pause, their excitement falling flat. Julia crosses her arms, another sharp expression on her face. “Who?”

The elevator dings and opens as a jazzy tune starts up. The doors slide apart to reveal a tall boy in too many layers, holding in a microphone. 

“No-no-no-no-Nocorific is my name, dishing dirt is my game, invading your TV with my Nocolicious frame!”

Julia’s jaw drops. 

Mal nods along to the beat, typing excitedly on her phone. “No-Nocorific, S-s-so terrific!”

“I’m a j-j-journalist. Journalist!” Noco goes on, pacing the room. 

Max crosses his arms. “This is so against the rules, does Chris think we’re a bunch of fools?”

“Rules? This ain’t no Sunday School! Mr. Thang up there’s a rating tool!”

“No-Nocorific!”

Julia hisses. “M-M-Make me si-ick!”

“I’m a j-j-journalist. Journalist! Get me a full-blown, proof-read and edited paragraph on why I should care about you! I’m quite specific,” Noco says, crossing his arms. 

Kelly claps and squeals. “He’s Nocorific!”

“I’m a j-j-journalist-”

Michela blinks, leaning over to Albert. “Who’s that guy?”

“Excuse me?” Noco snaps, whirling around. “Who am I? Who am I?! Who are you? I’m the host of the Total Takes Aftermath! My writing was featured in Reality! I stalked your lame fellow actors for Celebrity Manhunt! It’s a fact and scientific, I’m still Nocorific!” 

Albert and Julia snicker. “He’s not a journalist, turns out he’s not a journalist!” 

Noco scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Whatever,” 

Chris surveys the scene with sharp eyes, grinning as the original cast scans him over with some vague sense of unease. 

---

JULIA: “There’s something very… off about him,”

---

ALBERT: “Ah, yes. The little twerp from Celebrity Manhunt. Prattled on about “maxulia” for thirty minutes before I went on air. He was… oddly obsessed with proving himself. Definitely a vulnerable pattern to exploit. But the others don’t need to know that,”

---

“That guy gives me the creeps,” Michela murmurs, watching him walk past the main group and take a seat on one of the plush seats in the room. 

Albert shrugs, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I think your issues with Max might be clouding your vision. He’s just another contestant,”

She sighs, her eyes drifting over to the aforementioned boyfriend as he sulks in the corner. Noco pulls out a phone and begins taking pictures of the scenery. 

He drifts over to Julia, snapping a pic with the flash on. She hisses. “What’s your deal?”

“Collecting evidence,” he finally slips the phone back in his pocket. “So which of these lame teams am I on?”

Chris beams. “As of now? None! Because there are no more teams! Welcome to the merge, dudes!”

“YES!” Courtney, Julia, and Mal chirp in unison. 

Kelly turns to the rest of the now-annulled Team Friendship with a bright- somewhat strained- smile. “Well… I’m proud to have-”

“Outta my way,” Max hisses, shoving past them to sit alone in the corner. 

Phillip scurries off to hide under one of the couches and Kelly frowns. 

---

KELLY: “You’d think, with all my efforts, that we’d be a little closer by now. But I guess… I just didn’t try hard enough. They were eager to leave, just like everyone else,”

---

The merge hit at a very inconvenient time- that’s what Albert thinks, anyway, and his discontent is written all over his face. He turns to Michela. “So… this is the end,”

She had been staring at Max across the room when he spoke, and hummed a little note of confusion when she looked back. “What? Oh… yes. Well, you’ve been a great teammate,”

“Yes, it’s just…” He sighs. “I’m worried about you, you know? What if Max tries to get you voted off next? His connections outnumber your own.”

Michela raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think he would-”

“You haven’t spoken to him in days, remember? What kind of misery-induced rage is bubbling just beneath the surface?”

As Chris paces the lounge, explaining the rules of the merger to all those inclined, Michela’s eyes drift to stare out of the glass walls and down at the sunset falling over the desert city. It definitely felt isolated. 

“I simply wouldn’t feel right leaving you on your own. You have my vote,” he says, quite proudly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m only looking out for you, you know. My ex turned on me out of nowhere, too.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Your…”

“Long story,”

---

ALBERT: “I haven’t had good experiences with relationships, to put it lightly. Turns out that even things you think are set in stone are just as random and chaotic as the rest,”

---

Chef, clothed in a fancy, sparkly show dress, walks out from around the corner pushing a massive slot machine, a male contestant’s face decorating each reel. Chris chuckles. “Just on time. While you dudes can’t really gamble, most of you are above the age of eighteen, which means you can get hitched!”

“This country is so backwards,” Julia snaps, crossing her arms. “What’s with the slot machine?”

“Since we are in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada- the land of bad decisions and Elvis-officiated eloping, our theme today isn’t about gambling money- it’s about fortune. Each girl or girl-adjacent will try their luck at pulling a husband from the machine. Your chosen beau will be your teammate for the rest of the day,”

Almost everyone snaps what? At once. Chef begins hauling over the male contestants, throwing them into a compartment at the top of the massive machine. Noco scoffs. 

“Hah, very funny. “Luck.” Haha,” 

Chris raises an amused eyebrow. “What? Not a fan of playing Lady Fortune?”

“This is all staged. I know this is rigged so the most popular pairings will be spit out, the truth concealed again. I’ll probably end up with one of these poor single things, like Kelly,”

Kelly sulks. Albert watches from nearby, his usual demeanor of calmness dropping. He looks to Noco. “You really think this is planned? How stupid would- I mean, why?”

Noco crosses his arms with a scoff. “I’m a journalist, remember? I know everything about this show. I’ve read the illegitimate scripts online, I’ve collected testimonies from former interns’ grieving families, I’ve perused the forums- I’m basically a college graduate in all things Chris McLean doesn’t want general audiences to know,”

This seems to only amuse the host, and he grins. Albert’s expression grows more and more sour by the minute. 

---

ALBERT: “If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s people who believe in fate. There’s no way that this show- even if it was scripted- would be 100% acting. There’s some things you… you just can’t fake!”

---

“Well, well. Since you’re such a seeker of the truth, I’m sure you can guess what we’ll be using to even out our currently uneven player-to-player ratio!” Chris chirps, a smug grin on his face. 

Noco rolls his eyes. “Duh. You’re going to have some surprise reveal that Frollo was on the plane all along, and then act like you didn’t know,”

The host stops. Chef raises an eyebrow. Mal shifts uncomfortably, and then chuckles: “But that’s just a guess, right? Heh,”

“Oh, no, I’m serious. He’s probably still waiting in the plane now,”

Chris’ eyebrows knit and he waves away a few interns pushing a caged bear into the lounge. He puts on a chipper smile. “...Of course! I knew that! Chef, could you-”

“On it,” the aforementioned says plainly, collecting a rope and empty sack and walking off. 

“Hah… haha, well, while Chef is collecting our surprise contestant, let’s get this started, shall we?” he says. “Noco, if you would…?”

“Way ahead of you,” the boy sighs, climbing into the slot machine of his own free will. 

The host beams. “Let’s see, let’s see… Courtney! Care to take a gamble?”

Courtney sighs and stands from where they’d been sitting on the grimy lounge carpet. They trudge over to the machine and pull on the lever, igniting a shower of colorful lights and chimes. “This is kind of heteronormative of you, by the way,”

“Hey, if it floats your boat, you can wear the suit,” Chris chuckles. Courtney rolls their eyes. 

The rolls stop on the ever-pouty face of a certain poet, and Phillip comes tumbling out. “YEOWCH!” he hisses, rising to his feet to dust off his pants. 

Courtney sighs a breath of relief. “Phillip. You’re… normal, right?”

“Why? Did someone say something about me? Who was it?”

They shake their head and drag him away. As they do, the elevator dings and the doors part to reveal Chef, walking in with a full bag. He dumps it in the top of the slot machine and backs off, shaking his head and murmuring about rats in the cargo hold. 

“Michela!”

The pink-haired girl approaches the machine cautiously, crossing her fingers. “Please don’t be Max… please don’t be Max…”

Albert whispers a similar prayer from within the machine. 

She pulls the lever and a familiar face comes tumbling out. Albert hisses under his breath and Michela holds hers. Max rises to his feet without her help and the two step back awkwardly, neither uttering a word.

“Julia?” 

“For the record, I think this is really stupid,” she says, approaching the hulking, brightly-colored metal beast. “And I would’ve killed in a gambling challenge. I do numbers in online poker.”

She violently pulls down the lever and all three rolls land on the face of a bear- but, of course, no bear comes. Julia cringes in disgust. “NO! No way, I am not marrying that FREAK! Anyone but him!”

Frollo rolls his eyes. 

“I demand a re-roll! NOW!”

Mal winces and hurries over, helping Frollo off the floor before Julia’s fit can get any worse. “I’ll take him. She won’t stop without a fight,”

Chris shrugs as the two walk off. Julia’s eyes narrow at the two, but she doesn’t utter a word of complaint as she rolls again. This time, a shadow of gloom slides out. 

The host turns to Julia. “Is this one acceptable, your majesty?”

“Whatever,” she sighs, dragging Noco to his feet. He grimaces in turn. 

“This isn’t ideal for me either, you know. I know good and well that you’d rather be with your real lover,”

Julia pauses and turns to him, her gaze turning sharp. “You don’t know anything. Shut your trap,”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, patting her head. “I would never want to get in the way of your miserable relationship.”

“First of all, we’re not miserable. Second of all, we’re not in a relationship. We’re just… friends,”

Noco shrugs. “Oh, you don’t have to hide around me. I’m sure the producers will cut this out in the final draft, anyway,”

---

JULIA: “Could… Noco really know about Scruffy?”

---

NOCO: “I'm onto you, Maxulia,”

---

Kelly grimaces as they approach the machine. They don't need to pull the lever, after all- there’s only one unclaimed man. 

Still, for formality's sake, they do so anyway. The familiar flashing lights and cheery music play, and Albert comes tumbling out. 

“That settles that. Onto the next part of the challenge!” Chris grins. 

---

“In our sister episode, Niagara Brawls, our leading ladies were led through a blindfolded field of obstacles by their one true loves,” the host pauses to chuckle. “As an audience-favorite challenge, you’ll be recreating that right here, right now!”

The contestants gaze across the floor of the hotel, where an expansive field of obstacles, including, but not limited to tubs of mud, giant cakes, and sand pits. 

“Each lucky groom will be using a megaphone to guide their blindfolded spouses through this tumultuous maze of humiliation!”

Julia grumbles, deeply unhappy as an intern fastens a blindfold around her eyes. Courtney is taking some deep breaths beside her, trying to remember the original layout from their “sister episode”. Mal is humming. Both Michela and Kelly seem tense. 

The men themselves are seated upon five large columns, holding one red megaphone each. None look particularly enthused at all. 

“At the end of the maze, you’ll find a wedding dress- or suit- for your spouses. Any couple without formal attire byt the end of this is out. GO!”

Michela swallows a lump in her throat. “Max, we’re in this together, okay? Just treat me like you would any other player!”

“I was… planning on it,” he raises an eyebrow. “Four short steps- or two long steps- forward!”

Julia listens to their scuffle and sighs, silently waiting for Noco’s command. Nothing follows. The groom himself is sitting on his elevated platform, swinging his legs back and forth while taking notes. 

---

NOCO: “What? As if she’d really get hurt on a staged show,”

---

“Noco! I’m waiting!”

Still, nothing. Julia grumbles and takes a cautious step forward. 

“Kelly, you’re going to want to go about four paces forward, then turn left,” Albert shouts into his megaphone, sounding rather annoyed as he watches Max and Michela. When he looks back, Kelly hasn’t moved. “Kelly?”

Their knees are shaking. “I- I can’t see,”

“Uh, yeah. That’s the point of the challenge,”

“B-but I- I don’t know where I’m going!” they tremble. “I can’t do this on my own!”

“We’re supposed to work as a team,”

“How do I know you won’t leave me?” 

Albert grumbles under his breath. “I could ask the same thing,”

“Six forward, then turn right, then straight again,” Frollo says dully, waving around the megaphone like a toy. “Then you’re going to want to-”

“Don’t worry about it! I got this!” Mal shouts back, grinning wildly. 

She squeals with excitement and bounds through the maze, shoving Julia into a mud pit in the process. The blonde coughs out a mouthful of dirt and growls. “NOCO!”

Noco rolls his eyes. Mal reaches the end of the obstacle course without a scratch, crashing into and toppling over the mannequin with her dress in the process. Her blindfold goes flying off and she claps her hands. 

The other grooms turn to Frollo. He shrugs. “She’s good,”

---

MAL: “Please- I’ve seen the Niagara Brawls episode like, six hundred and forty-four times. I could walk this obstacle course in my sleep,”

---

Julia inches along the course, feeling out for the edges of tubs and sand pits. She loses her footing and stumbles forward, crashing into a large cake. 

“UGH! You know, when you said you’d butt out of my love life, I was still expecting you to HELP!” she shouts at Noco. He does nothing. 

Max squints, trying to plan the path ahead from where he was sitting. “Okay, just- just keep going forward. No- watch out for that bell!”

A loud ringing sounds and he winces. Michela falls flat on her butt, massaging her temples. “I’m- I’m sorry! I’m a little scatterbrained today!”

She groans, and stands uneasily. “Can I trust you or not?” she shouts back to him. 

His heart stops for a moment. “What?”

“Can I trust you or not? Cause if we don’t have any faith in each other, I can just keep going on my own!”

“But- but then you’d be blind!” he shouts. “You’d be blind and alone!”

---

MAX: “I know, logically, that she was only referring to the challenge. But… on a deeper level, maybe her words held some symbolic value for me, too,”

---

“It’s better than being blind and misguided!”

Max takes a deep breath, looking from side to side for a moment before standing. “You can trust me. And I trust you. I won’t let you go on blind. Three steps forward, one to the right!”

Albert watches the display from his own column, grimacing. 

---

ALBERT: “Great. They’re making up. Ew,”

---

“Kelly! Are you still with me?”

The blond forces a grin, giving a shaky thumbs up as their legs tremble. They’re still at the beginning of the course, not having moved an inch. 

Albert takes a deep breath. “I know it’s scary, I know it’s unpredictable- but I’ve got you. I need you to understand- I won’t leave you!”

Kelly wrings their hands for a moment, their smile dropping. But then, they take a deep breath, and move forward slightly. 

“That’s it! Another step forward- one at a time, Kelly!”

They inch their platforms along the course, narrowly avoiding the wooden brims of the sand pits and the plastic tubs of mud. They keep going, one tiny shuffle at a time, one foot in front of the other, until they’ve passed Julia (who’s currently embedded in a thick pool of mud). 

They pass Courtney, who’s still cautiously taking steps out of memory, and Michela, who’s crawling along at Max’s behest. 

“And our second winner- Kelly!” Chris says. Albert breathes a deep sigh of relief as they pull off their blindfold, squealing at the gorgeous sequin-embroidered dress in front of them. 

