#Asphalt OGs

[screams-n-shackles]

"Are you afraid of me?"

A simple question. And Whumpee found themself going through everything that happened so far.

The pain, the screaming. The pure terror Whumper managed to program into their very being.

The fear of dying and the loss of their will to live. Stuck in an everlasting loop of panic attacks, only reduced to the frame of their personality.

And finally they had enough.

Whumper didn't even know, didn't even recognize, what he put Whumpee through.

And it ignited pure and unfiltered rage.

Whumpee knew this sinking feeling in their stomach, sitting right next to the the person that broke down every happy moment they ever had. And Whumper dared to ask if they were afraid of them. As if nothing ever happened.

They were shaking, but for once not out of fear. Not anymore. They were over it.

"No", was their simple answer.

//Not anymore.//

As they clenched their fists they decided to put an end to Whumpers reign over their life.

And with some luck they could spare others the same fate.

[semiotomatics]

so fucking grateful that after 16 years my favourite band is still making music i absolutely adore

[sovaharbor]

i posted these on my twitter but im also posting them on here. these are my very correct opinions thank you.

[sunsburns]

four or five moments (ii.)

pairing: wade wilson/deadpool x fem!assassin!reader

summary: you're literally just trying to do your job, and it's going great so far, you've killed trask, all you have left is to stop that truck from leaving new york. few problems: deadpool can't stay dead, you're having a moral dilemma and why is that car getting closer? oh shit-!

—or: deadpool literally hits you with a car

word count: 4k+

warnings: fem reader, wade being nasty, flirting, sex jokes, canon violence, there isn't too much plot, blood, strange conversations about morality, wade being annoying, he also breaks the fourth wall a few times, i did not pre-read this pls bare with spelling mistakes

notes: i was peer pressured to write this. it literally strays off from the og plot so bad you get whiplash!!

part one

All you really need is four or five moments.

Four or five moments to prove that you're better than them, that you wouldn't stoop as low, to prove that an eye for an eye will only leave two people blind. No blood will bring mercy. No. But it might get you some peace of mind knowing that they can't hurt you anymore, knowing that there's one less asshole on the earth that's trying to hurt you and the people you care about. It is heartless, you're well aware, but you are not trained to have much of a heart, much less to care.

You remind yourself of that fact as lights blur into neon streaks and speeding vehicles race by. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline sharpening your senses, and the stab wound on your leg becomes a distant throb.

You leap onto a motorcycle conveniently left unattended by a fleeing warehouse worker, hot-wiring it with practiced ease. The engine roars to life, and you peel out onto the road, weaving through traffic. The bike vibrates beneath you, a sleek, powerful beast responding to your every command.

Behind you, Deadpool is a persistent shadow. You catch glimpses of his red suit and mask as he commandeers a car, recklessly swerving through lanes to catch up to you. His determination is infuriating, but you can't afford to be distracted. You grit your teeth, focusing on the chase.

Your earpiece crackles to life, and a familiar voice comes through. "I've got eyes on your tracker," your handler says. "They're heading towards the docks. Be careful; we don't know if it's a set-up."

"Understood," you reply, voice steady despite the chaos.

As you near the docks, the industrial landscape looms ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers and cranes casting long shadows in the dim light. The truck is just ahead, its taillights glowing like beacons.

You accelerate closer, and with one hand, you grab an energy gun, in a quick movement, you shoot at the truck doors, immediately regaining your grip on the handle afterwards. The doors fly open, revealing giant metal scraps and wooden crates.

You nearly curse, swerving out of the way when a pipe tumbles out from the back of the truck, crashing onto the road. The clang of metal on asphalt echoes in your ears. You slow down by the truck's blind spot, knowing you'd have to stop it, especially now that the cargo was confirmed to be in it.

You stay ready with your gun, pulling it from the holster on your thigh. You wait a beat, then another, and as the truck starts to pick up speed, you make your move and roll up to the driver's window, shooting through the glass. The bullet flies through the driver's head, causing him to slump forward, pressing on the horn. The blaring sound drowns out your second shot, which takes down the man in the passenger seat before he can shoot you.

The truck starts to slow, veering erratically before it crashes into a building with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact takes down a few light posts and parked cars, sending debris flying. Broken electrical wires dance and crackle around the wreck, their sparks reflected in the spray of a burst fire hydrant.

"Great job," your handler's voice crackles through your comms. "Dispose of the truck. No witnesses—"

The connection cuts off as you are violently hit from the side by a black car. The force of the impact sends you flying off your bike, tumbling across the rough asphalt. Your suit and helmet take most of the fall, tearing and cracking under the friction. Your visor shatters, the protective plastic lining breaking at the base.

You feel the sting and burn of broken skin on your arms and legs, grime and dirt mixing with the blood seeping from your cuts. Your vision is blurred, and a high-pitched ringing fills your ears. Every breath you take is shallow and painful, your ribs protesting with each inhale. Biting the inside of your cheek, you push yourself to pull off your broken helmet, tossing it aside. You blink hard, trying to focus your vision and spot a figure approaching.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, you recognize the distinctive red and black suit. Deadpool. He strides towards you with casual confidence, katana in hand, his eyes hidden behind the mask but undoubtedly filled with a mix of amusement and determination. The streetlights cast eerie shadows on his suit, highlighting the dried blood and grime.

"Please, don't be mad, honeybuns." Deadpool's irritating voice is the first thing you can hear when the ringing stops. He's standing before you, gloved hands out for you to take.

You don't move, heaving, "What the fuck, Wade?"

"Oh, are we on a first-name basis now? I think I like it." Wade Wilson hums, and when you still don't take his hands, he kneels before you. The smell of sweat and gunpowder wafts off him, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "I know this all seems a little confusing—"

"You hit me with a fucking car, you dick!" you belt out, eyes wide with rage. The pain and exhaustion make your voice hoarse, every word a struggle.

"Well, yes. But it's only fair—"

"Fuck you."

"Listen to me." He says a little desperately, and you're glaring at him through your tears. Wade doesn't let it get to him, instead, he calls out your name, barely above a whisper as he looks at you. "You are getting innocent people killed." He tells you. "Look around. This might not be a cul-de-sac, but there are civilians, and they're hurt. We need to leave. You need to call it."

You glance over his shoulder, tired eyes scanning the area. He was right. Dock workers are running around, shouting and helping people out of the old building the truck had crashed into. It's late at night, but not late enough for the place to be deserted; people are still at work, still trying to get by.

You wince as you watch a pregnant woman being led out of a crashed car by her husband, a gash on her head. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke from the crashed truck.

"Killing shitty people is one thing," Deadpool tells you, and you hate the way his voice is almost earnest. His tone is different, more serious, a stark contrast to his usual unserious demeanour. "But I'm familiar with your no-witnesses rule. This would just be mass murder if I let you keep going. Not exactly my piece of cake. Just..."

He stops, letting his head hang for a moment as if he were too repulsed to say it. You can see his shoulders slump slightly, a rare show of genuine emotion. "Oh god, I can't believe I'm about to say this," he grumbles, "Four or five moments. That's all it takes. Just stop and think. It's all it takes to be a hero."

You grit your teeth, hating that Wade Wilson is your voice of reason. The biggest asshole in New York, and here he is lecturing you on morality.

Hairs are falling out of your braid and sticking to your forehead, yet you don't care. Sweat mixes with blood, creating a sticky mess on your skin. You can only glare at him. "You're the last fucking person who should be telling me how to be a hero."

Wade sighs, loud and obnoxious, his mask wrinkling around his eyes as he scrunches up his face. "I'm sorry I hit you with a car. You kinda deserved it after killing Trask. He was my last chance at becoming pretty again. Now I have to stalk another crazy scientist." He taps his chin thoughtfully, "I always figured I'd end up chasing a mad scientist again, but not under these circumstances."

It's when you can no longer hold yourself up with your arms that Wade takes in the gravity of your injuries. He winces, watching you crumble to the ground before him. "Oh, wow, that's a lot of blood," he notes, his voice suddenly devoid of humour. The sight of your blood pooling on the asphalt seems to pull him back to reality. "Should I take you to a hospital? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer.

"Three? No. Two? Yikes. It's worse than I thought." Wade stands, and the worry in his voice is poorly masked by his usual sarcasm. "Here we go. Up, up!" When he moves to pick you up, you start turning away, your body protesting every movement.

"Wade, wait—" you rasp, trying to stop him from touching you. Your voice is weak, barely above a whisper.

But it's too late. When he reaches for you, your body phases, a faint white glow surrounding you as his hands and arms fall through your body as if you're a ghost. He recoils, jumping back while a squeamish sound escapes his lips. He stares at you, then his hands, then back at you on the ground as you try to sit up again, confusion and amazement written all over his masked face.

"Oh. My. Motherfucking. Fuckballs." Wade gasped, eyes wide behind his mask. "Did my hand just go through you or is all that cocaine finally kicking in?"

You ignore him, holding onto your side as it throbs with pain. Every movement sends sharp, agonizing waves through your body. "Fuck."

"No way, you're a fucking mutant?" His tone is a mix of awe and excitement, like a kid discovering a new toy.

It's not like you kept it a secret. You used your abilities whenever you needed to, and sure, it was useful at times, especially in your line of work when you needed to get through locked doors and hidden rooms or just for the element of surprise. But it's draining. Leaves you winded after only a matter of seconds. You've always had a hard time controlling it when you're slightly delusional though. You must've hit your head really hard. Maybe that's why you haven't shot Deadpool, yet.

"Shut up, Wade."

"Hey, no need to be ashamed of it." He reassures you while trying to pick you up again. This time, he is more cautious, his movements slower and more deliberate. When he succeeds, you can tell he's grinning like a child underneath the mask.

He carries you back to the same fuckass car he hit you with, holding you with one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. There's a faint skip to his step as if you're not on the verge of losing consciousness. While kicking open the back door, Wade continues his chatter, and you really wish he'd killed you on impact.

"Being a mutant is great! Plus, it's not the early two thousands anymore, or whatever timeline Stewart was in. Man, they sure did hate mutants in that trilogy."

He sets you down in the back seat gently, his hands surprisingly delicate. "You know, I always knew you were different. You hit me harder than regular people. I just figured you really hated me."

"I do." you mutter.

"Oh, my little sweet buns, I'm sure you do." To your annoyance, he pokes your nose playfully. "But you can't hate me too much right now, I'm literally your knight in shining armor. See, I can be nice, especially to my fellow mercs. You'd bleed to death if I left you there."

"Only because you hit me with a fucking car," you snap, the pain and frustration boiling over.

"Good to know you're still harboring great anger towards that. Means you're still conscious. Keep being mean to me, baby, that's how I'll know you're okay." He pauses before shutting the door, looking at you lying on the backseat, bleeding and all the glory that comes from it. "And it also turns me on a little bit. God, I can't believe your suit is torn and not one bit of extra cleavage is exposed. What will it take for a guy to get some rated R nudity over here?"

And with that, he slams the door shut, the car shaking with the force of it. The sound makes the ringing return to your ears, and you bite back the urge to curse him. He takes a seat in the driver's seat, starting the engine and rushing out of the scene before first responders arrive. The car roars to life, and as he speeds away, you feel your consciousness slipping, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you.

The two of you sit in silence for the most part, only the sounds of the engine running and Wade humming the tune of a song you think is from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. You force yourself to stay awake. Mostly because you don't trust him, but it's also because you fear that if you let your eyes close you won't wake up again. Yeah, it's mostly because you don't trust Wade Wilson.

"Where are you taking me?" you finally ask, and you hate the way your voice sounds weak, barely above a whisper.

"Just a little safe house I know." He tells you, glancing back at you for a quick moment. "Very homey, trust me."

"What about the shipment?" you murmur, your mind struggling to stay focused.

"What?"

"The truck," you repeat, fighting to keep your eyes open.

"Oh, don't worry. That's no longer our problem." He says, "We're about to enter a whole new setting. That truck is forgotten plot."

Wade takes a sharp turn, and you wince as your body shifts uncomfortably in the back seat. The pain is getting worse, each bump in the road sending jolts of agony through your body. You grit your teeth, trying to stay conscious, but it's a losing battle.

After what feels like an eternity, the car finally comes to a stop. Wade gets out and you hear his footsteps crunching on gravel as he walks around to your door. He opens it carefully this time, his usual wiseass demeanour replaced by a rare show of genuine concern. He scoops you up gently, and you're too weak to protest.

The last thing you remember, before everything goes black, is the sight of a grand mansion looming ahead, its imposing silhouette framed by the moonlight. The large iron gates creak open as Wade carries you through them, the gravel path crunching under his boots. The mansion, with its towering spires and Gothic architecture, looks like something out of a fairy tale, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you just escaped from.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the softness of the bed beneath you. The second thing you notice is the smell of lavender and the faint hum of medical equipment. You try to sit up, but a sharp pain in your side makes you gasp.

"Whoa, easy there," a deep, accented voice says from beside you. You turn your head slowly, the motion making your vision swim. A towering, metal-skinned mutant sits by your bed, his imposing figure softened by a look of genuine concern. "You need to rest. You are badly injured."

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you rasp, "Where am I?"