Michela and Courtney arrive shortly after, wheezing. Finally- eventually- Julia manages to drag her cake, mud, and sand-covered self across the finish line, collapsing into the suit she was given. 

“And that makes five,” the host chuckles. “Onto our final act!”

---

“Welcome one, welcome all, to the edge of the world!”

The sky- now completely darkened- is the only thing surrounding the players as the wind whips around them. They’re at the very top of the building, hundreds of feet in the air. A few shiver as the cold desert air breezes past them. 

“Not only is the Stratosphere known for its casinos and world-class views, it’s also known for its thrill-seeking rides! Where you’re standing is the SkyJump- the highest decelerator, ever! It’s a sharp 253 meter drop to the ground, folks- and you’ll be climbing it!”

“Excuse me? Climbing?” Noco chuckles. “Isn’t this the part where we go back to our trailers and someone does some special effects.”

Chris stares. Noco raises an eyebrow. 

“Stunt doubles?”

Chris stares. A small nervous look begins to creep up Noco's face. 

“Green screen?”

He is promptly ignored. “Grooms will be carrying their spouses over their shoulders as they descend the side of the building on two measly ropes. But don’t worry- Chef installed a net to catch strays,”

The teens peer over the edge of the building to a measly, thin tightrope net at the bottom. They grimace. 

Noco chuckles nervously. “This is- when are we cutting the cameras, guys?”

“I’d suggest you get moving,” Chris says. The cheer in his tone is almost infectious. “First ones to the bottom win immunity.”

The players grumble amongst themselves and start gearing up as Noco looks between them anxiously. “Guys? Guys?”

Phillip puffs out his chest, putting his hands on his hips with some semblance of masculine pride. “Don’t worry, fair lady. I won’t drop you!”

Courtney rolls their eyes and picks him up, slinging him over their shoulder and beginning their descent as he whines and protests. Albert and Kelly follow, and then Frollo and Mal. 

Michela and Max stare between each other. The former speaks first. “Are you sure you-”

“It’s fine,” he responds, holding out his arms. Michela awkwardly piggybacks him and he begins climbing, only shaking a little. 

The silence is heavy. 

A loud gust of wind whistles past them, and Max white-knuckles the ropes. She grimaces. And then she attempts to small-talk. “It’s really windy,”

No response comes out of him for a long time. The wind picks back up and he clutches the ropes again. 

“If we die here,” he finally says. “I want you to know that I really am sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“I should’ve given you better reason to trust me,” she sighs. “This whole thing has been really messing with my head.”

Max shrugs. “This show is evil. But, no, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I was just so worried that I ended up sabotaging myself. You didn’t deserve that,”

“I don’t care. Really, I don’t. And I’ve been meaning to talk to you so we could get over this, but…”

“Albert,” he grits his teeth. “Don’t even mention it. I don’t hold anything against you- I thought you were mad at me.”

“I was for like, a second! But I’ve been more lonely than anything lately, and…” Michela pauses, looking off at the sparkling lights of the city. “I love you. I don’t even want to do this stupid show anymore.”

Max’s painfully tight grip on the ropes loosens for a moment, and then he sighs a breath of pure relief. “I don’t either. I love you, too. Let’s get out of here,”

“Yeah, no kidding. 800 feet in the air isn’t an ideal date spot,” She snorts. 

He looks back at her. “I didn’t mean the challenge,”

---

Courtney hisses as Phillip sinks his nails into their shoulder, screaming in pure fear as he scrambles to hold on. “Would you calm down?” they plead for the millionth time. 

“I’m going to die here, and I haven’t even fulfilled my prophecy!”

“Shut up! You’re fine, we’re barely ten feet off the ground,” 

He cowers like a puppy who’s tail had been stepped on. “I just can’t do anything right… I can’t even kill a person… I’m a failure…”

Courtney raises an eyebrow. “What-?”

Phillip suddenly lets go, spreading his arms out wide and falling backwards into the confines of the net. Courtney gasps as he throws himself. 

“Move it or lose it, economy class!” Mal shouts as she and Frollo whiz down the rope, sliding right past Courtney. Their feet touch the soft asphalt first, and Mal gives a little bow. 

“Mal and Frollo have won immunity!” Chris shouts into his megaphone. The other pairs groan. 

At the very top of the building, not even touching the ropes, Noco stares down in fear. Julia whacks him upside the head and he stumbles forward, falling off the side of the building with a long shriek. She grins. 

---

JULIA: “Well, it’s like they say- til death do us part,”

---

Phillip’s eyes widen and he manages to scramble out of the way seconds before Noco falls into the net. Chris beams. 

“Did… did I win?” Noco asks weakly. 

“Not even close,” The host chuckles, unable to keep the sadistic enthusiasm out of his voice. “How’s that staging for ‘ya?”

Julia steps out of the building, brushing off her shirt with a deeply unamused expression. Courtney raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you come from?”

“The elevator,” she rolls her eyes. “Thanks to Captain Conspiracy over here, I didn’t even touch that rope.”

“You’re not missing out on anything,” Kelly mumbles, looking dazed as they hold their head. 

Albert offers a small pat to their shoulder. “You did surprisingly well for someone of your… disposition. Are you alright?”

They wave him off. “I’ll be fine… I just need a little… TLC, that’s all…” and with that, they pass out on the ground. 

Mal and Frollo both grin at the display. Julia narrows her eyes at them. 

Courtney clears their throat. “Hey… where are Max and Michela?” 

That pulls everyone’s attention away from glaring at each other, and they turn from side to side. 

---

“No sign of ‘em,” Chef walks back around the corner with an empty shovel in hand. 

Chris rubs his chin. “So they didn’t go splat… what could’ve…” he sighs. “Fine. Due to… unexpected circumstances, it looks like we won’t be needing an elimination ceremony tonight. Everyone who hasn’t gone missing gets to stay another day.”

The teens cheer. 

---

Julia takes a curt seat in economy class, glaring daggers in Noco’s direction as he tries to cozy up on the bench to no avail. He squirms around for some time before finally sighing, slumping on the wooden surface. 

“Do you people really sleep on these things?”

Phillip stares. “Have you never seen Total Takes?”

“Don’t entertain him. He’s a lunatic,” Julia murmurs. Noco doesn’t respond this time.

Albert has been sulking in the corner of the room for some time, gazing between the floor and the single window in the cabin as if waiting for something. A familiar presence- now holding an ice pack to their forehead- takes a seat next to him. 

Kelly offers him a reassuring smile. “Worried about Michela?”

“Yeah… um, worried,” he mutters. His gaze sharpens and he curses at himself. “It just feels like no matter how I prepare for the unexpected, it always catches me off-guard.”

“Well…” they think aloud. “Maybe that’s because you only expect the worst-case scenario. You don’t see the bright side of things. If I had to guess…”

They pause to stare out the window, their expression shifting to one of both happiness and faint longing. “They probably ran off together, and they’re living their own happily ever after.”

---

A bus stops somewhere in the southwest, amongst a landscape of red and orange, kicking up a cloud of sand as it comes to a screeching halt. The early light of morning has just settled in, the sun rising off in the distance, shrouding everything in a haze of soft golds and periwinkle blues. 

The door hisses open and a crowd of tourists shuffle out, going in all manners of directions. Two figures, holding hands, step out last. 

They stand on the precipice of a cliff, staring over the landscape sprawled out in front of them for miles in every direction. 

“You know… I’ve always thought tourist attractions were overhyped,” Max says. “But this was worth it.”

Michela squeezes his hand as they stare out over the vast, ancient canyon. “It was all worth it,”

[radioiaci]

It takes the shadow a moment for anything to register. It is eager - excited to smush itself back up against the other once it has managed to catch up. To the point where even after it has collided and finds its way back up to its feet, at least several seconds pass by where it is... processing.

And then confusion.

Glancing around, Alastor's shadow appears perplexed, suddenly alone in the hall where they had been and wondering, absently, if it had missed. Maybe its friend had vanished elsewhere or around a different corner? Perhaps it can phase through walls...? And so it begins its search - as though continuing their game that has suddenly turned into hide and seek.

This hall. That hall. A spare closet. One of the rooms. But as it bounds back and forth, a slight deer-like call leaving its general vicinity as it makes an attempt to communicate with the other, it finds that... Lucifer's shadow is nowhere to be found.

Its searching becomes a bit more rushed - hurried. Where are they??? What happened??? A louder call is given to no avail.

It's only when it feels as though it has searched every possible dark pool of shadow within the hotel that the other has... gone entirely. Vanished. Without so much as a good-bye. Forlorn upon realization, its ears drooping alongside its head as the flowers that adorn its antlers begin to wilt and drop from their perches.

Why did it leave...? Where did it go? Maybe the game had not been fun enough...? Maybe it had been hurt...? So many questions and not enough answers. And no conclusions to make except that Alastor's shadow is now alone, slinking down into a much more formless shade with clearly distraught eyes as it sadly crawls its way back to its master.

The poppets are not so effected by the sudden loss. In fact, theirs is a sudden GAIN. And with the vast amount of cookies suddenly present, it is an all-out scrabble to tackle and grapple with Lucifer who seems to now be identified as the source of the cookies. Little claws and teeth gnashing greedily, hungrily. Three, four, five of them all clambering over the devil with no more manners than a pack of piranhas.

Alastor, meanwhile, has to pause. The sudden dismay from his shadow is arresting and not in a good way - he feels a sudden pit in his stomach. A steep decline that begins to well up somewhere at the back of his throat and in his eyes.

With confusion, the man abandons his task, making his way back towards his room. Confused and feeling as though he had just witnessed someone die before him.

Baffled. Wanting to- cry????

Better to be alone while he determines exactly the reason.

The Shadow is something particularly special, bright and wholesome, drawing it in like a moth to a flame. Spiraling fast and short lived, warmed by its light. The carefree thrill of a dash down the corridors, a loved one's hand ghosting skin and missing by a hair, laughter nearby just out of sight.

It's not as long as either of them would have liked, happiness coming up into a crescendo; wavering and full to the brim like a song wanting to be sung. All it had taken, was a single misstep from looking back, gold eyes lingering and ears swiveling to stand to attention from underneath the crown of flowers — slowing just enough for Alastor's Shadow to tackle into it and hit them both straight into a wall... for the moment to come to an abrupt end.

Not having much magic as it was only supposed to be a messenger and had just enough to hold itself together while still being discreet. So when it collides hard enough against a sturdy enough surface: it bursts into a fine dark mist of intangible black smoke and gold magic standard for all clones, slipping away and gone.

If it had only just paid closer attention, it would have been able to slip through the wall.

Lucifer has no way of telling when his shadowy-clone hybrid pops, or why exactly, from his spot all the way down in the lobby... But Alastor's Shadow's reaction is enough cross the distance plenty, distracting him enough to accidentally spill several cookies all over himself, with only Husk to witness the fatal error.

Too bad the cat sinner was making a wise decision to remain entirely uninvolved, even as he was greatly amused by the turn of events.

[barrylen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Flash (TV 2014) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Amunet Black/Killer Frost, Amunet Black/Caitlin Snow Characters: Amunet Black, Killer Frost Summary: It's not like Amunet counted on getting caught.

[azsazz]

The Honeycrisp Grove

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: Can I request an Az imagine where you and him take the kids apple picking ❤️

Warnings: None, fluffy goodness.

Word Count: 1,122

_________________________________________

The idea of taking the six of your children to the apple orchard was a good idea in theory, but as you chase Zuzu through the trees, trying not to jostle the babe strapped to your chest too much, you’re certainly regretting your decision.

They outnumber you and your mate by four and Azriel, ever the cocky male, had told you that it would be fine, your children were well behaved enough and you’d gone out on adventures as a family before and nothing had gone off the deep end.

This though, was starting to feel like you’d dove right into that deep end and couldn’t swim your way back up.

A shadow slinks out of nowhere, curling around Zuzu’s wrist and slows her enough for you to take her hand. She whines, trying to twist out of your hold but a stern look has her releanting, following you back to where the rest of your family is.

Azriel appears, Knox strapped to one side and Jax cradled against his other hip, the older of the two gnawing on the thick skin of an apple. The three of them look unbothered as ever and as sweet as it is that they seem to take after their cool, calm, and collected father, you can’t help but curse yourself for offering to take care of your rowdier offspring.

Your mate, sensing this, offers Jax to you and you reach out for him without hesitation. Zuzu takes her chance, trying to bolt off as soon as your grip leaves her arm but her father is too quick, snatching the little girl off the ground, pressing a flurry of kisses to her neck that has her screeching with laughter.

“Daddy,” she squeals, trying to shove her way out of Azriel’s arms. She’s no match for the muscular shadowsinger, who grins down at his daughter, finally pausing his attack.

“Are you going to behave now, Zuz?” he asks her, a hint of warning in his tone. He watches your daughter's eyes widen, bobbing her head up and down in agreement before he lets her back to the ground. She scampers off, little wings fluttering, struggling to lift her tiny body off of the ground as she bobs, catching air for moments before her feet hit the grass again, headed towards her older brothers.

Your heart stammers in your chest. You’ll never be used to watching your children learn how to fly, even though you’d been in your mate’s arms while he flew you places on so many occasions it was nearly second nature to you as well.

You give your mate a helpless look and receive a crooked smile and a warm caress down the bond in return. It’s paired with his arm wrapping around your shoulders and a kiss to your temple, his shadows soothing as they breeze across your face. The baby cuddled to your chest sighs with content as one sweeps her hair back.

You sigh, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve before catching sight of your rebel child getting ready to climb up on Wren’s back, who’s down on his hands and knees so his younger brother can crawl up on him and hopefully reach the branches above that hold the ruby red apples.

“Baz, don’t you dare,” you call sternly, and the boy immediately drops off of his brother, huffing. He plops down onto the ground, defeated, crossing his arms over his chest and pouts at the dirt below.

Wren gives you a sheepish smile at the look you give him, your oldest should know better by now, but Baz does have a way with words.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” you mutter, leaning your head against your mate's shoulder. You love spending time with your family, but they’re all getting older now, testing you and Azriel’s limits, and it was tough to keep them in line as they tended to gang up on the two of you.

Az chuckles, watching as Baz picks up an apple, a mischievous glint in his eye like he’s about to throw it at his older brother while his back is turned, helping Zuzu pick one from a lower branch.

“Basil,” Azriel warns sharply, and the little boy drops the apple back into the bushel you and your family had gathered. His cheeks turn a ruddy red, mirroring the color of the fruits all around, apologizing softly.

Jax sticks up the fruit, babbling with a big grin, his baby teeth peeking out of his pink gums. You take a small bite and it’s covered in his saliva and juice from where he’d broken through the tough skin, but it’s delicious nonetheless. Your son giggles happily at the exaggerated noises you make.

“Mommy, what are we going to do with all of these apples anyways?” Wren asks, dragging the basket of apples behind him. He was always wanting to prove to his father how strong he is, and Baz helps lighten the load by snagging one of his own. It’s close to the top but not close enough, a few apples tumbling off of the overpacked bushel, the troublemaker can’t help but grin sheepishly.