"The X-Mansion," he replies in a soothing tone, the accent heavy but comforting. "Wade brought you here. You’re safe now. I am Colossus."

You try to take in your surroundings, your head feeling heavy as you look around. The room is vast and elegant, with high ceilings that seem to reach the heavens. The walls are adorned with rich tapestries and framed paintings, depicting serene landscapes and grand historical scenes.

Large windows let in the soft, golden glow of morning light, casting gentle shadows that dance across the floor. It’s a far cry from the dingy, rundown places you’re used to, especially that old apartment with its creaky floors and peeling wallpaper.

Your eyes finally land on Wade, who is slouched in a chair in the corner. He’s flipping through a Playboy magazine with exaggerated interest, still in his dirty suit from the night before.

When he sees you stir, he grins and waves a hand in your direction. "Morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully, his voice carrying an unnerving mix of sincerity and teasing. "You gave us quite a scare. But, I've got to say, that hospital gown is doing wonders for your figure. I love the blue. Great contrast to that black you're always wearing."

You roll your eyes, too exhausted to respond properly. The gown feels scratchy against your skin, and every movement sends sharp pangs of pain through your body.

Colossus, noticing your discomfort, shifts slightly. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice deep and steady.

"Like I got hit by a truck," you mutter, sending a glare in Wade's direction.

Colossus chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, like rolling thunder. "Do not worry about him. We will take care of you."

Despite the throbbing pain and overwhelming fatigue, a wave of relief washes over you. For the first time in a long while, you're surrounded by people who genuinely want to help. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the softness of the bed. "Thank you," you whisper, the words feeling strangely comforting. For once, you don’t feel the need to be constantly on guard.

Wade's grin widens as he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out and adjusting his mask. "Anytime, honeybuns. Anytime."

As you drift in and out of consciousness, you feel the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth on your forehead. The gentle pressure is a welcome contrast to the persistent throbbing pain.

The sound of soft murmurs and quiet footsteps fills the room, creating a cocoon of calm around you. At some point, you notice Colossus's massive hands, surprisingly gentle, as he carefully tends to your wounds, applying bandages with precision.

Eventually, a teenager with short hair and a no-nonsense expression enters the room. You learn her name is Negasonic Teenage Warhead. She carries a phone in one hand, handing Colossus a stack of clean bandages with the other. The faint scent of antiseptic and medicinal herbs fills the air, mixing with the crispness of the freshly laundered bed linens.

Hours pass, or maybe it's days—it's difficult to gauge. When you next wake, the room is dimly lit, the golden light replaced by the softer hues of early evening. The pain has dulled to a manageable throb, and the heaviness in your limbs is slightly alleviated. Wade is still there, his previous outfit swapped for sweatpants and a dark green sweater, though he keeps his red and black mask on. He lounges in the chair beside your bed, now engrossed in an iPad, giggling softly to himself.

"Oh, man. Instagram reels are crazy," he snorts, shaking his head as he scrolls through the screen.

He looks up and hums when he sees you're awake again. "You're tougher than you look," he comments, turning off the iPad with a flick of his wrist. "Most people would have keeled over by now."

"You wish."

"Oh, trust me, I do." Wade nods vigorously, his mask bobbing with the motion. "I tried injecting poison into your IV, but your body rejected it."

"Don't worry. My handler will kill me for you."

Wade groans, dramatically rolling his eyes as he gets up from the chair. "You’re still worried about that? I already told you, the truck and all that shit is past plot. We’re in the sequel now, babe. There are new rules. Who knows, maybe this is your redemption arc where you join the X-Men. Though, I will miss your assassin era. You were so sexy in that suit."

You make a face, "Fuck off."

Just then, the door opens with a soft creak, and Colossus enters with a tray in hand. He’s followed closely by Negasonic, who carries a stack of fresh bandages. Colossus places the tray on a small table beside your bed with practiced ease. The tray is filled with a bowl of steaming soup and a couple of slices of crusty bread, the aroma wafting up and making your stomach rumble.

"How are you feeling?" Colossus asks, his voice calm and reassuring as he sets the tray down.

"Better," you admit, managing a small smile. "Thanks to you guys."

Negasonic shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her usual scowl. "Don’t mention it. Just doing our job."

Wade groans, clearly troubled by the kindness. "Oh great, now you’re all buddy-buddy. What am I, chopped liver?"

Colossus chuckles, the sound of a comforting rumble. "You must eat something. It will help you regain your strength."

You nod gratefully, and with Colossus’s help, you manage to sit up enough to sip the warm, comforting soup. The broth is rich and flavorful, and the bread is soft and fresh. As you eat, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging. Despite the pain and the chaos, you’re surrounded by people who care, and for now, that’s enough.

Wade, not one to be left out, scoots his chair closer, setting it right next to your bed. He stretches out, propping his elbows on his knees as he leans in. "So, what do you think of the X-Mansion? Pretty swanky, right? Lots of rooms, big kitchen, danger room for training... and other things."

Negasonic scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Gross."

You finish your meal, feeling a bit stronger. As Colossus helps you settle back into the bed, you glance at Wade. "Why did you bring me here?"

Wade’s expression shifts, becoming uncharacteristically serious. He looks at you with sincerity. "Because you’re one of us. And because... well, everyone deserves a second chance."

You blink, surprised by the depth of his words. Before you can respond, he’s back to his usual self, grinning and turning on his iPad. "Plus, it’s not every day I get to play hero. I gotta milk it for all it’s worth. And no, Colossus, I will not join your boy band, thank you very much."

The metal man grunts, waving a hand dismissively before walking out, Negasonic following right behind him. Wade stays seated next to you, his lips curled into a wide, amused grin that seems to stretch just a bit too far was he watches you.

"You're never gonna take that off?" you ask him.

Wade's laughter is a low, rumbling sound that feels almost too bright for the quiet room. "Oh, no fucking way," he says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m ugly under this. Trust me. You’d be repulsed. Like, horror movie-level repulsed."

You give him a look, your eyebrow arched in disbelief. "I doubt it."

Wade leans in closer, the grin on his face widening. He taps his chin thoughtfully with a gloved finger, the gesture oddly contemplative. "Maybe next time I’ll take it off for you," he says, a taunting tone in his voice as he raises his brows. "Maybe that and a little more."

"There's a next time?"

"I mean, as the famous words of Natasha Bedingfield say: the rest is still underwritten."

"God, you’re fucking ridiculous," you mutter, the words coming out with a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I can’t wait to get out of here and never see you again."

Wade's shoulders slump, the white eyes of his mask narrow at you, "What, that's it? No steamy sex? No heavy petting? Is this how it ends? Not even a kiss?"

"Fuck no. Get out."

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[erodasfishtacos]

Melt Your Cold Heart

prompt: harry’s been alone for years. a bland, bleak life where he needs nothing but his dog then he stumbles upon someone who gives him a purpose…even if for a few hours. word count: 8k

warnings: heavy angst, emotionally unavailable harry, suicidal/depressive thoughts, mental health struggles, mentions of trauma, discussion of sex work

authors note:

There is 3 more parts to this up on patreon (and currently being updated this month!).

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 3 mini one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here!

++++++++

Harry hadn’t wanted to pull over but it was impossible to continue on the highway without potentially causing an accident.

The snow was coming down hard enough that it was a white sheet, the high speed winds were making it to be a tornado of pure smokescreens that made it impossible for his windshield wipers to work.

The semi-truck had eighteen wheels but they were all at risk of hydroplaning or losing grip on the layers of black ice that covered the asphalt without a second thought.

With such a heavy piece of equipment, he didn’t have to only look out for himself but anybody else on the road because one wrong judgment call could turn the semi into a weapon of destruction.

It meant that he was going to be at least twelve hours behind on his delivery which was making him on-edge as it was because he hated having to deal with the dickhead client that he was delivering to.

The town he stopped in was small, nothing to note, and not unsimilar to the towns he had stayed in before in his twelve years on the road.

A small Midwest town that had a truck stop with a twenty-four hour gas station, a diner that was already closed for the night, and a pavilion of bathrooms for truck drivers to clean off.

It was just about midnight when he parked his rig, taking off his baseball cap and running his hand through his hair, it was getting long and he was due for trim next time he was home but fuck, he was tired.

He never really stopped working, constantly moving across state lines and delivery shipments as a self-employed hauler - he was his own boss and he pushed himself like no boss would (who wouldn’t want to be violating labor laws).

This wasn’t one of the nicer stops.

The buildings were outdated, looking like they hadn’t been renovated since the eighties, and that was being generous.

The parking lot lights were flickering like in a horror movie, not that it frightened Harry, he has dealt with his fair on the road, and has seen a lot of things that he would have preferred not to.

It’s why he always carried, just on his hip, in case.

He would wait until the next stop to shower, at one of the more luxurious, updated places where the showers were actually decent, there was privacy, and it didn’t feel like bathing in a back alley.

For now, he just needed the restroom and a drink.

The bathrooms were just as foul as he expected, washing his hands with extra hot water to give himself a sense of cleanliness before he’s trailing over to the gas station next door.

The wind was insane, blowing the snow directly into his face, and sticking to his eyelashes.

His eyes burned with the freezing temperatures, blinking harshly as he tucks his head down until a warm gust of air hits his face as he enters the building. The lights were blindingly fluorescent and he had to adjust for a minute after driving in the dark for hours by now.

There was an older man at the counter, sitting on a stool and watching a static-filled rerun on a small television next to the register, and his skin was a sickly yellow, most likely from working the graveyard shift for far too long.

The man nods in acknowledgement but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Harry walks towards the back, towards the line of coolers to grab something to drink, a soda that he normally didn’t drink but he was craving carbonation, he hadn’t eaten yet today.

He was definetly a bit too skinny.

Truck drivers were normally the opposite, out of shape, and overweight from lack of movement.

They were sat in trucks all day, every day with nothing to do but snack.

Harry was the opposite, though he was too lean, he took pride in his appearance and maintained his muscle from strapping down, unloading, and all the physical work of the job that he did himself (unlike most drivers).

He did not eat well, he knew that but found it hard to care.

Harry was in a slump, he had been for the last few years.

With being on the road, missing all major holidays, and never sticking around one place enough to settle down - he was depressed, an understatement but no one was around to listen or care.

He was alone, truly, and at some point, that had become comfortable to him.

Harry went through the motions, driving, hauling, delivering, sleeping, and repeating it over and over again.

The only thing he had was a Fire Bird (Birdie) his cattle dog who was named after his favorite car growing up, one that had been in his grandfather’s shed, and was only taken out on the town on very special occasions.

Birdie kept him sane, gave him a reason to get his ass moving every morning, and to take breaks because though he was convinced that his dog was the laziest bag of bones. Every few hours, she required a field, her ball, and Harry throwing it for her for at least twenty minutes before she passed out on the passenger seat for a few hours.

It was his routine.

Their routine.

He had found when she was a puppy.

Some trucker at a stop in Milwaukee had left the pup in the field next to the lot after she’d chewed through one of his seats.

She was malnourished, overheated, and covered in fleas.

Harry had never had a dog on the road, never thought it practical but the first time he had seen this spotted puppy with the saddest brown eyes and its tail wagging timidity on the ground.

Well it was the first time Harry had felt anything in a long time.

That was eight years ago, Birdie was a bit slower now, a gray coating her muzzle, and an attitude of a spoiled queen.

A lot more days than Harry would like to admit, she’s what keeps him going because it’s definitely not work or the money.

Harry had a hefty sized bank account from all his hard work but it sat and sat, he never spent it on anything but bare necessities so it continued to stack and stack which wasn’t a bad thing but it was nothing that brought him excitement.

It wasn’t the dream life of a thirty-three year old.

Harry had grabbed a coke before snagging a bag of overpriced jerky off the nearest display - he can’t remember the last time he ate something that wasn’t heavily processed.

There was a girl in the store too.

Harry had just caught the slightest glimpse of her as she stood by a cooler on the other side of the store, browsing the energy drinks.

She was out of place.

Harry hadn’t seen a car parked in the lot, only two other semis, and she wasn’t a truck driver by the look of her outfit.

It wasn’t weather appropriate at all.

Not for winter in the Midwest.

The woman had on a fitted black dress, it wasn’t overly fancy but it hugged every inch of her body, and high heels of all things.

Harry wonders if she was with one of the other drivers.

He doesn’t pay much mind to her until she faces him, a purple can in her hand, and she’s noticeably pretty, more so than average.

Harry wasn’t trying to be an asshole but women who hung around these areas weren’t typically most attractive.

This woman was.

Albeit the makeup she had on was too much, thick eyelashes, her blush too heavy, and a rouge lip that contrasted the complexion of her skin in an off-putting way.

Her heels click as she steps over to the counter, putting the drink on the counter, along with a protein bar, and rifling through a small purse on her shoulder.

“Eight thirty-three,” The cashier announces after scanning it, his eyes crudely running up and down the woman’s body before focusing on her face again.

The woman is rustling through her purse, pulling out crinkled bills that had been shoved carelessly in the clutch.

Harry stands a safe distance behind her, in line, watching as she smooths out the one dollar bills hastily as the cashier looks completely unamused.