You puff out a breath of laughter that your mate might take as hysterical but your eyes are soft, watching the three as they quickly scoop the fruit off of the ground and back into the basket before looking up at you with curious eyes.

“Well, there’s a lot of things that we can make with all of these apples,” you start, children listening intently, their eyes lighting with each word they hear. “We can make an apple pie for Uncle Cass, Auntie Nesta, and Giddy,” Wren and Baz share twin looks of excitement.

“For Uncle Rhys, Feyre, and Nyxie we can bake apple cookies or apple crumble,” Azriel adds, winking at you.

“Or caramel apples,” Wren exclaims, remembering when his Auntie Feyre had taken him, Baz, and his cousins to their favorite bakery in Velaris, “Like the ones at Crumb!”

“Cookies,” Zuzu cheers and Jax howls in excitement.

The babe against your chest scrunches her nose up in her sleep, whining softly before settling back into her slumber, Knox fast asleep as well.

“I guess we’re just going to have to make a little bit of everything,” you decide, rubbing your nose softly against Jax’s while your children cheer, rushing up to you to hug your legs.

“You’re the best mommy ever,” Baz exclaims, clutching your leg tightly.

You run your fingers through his soft hair, heart bursting with love for your family. 

Azriel takes your hand in his, a smile of his own lighting up his face, and you think that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

[witchyaeris]

A Light Touch

Pairing: Izzy Hands x Reader

Word Count: 2095

Warnings: Smut, sub!Izzy and dom!reader, fem!reader , pain play, fingering, explicit sex

Synopsis: Izzy's been taking out his anger at Blackbeard's new relationship on the crew. You think maybe he just needs to get laid and offer to take his mind off things.

A/N: Long-time reader, first-time writer. I am also a lesbian so constructive criticism is very much appreciated. This little man has infested my mind, and I saw a TikTok that said he probably cries during sex so here it is. Babygirl Izzy in all his whiney glory.

Sequel: A Firm Hand

The boat rocks underneath you as the snores of your crewmates continue to keep you awake. Normally, you’d be snoring along with them but the past few days have been tense; Stede and Ed have been getting closer and Izzy’s been more vicious than usual. You roll your eyes and pick up your threadbare blanket and half empty pillow when Wee John lets out a particularly earth rattling one.

With nowhere else to go, you clamber up to the deck and go to find a clean nook to sleep in when out of the corner of your eyes you see a shadow. The moon is waning, but bright enough to illuminate the deck and the other side of the boat, behind a mast, you see a person. Dropping to the floor in suspicion, you slink around to make sure it's not an intruder. You grip your knife, and jump out at them, ready to kill the fucker. 

Shit. It’s Izzy. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he spits out before you can even lower your knife.

“I’m so sorry, I thought everyone was asleep and you were a murderer coming to kill us.”

“Why-” He stops before he finishes the thought and shakes his head.

“Why are you up here? It’s late.” He sighs, turning away from you and going back to leaning on the edge of the Revenge.

“Needed a place to sleep and it’s nice out tonight. Could ask you the same thing.”

His shoulders tense and his ungloved hands visibly tighten in the faint light. He stays quiet and you study him for a moment . He has on his signature black, but is in a state of undress. His waistcoat is gone and his tanned chest is slightly exposed underneath his blouse. No longer wearing his tight leather outfit or brandishing his sword he looks smaller to you, less menacing. Strands of hair fall on his face and the lack of sleep is clear from the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“Nothing. Do what you want, I’ll head to bed soon.” Izzy says dismissively.

You begin to turn on your heel when something makes you stop. As much of an asshole as he is, it’s clear he’s heartbroken and agitated. Not to mention letting loose may remove the stick firmly lodged up his ass. The wood of the Revenge creaks as you take a step closer to him and reach over to touch his shoulder. You chew your lip and make gentle contact, which he jumps at. His head whips to look at you and notice his brows furrow in confusion, frown deepening.

“I thought I told you to fuck off.” He huffs, bothered that his midnight brooding has been interrupted again.

“Listen.. I know we may not be best friends-” you begin as he scoffs at you.

“And I don’t presume to know about your relationship with Blackbeard. But! I can tell something has been bothering you.” 

His eyes harden in suspicion, jaw clenching at his captain’s mention. You step closer to him and put your hand back on his shoulder. His eyes flicker to your hand and then to your chest for a second, where your slightly opened shirt reveals large breasts unconstrained by the corset you normally wear. The bob in his Adam's apple is all the encouragement you need as your hand begins to fall from his shoulder and down his arm.

“When’s the last time you slept a full night? Or thought about anything other than him? We’ve all been on edge, Izzy.” You say looking into his deep green eyes.

He looks away and laughs joylessly. “And what can you do about it?”

You step close enough to smell his leathery woody musk and look into his eyes once more. Your hands fall on his chest as you lean in to kiss him half expecting to be yelled at or stabbed. Izzy freezes initially, thinking it’s a ploy before returning the kiss, hard. Your head is pushed back by the force momentarily before he grabs the back of your neck with both his hands. It’s needy and a mess of teeth and tongue, one of your hands holding his forearm to stay balanced. When you part, his pupils are blown out and his hands stay on your neck, cupping your jaw.

“Follow me.” He commands in his gravelly voice, stepping back and turning around quickly hoping you wouldn’t be able to see tent in his trousers. You could.

Both of you tiptoe throughout the ship before he opens the door to his room and pulls you in quickly. His room is nice; the size of Olu and Jim’s. The covers are messy and you notice the distinct lack of decoration. It’s bare except for some papers and extra weapons laying around. 

“You sure about this?” He asks as he sits down on the edge of the bed untying his shoes. 

You swear you see him fumble in excitement when you tell him “Fuck yes.”

Once you remove your shoes, you begin to shrug off your blouse when you notice Izzy staring. 

“Hurry up.” you say with a smile as you slip off your underwear, savoring the power you hold over him.

 By the time you finish undressing, he’s waiting patiently by the end of the bed, gripping and releasing the sheets. His legs are spread and you can finally get a proper look. His cock is wider than average and so hard it looks painful. The tip is already leaking precum and you wonder how long it’s been for him. Once you’re at the edge of the bed you get him to lay back with a push to the chest and straddle him. His tanned body is hard and muscular, scars from hundreds of battles covering his chest and stomach. His hands are roaming everywhere, kneading your thighs, pushing the hair from your face, using his thumbs to play with your nipples. He hisses when you grab his dick and all but sees heaven when you push the tip in. As you slowly sink onto him, his hands grip your hips tight enough to leave bruises and you hear the smallest whimper coming from his mouth.

“I don’t know how long I can last.” he gasps, looking up at you.

You lean forward far enough that his graying hair scratches your cheek as you whisper “I’ve got all night, Iz.” 

You feel his cock twitch at the thought as you lift your hips for moment before being filled completely. His moans and gasps fill the room as you ride faster, relishing the sensation. Gripping you closer, he whines in your kiss, desperate to be touched 

“I need to cum, please.” He groans, wrapping his arms around you and taking a nipple in his mouth. 

“Inside,” you gasp. “Cum for me, Izzy” you say as your fingers tangle in his hair and your hips meet his. He pushes you down onto him as his dick releases ropes of cum, hips stuttering until he’s empty. In a daze, he lifts his head from your nipple and releases his vice like grip on your body. His dick softens, but he keeps you locked on his lap, reluctant to let you move an inch.

“Such a good boy.” You smirk and grab his chin roughly. He blinks lazily up at you, and sweaty from exertion. 

 “You act so vicious and violent but you really just want to be ruined don’t you? Made to submit through pleasure… or pain.”

Almost immediately as the word leaves your lips his entire body tenses under you with a sharp inhale. Pushing his head to the side, you lick a stripe from his collarbone to his neck eliciting a shiver before you plant a kiss on his shoulder and bite hard enough to leave a mark. Izzy’s voice is hoarse as he moans your name, his hips bucking into you harshly before his hands fly to your waist to hold you in place. Lifting your hips to slide off his cock, you lay on the bed next to him as he catches his breath. You turn towards each other and his hand reaches out to hold your face as you kiss. As the kiss deepens, you feel him get between your legs, dick bobbing against his stomach in anticipation.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” He says looking down on you, getting a good look at the glistening folds dripping a mixture of his and your cum. 

He positions the tip and your entrance and watches enraptured as you slowly swallow up his dick, your heat almost burning. He wastes no time and starts pumping inside you as hard as he can. In this angle, he’s hitting your g-spot, tightening the knot in your stomach with every thrust. One hand is holding your leg above his shoulder while the other is rubbing your pussy; which he’s being surprisingly gentle with considering how vicious he’s pounding into you. Your moans are reaching a crescendo when you put your arms around him and dig your nails in his flesh. The reaction is immediate, he lets out the most pathetic noise you’ve ever heard before dropping his head on your chest and slowing his thrusts.

“ Aww, that was adorable Izzy.” you say as you pull your nails down quickly leaving scratches along his back.

“You’re so pretty like this, singing from my touches and absolutely falling apart. I’d like to keep you.”

“Please.” He whispers before reaching his hand back down to your clit. 

His punishing pace resumes while his fingers bring you closer to orgasm. His eyes don’t leave your body for a second, enraptured, memorizing every detail. How your tits bounce with every thrust, the flush on your cheeks, the way you fit together perfectly. Your hands tangle into the sheets behind you as you shout a chorus of “Oh God” and “Yes Izzy, more”.

He pulls out all the way before slamming his full length and hips into you, intent on your pleasure. At once you feel the knot snap and your entire body jerks as you feel the most earth shattering orgasm you’ve had in years. Spots dance around your vision before you can remember to breathe. Izzy is right after you, spilling inside you with a sob as your muscles squeeze him tighter. Your moans intermingle as you come down and he grabs your face to kiss you before he pulls out. Tear tracks all over his face, you wipe them away gently, thumbing the x on his cheek.

He’s not gone for long as you feel him begin to kiss your inner thigh, his gray goatee tickling the sensitive skin. You can hear him growl as he inhales your scent, placing slow, gentle kisses near your core.

“May I?” He asks, looking up at you for approval before diving in. He was licking like a madman, eager to taste every drop of you. You grab fistfuls of his hair while he drinks you and holds you tightly in place. You’re almost screaming his name as his fingers curl inside you and his tongue finds your clit, already sensitive and swollen. You buck uncontrollably into his mouth, his eyes watch your every move, unable and unwilling to look away. When you finally reach your breaking point, your whole body tenses and the release is indescribable. The floor is pulled out from under you and Izzy eagerly laps up your cum, groaning every time your hands tighten on his hair.

You lay panting for a moment before he gets a cloth to clean you up with. Gently, he wipes the sweat of your brow and cleans the mess you made of each other. As you stand up to get dressed, he quickly bends down to swipe at something where he was kneeling before grabbing his trousers. He came while eating me out? God, this is going to be fun.

Turning to look at each other at the same time, it's quiet for a moment. 

“I guess I’ll go back to the deck.” you say with a small smile.

“Stay… If you like.” he mumbles in his deep voice, too embarrassed to look at you after being so vulnerable. 

He gets into bed and you climb in next to him, blowing out the lamp before he lays his head on your chest.

“Thank you.” he whispers, hands sneaking into your shirt to wrap his arm around your skin. You kiss the top of his head and run a hand through his hair before sleep takes both you.

[dullweapons]

it was strange when the world threatened to end . life & light could disappear in a blink of an eye . nothing but shadows & the spirits lingering ... then it's over . balance returns & the world acts like it never happened . suppose that's what good heroes chosen by the gods do . make the problem disappear seemly for everyone but themselves . they will never be the same but the earth keeps spinning until the next time ... then repeat . how many times does this last time make it ? ah , who knows . it won't be long until the next world ending battle between those blessed by gods ⸻ perhaps cursed is a better word for it .

regardless , anacanoa sent him to the market to get her a few things for dinner ( he doesn't quite understand why she cooks . they are made to eat flesh ... but the stew was nice after long days ... ) . potatoes , carrots , cabbage & some goron spice . he knew damn well he wasn't going to eat any of them but it made ana happy to cook so ... he would make sure to pick the best ingredients he could . ray haggled a touch with the man selling the produce ⸻ 5 rupees per potato ? nonsense . he will do 2 ! after some back & forth he turns to the side to act like ray was about to leave ( usually a ploy , make them think they are losing business ) he catches eyes with ... link ?

no . not the current link .

the first .

& ray feels small . his hands shiver & his words catch in his throat to the point where he cannot breath ! his eyes locked onto the man as he slinks away out of the ground towards the southern gate & the demon considers dropping everything & running . but link would find him anyway ... there's nowhere to run . not from your past , ayrin . ray touches his chest , feeling his scar across his body ... the one from the goddesses blade . it burns . why does it burn ?

finally he puts down way more rupees then required & stuffs his produce into his bag before ... walking towards the southern gate ... ray feels more like he's swimming through a current then talking through a crowd . he bumps into people , blinking rapidly & quickly apologizing but he's not there ... not anymore . is he real ? he's not imagining things right ? has this ghost come to kill him . finally finish him off after so many years ... he killed all his friends & toys⸻ other demons & blins ! almost killed boss⸻ lord demise ! he would surely kill him too !

ray stops outside the gate , staring at the other with wide shell shocked eyes . his hand his hovering on his sword , a slight tremor still visible .

❝ ... aren't you supposed to be dead ? ❞ there's ... a slight childishness to his voice . softly asking ⸻ honestly curious as he tilts his head . ❝ or did the bright lady fix that ? ❞

@dullweapons liked for a starter

Like had a tendency to recognize like.

There was an... air about those who had existed far beyond the understand of mortal kin. Those who had seen the sun rise and fall on more lives than they could count. Those who had bore witness to the first pillars of civilization being raised, only to later watch those very same ones topple.

Not to mention the strange feeling that tugged at him, one that was almost as if they had met before.

Link was almost positive that couldn't be the truth. He felt he would have remembered anyone who made such an imposing figure (though, he noted, the man was only just barely taller than himself). It was that small flicker of uncertainty that had him peering at the other man curiously.

It wasn't quite enough to have him approach the strange, though.

He had been through countless versions of Hyrule and her Castle Town. Link had found himself growing fond of this one and had been glad when this Princess and her Knight had been able to banish the twilight from the lands. It was in the bustling market that he had spotted the stranger - and it was only after Link felt felt that their gaze had met did he move to slink away, heading out the south gate to the open field behind it.

It wasn't a fight he was looking for, but that didn't change that conversations of this nature were always best had in... private.

[hoaqins-funk-house]

Springtrap

Yandere

Male Reader

You can read part 1 here

Part 2

Quietly whistling, you enter the building, locking the door behind you and turning into the office, finding the familiar tall man leaning against the wall above the vent.

“Welcome back, Y/N. You ready?” 

You stretch, as per usual, humming. “As I’ll ever be.”

He walks past you, patting your shoulder with a grin as he murmurs two words into your ear.

“Good luck.”

You deadpan as his teasing hits you, watching him wave as he passes the glass. Sighing, you plop down into the chair, cursing as your tailbone hits the metal again. You follow William with the cameras, him speedily making his way back to the last room, where he motions to the vent next to him, crossing his arms in an x.

You nod to yourself. He isn’t going to go in that vent, as it would give him the unfair advantage of being in a vent where you can’t block him off.

When he smirks at the camera and slinks into the shadows, you sigh, beginning your defense.

-

It was five when you really lost him. He was nowhere to be found. 

You had exasperated a few more shades, excluding the one who seemed to really enjoy being about three inches from your face at all times. You didn’t really mind him, though; he was pretty hot.

Your brother wasn’t wrong when he called you ‘gayboy.’

Still, looking up, you see the man with a ripped up uniform staring down at you amusedly, his hand placed on the glass. Quickly, you play audio in the room to his left, making his grin lower as he gets led away by his body, you playing another sound in a further room before resetting audio.

You hear his rapid steps as audio reboots, watching him dart across the glass before finding him at the door frame. You lock eyes with him, a drop of sweat flowing down your cheek. Hearing the audio finish rebooting, you blindly grasp at the camera pad, violently and repeatedly pressing the sound button in a vain attempt to lure him away. Audio broke again because of how quickly you were spamming the button.

Right before he could take a step into your office, the bell chimes, and you shove the camera pad away from you, face hitting the desk with a thump as you let out a relieved sigh, feeling the stress leave your body.

��Hmm. You did quite well, all things considered.” William praises, watching amusedly as you wearily raise your hand, curled in a thumbs up. 

“I think I aged about a decade.” You groan, pushing yourself up to face your hunter for the night. You breathe heavier than usual, hair either sticking out or to your face from sweat, along with the light flush that comes with occasionally losing your oxygen supply.

It’s a sight he plans to see again; granted, not in this context.

“I’ll take that as a sign of quality pursuing.” He states, further entertained by your half-hearted glare. “What, do you have a problem with that?”

“You’re too good.” You say.

His brow quirks at your words. “Too good?”

“Yes, too good a pursuer. And you know what?”

“What?”

“Feeling like your prey for fifteen minutes was enough to completely wipe me. A whole six hours would genuinely kill me.”

He laughs, ignoring the feeling he gets from you calling yourself his prey.

“Well, I’ll just have to hunt to your limit. Now... isn't your shift over? Or do you just want to stay the day with me?” His grin makes his offer into what would easily be interpreted as a joke.

“Something came up, unfortunately. I would stay and chat, but it seems I must be going.”

Of course, this is you we’re talking about.

William was somewhat taken aback. You said you would?! 

You would stay back to talk with him?

He practically short-circuits, lips slightly open in shock. He only comes back to reality with the feeling of your hand running through his hair, ruffling it. Instinctually, he grabs it, looking at the hand in his grip and then at you, a small smile on your face. 

“Should I not-”

“No, you may. I just… wasn’t expecting it, is all.” He cuts you off, releasing your warm hand and watching with a pang of disappointment as your hand lowers, you stepping away. With a wave, you turn. 

“See you tomorrow, William.” 

He nods nearly breathlessly as you exit the building, lifting a hand and letting his fingers drift over his chest. 

A pulse.

… 

Then another.

…

And another.

His gaze lifts from his hand to the door you had exited through, expression shocked before his eyelids droop once more, lips forming a drunken grin. 

You are his, the one he needs most, his perfect prize and his perfect prey.

You, who gave a corpse his heartbeat.

It’s about 17 hours later that you stumble in, Your frazzled state catching William off guard. You slouch over as you walk, the dark color under your eyes speaking to how many hours of sleep you got. 

Entering the office, you, for once, sit down calmly in your chair, your head hitting the table in front of you. You turn to face the rabbit-eared man, eyes half-lidded and dull.

“I came in an hour early to sleep, if you don’t mind…” You drawl, him grimacing at your state.

“Feel free to.” 

He hums as your eyes shut, and he watches your body fully untense, noting the chair slowly rolling out from beneath you. Your face is peaceful, nearly the same expression you gave him on the first night after first meeting him face-to-face.

He sighs, stepping closer and grabbing your midsection right before you would've fallen. Your eyes don't even open, but you quietly groan, continuing to sleep as the man considers his options. 

He can rest you on the floor? 

No, when you wake up you'll need to peel yourself off of it.

He can put you back in the chair?

You'll probably fall out of it.

There is that staff room he found… 

Eh, it's his best option.

There's a couch in there, too.

He lifts you onto his back in order to not continue holding you like a wet towel, walking out of the office and into the area where cam three was active, finding the door in between a few props. Opening it, he feels the floor beneath his bare feet shift from grimy tile to thin carpet, colored black, along with a dark, ugly green couch. There’s a vent on the wall, a secret entrance to your office’s vent.

As he goes to place you down on the couch, he realizes that your arms are wrapped around his collar, head leaning into his. 

He regrets not paying attention earlier, as you were practically a heating pad. His arms, very loosely circling your legs, release as he leans closer to the couch, hovering with his back over it before realizing that, hey, you were asleep!

So, he lets himself turn, your arms still wrapped around the back of his neck, instead holding you up on his front.

Now, he decides to lay down on the couch, his tall physique making his legs have to be propped up on one arm of the couch. You lay on top of him, head nestled in the crook of his neck, allowing him to feel your soft breaths across his skin.

His arms wrap around you, feeling your warmth. With a small, satisfied grin, he feels the slightest flush cross his cheeks as you nuzzle closer. You were made for him; made to fit perfectly against him, made to be his, forever.

He doesn’t even notice as his eyelids drift down, consciousness fading. 

Goodnight, Y/N.

-

It was to the chime of the bell that you woke up, letting out a small sigh before you begin to take in your circumstances, eyes still not open. 

You fell asleep at work, but it certainly isn't midnight, as the bell had just chimed. It also isn't the chair you fell asleep in.

As they shift around you, holding you tighter to him, you realize that arms surround you, and that it seems likely you're sleeping on the rabbit man. 

Before you try to roll over and off of him (which was a dumb idea; William would've fallen with you), you feel him wake up based on the rumbles in his chest as he lowly groans.

You sigh, half-heartedly pushing yourself up. "Good morning, William."

His eyes shoot open, and he looks down, noting you and the position you were both in. "Mind letting me go?" 

"Uh- yes, sure." He releases you, allowing you to get off of him, stretching with a yawn. Meanwhile, William was reeling. 

You, saying good morning?

Your rusty morning voice?

You, apparently not caring about how you were just asleep on top of him?

Actually, he almost wishes you did care about it; you being embarrassed would be adorable.

"So… where is this?" You ask, looking over your shoulder at the man as he sits up, already feeling the void of your warmth.

"We're in the staff room. The door leads right into the attraction." 

You hum, nodding, him standing with a small sigh before standing at your side, his hand placing itself on your shoulder. 

"Nevermind that - what exactly made you into a walking corpse? Don't you know I already have that role covered?" He asks, a joking tone in his voice. You smile.

"Well, remember the funerals I got off my main job for? I had to go to one." You sigh, feeling his understanding shoulder pat. 

"How unfortunate that you had to do the thing you were getting off of work to do." 

That understanding shoulder pat turns sour!

"Listen. I, uh, can't really argue with that…"

William smirks. "No, you can't."

You sigh again, defeated. "Well, I need to head home. Thank you for letting me sleep through my shift, by the way. You make for a spectacular bed." It is with those parting words that you exit the room, not even allotting him the time to process your words.

Stiffly, he stands, following you out the door and back into the main area of the building, where the last he sees of you for some hours is the door closing behind you. 

He finds that watching you leave each night makes the cold emptiness hit him once more, returning him to a state similar to how he was when trapped. His lips, previously in a stricken pout, now fall into a scowl. 

You, you, you…

He fell asleep easily and dreamt of a peaceful void when you were there. But now that you aren't…

His dreams will never be calm. That brief instance of tranquility was like a drug to him; he wants more, the quiet, warm existence in a space consisting of nothing. Nothing to bring him pain. Nothing to bring him fear. 

But, nothing to bring him joy.

If he stays with you, will his dreams return to light? Will he feel your arms wrapped around him, holding him close as he buries his face into the crook of your neck?

Letting out a shuddering breath, he forcefully breaks himself out of his thoughts, looking down at his hands as they shake. Lifting one to his face, he feels his mouth in a wide grin. 

He already knows what he wants. 

He already knows what he needs to do.

But he needs to be patient.

-

As you reenter the building, William perks up to the sound of the door closing behind you. He purposefully replaces his wide, unsettling grin with a casual smirk, entering the hallway and seeing you. 

He will never get tired of you in your uniform.

You lift your head to meet his gaze, hearing him approach. He waves through the glass, you doing the same thing in return. You, per usual, stretch your arms above your head, feeling them get grabbed by William. Looking up at him, you raise an eyebrow, not noticing his grin. 

“Say, could you get out of that seat real quick?”

You hum in confirmation, him releasing your wrists as you stand.

You deadpan as he takes the seat, sitting down in it. "Wow. Asshole."

He laughs. "Think of this as charity."

"I'll think of it as what it is, thievery." You huff, sitting on the desk as a replacement for your stolen chair.

He laughs again. 

You roll your eyes, leaning your head on your arm, which is propped up on your leg. "I think the dude who got you made a really good choice."

William pauses. "Okay, now I think you're actually flirting with me."

"Take it as you will. But what I mean is he made a great choice for a horror attraction in finding you. Your big form is scary as hell, what with the actual organs about to spill out and stuff. Your human form… I wouldn't describe you as scary. Intimidating to someone who doesn't know you, maybe, but not scary."

"And what makes me... intimidating?" He asks, face forming into an amused expression as he watches you deadpan for a moment at his tone.

"Your scars, sure, but the main thing is your height. You're like, what, 6'7?"

"I was still quite tall when I was fully human, too."

"Really? How tall?"

"Around 6'4 or 6'5."

You whistle. "Damn, you didn't even grow that much, even when you got a boost from the suit. Actually, how does that even work?" 

"The suits? Well, when bodies are shoved into the suits and become trapped, their souls begin to merge with the vessel. For me, it took a long time, because I was around your age, but for the other suits…" He pauses, flicking one of the bobbleheads. "It didn't take them very long at all."

You nod. "Because they were kids… I never understood it."

His brow lifts. "Never understood what?"

"Why someone would kill them, and 11 of them at that. Kids can be annoying, sure, but… they still deserve a chance to grow." Your eyes focus on the ground, brows drawn together.

"I see." He responds, silent other than those words. You don't notice how his expression turns cold, lips in a downward curve. His reason for slaughtering the kids is simple. 

He wanted to. 

You look up, his face shifting to solemnity. 

You offer him a weak grin. "Sorry 'bout bringing that up, it's a bit heavy."

"No, it's fine."

You hum, leaning back while your hands grip the edge of the table. "I think I'm gonna miss this. The fifteen-something minutes we got here."

He tilts his head, so you take that as a sign to elaborate. "Tomorrow's my last day. I can still visit, of course, but I'll be heading back to my job on Tuesday."

His eyes widen as he processes it. Of course, it was never going to be permanent. The pay was shit, and you even told him that you had a month off, nothing more. 

He doesn't want to let you go, not when you're right there, not when you won't be showing yourself as often. 

"You good?" You ask, him nodding as his gaze shifts quickly to the door you leave through. All he needs to do is block it, then you'll be forced to go through the whole attraction if you want an immediate exit.

"Yes, just wondering how often you'll stop by." His eyes shift back to yours. Of course, he hadn't even considered the question. He knows there isn't any need to worry, not when you'll be at his side the whole time. He'll bind you to him, make it impossible for you to escape.

"I should be able to on weekends, and maybe Wednesdays? It depends on my schedule. So at least twice a week." You smile, the slight head tilt adding to the charm. "It's good to know I've made an impact on someone here, though. William, I really do enjoy your company."

His soft smile holds a hint of euphoria. 

You enjoy his company? 

He hopes you will feel the same over the years. His idea… 

He knows exactly how to do it.

"I enjoy yours as well."

"Well, I'd hope. Me waking up on top of you would've been a bit more awkward if you didn't." You chuckle, his smile slightly widening.

Of course, it couldn't happen tonight.

"I suppose so."

Your brow raises, arms crossing. "You sure you're good? You seem rather… subdued." You question.

He shrugs, feeling the strange warmth form in the pit of his stomach as he hears you worry for him. "I'm just a bit tired, I suppose. Sleeping last night threw me off." Well, he is actually a bit tired.

You nod, still feeling as if something is off. "I can get that. When I got home last night, I immediately crawled into bed and passed out again."

"You were still tired?"

"Well, seven hours isn't much when I had stayed up for over 40. Wait, you were tired? Animatronic-corpse-hybrid-whatevers can get tired?"

His casual grin returns. "Especially in this form, yes. I'm still a close-enough-to-living-thing to get tired normally." 

"Huh. How strange." You simply respond, eyes slipping upwards and not noticing as he rolls forward. 

"Hey, could you hold out your hand real quick? Like this." He holds out his hand in a way similar to how you grab a drink, you copying him with a slightly confused expression. With that, he rolls slightly closer, and after closing his eyes, rests his head on your hand, your fingers cupped over his cheek.

You feel your brain lag.

Your mouth opens once, you soon figuring out that whatever you would say would be incomprehensible, so it's best to not even try.

William lets out a breath, seeming to deflate into your touch. A few moments later, his eyes open to the sound of the 6 am bell and the sight of your somewhat flushed face. He leans away, leaving you still very confused. "Thanks for that." 

"You're… welcome?" 

He's already missing your touch. "Well, we should both get some rest, tomorrow's your final night." But certainly not your last with him. William rolls back, giving you the space to get off of your desk.

You nod slowly. "Uh-yeah. That's true." Sliding off of the desk, you let out a small groan while you stretch, a lot of air hissing into the noise. After you shake your head to clear it, you send a smile towards William before beginning to leave. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Of course." He responds. When he hears the click of the door, he stands up. He needs to get some rest if he wants to be in top shape. 

His lips curl into a sneer, already knowing his plan would be successful. 

Exiting the room, he heads to the back of the attraction, returning to his animatronic form and standing in the spot he started all of this in. 

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow.

Part 3

[cakers-2000]

Hey ! Are you taking requests right now ? If so, can you write, like, literally anything you want with Hanako-kun and s/o ? I just finished the anime and I'm craving more content 🥺🥺🥺

It's been so long since you requested I'm so sorry!

Still I hope you enjoy! I was already planning on writing something for Hanako-kun he's my absolute favorite so it all worked out perfectly! 🥰

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

~Savior (Hanako-Kun X Reader)~

Word Count: 1.3k

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

Sometimes you cursed the day you met Hanako. He was annoying, loud, kind of arrogant and to top it all off, a spirit left to inhabit your school and torture you daily. Your first meeting with Hanako had been… eventful to say the least.