“I only have five,” The girl mumbles embarrassed after she comes up empty with no more money to be found, “Can you please take off the protein bar?”

Harry doesn’t feel much often.

Tonight, he does.

A little glimmer of compassion.

But very much like himself, the girl is too skinny, not eating enough, and from what he can infer - not being able to afford food to feed herself.

“I got it,” Harry interrupts, stepping up next to the woman, and putting his stuff down aside hers, taking his wallet out of his back pocket to pluck out his bank card.

It’s the first time they make eye contact, “Oh, you really don’t have to. I’ll be okay with just the drink-“

“I’m not asking,” Harry replies curtly, tapping his card to the screen when the total rings up before tucking his wallet away and grabbing his items.

“Here,” She insists, trying to hand him the crumpled bills that she had laid on the counter, five dollars that she needed much more than him.

“Keep it,” Harry waves her off, refusing the money before walking towards the door without another look her way.

He was drawn to her.

He wouldn’t offer most, really anyone a handout - he never got one.

Harry can feel the woman’s eyes on his back as he stalks out of the station, hugging his jacket tighter against his body as he walks back to his truck to sleep for the night.

“S’fucking cold, Birdie,” Harry had complained as he locked the doors, placing up all the blinds to keep wandering eyes out.

Birdie was currently dead to the world, unbothered by his words as she snores softly from her fluffy dog bed on the floor of the cab.

Harry had just tugged off his winter jacket when he hears a knock at the driver’s side door - for a moment, he’s convinced that it’s the wind but then a few seconds later, it comes again.

“Fucks sake,” Harry grunts with annoyance, he much prefers when people leave him the fuck alone, and he has a hunch it’s the gas station cashier or another driver.

However, when he opens the door, after unlocking it, and having to use a good amount of effort to push it against the force of the wind - it’s neither.

It’s the girl from the gas station.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle.

Her lips were quivering as she tried to prevent her teeth was chattering, blinking harshly through the wind up at him.

“What?” Harry asks, it wasn’t overly friendly or friendly at all.

“Are you looking for company?” The woman replies but she’s the furthest thing from confident, eyes darting around but not meeting his, “I…My rates are reasonable.”

And oh, this is what she was doing here.

Harry couldn’t tell you the amount of times that he’s had a knock on the door and been propositioned for ‘company’.

Most drivers indulged in it, they were lonely and usually away from their spouses for long spurts of time that led them to pay for the replacement.

Harry had never.

Nor did he plan to now.

As he said, this woman was fucking gorgeous, would be even more so without the cakey makeup and slinky outfit.

But he wasn’t ever going to be that lonely.

He grew up with a mom in that line of work, he felt like it was disrespectful to put a monetary price on a woman’s worth, and he had never been into casual hookups.

So yes, he would absolutely love her company but not ever under these circumstances, where she’s offering out of need and not desire.

Harry can’t remember the last time he’s had sex but the depression had killed his sex drive for the most part anyways.

He didn’t seek it out.

“No,” Harry responds flatly, not indecisiveness in his voice at all, “Not interested.”

Typically when Harry turned a proposition down, the woman wouldn’t be too thrilled whether she delivered him a ‘fuck you’ or spit on the door of his truck - that was normal response.

However, not for this girl, her face drops in a twist of embarassment and shame, and it’s also the first time someone apologizes for offering.

“I’m sorry to…to bother you. Um, have a good night. Safe travels,” She stutters out, it was obvious that she was flustered and mortified which again, made him feel just a twinge of empathy.

Harry’s about to assure her that it wasn’t a big deal but she was already turning in her heel, walking briskly back to the pavilion and disappearing inside.

He shuts his door, slumping down in his driver’s seat for a second as he rubs his hand across his face with a groan, he was too tired for this shit.

However, the thought of that girl offering her services to the other drivers or having to sleep in that dirty, run-down building wasn’t acceptable to him.

“The fuck is wrong with me,” Harry mutters to himself as he tugs his jacket back on, he never cared about any before.

Why now?

Harry’s body detests being lured back into the frigid weather, missing the warmth of his cabin instantly as he shuts the door behind him.

By the time he’s walking toward the building, the girl had disappeared inside, and wasn’t visible to him anymore.

What was he even doing?

He should turn around and go back to his truck.

But he finds himself tugging open the door, it was warmer than the outside but not by much, the heater must be in its last leg, and it was sticky - almost humid.

Harry’s nose twitched in disgust at the smell of cheap disinfectant, a half-ass cleaning job, and garbage that hadn’t been taken out soon enough.

He doesn’t see her right away, figuring he may have to go towards the women’s restroom - he follows the sign towards the back of the building.

Harry finds her, tucked into the corner of an alcove, resting against the side of a row of vending machines - smushed and hiding.

She had taken off her bag, bundling it up, and pushing it between her head and the machine to create a makeshift pillow.

Harry wishes it didn’t make his chest ache, he was so used to not feeling, and it was pissing him off that he wasn’t feeling numb to it.

Her eyes were closed but her body was tense like he knew shouldn’t couldn’t full let herself relax because she wasn’t safe.

Harry clears his throat, standing in front of her with his hands in his jacket pockets.

She startles as she hadn’t heard him approaching, bumping her head off the hard plastic of the machine covering and wincing as she tenses.

“Let’s go,” Harry waves his hand impatiently.

Yeah, his communication skills were not the best.

The woman blinks up at him in confusion, reasonably nervous as she shuffles off the floor, stumbling as she pushes herself up on a knee, uncoordinated and clumsy as she tries to get re-oriented.

Harry sighs impatiently, sticking out his hand for to take, and when she very gingerly puts her freezing cold one in his, he yanks her up to her feet with little effort - she couldn’t weigh much.

”Did you…uh,” The girl’s voice is shaky as she grabs her purse, a backpack, “Did you want to know my rates?”

Harry stops, turning back towards her, and starting to unzip his heavy, down winter coat as he shakes his, “Don’t need ‘em. I’m not interested in your services.”

The girl pauses too, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, “Why did you come get me then?”

Harry doesn’t make eye contact as he shoves his jacket unceremoniously towards her, “Put this on.”

She accepts it but doesn’t move to, “Why?”

Harry grunts out an annoyed huff, shoving his hands in jean pockets, “S’not safe for you to be sleeping in a place like this. It’s freezing in here, you’re not dressed for the weather. You can stay the night in my cab before I head out.”

YN swallows anxiously, weighing out her options before there’s a banging noise.

Someone barging through the front doors of the pavilion, a large middle-aged man that had dirty overalls on, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a scraggly graying beard.

When this trucker sees the woman, he smiles like a cat who just got the cream, and doesn’t hesitate to ask in a raspy, smoker’s draw, “How much for the night, sweetheart?”

Her eyes widen in unwelcome surprise, lips twisting as she struggles to find a response.

”Um…”

”I already got ‘er,” Harry gives the man a hard, faux-possessive look (maybe it wasn’t as fake as he thought it was because he really did feel a protectiveness over her for some reason), “Tough shit.”

”Let me know if you finish with her early,” The man laughs, his gaze was predatory and foul, it made even Harry feel unsettled to just see the way he was looking at her - like an object.

“Fuck off,” Harry dismisses the man easily, though Harry was skinner than he’d prefer, his muscles were still prevelant and enough to intimidate, especially the out-of-shape man.

The girl tugs the jacket on hastily, the other trucker clearly motivating her not to stay in here.

”That’s why you shouldn’t try to sleep in here, you think he would think twice before dragging you to his truck?” Harry scolds as he steps forward, without thinking, he zips the jacket for her because the zipper can be finicky at the best times - it was old and needed replaced three winters ago at least.

”I know you could lie,” She says softly, the most she’s really said thus far, “But you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

It was dumb question, on her end.

Why would anyone tell her the truth if their real intention was to cause her harm?

Harry really should be questioning what he’s doing.

Never once in the past has he ever taken it upon himself or felt the need to do what he was doing for this girl.

He should mind his own business and realize that she isn’t his responsibility.

“No, I’m not going to. You can get warm, get some sleep, and tomorrow at five in the morning I’m kicking you to the curb,” Harry informs her, trying to maintain the coldness that he normally keeps in his tone but he feels guilty even talking to her like that.

“Okay. I…Thank you. I’m YN, by the way,” She tells him, still shy as ever and really a contradiction to how a sex worker is - outgoing and assertive.

“Harry,” He replies as he walks them towards the exit, not looking forward to having the freezing temperatures hit the bare skin of his arms nor have the wind throwing icy clumps on snow in his face but he would take it if it meant YN stayed a bit warmer.

YN’s face pinches up when the door opens, the cold hitting her aggressively enough that her hair goes flying behind her in the wind, every which way as it tangles into a bird ‘s nest.

Harry is lucky he turns around to check on her because right as he does, she slips on a patch of ice which has her nearly falling backwards.

He grips her forearms tightly, a gnarled frown on his face as he gripes, “Who the fuck wears heels in below zero temps?”

He expects a snarky response back.

And he feels even more like a piece of shit when she tucks her chin down, mumbling an embarrassed apology as he guides her, keeping a hold of her arm.

Harry unlocks his truck, swinging open the door, and steps back, “Go ahead.”

YN hesitates for a moment, glancing back at the pavilion and seeing the truck driver from early emerge, winking at her.

She hurries inside as quickly as she can in her outfit, trying to tuck her dress to her thighs to avoid it flipping up and giving Harry a view.

Harry shuts the door behind them, locking it tightly, and double checking both side of the doors before he’s unfastening the blinds - blocking the outside world.

Last step is to put up the privacy screen along his windshield as YN keeps tucked carefully by the corner of the driver’s side.

“C’mon, I have a dog. She doesn’t like anyone but me so just leave her alone and she won’t bother you,” Harry informs her as he pushes back the curtain to his cabin, it was always spotless, and clean which was probably surprising to her.

It was a luxury sleeper, it wasn’t anything extravagant but Harry had put his savings to good use about three years ago.

A small kitchen, a dining room table that folded his bed out, and a television mounted on the wall that was usually on for background noise more than anything.

“This is really nice,” YN stands timidly in the breezeway of the front of the truck, unsure, and looking out of place.

Harry just grunts in agreement, questioning what exactly his plan was, and he grabs fresh sheets out of a small cabinet.

“You can have the bed,” Harry tells her as he strips off his sheets, they weren’t dirty but he had slept on them a few nights, “I’ll take the lounger.”

It wasn’t the most comfortable chair but he’d survive.

“No, no. I can take the chair,” YN insists sincerely with a shake of her head, her teeth still clenched as her body shook from the cold.

Harry ignores her, tugging the new fitted sheet onto the mattress, changing the pillowcases, and the comforter - he’s lucky he had a spare.

He doesn’t say anything else before gathering the comforter he’d just taken from the bed and tossing it on the lounge chair.

“Go to sleep,” Harry signals impatiently because she’s just standing there, shaking with how cold she is and he moves over to bump up the heat.

YN listens, walking slowly towards the bed, her eyes catching on Birdie’s sleeping form (who hadn’t even stirred) - what a shit guard dog.

YN sits on the edge of the bed, her hands were trembling from the cold and nerves, fingers stiff, and when she leans down to unstrap her heels - she can’t get a grip.

Harry watches for a moment before stalking over, kneeling down and wrapping his fingers around her ankle to hold of still.

YN watches him quietly as he slips the shoes from her feet, annoyance prevalent in his words as he asks pointedly, “Why the fuck would you wear these today? Do you have no self-preservation? You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite.”

She shuts down again, like earlier when he had questioned her clothing choices, and doesn’t respond for a long second, voice soft when she does, “They’re the only pair I have.”

And…well Harry didn’t think of that.

Harry doesn’t have anything to reply with so he makes quick work of taking them off her freezing feet and she needs socks - they felt like ice under his own cold fingers.

He stands up, turning to a built in storage unit to his left as YN nervously moves to lay down, completely unsure as she lift the comforter.

“Not yet,” Harry gruffs as he digs out what he was looking for - a waffle-knit henley, a soft pair of flannel pajamas pants he never wore because he much preferred his underwear, and a pair of thick wool thermal socks, “Here. It stays relatively warm in here but it’s freezing outside. Put these on.”

“Thank you,” YN replies quietly as she stands up, without hesitation she reaches for the hem of her dress and begins to pull it up.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters as he quickly turns, giving her the privacy she deserved, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose.

“I’m dressed,” YN tells him after a minute of rustling as she changes into the clothes provided, “I didn’t mean to, um, make you uncomfortable. Most men want something in return, I figured you wanted to see me…change.”

Harry feels disgust seeping through him.

Not at her.

But at the deplorable men she had to be in the company of when at these types of stops.

“I told you, I don’t want shit from you. M’just trying to be a decent human being and I’d rather not see your picture on the morning news tomorrow. This is a horrible part of town,” Harry was too blunt, was constantly scolded for it during his upbringing but he never got better at it.

YN was still nervous, trembling at that as she sat down on the edge of the bed - all of the clothes were hanging off of her, the shirt slipping down her too-thin shoulder.

“I really appreciate it. I haven’t been able to sleep somewhere even half this nice without…you know, working,” YN sniffles as tears start to gather in her eyes, “I’m so tired.”