Being related to Kou definitely had its pros and cons. In fact your first introduction to the ghost boy was through Kou himself.

And ever since that day he had been a blight on your life, making it his mission to annoy you every chance he got.

A small sigh escaped your throat as you sat yourself down against the wall in an empty hallway. Your day had been more than hectic, you almost cried when you heard the final bell signaling your school day was over. You could finally relax, something you had been looking forward to all day. You were practically hiding yourself from your best friend Akane, he could be… a handful sometimes, especially with his affection for Aoi. Not that you didn’t love him and his interests but today, he was just too much for you. Normally you would go home and relax there but lately, home wasn’t even home for you anymore.

You reached into the school bag resting beside you and dug through, fingers dancing along the edges of your many different school books before your eyes caught a dazzling silver gleam. You grabbed the object and pulled out a rather small book. It couldn’t have been bigger than a cellphone. You flipped through the book, hesitating on each page that held a brilliantly drawn picture.

One held a picture of that dear friend Akane. Another of Aoi watering the plants in class. Yet another held a picture of your two brothers Kou and Minamoto. Your hand stopped when you spotted the smiling face of Hanako himself. It had actually been quite a few days since you had last seen the ghost boy. You would admit it had been relaxing to get a break from him, but you did wonder how he was doing and what had stopped him from bugging you daily like he used to. You flipped to the next page in the book, a blank sheet and once more dug through your backpack to search for a pencil or pen.

You had failed to notice the shadow slinking towards you. Nor had you noticed your book slip daintly off of your lap and disappear into the dark depths of the hallway in front of you.

Finally you felt the cool metal of your pen and you reached for your book, excited to get the artistic juices flowing again but were shocked to find that it wasn’t there.

“What the…”

You slowly stood yourself up and grabbed the backpack, throwing it on your back and beginning your search for the book. If it was a new book you would’ve paid it no mind and simply left but that book had years worth of sketches in it. You had almost completed every page, it was so much hard work you couldn’t just leave it.

As you strolled further and further down the hallway you began to feel uneasy. The hairs on the back of your neck seemed to stand on end and you could almost swear there was the sound of feet behind you, but everytime you looked there was no one.

You let out a defeated sigh when you seemed to arrive at a dead end, your book nowhere in sight and kicked at the ground in frustration. All of that hard work, gone.

You felt something hit your toes and glanced down to find the book, resting upside down on the ground. Your face contorted into one of displeasure and confusion before you bent down to grab hold of it and then you heard it. The pitter patter of something dripping from the ceiling. Right above you. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt something cold drop onto your cheek.

What the hell!?

You slowly lifted your gaze upwards, fear rushing through your system and almost screamed when you saw the disgusting creature in front of you. It looked like a black blob, but its teeth. They were so sharp, and the drool that fell from its jaws as it stared down at you. It sent a shudder down your back. You wanted to scream, to cry out for help but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were frozen in utter fear.

Besides, this thing wasn’t human. Who was going to help you from this kind of beast?

You felt a tentacle-like object slink its way around your foot and you let out a gasp as it pulled you to the floor, still standing above you as it came closer, ready to devour.

You racked your brain. Who could help you? You couldn’t die like this.

And finally your body let you scream out the only name you knew could help you.

“HANAKO!”

It was a long shot. There was only a small chance he would be able to even hear you let alone rescue you in time, but it was that or nothing.

The creature came even closer at your shout and you could feel its hot breath on your face. If you reached a finger out you’d be able to pierce it on the teeth only inches from your nose. You closed your eyes. This was it. You were dead.

The sound that greeted you made your stomach churn. The sound of a knife sliding through meat, an odd gurgling sound that made you want to gag, and then the creature above you screamed. You didn’t dare open your eyes as you felt a rush of cool liquid drip on top of you, not that you would’ve been able to see anyways, your tears would have blurred your vision all too much.

“Good work Hakujoudai.”

That voice. That oh so familiar voice. You quickly snapped your eyes open at the sound and could see him standing before you, waggling his finger playfully at the Yo-Kai ball circling around him.

He could seem to sense you staring at him and smiled warmly in your direction. “Hi thereeeee. Made it just in time huh?”

He practically skipped towards you and knelt down beside you. You could feel his cold hands grab onto your cheek as he wiped what you could now see was a piece of that disgusting blob creature off of you. “I’m glad I made it.”

You opened your mouth to speak but the sound that escaped you was that of a squeak as he pulled you into his arms. Your head rested firmly against his chest as he held onto you with a rather tight grip.

“H-Hanako.”

“Shhh…”

You did as he said, allowing him to rest his head on top of your own. His fingers were cold as always but you allowed him to intertwine his with your own and trace patterns along the top of your hand with his thumb.

“Please be more careful (Y/N).”

His voice was just above a whisper as he spoke to you, giving your hand a light squeeze to emphasize how serious he was.

“I will. Thank you for protecting me.”

He pulled himself away at your words and stared you down before bursting out into laughter. You tilted your head rather quizzically at him and he tried to stifle his giggles. He stood himself up and held his hand out to help you up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up in the restroom, okay?”

A smile fell to your face and you gave him a nod before accepting his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull you to your feet.

“Whatever you say Hanako.”

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Playing with Fire

Part Five of the Just this Once Series

Warnings: Smut (no actual smut tho guys sorry), Masturbation (f), Teasing, Language, Dirty talk, Terrible Star Wars knowledge

Word Count: 2.3K+

Summary: A tease through the links and a bet fulfilled. 

A/N: This chapter is a little short, but I hope you all enjoy! This may seem a little anti climatic and messy but that’s on me guys, that’s my bad. Also this may seem different in tone if that makes sense? The next one will be more smutty goodness but with some injuries (and yes i used another random star wars planet don’t kill mee)

You’ve finally figured it out.

After about a week of travelling to your next destination, it finally occurs to you to just play at his own game. You know—fingering you in a crowded cantina, smirking to himself while you struggled to stay quiet in that fucking booth...  

But first, you must say that Edis is a strange place. Rain falling at every hour with apparently no signs of ever letting up, and the humidity is unforgiving—how Mando is handling it in all that armor and padding, you’re almost too afraid to ask, because there’s just no way that he’s comfortable, and an uncomfortable Mando can lead to a grumpy one. 

Maker you’re grumpy yourself if you’re being honest. The Child has been restless lately, like the heat is getting to him as well, and that’s been taking a toll on your (already) poor sleep schedule; Mando tries to help, but there’s only so much he can do. However, it has given you the chance to think of the perfect payback for your little deal—or bet is a better word—and you gotta say, you’re a little proud of yourself for coming up with this evil—and small—tryst in the first place. 

If it’ll work the way you want it to, time will tell. 

“Were you even listening?”

The modulated crackle startles you from your thoughts. You turn in the pilot’s seat, making contact with the visor and the stiffness of his posture confirms your suspicions—he’s hot and grumpy.   

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Lost in my thoughts.”

He doesn’t acknowledge it. “I’m leaving. They should be nearby, and everything should work out as long as you and the ship stay hidden.”

Like anyone could. Mando isn’t messing around on this one—well, the man doesn’t mess around with anything, actually—and he’s made damn sure that not only are you available with a few weapons nearby (some hidden, of course, just in case), but that the Razor Crest is shadowed by towering trees a bushes in this small part of the rainforest; it’s nearly impossible to even see the gunk through the one of the thickest part of the forest. If anything finds you, they most likely won’t come back alive.     

“Okay. Good luck.”

He gives you one nod and the cape whips as he turns around, strutting towards the ladder as you follow behind. Mando checks on the kid—sitting up in the middle of the haul with a few little toys surrounding him—and gives him a gentle caress of his floppy ear before using his vambrace to open the ramp. He doesn’t give you a glance back, and that’s okay with you, but you can’t deny the slight stinging in your chest when he disappears into the foreign planet.   

“Alright little guy,” you say with a grunt as you plop down on the floor next to the Child. “Let’s figure out what to do.”

***

Ten days. 

Mando has been gone longer on bounties like this, believe or not, but that still doesn’t ease your increasing anxiety when the com link stays silent; you suppose you’re used to the quickness of his updates. 

Today, after hours of entertaining the baby the best you could, you can finally settle comfortably in the pilot’s chair… but now what?

Sleep, your body says, because what else is there really to do? Don’t, your mind tells you, because you have the baby here alone on an unfamiliar planet and anything could happen. A part of you wants to go out and check the foreign terrain. One look shouldn’t hurt—  

“Hey,” his voice speaks through in statics. 

You quickly fumble with the com, feeling like a clumsy mess when you almost drop it in your haste; he’s caught you by surprise, for about the hundredth time. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah I’m here,” you stammer. 

“Not so close,” he tells you, annoyed and tired. 

You wince and pull your hand back from your mouth. “Sorry. Good news, I hope?”

“Yes. And no. It’ll be at least a few days before we’re out of here.”

That sucks.

You suspect that the quarry is indeed with him by the short words, and that’s okay, because with your plan now in the front of your brain, fresh anew like the first time you cococked it in the wake of sleep, washing your quick irritation away, your chance is finally here. 

“Mando,” you say as sweetly as you can—your heart skips a beat when there’s a moment of silence. “They can’t hear me, right?” you continue before you can find out if the com is dead or not. 

This is incredibly risky. Even a little unfair of sorts, given that he’s technically working right now, and that leaves no room for games or distractions—the moment is just too good to pass up.   

Another minute goes by. You sink in your chair in disappointment, ready to admit defeat. 

“Not now.”

Yes. 

“This was part of the deal, Mando,” you remind him. “And I’m already starting to get wet.”

That isn’t a lie. The slickness of your arousal is starting to seep from your core—fourteen days (counting the week it took to get here) is a long time, and as long as you can get him to keep talking, this will work beautifully for you.    

A pause. “I can’t…”

“I’ll do all the talking,” you lick your lips and slink down comfortably, sliding your hand along the length of your neck, imagining it’s his hand wrapping around your throat. “You just listen. You can do that, can’t you?”

You wait, and for a split second you’re afraid that, yet again, you’ve done something wrong. You really have to start working on that.   

“You don’t—”

“Okay.”

Maker. Maker okay. 

“I uh—” what were you going to say to him when you thought of this in the first place? “I… you know what I think about when you’re gone?” You know he can’t answer much, not without giving himself away, but you pause anyway for dramatic effect. “First, I imagine you stalking towards me like you always do… like I’m one of your bounties.”

Your pussy quivers in excitement as you close your eyes and picture him doing just that, sliding your hand down to your chest, groping your covered breast and trying to mimic the same amount of pressure he applies to them—you really wish it was his hand instead. 

“Then you cage me in, leaving me with nowhere to go. There’s a specific type of exceleration to it. One that makes things even more… exciting.” You pinch your nipple and whine, loud enough to give him a good show—Stars you hope that quarry can’t hear you through the baskar bucket of his. “You like to drag it out, to watch me shiver in anticipation, and fuck if I don’t like it either.”

You can hear the light breathing through the comlink. A spark of victory, early victory, runs through your body and straight to your pussy, neglected and hungry for any type of friction. 

“And then,” your hand slides further down to the waistline of your pants, fumbling with the buttons. “You touch me. Softly, at first, because you love to tease—” a barely audible sigh interrupts, bringing a cheeky grin to your lips. “—and I think you’re an ass man, because you never miss a chance to lay your hands on mine.” Your fingers slither their way under your panties; your inner thighs twitch at the first brush of your finger against your aching clit, and more slickness escapes your cunt. “And you ghost your fingers over my breasts, down my stomach, over my hips where you like to grip them tight, to my dripping pussy…”

Not a peep from the com. You’re surprised he’s kept his composure. You shouldn’t be, yet a part of you is. 

“And,” you go on with a moan. “When I feel your thick fingers paw at me, rip my clothes off and fuck my pussy deep, getting me ready for your big cock while your teeth scrapes against my neck—oh fuck…” The curse slips from your lips without warrant; your fingers buried in your pussy like you’re explaining to him. “My fingers are not the same—” you bite down on your lip as you curve your fingers, delicately trying to find the spot Mando finds with precision. “They don’t make me feel as full as yours do. But I’m still fucking myself with them, Mando. While you’re out there, and I’m in here… it sucks, doesn’t it. Having to stay quiet when all’s you want to do is fuck me until I can feel you for days and day after, your cum leaking from me, and who knows, maybe I won’t even let you cum.”

“You will,” he nearly growls, and that’s an early sign you’re in a world of trouble when he does get back. “That’s part of the deal.”

“...What...deal…”

The faint voice cuts in annoyingly, and Mando shoots back with a decent threat that’d make you terrified for your life; again, it’s probably wrong that it does nothing to deteriorate the fluttering of your wet muscles. 

“Keep going,” his tone leaves no room for argument. 

Your fingers move faster. “I think you should be a little nicer to me,” you sigh dramatically. “You’ve been gone for so long, leaving me all by lonesome… you like to do this a lot I’ve realized, leave me high and dry. But you might have a chance to fuck my face if you’re a good boy.”

You have to stifle your giggle at the last bit. 

“Yeah, you’d like that,” you coo. “And I’d swallow every drop.”

A barely audible exhale filters through the link. You’re right there with him, your face scrunched in concentration. 

“I’m happy as long as you’re inside me,” you continue on with delight. “You’re an asshole sometimes, but you can fuck.”

Mando sighs again, this time feigned with theatorical frustration—well in his case, it may be truthful, but it sounds more for the quarry’s (and yours) benefit than the latter.   

This is more of an ego boost for him more than anything as well, if you think about it, but as long as you get him riled up and you cum, that’s enough for you. So you curve your fingers the best you can given the compromised position and flick your thumb against your clit, images of his gloves sliding down your pants in the cantina playing through on repeat. This time you moan louder for your own amusement, imagining him struggle; it’s sweet, sweet revenge. 

“And?” He asks suddenly—calm and steady. 

His voice, even modulated like that, makes your muscles twitch as the coil in your lower stomach boils to a tight flame, and the sloshes of your fingers slinking in and out of you adds to the euphoria clawing through your core. 

“Your cock,” you whimper. “Stretches me out so good every time. You’re so big, Mando, so thick in every way and it feels amazing. I bet you miss the way my sweet cunt clenches around you.” You bite down on your lip to hide a groan, wanting to hear his response as your fingers move even faster, scratching against the itch. “Don’t you?”

Your pussy flutters around your fingers at the first scrape against your sweet spot (finally!), and—well fuck, you’ve never seen much of him to actually picture what his cock looks like driving in and out of you at the verioucious pace he usually chooses, so this is a little bit difficult than you thought it’d be; as long as you keep fucking yourself like this…

“Yes.”

Your breath shakes as you exhale. “Shit I wish you were here right now,” you rub your clit harder. “I-I want you to fuck me so hard when you get back, Mando. Want you to—hmm—to grab me so hard that I have bruises the next day. Use me. And you’d come right in my tight little pussy, isn’t that right?”