Harry feels that same tug on his heartstrings, a sensation that reminded him that he even had a beating heart.

“You’re safe. I know you just have my word but I won’t let anything happen,” Harry promises, feeding his own need to keep her safe and also make her feel that way too.

YN nods as she wipes her eyes, the makeup smearing around the edges thay has him sighing and getting up to head to the small bathroom.

He runs a clean washcloth under warm(ish) water before wringing it out.

Harry steps out to walk closer to her again, her chest was heaving as she let out emotion that Harry didn’t understand.

He doesn’t say anything - he wouldn’t even know what that would be because he hadn’t had real communication with anyone other than the other truckers on the radio for years now.

Harry is slow in his motions so that she’s not taken surprise at any point, with barey any pressure, he cups her face with one hand.

He brings the cloth up to wipe gently at the layered, tacky makeup that comes off in a thick muck, wipe after wipe.

When her face is clear of the overdone eyeshadow, harsh blush, spidery mascara clumped lashes - its startlingly how beautiful she is.

Her skin is perfect or nearly close to.

Smooth, clear, glowy in the dim light of the sleeper.

Her lips a puffy, delicate rosé pink - full and pouted.

The clean face takes at least a few years from her, that makeup had accentuated every wrinkle and crevice - aging her more than she was.

Fuck, she was pretty.

Harry tosses the cloth in his hamper, walking towards the lounge chair and kicking off his heavy, steel-toed boots.

He wasn’t obviously going to sleep in his briefs tonight and he had just handed her his only pair of pajama pants.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in his jeans nor the last, some nights he was too tired to strip them off before collapsing in bed.

“Goodnight, thank you,” YN murmurs after a mute snuffle, he watches out of the corner of her eye as she wriggles down into his bed - looking like she fucking belongs there.

“Sleep well,” Harry rumbles as he shuts off the lamp, throwing the cabin into darkness - the only light filtering through the curtains of the neon gas station sign - bright enough to grab the attention of people on the highway.

Harry reclines the chair, he didn’t normally sleep on his back but he would manage for tonight - for her.

The wind was gnarly, scraping against the sides of his truck - the occasional loose tree branch hitting, the sleet pattering against the windows.

+

Harry didn’t sleep in, his body didn’t allow him.

He ran on five hours of sleep at max before he needed to get up, move around, and get on the road.

When he blinks his eyes open, blearing at clock on his wall - three fifty-four am.

Normally, Harry wouldn’t waste much time.

He’d be on the road within the next thirty minutes after letting Birdie out, getting her breakfast, and popping into the gas station to get the biggest size coffee they had.

However, when he glances at Birdie’s bed, he has to do a double take because she’s not in there, and his heart starts pounding instantly.

Harry didn’t care about much on this earth, really barely anything but he cared about his dog - the snappy, crotchety thing.

She was always in her bed.

Harry sits up quickly, a horrible thought that the girl he let sleep her had stolen her but as soon as he is standing - he hears a telltale snore from the dog.

He follows the noise and to his utter dismay, literal dismay, because Birdie didn’t like anyone but Harry (and she didn’t like him sometimes either).

The mutt is currently being spooned by YN.

It was the most absurd thing he had ever seen.

YN was on her side, facing towards him with her face half-smushed in his pillow, her arm was slung over Birdie as the pup was nuzzled into the shape of her body.

Birdie was relaxed as can be, snoring up a storm, and pillowing her head in the crook of YN’s shoulder like they’d known each other forever.

The dog hadn’t even woke up when YN had entered.

Traitor.

Harry tucks back into his boots, tugging on his winter jacket that YN had discarded on the back of the kitchenette chair.

As he fills the disposable coffee cup, black - no cream or sugar, he tries to map out his course to Washington state.

He had done the trip many times before but having to account for horrible road condition would tack on at least a day of travel - if not more.

Harry had to get on the road as soon as possible if he didn’t want to be later than that extra day.

The weather hadn’t changed, granted, it was only nearing four in the morning but he swears that the temperature dropped even further.

As he steps back up into the cabin, his eyes trail to YN and Birdie, all cuddled up like this was their home together.

Harry needed to wake her up, kick her to the curb like he had told her (and himself) but he couldn’t imagine waking her.

Not when only a few hours prior, she had cried as she told him how tired she was, and fuck - where did his heartlessness go?

He didn’t mess with sex workers, not that he judged the profession but Harry was never a casual sex kind of guy.

And anyways, the depression that was nearly constant killed his sex drive to the point where he rarely got the urge to take care of himself - let alone pay someone to do it for him.

Harry sighs as he contemplates his choices, he was going to be behind, and he couldn’t find it in him to shake her awake.

He decides to shower, even though the rest stop was foul because he had the time and he sure he has showered in worse places.

The water doesn’t get as hot as Harry would like but the pressure get good on his aching back, he’d always had a bad one, and sleeping in the lounger would make him sore for days.

Harry takes him time, washes his hair extra well, shaves off his stubble, and he’s not doing it to be more presentable to YN - he’s not.

By the time that he’s dressed in clean clothes, it has to be close to five in the morning, he refills his coffee on the way back before he’s unlocking his truck again.

Harry’s met by Birdie, who was acting strange, she rarely waited at the door and didn’t often whine like an injured pup.

However, Birdie was clearly upset as she anxiously paced in the small area, these high pitched yowls coming from the back of her throat - head upwards as she howled.

“What is it?” Harry asks her, automatically concerned as his eyes dart to the bed.

She was gone.

The bed had been made as neat as a pin, the clothes she had borrowed were folded on top of the comforter, and it’s like she’d never been there.

Harry should feel relief because he wouldn’t have to wake her up, kick her out but it doesn’t feel anywhere close to relief,

Not when he had this vicious, innate urge to protect her.

He didn’t know what made her so special.

Harry had stumbled upon countless women down on their luck before, it was part of working around the country, stopping as places were those people tended to populate, and he had never felt any desire to help them.

He knows she must have either went to the gas station or rest stop, she didn’t have a jacket so she couldn’t have gotten far.

A sickening thought of her getting into the scumbag from last night’s truck makes him close the door and head back toward the building.

He was just in the gas station to get another coffee, he would have seen her, and when he goes back into the dank rest stop - he walks towards the women’s bathroom.

Outside the door, he can hear the patter of water streaming from one of the ancient showerheads, and knows that has to be her showering.

And so he waits.

He hears the telltale signs of heels clicking and he has to laugh when she exits the bathroom.

Her hair was sopping wet because she didn’t have a towel, her black dress was waterlogged where the ends of her hair were kissing the fabric - all while wearing those god damn shoes.

YN’s eyes go wide, scared instantly as she stutters, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Harry’s replies, brow knit in confusion.

YN’s face contorts, eyes darting away for a moment, “Um, I don’t know? You look upset with me. I-I left as soon as I woke up like you said.”

Was Harry upset?

Yeah, he guesses he actually was.

But not with her, not really.

He was upset that she was in a ridiculously small dress with wet hair (and clothes) in sub zero temperatures.

“What is your plan?” Harry answers instead, watching as goosebumps erupt all over her skin - it was a sticky humid in the cinderblock building but the cold couldn’t be ignored.

“My plan?” YN repeats, he hates how nervous she is around him - he understands but it’s so unnecessary, he wants to keep her safe.

He should leave.

Let her do her thing.

It’s not his business.

“Where are you going? What’s next?”

YN picks at the skin of her thumb with her index finger, chin tilted down, “I am hoping to get enough cash today to get a jacket, maybe a hotel room? That, um, that guy yesterday is still out in his truck and offered me a hundred and fifty so that’s why I was..showering.”

Harry wanted to be sick, his stomach was actually churning the coffee he had chugged down because she deserved better than that.

“No,” Harry says without thinking.

YN’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “I don’t know-“

“Three grand,” Harry interupts her, “I’m going to Washington. I’ll give you cash today to do the trip with me. Five or six days overall. I’ll buy your food, get you clothes, anything you need. On the way back, I’ll drop you off here again.”

YN is rightfully confused, biting at her bottom lip, “And what do you expect of me?”

“No sex,” Harry assures her, “I won’t try anything.”

“But why? This doesn’t make any sense. It’s just wasting money,” YN points out, she was starting to tremble from the cold.

Harry tugs off his jacket once again, this time he holds it out, and YN slips her arms in without complaint - she was freezing.

“You seem easy-going. I’ve been on the road for five years, guess I’m lonely and some company would be nice,” Harry shrugs, a rueful smile as he adds, “Also I’ll be damned if you’re getting in that scumbag’s truck. You deserve better than that.”

YN does something that shocks Harry.

She steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around his middle, her face burying in her chest as she hugs him.

The tips of her hair are dampening his own shirt but he cannot find it in him to complain.

This hug makes him realize just how long he’s been without human touch.

Harry is stiff, still processing, and YN must realize that because she starts to pull back with wide eyes, “I’m sorr-“

He shakes his head, finally moving his arms to wrap around her back, and he pulls her back into the hug - just for a moment.

“I got you, alright?” Harry rumbles as he pulls away, taking a step back, “Do you have a cell phone? Is there anyone you need to let know that you’re leaving for a few days?”

“No to both. I don’t have a cell phone, it broke a while back, and I couldn’t afford a replacement. And no, I don’t have anyone who will be concerned,” YN replies quietly, her voice was soft and sweet and filled with hurt.

“Okay,” Harry responds because he doesn’t know how to put into words that he doesn’t understand why she’s in a place like this, with no one.

She didn’t seem to have a bad bone in her body.

Harry guides YN back to his truck, as he opens the door he tells her, “I’m going to run Birdie for a few minutes. The clothes are still folded on the bed. I’ll get you new ones on the way. There aren’t stores for the next long stretch of miles.”

YN nods in agreement and as soon as Harry opens the door, Birdie is down the four steps and bounding towards YN.

Birdie jumped up on her hind legs, tail going wild as she accepts ear scratches and coos from YN, leaning down to kiss her snout.

And that’s another thing Harry doesn’t get, Birdie doesn’t do that with other people, normally she growls and bristles, bares her teeth and barks to get them away.

Birdie gets her love before bounding into the snow-topped fields, swallowing her up until Harry can only see flashes of black and white as she darts around.

It’s too cold to give her the normal amount of time and plus, he didn’t have his jacket so Birdie only got ten minutes before he whistled for her to come back.

Birdie’s whiskers are ice-tipped, snow dusting her beard, and she races back into the cabin with no issue in escaping the cold.

YN was already changed again, sitting on the bed.

Harry would be okay if he never saw her in a tight black dress or high heels again.

“I’m going to go refill my coffee, do a quick check of my truck, and then we’ll get out of here, okay?” Harry asks as he wipes Birdie off with a towel to get her dry - her fur was coarse and pretty water-resistant as it was, “Do you want food, a drink?”

YN shakes her head, declining as if it’s the polite thing to do, “No, thank you.”

Harry nods before disappearing back out of the truck.

The gas station is as desolate as it’s been the other two times that he’s gotten his coffee but now he had an armful of things.

Juices, water, hydration drinks, granola bars, a breakfast sandwich, a few cellophane-wrapped pastries.

The same clerk is still behind the register, his skin almost translucent from how pale he was, purplish veins contrasted the yellowish tone of his skin.

The man is old, his name tag reads ‘Gary’, and he scans the items with a bored expression, eyes blearing up to Harry at one point.

He had a rough, mid-western accent that made him harder to understand as he spoke, “Never a good idea to fall in love with a hooker.”

Harry is taken aback, startled by the comment as he replies, “What did you just say?”

Gary nods towards his truck out front, he clearly had seen YN going back and forth from the rest stop to his rig.

Then he nods down at the snacks, “M’just saying, son. Don’t put your eggs in her basket. They’re all smoke and mirrors. They’ll say and do just about anything for cash. Remember that.”

Harry is silent as he taps his card to the screen, he wasn’t in love with this girl, he had just met her mere hours ago under weird circumstances.

He didn’t feel anything towards her.

At least that’s what he was going to continue to tell himself so that he can remain headstrong on the promise he made to himself that he doesn’t need anyone.

He’s fine by himself.

Just him and Birdie.

Harry doesn’t give him a reaction nor a response, grabbing the plastic bag, and trudging back out into the cold.

Ready to get the fuck out of here.

YN is still where he left her but Birdie had finished her breakfast and was currently nuzzled up next to her thigh like she was her mother.

Harry unceremoniously drops the bag of items next to her, opposite of his traitorous dog, and doesn’t say anything - awkward and unsure.

YN opens the bag, glancing inside before looking up at him.

“It’s for you,” Harry waves his hand dismissively before moving to rub the back of his neck, why the fuck was he acting like this?

Like he was trying to court her with cheap gas station food and his clothes.

“Do you do this often? For girls like me?” YN wonders out loud, it’s not necessarily judgemental but curiously confused.

“I’ve never had a girl in here before, so no,” Harry shrugs, unable to hold eye contact because she’s pretty and he’s embarrassed.

“Do you…” YN hesitates, glancing down at her hands, “Nevermind.”

“You can ask me anything,” Harry doesn’t have much of anything to hide, “S’fine.”

“You don’t have a wife and kids at home, do you?” YN is timid, like she’s worried about how he’ll react to such a question.

Harry snorts, nonplussed, “No. I don’t have any family and I call this rig my home. No wife or kids.”

“Guess we’re both alone,” YN picks at a loose thread on the pajama pants, it was a fact for both of them, and the air was solemn between them.

“Well, for the next few days we have each other, right?” Harry huffs as he turns to the cabinet, out of sight, he punches in the code to his safe, and takes out the cash he promised, “Here’s the money.”

YN’s eyes go wide, taking it after a moment, running her thumb nail under the bills as they flutter before she’s tucking it into her backpack.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness but I am so grateful,” YN said earnestly, her eyes were doe-like and molten like heated caramel.

And Harry realizes for the first time since he’d met her that he hadn’t thought about his depression, about how he didn’t want to be here most days, and how most days had been all of his days lately.

She had given him a reason to keep on going for at least the next few days because he had her to take care of, protect.

Birdie was the only thing that had kept him here for the last three years, when it’s started to get really bad because he’d never abandon her.

Even if it meant enduring his own suffering for her - he would do anything for that dog, his lifeline, his lifesaver when he’s drowning.

He’s getting that same feeling with YN and he knows that’s dangerous because she could want to jump ship tomorrow and he’d be alone again.

Despite Gary’s forewarning, Harry might be putting his eggs in the basket of a girl he met less than twenty-four hours ago.

[ahhhwomen]

Copycat

Pairing: Dark!Wanda Maximoff x Dark!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

A/N: Well here it is! The new and (hopefully) improved version of Copycat! The OG will not be removed btw, so don't worry if these changes aren't to your liking. Tbh I gave up editing this thing halfway, but I definitely think I improved it.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. All mistakes are my own.

Warnings: Ghostface, implied murder, knife play, humiliation, degradation, smut, so much smut, Mistress kink, Halloween, dub-con, Dom!Reader, Sub!Wanda, Wanda is a total bottom in this entire thing Minors DNI 18+

Summary: Halloween is around the corner, all you want is a calm night home alone… though it seems the universe can never give you a break. Or; Your phone rings with a mysterious number on the night of Halloween. What’s your favorite scary movie?

Word Count: 7.2k

You have always taken a liking to Halloween, but even you have to admit this year was turning out to be too much. Between the excessive amount of Halloween activities, decorations, and the new wanna-be Ghostface, it was starting to get to you.

Since the start of October, bodies have been turning up left and right, all with the same knife lacerations. All from the iconic Ghostface's choice of weapon.

Or a copy of it, anyway.

You snicker to yourself as you scroll past the multitude of outlandish articles trying to pinpoint why the town killer suddenly changed their routine after five years of dedicated Halloween night slaughters.

The screen is cold as your thumb glides against it, trying to escape the new narrative that the OG has gone off the rails, more so than the town of less than two thousand people can wrap their heads around.

If you thought like them, you would also be confused and terrified.

Yet-

You don’t have to be a genius to know it's a mere copycat.

For starters, a true killer would never change the storytelling of their kill within such a slim window, and even if they did, their true dedication would never change to such a drastic contrast as the recent kills showcased.

Whereas the real Ghostface would play with their victim and start off by only slicing nonthreatening veins in a close to surgical precision, this new imitator would finish them off by mere coincidence, there was no way for them to keep control over their victim´s lifespan with the rouge slashes that the news spoke of.

Whomever this copycat was, they were sloppy and attention-seeking.

The real Ghostface has been killing for over five years at this point, and still, they remain unknown.

This copycat will probably be busted before Halloween even takes place.

However, you would be lying if you said it didn’t concern you a bit; at least with the real Ghostface you knew when to expect havoc and you could take precautions to keep the ones you love safe.

A copycat is not as easy.

With keys in the form of pepper spray, you keep caution locked inside your heart, as you continue your trudge toward Wanda´s house.

The plastic canister rattles with every step, weighing down your right pocket as it slams against you. The frequency of each click changes depending on the asphalt, and as you step foot on the wooden porch it settles with one final clack against your midthigh.

With Halloween just around the corner, you have come to reiterate the tradition between yourself and the redhead. That tradition being to watch all your favorite horror movies the night before Halloween.

It started because you would both be busy, trick-or-treating and partying the night of and it would be a waste not to celebrate such a strange day with your favorite person.

Or, she would be busy trick-or-treating and partying, while you stayed at home worrying about her with your doors double locked and the porch lights off. You like Halloween, you just prefer to stay home and be comfortable, rather than to fit into a tight outfit and worry if too much or too little of your ass is showing. 

You ring the doorbell on Wanda's ridiculously decorated door and wait while the creepy plastic skeleton stares you down from where there would usually be a wreath.

You don’t have to wait long, and soon you can hear subtle footsteps close in on where your feet are planted to stained wood.

It's Mrs. Maximoff that opens. Her tone is gentle as she acknowledges you, “Hey Sweetie, Wanda is just in her room, go right ahead.”

She lets you in with a warm, welcoming smile and a pat on your shoulder. Her hand settles something within you that you can’t explain, and you smile back. You thank her and climb up the stairs of their expensive house.

You can’t help but feel more at home here than at your actual home as your fingers run along the intricate design in the stairs railing.

You like Mrs. Maximoff.

Ever since you were little you have been best friends with Wanda. When Wanda´s mother and father realized you were often alone as a child due to an absent father and an avoidant mother, they took you in and quickly became your pseudo-family.

You will always look up to Mrs. and Mr. Maximoff for their help and welcoming presence, but it was different with Wanda.

Her parents treated you as their daughter and you felt immensely grateful and happy to be a part of it, but Wanda has never been like a sister to you. Even when you were kids, she was always so much more to you, though as much as it breaks your heart, you can never tell her that.

You shake your thoughts off as you enter Wanda's bedroom to find her changing.

Your eyes kiss the back of your skull with how hard they roll from her antics. “I know you could hear me walking up and yet you still chose the last second possible to put your clothes on.”

The light from outside her ginormous window encapsulates her body perfectly as your eyes dance over the expanse of her stomach while you chuckle to yourself.

Wanda snickers as she pulls the hem of her t-shirt down, not all the way, she leaves a couple of inches ridding up her sides, just enough to tease you.

A sultry voice carries over the room and blesses your ears, “Well, I gotta give my little pervert a show, don’t I?” Wanda smiles with mirth and you return it.

This girl, you think to yourself.

Playing it cool you answer the way you usually do. “Pretty sure you are the pervert in this equation.” You say with a shrug.

It's now Wanda's turn to roll her eyes as she lays down, with a pat on the bed she signals for you to do the same.

“Potato potahto,” her light laugh floats around the room as you settle yourself beside her, you can’t help but lift your lips into a gentle smile as the redhead laughs to herself at her stupidity.

You missed her, you hung out just the other day, but you miss her on a deeper level.

It has been like this for a while, so you push it down as you stare up at the ceiling.

An array of pictures, posters, and drawings of the infamous Ghostface stare right back at you. One shift of your view and the very same can be said for every other surface within her room. From the ceiling to her desk to her bedside drawer, it’s all covered with different illustrations of the cold-blooded murderer.

Ever since that Halloween five years ago, Wanda has had a deep obsession with the Ghostface killer. An unhealthy obsession, you think to yourself as your eyes sone in to see a new replica of the Ghostface mask on Wanda's desk.

With a sigh, you look over at Wanda with disapproval at the new addition.

Wanda pretends not to see you.

You know to tread carefully around this subject, but you can’t help yourself and you lean up on your elbows and voice your disdain for her “hobby”.

“Wands, we talked about this.”

She pushes herself up on her elbows and slaps your arm gently. “It's not that bad,” she gives you her best puppy dog eyes, but you don’t budge.

“It's wrong that’s what it is, you can't simp over a real killer Wanda. It's not right” You can see irritation build in her delicate features as she thinks your words over.

“You are just jealous I am giving someone else attention.” She huffs. You know she doesn't mean it like that, but it stings when it’s put so bluntly. There is a hint of truth in what she says, but you ignore it.

“I am not jealous; you are just sick.” You say it in a lighthearted manner, but you can tell Wanda does not appreciate the call out.

“No, what is sick is what that dickhead would have done had Ghostface not killed him that night.” You have to agree with her on that part. So, you nod, but make sure to add a

“Still.”

Sensing that this is not the right time, you change the subject by asking what movie to start with.

“Same as always dumbass,” Wanda giggles as she gets up to retrieve her computer. Already set up with Friday the 13th.

A heavy sigh echoes throughout your empty home as you drag your hands down your face in frustration.

The night has dragged on for far too long. Kids and teenagers alike running up and down the streets for hours on end sure can piss you off.

You have been camping on your couch the entire night, making sure to keep the news on as you scroll through social media.

Wanda said she had some family over, so you don’t have to worry about her this year.

Which is a relief, you aren’t really in the mood for an extra adventure today anyway, it's been forever since you could just stay home the entire Halloween night.

Even so, unease has plagued you ever since the night started.

It's strange, the copycat and the original have not shown their face today. The night is almost over, but only party drama and yelling neighbors have been reported on. The original is one thing, but you were sure the copycat would take advantage of the night. Surely this build-up hasn't been for nothing?

You are almost disappointed.

In the mood for something to do you get around to making dinner, it may be the middle of the night, but like the nocturnal creature you are you don’t care either way. You never had a routine, not until you started hanging out at Wanda’s house, so some habits are hard to lose.

You are just finishing up with the dishes when your phone calls. The newly dried plate clatters as you put it down. You dry your hands with the kitchen towel, the material is rough and scratchy as your hands glide against it, then once your hands are fully dry you make your way over to the couch where your abounded phone lays.

Peering down at the metal thing you tilt your head in confusion.

The caller ID is unfamiliar. 

Usually, you wouldn’t bother picking up, but for some reason today was different. So, with an uncertain sigh, you shrug the chills that prickle your spine off and answer.

“Hello?”

Your brows furrow when silence hangs in the air. Just as you are about to hang up a deep voice answers.

“Hello, is Ms. y/l/n there?” You narrow your eyes as the voice questions you.

You don’t trust it; your mother always insists on people calling her by her first name.

You can't even remember the last time you heard someone call her by her last. It must be a work call then, maybe your mother mixed your numbers up. Something even more peculiar, you are not even sure she knows your number.

You right your posture and lean more heavily on your right foot, shifting your weight. Already suspicious, you make sure to answer vaguely.

Whomever they are, you aren’t interested in talking much more.

“No, I'm sorry. This is her daughter, I can give you her number if you would like?” You can hear a puff of laughter on the other end. Their tone unsettles you.

“Aah, so you must be y/n. I have heard quite a bit about you.” Your grip tightness against the offending object as the person on the other line lies to you. Your mother barely acknowledges your existence, and there is no way she talks about you.

Even family members have been blindsided when they heard your mother had a child. You were seven at the time.

Something is definitely off.

“Who is this?”

Now fully engaged in this mystery of a conversation you turn off the TV and leave the living room, intending to end this conversation swiftly, after getting some questions answered, and going to bed. Its only 1 a.m., but all the noise has been wearing you thin the entire day.

Again, there is a long silence before they answer.

“I'm your mom's friend.” They don’t add anything beyond that. You know they are lying; no one calls your mother by her last name if they are her friends. You are curious as to what they could want, however, so you keep the conversation going.

“Oh, really? What's your name?” You subconsciously cross your left arm over your right while holding the phone tightly to your ear.

“You can call me Mike.”

You blink, stopping in the middle of ascending the staircase.

“Mike?”

“Yes.”

You remove the phone from your ear and look at it briefly before answering.

“Mike is the only name you could think of? Really Wanda?”

You smirk, continuing your travels up the steep staircase and turning left toward your room as silence hangs between the two of you.

“…”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” Wanda avoids your question by asking her own.

You bite your lip; satisfied with yourself. You let the soft plush of your clean sheets engulf you as you lay down. Then, and only then, do you choose to entertain this mood of hers.

“SpongeBob” Wanda will find that reference hilarious, you were nine when she introduced the show to you. You had nightmares about that damn sponge for weeks, there was just something about him.

That’s why it takes you by surprise when the voice seems angered by your response.

“This is not the time for games!”

You agree, you are far too tired for these mind games so if this is how she wants to play this then fine.

“Fine, how about this? Who is your favorite killer?” You put extra flair of dramatics into your voice while you question her. The dramatized voice paired with trivia questions comes naturally to you after watching all types of trivia game night shows with Wanda throughout the years.

“I asked you first.” Childish.

“No, you asked me what my favorite horror movie is, I answered.” You thought it over, “Oh well I answered a show, but you get what I mean. Now I want you to answer my question.”

There was a tense rustling on the other end and stomping footsteps before it got silent, and the answer was a mere whisper. “Ghostface.”

Not very surprising. You smile to yourself as you roll over on your stomach and fiddle with your duvet. You wonder what she is up to.

“It's my turn now,” the deep voice darkened, “Why did Ghostface kill that boy five years ago?”

Your body tenses. You don’t like where this is going, so you play dumb. “How am I supposed to know?”

The voice gets louder. “Answer me!”