You don’t expect him to answer this time. Not when you’re so gone in your little cheraid and your pussy clenches harder and harder until there’s nothing but white noise tying you down to this moment. 

“Fuck. Fuck I’m so close.” 

You try to conjure the feelings Mando gives you—the feel of his hands, pressing down all over you, fingers leaving indents in your skin, his mouth on your neck, biting down on the sensitive flesh until you’re marked; the drag of his cock along your slick walls until there’s tears in your eyes and you can feel him all the way to your cervix. 

“Mando,” you whine, then bite down on your lip again; the Child certainly doesn’t need to hear this. “I… I need to hear you. Say something, anything.”

“Go ahead,” gruffer, close to a grunt—your pussy gushes at that. “Now.”

The command is clear, and it’s not going to take you that much to ride the waves of your orgasm starting to crash down over you. Your moans and whimpers trapped behind tight closed lips and your fingers covered in your juices, it takes a few more curves of your fingers and tight circles on your clit to feel the hard and delectable clench of your inner muscles. 

“Yes,” your body trembles. “Oh Ma—” You hide the rest of the plea behind a muffled scream as short bursts of pleasure sparks through your entire body, your fingers trapped in the squeeze of your cunt as more juices flood down the slope of your ass, milking every drop of your orgasm. 

After a few long moments your tense muscles relax and deflate, relieved and satisfied. Though, the only problem is that it is short lived, an orgasm small enough to hold you over until the real deal comes back. Speaking of…

“Mando?” You breathe. “Still with me?”

“I’ll be there soon. Be ready.” And then nothing. 

Chuckling to yourself, you wince as you slowly pull your fingers out, wiping your slick covered fingers on your pants. 

And now you wait.    

For however long that’ll fucking be. 

[tenshiscientia]

What happens when V’s S/O gets hurt

Well I’m telling you one thing fam...

Someone...is in some DEEP SHIT

You can be sure that V will be by your side the whole time while he gets you some place safe

But if he himself can’t go after the person...

Well...

Let’s say that V’s tattoo’s will disappear and his hair will be turning white

And who ever hurt you.

haha...well, the will be having one hell of a “nightmare”

Just imagine it guys

This giant huge ass bird just drops in out of fucking nowhere, sqwaking profanities and yeets lightning at them left and right

then they see this huge fucking panther just slink out of the shadows (no pun intended kitty cat) and roars at them before doing these weird ass attacks

(None of them touch them, shadows attack would be too lethal I think, but damn are they good for scaring the shit out of them)

Then out of no where this huge fucking golem just stomps in and stares at them with this creepy purple eye

Like it’s staring into their soul

Then the gaint bird perches on its shoulder

“Hey you asshole!” it yells

They point at themself

“Yeah, you dumbass! You hurt our masters girl. Now normally, Shakespeare himself would have come out here and busted yer ass himself. But right now he’s taking care of his girl. So if you want to save yer pathetic hide, yer gonna run. Like right now. Or Nightmare here, is gonna kill ya. Ya got it ass hole?”

they’ve never run faster in their life.

Back with you and V, his tattoo’s return and his hair recolors itself to black

You tilt your head to ask what he did and he shakes his head begining to tell you not to worry

but griffon just has to ruin it

“We took care of them Shakespear. Don’t worry about them.”

you glare over at V

“Don’t worry princess we didn’t kill them. But they definitely pissed themself!” Griffon crowed while fluffing his feathers proudly

you and V both shake your heads

Don't worry, I'll be gentle.

Remember...

I have no name: I am but two days old. Just kidding, you can call me Tenshi...

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (12) || atz

The two of you stop outside a dark, smoky cabin.

It’s dark now, the sun having sunk behind the waves a while ago, the moon taking its place in the sky. Shifting shadows are cast in the gloom of the shop, and the dead snakes hanging at the doorway really isn’t encouraging you to go in any further.

You turn to stare at Jongho dubiously.

“To be fair,” Jongho says as he looks over at the eerie, shoddy establishment with equally doubtful eyes. The rickety bamboo frame looks like it could collapse on itself any moment. “It didn’t look this creepy the last time I was here.”

You swallow uncomfortably. “Maybe we should go back-”

“There is no fear in stepping forward, only moving back…” A hiss comes from deep within the shack and you jump, hand clenching around Jongho’s wrist in a vice grip. A bead of cold sweat slides down your neck and you turn to the young battlemaster with a silent plea in your eyes.

He nudges you towards the entrance gently. “I’ll be with you. There’s no need to be scared.”

That does make you feel better about your chances of leaving the dingy building alive, but you still don’t feel very eager to step inside. With Jongho’s hand on your back, you step cautiously into the fortune teller’s booth.

The small space is dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering stubs of candles on the rough wooden table at the very back. Even as short as you are, you have to stoop underneath many of the strange things hanging from the ceiling. You hear Jongho’s muffled cursing behind you as he bumps into everything and anything in his way, things that you’re lucky to have been small enough to avoid.

There’s a small hearth at the side, coals still glowing red from a recently put out fire. Dried herbs and animal parts lie scattered everywhere on the floor, and to your left you see a stack of wooden cages stacked upon each other, every one holding some sort of rodent or gigantic spider. You inhale nervously and the pungent smell of burnt hair and animal excrement fills your lungs.

But there is no sign of the fortune teller.

You glance nervously at Jongho, who’s dusting the cobwebs from his shoulders. “It seems like she isn’t here-”

“Customers...” You shriek in horror as you see a pile of rags that had definitely been unmoving just seconds before burst into life, wheeling backwards as hysteria washes over you for a moment. Then Jongho catches you from the back firmly with strong arms, and calm washes gently over you once more. You catch your breath slowly.

“We’re here for a reading.” The young battlemaster’s voice is unwavering. You can’t quite make out her face underneath the tattered hood she’s wearing, but you can smell her breath all the way from across the table and see the light reflected in her near maniacal eyes. The fortune teller grins to reveal a mouth of yellowing teeth.

“Sit!” She demands, pointing dramatically a rickety seat in front of the table. You eye it doubtfully, unsure whether that can really hold your weight considering that it looks like it’s on the verge of collapse, but Jongho nods you forward.

Surprisingly, the seat doesn’t shatter under you.

“Fortune favours the fair.” The fortune teller leans across the table to take a closer look at you. You can count every single decaying tooth in her mouth, she’s much too close for comfort. Your skin crawls with goosebumps as you feel her eyes rake across your face.

“Don’t touch him.” Jongho snaps, his unyielding hand stopping the fortune teller in her tracks. She hisses at him, more animal than human, slinking back into her seat like a feline.

You clear your throat nervously, even though you’re honestly terrified at this point. You can feel phantom fingers brushing up your spine and neck and there’s an unsettling feeling in your stomach that feels like a coiling snake.

“You’re a fortune teller?”

“A magician, dearie.” The way she says it, so sickly sweet, sends a shiver down your spine. The room seems to drop in temperature. “It depends on what you want to know.”

“How much will a reading be?” Jongho cuts across her and the woman doesn’t look at him, eyes instead fixated on you. You don’t like it at all.

“You have a pretty face, my sweet.” The old hag croons, stroking your face with bony, coarse fingers. You resist the urge to scream out loud as ice creeps over in your veins. “I’ll give it to you free.”

Then a knife flashes out of nowhere.

This time, a scream does leave your lips, but then you realise that she’s only hacked off the end of your braid, leaving your hair tumbling around your face to above your shoulders in messy waves. Jongho’s hand clenches around the hilt of his cutlass. “One more time, magician, and the next thing getting cut is your neck.”

“You young ones are so skittish, like mice…” The wizened crone cackles as she hobbles to the fire, breaking a few twigs and setting them alight in a bowl. A strange, heady fragrance begins to fills the room, the air seeming to thicken as smoke spirals between you. You cough at the smell and spot the fortune teller sniffing your hair appreciatively.

You try your best to force down the bile in your throat.

With the same dagger she’d just used to cut your hair, she stabs an unfortunate rodent from a cage and you wince at its dying shriek. Its blood splatters across the table and seeps into the wood. You wonder exactly how many fortune and deaths it has seen.

The fortune teller then tears a sprig of dried plant from a bundle of herbs. Mistletoe, you recognise from your many lessons with San. She throws it over the fire and holds her hand out expectantly.

“Your finger.”

“She’s going to take my finger?” You whip around to stare at Jongho in horror, but by then the fortune teller has already grabbed your hand and yanked you forward.

To your relief, she simply pierces the tip of your index and squeezes three drops of your blood into the bowl. Then you hear San in your head lecturing you about the filth and dirt and grime and how you’re going to die from a thousand different illnesses and you shrink back into yourself, trying to clean the wound as well as possible as the fortune teller throws in a few strands of your hair, tucking the rest in her sleeves.

The fortune teller suddenly tosses everything in the bowl into the fire and to your shock, the flames turn bright green. You scramble backwards, nearly falling off your chair, but Jongho steadies you by the shoulders, hands warm against your freezing body.

“Watch.” He says seriously, and so you do.

The fortune teller leans over the fire, inhaling deeply for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, disembodied, as if she is underwater.

“Oh nameless one…”

Your eyes fly wide with shock at her first words. How does she know that you have no name?

“Child of the sea… you’re missing something very, very important to you… The secret you keep will ruin the trust you have built...”

Goosebumps prickle on your skin. You thought this witch merely wove fortunes that people wanted to hear, but she seems like so much more than that. Her eyes slowly blink open to stare at you with wide, dark eyes.

“To pass the trial, one must cross into death and awaken in life.” The fortune teller shudders, her arms trembling from the effort of holding her trance. “The biggest obstacle to overcome is yourself… I see a jewel resting in a jar of clay… Clay!”

“Clay?” You repeat after her, puzzled, but then she lunges for you before either you or Jongho can react. Her bony hands grab for your collar in a vice grip, her eyes searching your face hungrily. A scream leaves your mouth as you try to pry her from you.

“Let go of him!” Jongho snarls, but the little shack is too small for him to reach around you to remove the fortune teller's hands. The old woman ignores him completely, fingers stroking at your cheeks and nose haphazardly.

“How beautiful you are.” She breathes almost reverently, completely ignoring your frantic struggling and fear creeps over your skin. “I never thought it was possible, that I would see one like you… One as perfect as you…”

What?

“What are you saying, you old hag?” Jongho snaps, trying to remove her from you, but her grip on you is surprisingly strong.

“Such a new creation, such a perfect work of art!” The fortune teller almost sobs, and at this point terror seizes you. “I can't believe I got to lay eyes on a vessel that has only existed for a moon!”

Your heart stops beating inside your chest.

Jongho stills besides you, deathly silent. “What did you say?”

“Who made you?” She begs you, shaking you back and forth. You simply stare at her blankly, unable to comprehend what she's saying. Made you? What did she mean, made you? As in your mother? The person who had given birth to you?

As if in answer, the necklace you wear around your neck slips out of your shirt, and everything stands still for a moment.

Maybe it’s because you’re so close to the fortune teller, but you see every expression that crosses her face. First curiosity, then recognition, then shock. Her eyes fly open, as if she’s just been struck by some sort of divine revelation and her pupils instantly dilate with raw fear, the black almost swallowing the brown of her irises.

The fortune teller shrieks and yanks her hands back from you as if she's been burned. “You're one of hers! Leave! Leave before she finds me!” You’re too shocked to move.

Hers?

“Let's go.” Jongho urges you, clearly as stunned by the encounter as you are but in control of his wits a million times more than you’ll ever be. But you fight your way back to the fortune teller, who's slumped in a pile of rags against the wall.

“Who is she? And what do you mean by 'who made me’?” Your voice cracks at the last question, torment ripping at you from the inside. What did she mean, made?

“Leave me be!” The woman screeches and Jongho claps his hands over his ears. The people walking past outside must think that there's a murder going on. “I have no wish to meet your mistress!”

Mistress?

Desperation snaps in you. You have no idea what she's talking about, but you need answers to the hundred questions spilling over in your mind.

“Answer me or I'll stay here till she comes for you!”

“You fool!” The woman wheezes, curling into a ball. “I am unworthy of looking upon her face, the one who you have made a deal with, the sea witch!”

Deal.

“What deal?” You snap, furious. The one clue you have to who you are, and she's unwilling to tell you what it is. You made a deal? A deal for what?

Sea witch.

Jongho clearly has had enough of this voodoo talk, because he pulls on your hand a little more insistently. “Come on, let's go.”

“How do I find her?” You shout at the fortune teller, as you're dragged out of the shop. “Tell me!”

The old crone meets your gaze one last time, her eyes crinkling with madness. “You don't find her. She finds you!” She cackles aloud, shaking her head and rocking back and forth like a woman possessed. The glint in her eyes has turned crazed, unhinged, completely off her rocker. On the other hand, her voice remains strong and steady.

“But I'll tell you one last thing, my love.”

You jerk forward, insistent on hearing whatever her last words are to you.

“You will never find what you so desperately seek as long as you live.”

[fascination-street-writing]

She Rings Like a Bell Through the Night | Yan!Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

You remind him of a cat - and he has always had a pension for strays.

100 Follower Giveaway 2nd Place Piece

Content Warnings: Not S/F/W Content, Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Non-Con Elements (Non-Consensual Touching & Dubious Consent), & Homelessness 

You are glad for the distortion of the puddle’s reflection – if instead you had a mirror, you might simply wither in the alley where you stand. It is better this way. Truthfully, you would rather not know how positively filthy you have become since taking to the streets. The space between Il Cestino del Pane and Via dei Libri – a bakery and a bookstore – is your domain. You do not call the covered niche betwixt two dumpsters your home; it is simply the place you happen to come back to every night.

At the lip of the alley, she stands. An entity, you suppose, though she does not speak to you. And yet, you are utterly convinced that she is capable of reading your very mind. She acts without command – she behaves in a way you find deplorable; but, without her, you would starve. You have before you the necessary evils of survival.

You observe the bustle of the market, eyes flicking from patron to patron: a child clutching a doll as her mother argues with a vendor over the price of goods; an elderly woman ushering a greyhound by a worn leash; a man lifting a spoon filled with gelato to the mouth of his partner, who accepts the treat gleefully. No one catches your eye . . . Until a man clad in an open-chest white suit steps out from the bakery and joins the rabble on the street.

His clothing practically flaunts his wealth. His bobbed dark hair, completed with two gold clips, is exquisite, and not a single strand falls out of place. You think that he would make a lovely target – and she agrees.

You are careful to leave a considerable amount of space between yourself and him. You know little of your entity’s capacities; however, the copious amount of times you have used her to steal food, never to be traced back to you, has taught you that she is invisible to everyone.

Everyone except for you, of course.

You do not consider yourself a thief, for it is not your hand slipping into the pocket of the man’s jacket. An accessory to crime, maybe, but never the thief. You rationalize your actions as this: he should have known better than to venture towards this end of Napoli dressed in such a way – one making him stand out amongst the locals. Anyone who comes here knows pickpocketing is a common practice.