You feel yourself tighten a little at her tone, what is she getting at? “Look Wanda I don’t know what you want. I don’t know why Ghostface killed Vision.”

All background noise disappears from the call, you can’t even hear breathing. Then, a strained voice, like cat claws on a chalkboard, speaks up.

“Wrong answer.”

Before you can reply, the phone call ends.

You debate with yourself on whether or not to call Wanda, she usually plays some prank now and then, but this was something else.

You don’t have time to think about it before a knock can be heard on your front door. An unpleasant feeling pools in the bottom of your stomach as you try to ignore it. Plenty of children can’t take a hint and come here looking for candy, you rationalize with yourself.

You are just paranoid.

The knocking doesn't stop, however. You puff your chest before getting up and deciding to put an end to this. When you unlock and tear open the door, intending to give a stern talking to whatever kids were up so late, you are stunned at the lack of anyone.

You slam your door closed and lock it. Whomever they were, they were messing with you. Probably just some bored teens from your high school, or Wanda. Either way, if you didn’t react, they were sure to get bored.

As you head back upstairs the pieces of the puzzle take place.

The voice, Ghostface was known for using a voice box and calling their victims with stupid trivia questions. You knew this well, you just didn’t expect it to happen to you.

You are three steps up the stairs when you hear your door unlock.

You snap your head to the sound. Only three people have the keys to your house: yourself, your mother, and Wanda. You know Wanda likes her fun, but she wouldn’t take it this far.

The handle doesn't move. You wonder if you imagined it all together? No this isn’t right. You scan your surroundings before going back to the door.

Sure enough, both locks were undone.

“Enough!” You hate to admit it, but you were getting nervous.

“Whoever the fuck you are, fuck off!”

You can hear your phone go off in your room, “Damn it,” you curse yourself for never taking it with you as you again lock the door. The cold metal does little to settle you as you triple-check that you indeed have locked the door.

Then, taking a glass from the kitchen, you rigg it up on the front door handle. Some kids don’t know when they have taken it too far, so you have to make sure to be one step ahead.

Like always.

You walk deadly silent as you go to get your phone, now that you have finally caught on, you have no doubt of what game will start once you pick up the phone.

You are being hunted.

Despite the consequences, when you see the lit up screen atop your duvet, you don’t hesitate. You slide your thumb over the screen, picking up the call.

All the while, you keep moving.

“What do you want?”

The voice sounds rough and excited. “Me? I am just trying to get someone's attention.”

Go figure. The one Halloween you just wanted to spend in peace the damn copycat has to target you.

“Right. The infamous copycat is it? So is it like a kink or..?”

You are standing in your kitchen now, if they want to play, you’ll play.

You tighten your hands into fits as you anticipate the comeback.

“Cheeky. No, I am just trying to prove a theory.” This bitch.

You can hear heavy breathing on the other end like they are running… Or have just stopped.

You grab the strongest knife in your drawer. Then you put it back.

It’s a risky move you know, but you also know that no one ever thinks of the back door leading into the woods and it's safer for you to run than fight.

At least for now.

Besides, what’s the fun of ending it this early?

“And what do I have to do with this theory?” You chew your lip in annoyance as you lean your body weight forward. Ready to bounce any second now.

“You don’t, you are just an easy target.” This absolute fucking bitch.

“What theory is it that you are trying to prove? Trying to test Ghostface's ability to kill or something? There can only be one or whatever?” You try to keep calm, but you can hear your own voice echo on their side, you sound pathetic, with your breathing fast and escalating by the second.

“Don’t be jealous, this will be over soon.” They have no idea.

The glass shatters and you run.

You don’t even think about it, you dash straight out the back door and into the thick forest surrounding your home.

It doesn’t take long before you can hear them close behind.

The voice box activates. “There is no point in running!”

Truly an amateur, everyone knows running will be your safest bet when you don’t have a weapon. Fighting should always be the last resort when you are inferior to the killer. It's basic movie logic.

You run until you see it. Your safe haven.

The shed.

The shed creaks open and slams shut as you barricade the door. You have been trying to hold it together all night, but now that you stand there surrounded by your darkest secret and seconds away from revealing it to the psycho copycat, you can't help it.

You are getting excited.

It's been ages since you got to play, and there is no need to run now. They are about to enter your territory; they will be inferior.

You have just finished getting ready when you hear the door kick in. Just as expected the killer stops as soon as they take in their surroundings.

Got you.

The copycat threads carefully, the shed is unexpected. Unfaired territory, filled with… Filled with Ghostface?

The shed is a rundown, abandoned, shit box the copycat has never seen anyone use. Yet here it stands, filled to the brim with every crime and murder Ghostface has ever committed.

As their eyes glide over the various papers and pictures strewn about, they are riddled with confusion. Everything is written in more detail than what they could ever put together themselves. They have read all the pieces of information out there, yet they don’t even know half of the scribbled and planned murders that litter the walls and table.

It only takes a moment for it to set in.

They just walked into the fucking lion's den.

And you will show no mercy.

The copycat freezes as a voice rings through the still air.

“Don’t look so disappointed. You are getting what you want, aren’t you?”

It’s delicious really, the way you stalk your prey as they flail their head around trying to locate you in the dark shed. Your infamous knife is strongly gripped in your right hand, then with a deliberate creak of wood beneath your feet the copycat wooshes their body toward you.

As your eyes connect, they start walking backward, startled by your closeness.

Their knife drops to the ground as you trudge forward. God, there is nothing quite like the sight of them shivering beneath their poorly made mask.

A mask you have most definitely seen before.

They walk straight into your little homemade table and you take the advantage to press your body into theirs. Your masks; almost touching.

“Tell me,” you raise your hands to their covered face. Slowly peeling the mask off as you continue. “What theory was it you wanted to prove? Hm?”

Just as red hair reveals itself a hand takes hold of your wrist to stop you from going any farther. That’s fine by you, you know they didn’t realize when you deactivated the voice box.

Nagging them on you continue, “Don’t leave me hanging, what do you want to know? I might just answer it before I cut your pretty tongue out.” You hold the knife up to their face before slowly dragging it down the mouth of their mask and leaving it just under their jaw.

Wanda's meek voice responds.

“I- I I didn’t mean too- too-“

You mock her “too- too-?” “Spit it out pretty girl.” You dig the knife in, just a little.

Too lost in the situation, Wanda hasn't caught onto her voice filling the room.

“Why do you keep killing for me?” So, the age-old question is finally voiced out loud.

You smile beneath your mask. You consider lying, but it's Wanda.

“Because I can.”

Truth be told, it started when you saw the football jock Vision put his hands on Wanda five years ago at a random Halloween party. After that night it evolved.

It just feels right to kill for the things you love.

You don’t let Wanda query anymore, taking hold of her mask you rip it off, revealing her tear-stained cheeks and scared eyes. You have to resist digging the knife in harder, yet it still digs minuscule more. Just enough for one drop.

A single drop of blood that slides onto your gloved finger.

Your eyes snap toward the red drop as it disappears against your black glove, as the dampness against your finger hits you, you can’t resist anymore.

Wanda lets out a squeak as you push her onto the table. Your knife never leaving her pale skin. Using your weight against her to keep her compliant, you straddle her. Leaning closer to her, you force eye contact by pulling her hair just right.

You want her to look at you. You want her to see you the way she did when you killed that pathetic football jock.

Wanda is not one to disappoint, her blown pupils are a window to exactly what you want.

Her feelings are on clear display; she is scared, yet deeply aroused.

Your gloved hand drags the tip of your knife down her body until you are hovering over her covered breasts. With your left hand, you clutch the fabric of her gown, cutting it open with the knife held in your right. Wanda whines as she squirms to get away from you.

You laugh at her pathetic little sounds as you forcefully grab her by the chin.

You lift your mask, only enough for your mouth to be seen, and you press your lips against Wanda´s quivering ones. She only resists for a moment, and then a delectable moan vibrates against you.

You return it when you push your tongue into her sweet, hot, mouth. You swirl your tongue around while your hands rip open her outfit. You let your hands glide and grope as they please and soon you feel her bra-clad breasts heavy in your hands. You let the knife slice her bra like butter.

You break the kiss to give your full attention to the sinful heaven exposed in front of you. Wanda turns her head away from you as she catches her breath, you let her. The only thought occupying your mind is how you will destroy her so sweetly tonight.

After keeping yourself at bay for so long, there is only so much you can do when she whorishly seeks you out. And in such a rude manner too. She was using you to get to, well you, but she didn’t know that. A punishment needs to be set in place; one you will have no regret enforcing.

You settle your mask back in place as you stand and move away from the poor birdy.

She looks up in confusion and disappointment when you go.

Picking up Wanda’s knife and walking over to an armchair nestled in the corner of your den Wanda struggles to sit up as her chest heaves with each manual breath, uncertain of what you want, as you study her from your corner.

You point her knife towards the open door. “Close it.”

Unsurprisingly, Wanda hesitates before complying. You tsk in disapproval, Wanda moves just a tiny bit faster at the sound. It's flimsy, the way she has to wobble her way over as her shredded clothes gather just before her thighs.

After it's properly closed you instruct Wanda to lock it using the plank you point out. This time she does it in a timelier manner.

After it's done she takes a timid step towards you and you nod in approval.

However, when the redhead tries removing your mask you take ahold of her wrist and bend it until she yelps in pain. The surge of power and arousal that shoots through you almost makes you lose your calm, but you soldier on.

Your gaze remains unfaced as she sniffles in pain. “You don’t get to touch me.” You say as a matter of fact.

“Why not,” tears gleam in the redhead’s eyes as she whines.

“Because only good girls get to touch their Mistress.” Wanda whimpers at your words. Her knees buckle and her nipples harden. You put the knives between the cushions of the rough chair.

You will need both of your hands for this.

As she stands there you can't help but admire her. She looks just the way you imagined she would. Her frame is perfection, even with her clothes hanging off her and tear stains gleaming on her flushed cheeks. You want to eat her up. But first, her punishment.

You act unbothered as you command her.

���Kneel.” Wanda’s eyes widen as her desperation dampens her underwear.

There is a dull thud as Wanda’s knees connect with the water-damaged wood planks. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from singing her praise for such a simple task, but you can’t help it when you automatically pet her hair gently in reward.

You think of all the times you dreamed of holding her like the pet she is. Your palm smoothes her hair down while you mule over how long it's been since you had a good orgasm. When she´s putty beneath you, you grab a fist full of red tresses and roughly pull her closer to your crotch.

Taking the hint Wanda lifts your dark gown and gasps at the lack of underwear. It's cute that she convinced herself you believed the copycat was anyone but her. This punishment has been long in the planning.

You push more intently on her. “Don’t stop now. Be a good whore and mistress may give you a reward.”

You are glad you kept the mask on as you drool looking down at her while she gets to work. She’s so tiny and irrelevant, one calculated squeeze and you can have her begging for her life while she eats you out. The power imbalance is almost enough to make you cum before Wanda can put her talents to use.

When Wanda's hot mouth makes contact with your folds, sucking and teasing you, you have half the mind to tie her down and force her to watch while you fuck yourself with your fingers. However, you can't resist her when she finally sucks your clit into her keen, wet, fuck-hole.

You wonder if she has done this before as it only takes a minute for your eyes to roll into your skull. Jealousy takes hold of you at the thought.

Pushing the redhead away from yourself, sooner than she can get a word out, you lay her onto her back on the cold floor and straddle her face. Wanda goes to grab your hips, but you force her down. Holding her wrists over her head you instruct her to stay still.

You can’t help but tease her by riding the air just higher than what Wanda's greedy tongue can reach. You drag your body slowly back and forth sensually, making sure to let some breathy moans and groans rile her up.

“I thought I told you to be good.” You tighten the grip around her wrists in warning.

Wanda, who had been slowly trying to lean upward, lowers herself. She is smart enough to act remorseful, you decide to let it go this once. Far more concerned with satisfying your thirst you take your seat right on Wanda’s waiting mouth.

Wanda makes the jealousy easier as she moans loudly into your pussy while pushing her tongue against your hard clit. It's erotic the way Wanda’s hips buck aimlessly while your juices drip down her chin.

The harsh oak makes your knees sting and you can only imagine how Wanda's back must feel. Of course, Wanda is too far gone, she’s moaning and rocking against the air with her eyes closed.

With this small turn of events, your punishment needs an adjustment.

So, you improvise. Originally you were going to make her fuck you until you ran out of cum. However, being on the floor may prove to make that difficult.

The jingle of the whore’s boobs, whilst she tries humping anything she can get between her legs, does give you an idea.

Leaning back you mindlessly search the chair. When your hand connects with the handle of a familiar steel knife you grab on. Keeping it behind your back so as to not let the redhead get a peak. You doubt she can see it even if she wants to, too deep in your cunt for her to see anything. Besides, she has her eyes closed as a bead of sweat runs down her forehead.

She continues lapping up your wetness like a dog, none the wiser as you debate on whether or not to hold the knife against her jugular. Reflecting over it, she has been good, so you keep the knife behind you.

If only to use it if she misbehaves.

Misbehaving seems to be the last thing on her mind however, she is devouring your pussy like it’s the last meal on earth. When she introduces her nose into the mix, bumping it into your clit while you ride her tongue, white-hot pleasure runs through you.

Sounds, like you have never heard yourself make, escape before you even think to stop them. Your toes are close to curling and tension tightens in your lower back. Yet you rearrange yourself away from the redhead's hungry mouth, now is not the time.

After Wanda finishes gasping for air that you hadn’t allowed her, her eyes fly open at the lack of your taste.

You stand over her.

Scrunching her eyebrows together, the redhead whines in confusion, but you ignore her in favor of fixing your outfit. Like the good girl you know she is, Wanda stays in place. All fight evaporated as soon as you touched her. You can’t help but scoff at how easy she is.

She looks like a bitch in heat, panting and twitching as you stand over her with your knife gripped like a phyton.

You tilt your head. The torn rags still holding on by a thread annoy you. “Take your clothes off.”

Wanda's eyes lack any thought as she heeds to your every whim.

She removes the cheap outfit slowly, pushing it off her shoulders and down her waist, over her ass, and past her legs. She removes her ruined bra next, sliding it off each arm and letting it fall into a heap beside her.

You sneer at her disobedience.

“All of it.” You accompany the words with a snap of your fingers.

There is a long silence while the demand sinks into her empty head. Then like lighting, Wanda takes off her soaked underwear.

She trembles as you leisurely walk around her, tapping the knife in a set rhythm against your hand.

You soak in her completely nude and vulnerable frame.

Just how you like her.

Stopping in front of Wanda´s open legs. Her body is begging for you to touch her, she is heaving, drooling, desperate. And you have no plan on soothing it.

Ever since you were younger Wanda has always been a particularly touchy person, she needs human touch to function. Without it, she can't do certain things. Like how she refuses to take a walk unless you hold her hand, and how you can see her struggle to get up and shower if you don’t promise cuddles after.

That’s why when you found her little devious plan three months ago you decided the only punishment fit for a sadist like her would be to remove all sense of touch. Deprive her of the one thing she needs to cum, your touch.

You return to your chair, mask back in place, knife tightly gripped.

“Touch yourself.”

Wanda swallows thickly as she watches you beneath heavy lids before nodding to herself.

You have seen the way, Wanda slowly gathers her wetness and spreads it around her libido while her breath turns shallow, many times. You can’t count how many times you silently sneaked into her bedroom, always mindful of what floorboards would give you away.

You have seen the way she struggles when she gets close. So close, yet so far away. Alone and desperate.

This is different, this time she is doing it for you and only you.

Wanda never breaks eye contact through the black mesh of your mask. It's only when she pinches her clit that her head gets thrown back and a prolonged moan emits from her that she can’t keep her act up. She is close, but if you play your cards right, she won’t be going over.

You dig the knife into the armrest and swirl it back and forth, fiddling like you're bored.

Wanda’s eyes burn holes in your mask as she studies you from where she sits just a few feet away, but you overlook her.

Wanda, very much, does not like this newfound disinterest you have in her. She speeds up her fingers, moving them clockwise and pressing down hard. Every time she tries to get your attention by moaning louder or trying to press her foot into your boot you tune her out and move away.

Just as you thought, when the redhead’s orgasm approaches, she struggles. Her moans of pleasure turn into whines of frustration, and you don’t look at her. You keep your focus on the knife. This is where the real punishment starts, one mistake from you and you know she will have no issue falling over the edge and screaming her pleasure for the entire world to hear.

No, you will make her suffer, if only a little.

After all the running you have had to do tonight you are making sure she will be left breathless and exhausted before an orgasm is in order.

For ten minutes you distract yourself, for ten minutes Wanda balances painfully on the edge of pleasure.

You only take pity on her when she taps the floor twice.

Raising your eyes you see Wanda with fresh tear tracks running down her cheeks while her fingers work overtime trying to move faster than you have ever seen them move before. You have to hold back a moan at the sight.

You stand slowly, dragging every movement out. Wanda stares wide-eyed and hopeful as she cries from the pain and pleasure. You make your way between spread legs and crouth down to her eye level. Lifting her chin with the tip of your knife, she stops her movements.

Good.

You know you have her attention now.

Without uttering a word, you remove your mask with your unoccupied hand.

As soon as your face is free of its confinement and Wanda sees you in all your mad beauty, a moan so deep and sonorous it leaves her dumbfounded, fills the damp air.

While she is distracted by the new sound, she can make, you hold eye contact and leave the knife in place. Without looking, you reach down and pinch her neglected clit so hard she screams.

She comes so hard she sees stars.

Wanda is a heap of moans and whines as your gloved fingers pet her folds and clit gently, bringing her down, it takes multiple minutes before her vision returns.

When she gets back to herself you are lying on top of her and petting her sides. She doesn't even realize she is crying until you carefully wipe her tears away while praising her.

“There you go, baby.”

“It's okay, you did so well.”

“Mistress is very proud of you.”

“Just breathe for me, honey.”

“That’s it honey, good job.” You sooth her while she gathers herself. She came for a full three minutes before she promptly passed out. As worried as you were in the moment, you have to admit you are a little proud of yourself.

That is definitely the hardest you have ever seen her cum.

After a while, you can hear her mumble something.

“What’s that baby?”

Wanda, in a surprising turn of events, locks you against her chest and flips you both. You blink up at her as she giggles from your tense reaction.

“Sorry,” you watch her giggle to herself, and you know for a fact she is not sorry, “I couldn’t help it, you just look so cute when you are surprised.”

You grin with her, but you also grab the knife beside you and lift it to her neck. She quickly stops laughing, but she isn’t scared. Not anymore.

“Behave, don’t forget who´s in charge here.” You fix her with a stern glance.

Wanda deflates a little, but her hands never leave you. She trails her hands up and down your body, groping everything she can. You dig the knife deep enough to where she has to stay still if she wants to keep her vocal cords.

Wanda mewls, “please.”

You roll your eyes at her. “Please what?”

“Please can I touch you, Mistress?”

You smirk, “You are touching me.” The disappointment rolls off Wanda in waves, but she knows what she needs to do.

Not wanting to actually hurt the redhead you had loosened your pressure without realizing it, Wanda uses that to her advantage.

The deviant redhead swiftly moves your hand out of her way to attack your mouth with a round of kisses. She then pushes her tongue in and swirls it teasingly around yours. You moan into her as she grinds her leg against your covered clit.

You let this go on until you need her inside you.

Clutching the fine hairs at the back of her neck you tear her away from yourself. You tighten until she wheezes, then you speak.

“If you ever disobey me like this again I will tie you down with a vibrator and leave you like that for hours. Do you understand me?” The redhead nods as best as she can.

You let go of her neck only to grab her hair again. You stand, dragging her with you. “Sit.” You point at the chair as you let go.

Wanda obediently listens without defiance this time.

“You are lucky,” you tell her as you straddle her thighs.

“If I wasn’t in the mood for an orgasm I would have you over my knee now.” You grind into her lap as you speak. This time when Wanda goes to grab you, you let her.

Wanda controls your hips as you pound yourself into her lap. She is more than eager to comply when you command her to put a finger in.

You ride her until you can't take it anymore and reach down to draw tight circles over your forgotten clit.

You cum so fast it almost gives you whiplash. Wanda moans with you as clear liquid coats her hand.

You both fall into an exhausted pile of post-orgasm bliss as you settle. Wanda cuddles into you and you lean your chin atop her head. She nuzzles into your neck and sighs with satisfaction.

You are half-dosing when a giggle abrupts from the girl in your arms. You look down at her with a confused tilt to your head. Wanda is already grinning up at you.

“Same time next year?” You laugh at your girlfriend of six years and nod while kissing her sweaty forehead.

“Same time next year.”

[ntls-24722]

FNAF FANARTISTS!!!!!!!!!!! DJ MUSIC MAN AND MUSIC MAN ARE NOT THE SAME CHARACTER

many times, when fnaf artists are requested to draw music man/dj music man, they get them mixed up!!! which is reasonable!!!!!!! we know almost nothing about them, google mixes them up constantly, and a certain matpat meme has only made it more confusing!

They all have very similar faces, but they've got some staggering differences!!!!! so im detailing them and also giving some trivia/our known knowledge of them!!!

MUSIC MAN (FFPS)

The OG music man! He made his debut in FFPS/Pizzeria Simulator and makes another appearance in UCN. He is!!! weird!!

He's not built like a spider-centaur, he's literally like a minecraft creeper with a torso and a bunch of legs at the bottom.

He's got a design unlike any other fnaf animatronic, even deviating from the style of the human ones, though this is speculated to be because he seems to have design elements from enemies and bosses from Scott Cawthon's other game, The Desolate Hope.

He's described to have "something undesirable" inside him (it's never explained what) and in the Posh Pizzeria group he is the only one to have a liability risk at times - in UCN he's the only one of the posh pizzeria that can and will kill you. Also, weirdly enough, in UCN he's the only animatronic other than the original Freddy, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy to use the FNAF 1 scream. Despite being called Music Man, his gimmick in UCN is that he hates noise and you need to keep it down for him to not kill you - music also counts as noise for him.

He's voiced by Matthew Curtis, who also voices nightmare Balloon Boy, here are his lines for UCN!

DJ MUSIC MAN (Security Breach)

DJ Music Man! (Always abbreviated to DJMM in-game)

If MM is built like a creeper then DJ is built like a pig - he's Horizontal and looks more spider-y

There's even less info on him, but here goes:

He's a party host who makes up all of his music on the spot, but in between sessions he cleans around the Plex! The reason why he goes nuts and tries to kill Gregory is that he has an experimental but prohibited bouncer mode that was turned on, which is why he's chill afterwards. He also doesn't speak, unlike Music Man.

BONUS: WINDUP MUSIC MAN (Security Breach)

Windup Music Man!

Designwise they're almost identical to MM, but they look like they got microwaved and scraped across asphalt at mach 10. And also got a windup key stuck in their back. And TINY

Ingame they're described to be a prototype of Music Man that escaped the little museum part of the Plex, and that's all we really know. Other than that, their dynamic together is kind of comparable to a bunch of ants working together. They also JUMP and can be seen conversing/playing together.

ALSO: Those cymbals are not legs, they just have a really weird stance similar to actual tarantulas.

There's technically 394 Windup Music Men because the game randomly generates them from a collection of fucked up parts.

There's no height indication for Music Man but here's one for the security breach cast by @/musings-of-astromonster

happy music man-ing

[sphireath-wisp]

Sypnosis: Being transported into the historical manhwa you were reading is no fun, is it? What's even worse is that you're the villainess in this story! But wait! Something's off. You've tweaked the story and changed the course of fate. What route will you take now?

Warnings: Strong implications of F! Reader (since we're talking about manhwa), not proofread, Alternate Universe, (kinda) close resemblance to the original plotline of the OG universe

Where are we? -> Prologue

The glaring headlights face you head-on, almost entirely blinding your field of view. Everything feels like it's in slow motion, you can't run in time and neither can you stop now. You can hear the engine of the car, it's pitiful that you didn't get the chance to say goodbye to your loved ones. However, you don't get the chance to think about any of that now - your body has lunged forward due to the car crash.

'From rags to riches,' they say, but this is all much too sudden. Whether you consider yourself lucky or not, you've been graced with a few more conscious minutes and the pain that comes after is unforgivingly quick. The grainy asphalt against your back is uncomfortable. The car screeches to a halt beside your limp body and the driver shouts out worried yelps. You don't know whether the liquid pooling beneath your body is rainwater or blood.

Black dots your vision before you hear any sirens. Perhaps the afterlife will give you some solace. It's a thought you entertain and it comforts your fear of death. Eyes fluttering shut, you can't find the energy to open them again. You've died. You would've died. You, by right, should've died.

So then... where exactly are you? Maids left and right shoot each other cautious, but worried glances. Stumbling your way past the maids and out of bed, you find yourself in front of what's supposedly your vanity, much too luxurious and intricate than you're used to. A face that's not yours looks back at you and, this time, your memory doesn't fail you.

"Ah," Even your voice sounds alien, smooth like the sweetest of honey. Your head turns back to the maids gathered in your room, the grandiose bedroom, the spacious canopy bed, and... your uncanny reflection. You've been reincarnated, but out of all the strange possibilities and probabilities, you've been bestowed a chance to live the life of a Villainess in the novel you browsed through on a whim.

(Name), a tyrant at their peak, and a ruler doomed to meet an early death by the guillotine with the jeers of your people. Your consciousness is now bound to the body of a cold-blooded heir of the Mortalis Kingdom, and you must take up their name as your own.

With a hand on your beating heart, with your body burning up more than it should, you feel yourself collapse. "Your Highness!" the maids scramble around you like a flock of bewildered fletchings, but they all hesitate to even graze your skin. "You shouldn't leave your bed, your grace. You've only just got over that terrible fever!"

Ah, so that's why you felt so tired. No worries, you'll spend much-needed time recovering and resting to your heart's content. Plus, you can spend all that extra time planning your next course of action without a disturbance - you'll need it! The Elysian Kingdom, ruled by the angels, already have a sour impression of you, (Name). Where do I even begin with the demons in the Umbryss Kingdom? You're such an easy puppet for them to take over Mortalis! Thorns overwhelm your path to a long life and the revolution that will take your head isn't far!