You can feel the wallet through her touch – firm leather to your fingertips. She appears before you, dropping the stolen article into your waiting palm. With a grin, you look up to offer a silent gesture of appreciation.

Only to be met with the glare of two sapphire-blue eyes.

You freeze, dumbfounded. Never have you been caught before. The wallet feels like a lead weight, practically scorching your skin. Out of fear? Guilt? You do not dwell on the possibilities pulsing in your racing mind. Instead, you turn on heels covered with a set of mismatched shoes and run. A cold sweat saturates your spine. The clattering of rushed footsteps echo behind you. A crash resonates, followed by the accusatory spats of the vendors. You weave through the crowds with no true destination in mind. Yet, as if coerced by muscle memory, your legs carry you to your shelter.

Somehow, amidst the market congestion, you have lost him. You slink down the alley and hide behind a heap of discarded cardboard boxes. The passage of time is indiscernible, and so you count the steady ticking of waterdrops from the rainspout attached to the bakery. It is only after you reach a hundred do you decide you are finally safe. Standing, you open the wallet to count your prize.

As you dig for loose lira, the brick wall before you separates; a diagonal golden zipper appears seemingly out of nowhere, and the man steps through the black void created by the incision. In your state of confusion, the wallet clammers from your hand. You stumble backwards and trip over a broken trashcan lid. The asphalt meets your hip with bruising force.

The man says nothing to you. He reaches for the wallet, which has earned a newly acquired scuffmark. With no means of escaping the situation, you helplessly watch him check its contents. Wordlessly, he produces a stack of bills and extends it to you. Suspicious of his intent, you do not move to take the money. You scuttle away, whimpering at your newfound pain.

“My name is Bruno,” he says to you. Though you struggle to create a greater space between you two, he does not move to approach you. “Take it.”

You shake your head. He holds the wallet in his opposite hand, emphasizing its presence.

“You wouldn’t have stolen this if you didn’t need the money.”

Bruno is absolutely right. But you do not trust him. After moments of refusal pass, he sets the money on the ground and steps away. It is only once you deduce that he cannot grab you do you snatch the money. You bound off in a hobbled sprint, vacating the alley and leaving him behind. He is unable to tear his gaze away from the shabby heap of boxes you typically dwell beneath. Your apprehensiveness is undeniably disheartening, but nothing to lose sleep over, for he will do whatever it takes to earn your faith in due time. He knows you cannot be blamed for your actions; to Bruno, it is obvious you have been beaten down by the very system that has forced many women into the same circumstances as yourself.

A mound of tattered blankets makes up what he believes is your bed. Cans of half-finished, spoiled foods collect in a heap by the foot of your bedding. You remind him of a cat – and he has always had a pension for strays.

Days later, Bruno returns to the alleyway of Il Cestino del Pane and Via dei Libri carrying a basket filled with fresh bread and softened figs. It is a mere gamble that you might have returned after the incident. Before your shelter, he catches the sight of you hunched over a rusted water pail. You splash water on your face to cleanse the grime from your skin.

He wonders if you stayed because you wanted him to find you.

You know he is there, yet you do not cower. Still, you grow tense in his presence. You allow him to come close enough so he might, for the first time, gaze upon your cleaned face. He realizes just how beautiful of a woman you are – his Medusa, cast from the holy temple by the ones who scorned you; reduced to living on the streets with narcotic addicts and rapists, as if you are one of them.

A woman like you deserves to be loved. You deserve the very worship he is so willing to bestow upon you, in a home shared with you alone.

He opens the basket and bequeaths to you its contents. You salivate at the loaf of bread in your grasp, though you refuse to eat. You will not do so until he is gone. Begrudgingly, he takes his leave, though not before offering you a kind smile.

One day, he reckons, you will return the gesture.

When the sun sets over Napoli, the city transforms into a haven for the less reputable members of society. Men and women of the brothels take to the corners at the behest of their procurers. Cab drivers lie in wait of drunken tourists to scam with overpriced fare. Would-be human traffickers hide in the blackest pools of alleyways until a pretty foreigner is unlucky enough to walk by.

And you have learned how to avoid them all – the prostitutes and the pimps, cab drivers and tourists, human traffickers and foreigners. There is not much a homeless woman such as yourself can offer to any party of the night.

Not for anyone, except Bruno Bucciarati, the young Capo of Passione. From the shadows, he watches as you make your way through the street of shops and send your entity to collect food and other necessities. You carry on until your arms are full. He admires your resilience.

You do not see the division in the sidewalk until you have already fallen to the ground. Your collection of stolen goods scatters across the cobblestone street, lost to the darkness. On your hands and knees, you scramble to gather anything that has not split open or fallen into puddles. A man with a pocketknife in his hand and pock marks on his arms approaches, unbeknownst to you – but very known to the ever-aware Bruno.

It is not an uncommon practice for the homeless of Napoli to prey on each other. The man wielding the knife wants nothing more than a scrap of the food lying before you. To Bruno, however, he is a potential threat to what limited sanctity you might have. The man creeps closer, closer, closer.

And he is gone before you have the chance to turn around. The remnants of a zipper mark the spot where he once stood. You are alone again. Grateful that the night is still young, you send your entity to another vacant market stall to replace what has been lost.

Bruno emerges from the earth like a child born. He brings a white handkerchief to his cheek to wipe away the smudge of blood marring his skin – the evidence of his indiscretion. Carelessly, you wander ahead as if you were not in such a compromising situation only moments ago. But then again, you cannot be blamed for ignorance: how could you have known, if not for Bruno interference?

Grinning faintly, he folds the soiled handkerchief and tucks it into his pocket, beside his wallet – the catalyst and inspiration for his conquest of your affection. He is your protector when you cannot be.

It is a gratification that fills him with unmeasurable delight.

Bruno has lost track of how many times he has visited you; he has made a habit out of bringing you food every day that he can. It does not upset him too terribly much when he fails to find the time in his arduous work schedule to visit you, because he trusts your capabilities of stealing necessities with the aid of your Stand.

However, he cannot deny the nagging feeling blooming in his belly, reminding him that you should not be in the position of scavenging when he is perfectly capable of providing for you – of spoiling you – himself.

Today, he gifts to you cactus pears from Catania and homemade piadina ­– his mother’s recipe, no less. As always, you refuse to eat whilst he gawks at you. You do not notice the way his jaw clenches in utter vexation this time, or how his long, manicured fingers curl into a tight fist. In truth, he has grown frustrated with your antics. Bitterly, he contemplates his options: to whisk you away here and now would be far easier than playing this game any longer.

Finally recognizing his rigid composure, you back away from him. As if struck, Bruno releases his hand and sighs. He could not do such a thing – it is foolish thought. Trust is built upon honesty, and honesty alone. The legitimacy of such a bond cannot be fabricated. Per habit, he leaves you to your meal.

A light drizzle hails from the grey sky. The further he strays from the alleyway, the heavier the rainfall. Bruno supposes that the inclement weather must be the cause for the near vacancy of the market street. Despite the pattering against the sidewalks, he catches the sound of clumsy footsteps behind him. A pair of eyes practically bores into his back.

He stops to turn. Separated only by a narrow row of stone-crested townhouses, you stand there, watching him. You, too, have ventured far from the security of your alleyway. You cower behind a streetlamp, as if it could mask the pleading look in your gaze.

Please, don’t leave me.

Bruno’s mouth falls agape. Perhaps his gattina randagia is ready to come home, after all. 

The water pools around your bare form, concaving to every curve and crevice of your body. Though you graciously allowed Bruno the role of bathing you, you keep your knees bent and taut to your chest, refusing him to look upon your intimate regions. It is a most uncomfortable feeling to expose yourself to someone else; yet, you do not wish to be left alone, for you are beholden to his company.

He shields your eyes with his palm before pouring the basin over your shampooed hair. You practically lean into his touch. He is glad you cannot read his mind; it is a battle within his conscience to contain himself. He maintains his collected façade – despite how badly he wants nothing more than flip you onto your stomach and take you, forcing your body to rim of the bathtub.

The hand on your eyes falls and dips into the water. Bruno pulls his arm back and forth, tracing a figure-eight in the water. His mind has wandered, to be sure. In his other hand, he holds a washcloth, which he has been using to wash your skin. Slowly, he drags it over the backs of your thighs, gingerly scrubbing.

You push his arm away when the cloth ghosts over your slit.

“Give me the soap,” you suddenly demand – the first words you have ever spoken to him, full of malice no less. Bruno frowns. “I can do it myself.”

He grabs the bar of soap; however, he does not pass it to you. Instead, he slathers the washcloth and brings the linen back over your thighs. He wants to take care of you. This time, the hook of his finger brushes against your folds. You lash out and grab his arm, nails biting into his skin, leaving crescent-moon shaped marks as a receipt of the transgression. With far more force than before, you shove his arm away.

“Stop it. Give me the soap.”

Bruno pulls away and slumps against the side of the tub. You hug your knees tighter, expecting an apology from the man who took you in off the streets. Something dark flashes behind his eyes, and you wish you had enough room to scurry away.

“I just want to take care of you, mia gattina,” he insists, his eyes pleading with you. “Won’t you let me do that?”

His words do little to ease you. The third time he touches your folds, you strike him across the face with pruned fingers. In a flurry of black hair, his neck whips to the side. It is only when you attempt to rise from the tub that he snaps out of his stupor and throws his arm against your chest, pinning you down and leaving you with no choice but to expose yourself to him.

The water sloshes as you thrash around. Water collects in the delicate threads of Bruno’s attire, soaking him as you do the faux-marble tiled floors. Nothing seems to faze him. “Please, let me take care of you,” he begs, his grip unrelenting. You whimper, begging him to let you go. He denies you: “No, no. It’s all I want.”

Again, he palms your slit, only now you freeze and accept that you cannot stop him. You grip the edge of the tub to keep your head above the water. The coloring leaves your knuckles. A single tear rolls down your cheek.

“Don’t cry, dolcezza. Sii una brava ragazza per me.”

At once, a finger from the very hand that kept you fed for so long slides into your core with ease. Your walls involuntarily clench around him, and you grimace in pain. Whining, you attempt to buck your hips to dislodge him; he mistakes your defense for eagerness, and with a sigh, he inserts another and curls his fingers inside you.

He works you until a familiar, albeit long forgotten, throbbing sensation claims your womanhood, and incitement builds within you. Eventually, with each stroke of your folds, you relax and release the edge of tub. Your snivels of an insistence for him to stop become mewls, imploring him to continue. It has been far too long since you felt affection like this, and you find yourself melting at Bruno’s touch – as if you are a candle and he the flame.

“Brava ragazza.”

The arm on your chest disappears. Bruno braces it around your shoulders, pulling you into a seated position. When his thumb rubs your hardened nub, you whine and call his name. A prayer for him; he groans, holding you tighter.

Your hands reach out and at once, you pull his face towards your own so that your lips might meet. You allow him to explore the cavern of your mouth, and he swallows every moan blossoming from your throat. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, swiping his tongue over the swollen blush before breaking away to admire the way you huff at the command of his fingers, your eyes shut tightly. Pleasure or distress, he knows not why – though, he suspects the former.

He reaches the deepest nook of your core. You respond to the intrusion with a breathless cry, and you bury your face into the damp crook of his neck to satiate the noises escaping you, while gripping the silken tendrils of his primp hair.

“Brave ragazza. Brava gattina, il mio amore.”

His words – his praise – send you over the edge with a shudder. The coil in your belly snaps, and you come undone on Bruno’s hand. He lets out a sigh. Slowly, he detaches from your core and moves to embrace you. Exhausted, you veer into his touch, practically buzzing with spent arousal and fervor.

Around you, the bathwater has gone cold, but Bruno’s arms are enough to keep you warm. You allow him to rub his palm against the soft skin of your back. He presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, lingering as if debating whether to do it all again.

Content, you concede and drift away, lulled to sleep by the whispering of praises in your ear.

“Il mia bellissima gattina. Ti amo tanto.”

| 3048 Words |

[ecrivant]

the station | annie leonhart

(annie leonhart x fem!reader)

that night, one marked by abject sin and rapture: annie’s single, inescapable memory.  she, forever haunted by this painfully raw thought of you.

c.w. – homophobic slurs

word count: 2.2k

a.n. – this is technically a reader insert but it’s honestly just an exploration of annie’s repression and sadness.  also, in general, i’m very wary of assigning gender to the reader, but the lgbt+ themes are important to this story, so annie’s love interest is a fem!reader.  i’m sorry if this excludes anyone, next piece will return to the usual gn!reader.  

very much an au + me experimenting with style.  

At the world’s marge lies a service station—carburant siphoned long ago, insides, bare.  Its skeletal façade abuts a backroad, a display of collapsing substructure succored by gusts of vagrants and drifters, cataracted from history’s view.  At one time, when you entered, the clerk would greet you from the left with a gaze that conveyed a hesitant familiarity—the type of trivial recognition that was unimportant in the moment but retrospectively haunting.  The lights within, garish halogen, were ceaseless, always alight, and only dared to die out once the ceiling caved, and the walls peeled, and the vinyl floor cratered like some artificial topography.  The edifice now no more than a nebulous memory only existing in the minds of those who ever once visited it.  

A memory nonetheless in the mind of the woman who fucks for the first time in a sedan parked behind the station, where the smell of sex and summer air and gasoline is seared into her brain as she breathes hard, lightheaded and high on ecstasy and fear. She feels her own death, a quiet specter which guides the touch of her lover.  Her burning skin; the eroticism of demise, destruction.  The nocturnal breeze gasps with her.

She offers to drive you home.  You—flushed and debauched, breasts exposed.  Eying her intensely.  You refuse.

“I can walk.”

She laughs.  Your name on her lips, a carnal, depraved prayer, “We don’t even know where we are.”

She is corrected. Curt.

“You don’t.”

She is gored, laid open and vulnerable and bare for this stranger who parts without another word. She watches you go, ambling towards the unlit dirt road, swallowed by a beastly darkness.  The vehicle, suffused by an amorous smog, windows opaque.  Her organs all but spill onto the floor, mixing with dust and dog hair and garbage and an old takeaway cup that was always there no matter how many times she threw it away.  

She slinks into the station and asks for a pack of cigarettes.  She pays in coins, a button among them, but the cashier never notices.

At home.

“Mama’s been askin’ ‘bout you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re gonna get an earful tomorrow.”

She’s already halfway up the stairs.  They moan beneath her.  

“She thinks you’ve been spending too much time with that Eren boy.  Is that where you was tonight?”

The stairs sound like you. Everything sounds like you—the gasp of a closing door, the sordid exhale of a creaking bedframe.  The sweat on her face: a lover’s curious tongue.

—

“Pull off here, ya’re low on gas.”

Prick prick pricks of fear smart on her skin.  Mama knows. The station, the unholy consecration. Mama knows.  This car, this place.  Mama knows.  Her brother in the back, resting on the shadow of his sister’s bare figure.  The pop of the fuel door says dyke.  The crack of the gas nozzle trigger says fag. The unseen eyes that bore through her say queer.  She enters the station to pay.  The clerk, a gaze of recognition—the only one who knows of her transgressions.  

—

She is married. Cheers to the happy couple.  She cries on her wedding night, tears staining bedsheets—her own virginal blood.  He touches her, stagnant, pale skin collied by bereft contact.  She only comes when she thinks of the station.

—

She could tell.  She could tell him and free herself, and then the kid’ll wonder why Mommy’s never around and Daddy’s a druggie and a drunk and never leaves the house anymore and the kid’ll make his way through the social services system until he’s beaten and cracked and broken like Mama’s old doll collection smashed against the wall and he puts a bullet in his head before he turns eighteen.  No, she could never tell.

—

Thanksgiving.  She stares at her sister-in-law—a city girl, with heavy lids and blush-dusted cheeks and a pronounced cupid’s bow.  The eyes of a hunter, the lascivious gaze of a she-wolf.  Her husband comments on how well they seem to get along.  

—

A loneliness begotten from her own bones, born from emptiness and the inimitable way she and death caressed all those years ago.  She only has a name to utter, breathless, when thoughts of you tenant her mind.  The first and the only fuck was truly a stranger, all but nameless in memory.  

—

Her mother’s funeral. An apathetic and unfamiliar affair. People she doesn’t know.  Her brother, his wife, their child.  Her husband, her child, her.  She could not be more distant.

Her childhood home smells sweetly of tobacco and cardamom.  

Indifference during the wake mistaken by the others for numbness.  She feels no need to mourn—her mother lived and died uneventfully, and that was it.  

“Mommy, are Grandma’s dolls going away?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

“Do you think I can keep one?”

The boy has his eyes fixed on one in particular, his implicit selection.  The one that has your eyes.  The one whose gaze makes her squirm.  Mama knows.

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

—

She sneaks away from the house with a pack of her mother’s cigarettes, the box crumpled and stained at the edges and the tubes inside wrinkled and mildewed, emitting a stench that filled her with inexplicable nostalgia.  It brings to mind her unshakable compulsion to eat cigarettes, to feel the flakes of tobacco coat the inside of her mouth like the ground dregs in a cup of cheap coffee.  She lights one instead, pushing the thought aside—if she was to ever eat one, she fears she would not be able to stop.  The low hiss of her inhalations on the ember briefly joins the sonic ambience.  She sits in her car and smokes and occasionally flicks ash outside of her window with shaking hands.  Rancid and familiar aftertaste.  Thick dust clouds kicked up by her car tires coalesce with her hazy exhalations as she drives nowhere.  Not nowhere. She needs gas.

—

The station still stands as it had before, insusceptible to time.  Always seemingly aged.  Covered in an ever-present grime.  She gets out and leans against her car and drags on her cigarette, the virulent inhalations scratching her lungs.  The road on which you disappeared all those years ago looked profoundly unremarkable during the day—just a long, dirt road in a town wholly comprised of long, dirt roads. The heat shimmers above the ground, and the afternoon sun drapes itself across her skin, and the hot breeze drags its fingertips through her hair like a lover you’d meet behind a bar—the same who would abandon that perpetually lit cigarette between her lips in exchange for her mouth on yours.

Her last drag—she drops the butt and crushes it underfoot.  

She sits in her car and smokes the rest of the pack—in her eyes, the final remnants of her mother.

She waits in the parking lot.  As if her presence alone would invoke some bygone wraith.  

Her hand reaches under her dress, between her legs, and she is touching herself to the pervasive miasma of summer breeze and carburant, and the darkness of closed eyes almost feels like the night, and her frantic digital movements are arrant pleasure until they’re not; she stops and is suddenly crying, and her thoughts are occluded by her mother’s pale, dead face, and she realizes that Mama’s death, mundane as it was, represents the furthest she’s been from that singular night years ago which was so verily marked by sin and rapture; the one that has haunted her and will continue to haunt her until she herself dies an uneventful death after an uneventful life, and her child thinks of her passing as she does her own mother’s: a nonevent among nonevents.  

She is met with understanding eyes as she returns to the wake crying.  

—

She moves to the city with husband and child.  Suburbia forgone.  The apartment is small and cramped and reminiscent of her sister-in-law’s.  The adjacent view from the living-room window is an identical high-rise—ten stories of the same brick and dirty-white AC units. She is filled with an ineffable sadness as she stares at the spare greenery in streets below, confined to plots of dry soil surrounded by cracked and potholed pavement.

Her sleeplessness often leads her to the living room long after the apartment falls to silence.  One night, she watches, captivated, as a couple in the adjacent apartment fucks on a couch, curtains wide open and shame forgotten.  The man, hovering above a body obstructed, is suddenly flipped on his back and mounted by his lover, and she swears this woman, breasts bobbing, and face marked by a concentrated intensity and unusually devoid of pleasure, looks like you.  

—

Two years in the city bypass her as if she were already dead.  The tenant who resembled you moved out the year prior.  

—

She sits in a booth sequestered in the corner of a dark and begrimed barroom.  Alone for the night.  Her husband no longer questions her bouts of silence and absences from the house and disdain for intimacy; her child, accustomed to fissure.  

She ignites a cigarette, her lukewarm liquor no longer of interest, and no one stops her.  She is indifferent to the other patrons, who were, at this point in the night, nothing more than hazy and incorporeal forms populating the shadows.

The chime of the door—jarring and tangible—cuts through the muted atmosphere and demands the attention of those there to give it.  Another specter drifts to the bar.  A woman shouldering something—a fact elucidated by a hunched posture and a quiet request for three fingers of scotch.  

And then the woman turns, and Annie sees her face.  

And suddenly she is collapsed on the scum-covered tile of the bar’s bathroom floor, hurling upchuck into the toilet.  That woman had your face—she is not you, at least not anymore, as Annie is no longer the girl who fucked and died in that gas station parking lot years ago.  But that woman had your face.  And she looked at Annie with your eyes, melancholic eyes which held no recognition for her, and turned away in the same movement.  Less than a look—a glance.  But that woman had your face.  And Annie had not seen it again before she hied to the bathroom to regurgitate four drinks and years of accrued and bilious agony.  

The bathroom door swings open.  Groaning hinges.  She knows it’s that woman who has callously co-opted your likeness.

She enters the stall next to her and pisses and flushes the toilet whose water drains slowly and weakly, and the sounds of the sink are harsh and cacophonous against the tile walls. Steps towards the exit suddenly pause. A knock on the stall door.  Your voice asks if she is alright—a voice unheard for decades, last encountered in a low, debauched whisper against her skin.

She heaves, again, but nothing is left to expel; she coughs and spits and does not answer.

“Can I at least help you get home?”

The question looms above her, looped and tied like a noose.  

“I can walk.”

A laugh.  Dry, unfamiliar, never heard.  It’s harsh and barking; a warning.  

She is corrected, curt: “You can barely stand.”

She had long been unacquainted with fear, now more often than not consumed by a vacant numbness, and she admittedly did not miss it.  It was ugly and pervasive and bore deep within her with debilitating potency.  She could do nothing but sit on the disgusting tile floor with body supported on yellowed porcelain and wait.  

She imagines she allows herself to believe this woman is you—you, as you were, unchanged—and opens the door. And you, being unchanged, ask if she would like to come home with you.  And she, apparently the same as well, says yes.  And back at your apartment, cluttered and cramped yet simultaneously vacant, you spare no time backing her into the bedroom, lips tethered to hers in lurid predation.  Touches that are lustful and intimate and familiar only to her.  She cannot bring herself to care that you do not remember her—your breath on her neck and your incursive touch efface all thoughts, good or bad.  She wants you on top of her, around her, within her, and you oblige like some prurient altruist.  Her coming is purgative and cathartic, and the pleasure of that night at the station feels archaic and antiquated in the face of this wholly new gratification, heighted by an immense and prolonged yearning.  And this time, after you are both finished, you do not part and neither does she, and she embraces you in a way that feels intrinsic, and you ask her to stay the night. And she does not think of her husband and child as she says yes.  And she does not think of her husband and child as she agrees to spend the next day with you, as she dances with you in your living room, finally and only feeling held and loved.  Finally, finally, finally.  

—

But Annie says nothing. And the woman—not you, but an apparition—softly and finally knocks on the door with the side of her fist, unfazed, and walks out of the bathroom.  And even now, as she slumps further and shuts her eyes and clutches her head, Annie can only think of that fucking gas station.  

—

hi there!  thank you so much for reading; i hope you enjoyed this piece.  it’s a little different than my other stuff, not drastically so, but still different.  i think i like it, though.

thank you to the anon who suggested I write something for annie, i really appreciate the request.  i have another request in the pipeline for reiner, so expect a piece for him soon. 

as always, feedback and criticism are very much appreciated!  feel free to drop in and request something if you want.

taglist: @flam3bird

[incognito-lionbeast]

// Part Four! a NiGHTS JoD / Balan Wonderworld crossover. TL;DR Lance is here to help clean up the mess Balan’s dragged Reala into. Xe’s pretty nice, actually.

Next time: Balan & NiGHTS have a talk :) [part one] [part two] [part three] ---

    Snuffed in an instant, torches fell, crumbling one by one into darkness deep and pitch til not even the silhouette of NiGHTS remained. Yet, an illusion of eyes still pierced Reala through the abyss, vibrant and cheshire--if only in his mind. They mocked him--a haunting afterimage, transfixing his thoughts while reality simply moved on, unfazed. His throne collapsed, vanishing, too, into the mist. Although, Reala hardly noticed, hardly cared, crumpled in place. He clutched his chest, trying to drown out the damned beating of a heart he’d long left forgotten. What good was it for now that he’d gotten everything he’d wanted? 

    ...and too much he hadn’t.

    No, this was the will of their Master.

    Who was Reala--His most loyal disciple--to question that? Something stirred at his feet, slinking about the shadows. They collected all that sparkled and shone. What Master Wizeman decreed, so shall he enforce. This was supposed to happen. This had always been the plan. Yet, tepid ideation of a sibling reclaimed no longer assuaged him. That stripped, lifeless husk couldn’t have been anyone’s sibling, let alone Reala’s cherished equal. They were equals. They were meant to be. Yet, there Reala sat, one half of a broken pair. NiGHTS stared through him. They were gone.

    A voice called serenely.

    “Lost, little nightmare wandering the dark, lose not hope. Saving them is not yet out of your scope,” it offered. Materialising, xe placed a hand softly upon Reala’s shoulder, kneeling so their faces could meet. Xir ephemeral countenance dispelled the pitch and tar into a swelling midnight, starlight dappling what remained of his Stage. Such as it was, bright, yellow-blue eyes reflected Reala’s surprise--although they were kind, glowing--and even as Reala scrambled back in shock… xe looked at him. Xe saw him. His face scrunched, scattering drops that twinkled and quickly fell prey to opportunistic Negati. Lance waved them off. This one was xirs, and what a curious creature he was…

    Lance hadn’t encountered anyone quite like Reala before, not exactly.

    On the other hand, Reala saw a mess of feelers and luminous glyphs… it felt like home. Home wasn’t allowed to see him like this: bedraggled and miserable. Crying. Never mind that Reala couldn’t place who it was or how xe’d shown up--why xe’d shown up. A stern face wasn’t what befell his features, however; his complexion was too crinkled and uneven for it. Instead, Reala settled for shoving Lance’s hand from his shoulder fretfully. Truly a grand display of dominance from the mighty Nightmaren Commander! Lance was patient, almost endeared by the gesture. Xe receded a few paces so Reala could stand.

    There. Better.

    Even aloft, Reala was… small. Lance supposed that was the truth, no matter his mood, but upright was a start. Xe’d settle for upright. My, what an awful thing this Stage had turned into, and where was their dear Maestro? Nowhere to be seen or sensed. Poor thing. Yet, sensitive as xe was to the moods of others, Lance dared not meddle directly for too long. In this state, with this unknown--clearly not human--nothing was certain. Although, part of xem couldn’t help it. Halfway across Wonderworld, xe felt it: an overwhelming dread. A winding maze without an exit. It beckoned xem. So, Lance nudged xir troubled Nightmare, so detached from reality and forgetful, in the right direction. 

    “A sad story, tis true. Their heart shattered in twain--or, rather, in two,” Lance offered once more. “What they’re waiting for is you.”

    Lance. 

    Xir name was Lance.

    Whether he’d known it before or not was immaterial. Reala hadn’t the presence of mind to dwell on their lack of introduction. It was enough of a task simply dredging the fragmented pieces of himself into more than a slump. He had to do better. He had company. Xe spoke to him in words of encouragement, which Reala considered with withered constitution and furrowed brow. Such glimmering sentiments of hope, of a chance. They plagued him. NiGHTS was..? Well, NiGHTS was, and Master Wizeman--It’s not like he was ever nice to us! A failure. A horrible, pretentious failure. Failures were dealt with. 

    So be it. If all Reala had left to lose was his life, then perhaps it wasn’t worth all that much to him as it stood. Wizeman never once planned to reunite them. Not a single, solitary time. Never in a way that mattered. What did their master care if his subjects were happy? As if Reala ever had been-- alone --as his Master’s right hand! Fear was a strong enough motivator. Effective. Punishment had done wonders. So many wonders… scars riddled his limbs, each with their own intricate story. Few of them were pleasant, even as a trophy. Hadn’t he been loyal? Obedient? Hadn’t he done everything asked of him? 

    Hadn’t he shunned his own kin… for what? This?

    Reala faced Lance. Nothing else mattered. 

    Rather, nothing mattered more. 

    “--and what would you propose I do?” Reala found his voice. “If I chose to see this through?”

    Guilt, a betrayal. A time long past, and perhaps it was too late now to change his mind. Yet, struck with a renewed fervor--something Reala hadn’t experienced before, something shadowed with doubt--he had to try. So, even as near indomitable fear threatened to strangle that single spark of rebellion, Reala stood in the footsteps of his sibling. No, no this isn’t right. I didn’t want this... and neither did NiGHTS. Not once, not ever. Still, the persona remained untouched. That was strength Reala couldn’t muster yet; although its gilded allure was fading quickly. Soon enough, perhaps.

     Lance smiled.

    “You, my Nightmare, must find the halves where they lay hidden--for of one's heart, you can never truly be ridden.” Strange, how it felt, to work again in the unintended way so soon. Challenging guests was xir job, and yet xe was doing Balan’s. Maestro, Lance wondered, what was keeping him? Why had he kept this one so lost and despondent? How uncharacteristically irresponsible. If it weren’t for how xe’d found the Nightmare… there was nothing droll about it. If Balan chose to leave Reala unattended, then he simply wouldn’t be allowed, later, to complain about interference. 

    “I know not where they are, but I trust they cannot be far. Go, seek them and reclaim… the one whose heart you seek to tame.”