Will you make it?

Hi! In case I was too vague, let me explain the world I've created simply for those who are confused.

Mortalis -> Human World

Elysian -> Celestial Realm

Umbryss -> Devildom

In this world, you are the villainess in line for the throne, the direct daughter of the ruler of Mortalis. I'll introduce each character slowly and give them time to develop. Please note that there will be an overlap of characters in various chapters, BUT - of course - each character will have their own chapter to star in.

Tag list: @honeymoo-cafe, @whatever-fanfics

[lalunanymph]

𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋

wakasa’s death was the final straw that made shinichiro lose his last shred of humanity, turning him into a cruel and sadistic gang leader who feared nothing. that is until wakasa’s estranged sister shows up, claiming she would do anything to uncover the truth about her brother’s death… even if it means sacrificing everything to him. ┊ 𖨆♡𖨆 sano shinichiro x fem!reader

‗ ❍ mentions of murder, mentions of suicide, mentions of food, grief, longing, angst, fluff, suggestive content, betrayal, og timeline shin, dark!shin ┊7,8k+ words

. . . . . the title is the english translation based off this song. reader uses she/her pronouns for this third POV narrative instead of the conventional second POV (you). also... dawn not writing smut for a heavy fic for once? she truly is experimenting 💅🏼

They said that the only thing strong enough to kill a dragon was a dragon itself.

That in the face of pure danger, the great monster would rather eat its own tail than concede defeat.

Many myths surrounded the fearsome creature, and from a promise of brotherhood made by two men, a gang was formed, named after the famed mythical serpent. The streets of Tokyo shuddered from their name: The Black Dragons. 

For many years, they prospered, pillaged and reaped their way into violent notoriety, the mere utterance of them enough to draw a chill up every policeman’s spine and instil fear in their hearts. 

Until one day, the dragon ate itself whole. 

Tokyo’s streets ran red with their blood.

It was unimaginable horror; bodies strewn across the ground, brothers lost, families torn apart. At the eye of the storm, the cause for this destruction, was a young man called Sano Manjiro. 

He alone was the sole holder of his brother’s heart, and the day Mikey died was when Sano Shinichiro started down his path of destruction. Word on the street was that he roamed the alleys day and night, searching for an answer—a solution—to bring back the family he had lost. His bruised knuckles were telling, the dark circles under his eyes an even bigger indication of the lunacy he was descending into.

They said he left an old man bleeding out to death in the middle of a grimy road, his skull bashed into his head. His victim was homeless, they whispered. Nothing to his name but a dirty cart filled with scraps and the horrible misfortune of being targeted for something he had no control over.

Sano Shinichiro killed him in cold blood.

By some grace, an old friend found him and took him in with promises of riches, women and more drugs to ease the pain. Shinichiro agreed.

The forlorn, broken-hearted man worked alongside the Black Dragon leader, Wakasa Imaushi, to bring glory back to the discarded name of their gang. Lives were lost, blood ran the asphalt till it stung with a tangy rust. And still, Shinichiro was unsatisfied. 

He found no glory in the violent half-life he lived in, and the stories whispered that he got into a heated argument with Wakasa before the man’s body was found, face first in the Sumida river, his features bloated and disfigured beyond recognition. They managed to identify him by the last remaining purple streaks in his matted blond hair.

Shinichiro rose the ranks, a terrifying succession of the bloody crown Wakasa left to him.

For years, his reign remained uncontested, until one day, an underling stumbled into his office, wide-eyed and terrified of being the bearer of bad news.

“It’s about Wakasa-san, Sano-san,” the tattooed man’s brow furrowed. 

The dark-haired leader astride the sofa blinked, peeling those bottomless black eyes towards the messenger. He had not heard that name in years.

“What about him?” 

“His family is here—”

Shinichiro scoffed before the man could finish. “Family? Wakasa was an orphan.” Just like me. “He had no family.”

The thug’s expression twisted into one of hesitation, and his eyes darted out towards the heavily draped door, beyond the solitude of this VIP room filled with smoke and the fumes of alcohol.

“There must be a mistake, sir,” the man persisted, much to his growing annoyance. “Because his sister is right outside this club, begging to speak to you.”

Shinichiro was not one to believe in ghosts, but in this instance, he had gone pale as if he had seen a figment of his dead brother in the mirror.

“What?” 

His whisper was harsh—scratchy from the smoke. “What do you mean?” 

“Imaushi Y/N. She wants to speak to you.”

It would be easy to turn her away; to tell the underling to take her behind the dumpsters and slit her throat. Judging by the turbulence in the Imaushi family and the destabilisation of their entire structure (mom—dead, dad—missing, brother—dead), she would not be missed. 

He hesitated for a split second, before an irrational sort of impulse took over. One that reeked of insecurity as to whether he had truly gotten rid of his past… or if it was back to haunt him. 

“Fine. Send her in.”

Minutes passed, and the second she entered, Shinichiro’s frown deepened. While she may not look like Wakasa’s sister, the exact way in which she held your head high, and the same deadpan, sleepy stare spoke volumes of how the young woman before him was truly related to the once feared Black Dragon leader.

I know my brother didn’t commit suicide, her words were a fog in his mind. So, please tell me the truth.

Shinichiro swirled the dark, amber liquor in his glass. “Every truth has a price.”

“I’ll pay for it.” Feisty. He could plainly see now how you were related to the great Wakasa Imaushi. “Anything you want, I’d do it.” 

He peered her up and down. To many people, Sano Shinichiro must look like a soulless thug—his tattoos, sunken eyes and passive sneer were all indications of the dark path he chose. But, to her, he held a sad air, one she could sense was tied intimately with loss.

“You wouldn’t be able to stomach it.”

“Try me.” The dress she wore straight from her job in a bar suddenly felt too short—too see through. His eyes branded down her bare legs, stomach and exposed arms, lingering for a moment on her made up face. Shinichiro set down his glass, his thin lips set in a glare. 

“Listen, kid. You got the wrong idea. There was a reason why Wakasa ended up the way he did—”

“Please.” 

Fuck. She was crying. 

Heavy sobs echoed around the smoky room, every tear slowly defrosting his callous heart. Shinichiro always did hate it when women cried in front of him. It was partly the reason why he never dealt punishments to the weaker sex on his own, relying on his underlings to do the dirty work because he could never stomach their tears.

It chipped away at him, and eventually, he set his glass down onto the table with a frustrated sigh. 

“Shut up.”

She knew better than to defy a yakuza boss, and clamped her mouth shut, shoulders still heaving with tremors. 

Those dark, listless eyes drank in your tear-stained face, and he grunted softly, sinking back into the leather seat. So much for a relaxing drink after work.

“Take off your dress.”

Stunned, she thought she had heard him wrong. “W-what?” 

He gestured at the pretty, floral number she had wrapped around your suddenly shaking body. “Are you deaf? I told you to take off your dress.”

Her delicate throat moved in a quick gulp, and it didn’t take a genius for him to figure out that she was second guessing whether this entire crusade was worth it. He saw it in the minute shake of her fingers when they clenched into fists at her side, and how she couldn’t look him in the eye.

Maybe she would leave. Half of him wished she would. The other half wanted to wait and see if she was exactly like your brother—unafraid, uncaring of consequences and daring enough to do anything he said.

After a tense beat of silence, she stood up. Her finger shook when she lifted the hem of her skirt, exposing plush thighs, the white cotton panties she wore that made his dick twitch in his pants; the soft dips of her hips; revealing her stomach and breasts which were in a matching white bra. Finally, her bare collarbones and then, the damn dress was on the floor.

Shinichiro stared her up and down, savouring her submission. He lit a cigarette, puffing on it thoughtfully as she stood before him, fists and jaw clenched, looking like she wanted to murder him despite how the poor creature were shaking from head to toe. He let her stew in her humiliation for a few more minutes, silently finishing his white stick.

Flicking the butt into the ashtray, he gestured to his lap. “Come here.” 

What could she do but heed his words?

Her movements were stiff when she ambled towards him, and stood close enough for her calves to brush his kneecaps. 

“Sit down.” 

A stiff corpse. That was the closest thing Shinichiro could compare her to when she sank into his lap. He wasted no time in being brazen with his touches, gliding his palms down her hips and thighs, wanting her to relax yet also to keep her keyed up for more of his caresses. Those pretty shoulders of hers were hiked up to her ears, every pore oozing caution. 

Shinichiro found it amusing how two siblings could be entirely different—where Wakasa threw himself fully into any danger, she was by far the more subdued of the two. However, she did not shake his touch off when he caressed her thigh, leading his fingers slowly between the untouched terrain of your sex, every muscle in her body calling not to succumb to the temptation of getting up and bolting away.

As quickly as his touch came, it disappeared. He pushed her off his lap, and with an unfathomable expression, reached for his lighter and another white stick, the ember tip dancing in her periphery.

“Come back to this club tomorrow,” he flickered those bottomless onyx eyes towards her wide ones. “I have a need for a personal secretary. Someone who’s there 24/7 to take care of me. Cook my meals, watch out for me. Essentially, you would belong to me.” He wants a slave? Her expression could conceal her palpable mortification. Those dark eyes never wavered from her face. “Can you count?”

She nodded after a beat of hesitation. 

“Write?”

Again, she nodded.

“Are you good at handling a gun?”

She froze. 

Shinichiro interpreted her silence as a ‘no’ and he chuckled. She hated how that sound was both delicious and deep at the same time. Pull yourself together, Imaushi. 

“We can train you up,” he tapped his cigarette over the ashtray to discard the excess ash. “8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

The second she agreed to this harrowing plan to become Shinichiro’s secretary was when she came to the conclusion that she had accidentally made a deal with the Devil.

Not accidentally; as much as she hated to admit it, the entire agreement was done with her consent. Nothing mattered but finding out what happened to Wakasa.

Imouto, don’t come looking for me. Her estranged brother, a few years younger, snarled as he hastily wrapped his coat around his broad shoulders. Don’t tell anyone you’re related to me, and for fuck’s sake, keep your nose out of my business.

A lump formed in her throat as she poured over your new boss’ schedule. Said man who owned her payroll, and consequently, her entire being. 

A suitcase of her clothes was already shipped to his luxurious penthouse, and after work, she was instructed to follow him to his meetings, shadow him in everything he did and return back to said penthouse to prepare a meal for the infamous Sano Shinichiro, and… her thoughts trailed off, unable to complete itself. 

He will want to sleep with me tonight. 

She was the furthest thing from a shy, prude wallflower. While she hadn’t gone long-term with any of her boyfriends, she left nothing up to chance in the bedroom. There was little terrain which she had explored with those men in and out of the sheets, and if Shinichiro were to ask her to do something out of her comfort zone, she could not weasel out with the excuse of inexperience. 

The second her new boss entered, every breath in the small office was held. Clothes rustled and chairs scraped as everyone stood up to welcome the lanky, dark-eyed man whose dishevelled hair and wrinkled clothes gave him the furthest impression from a great yakuza boss. In this light, he looked a little lost and weary, nodding in acknowledgement and stiffly gesturing for her to follow him when he walked by. 

“Good morning, Sano-san.” She bowed lowly and waited at the corner of his desk while he settled down, refusing to lift her head until he told her so. Wakasa would call it a good tactic of obedience. She called it self-preservation. 

“I have two meetings today,” he started without bothering to return your greeting. “One in Odaiba and another in Akasaka. Make sure you have that written down in my schedule.” 

She scrambled to remove a notepad and pen from your skirt pocket, scribbling down the two locations while he prattled on about the timings. She bowed again once he finished. “I will remind you of this, sir.” 

He turned his listless eyes to the coffee station in the corner of his office. “Dark. One spoon of sugar. Argentinian blend.”

Shinichiro observed as she scrambled to fix his morning cup of coffee, measuring the precise amount and concentrating on stirring until the fragrant caffeine fanned around his office. The Black Dragon leader always measured the worth of his men by how fast they could comply with his demands. This slight, young woman before him was one of the better crops he had picked. Your sister is truly a wonder, Waka-kun. 

He saw it in how she dutifully reminded him of his meetings, arranged his binders in an alphabetical order, refilled his fountain pen and made no complaint when he interrupted her lunch to go out and buy his own. She returned, flushed from the chill, holding a single packet of tamago sando like it was a trophy and handed it to him with both hands. She knew exactly how to keep her head down during tense meetings, walk two steps behind him, and recapped his deal with another gang in minutes that were easy to decipher. The best part of it all? Despite the small grimace on her face every time he hounded her for another request, she still complied and did it. 

Some perverse part of him relished in her submission, imagining the number of ways she would be this obedient and giving in the bedroom. He looked forward to nighttime. The car ride back to his condo was quiet, and Shinichiro did not ask you about her first day. It was evident in the droop of her eyes, the exhaustion of his numerous demands taking a toll on her physique. Poor girl.

Her shoulders were slumped forward, and the click of her high heels on the ground were diminutive behind the crisp footfalls of his dress shoes. His bag and files were in careful arms, and she tried to keep up with his longer strides. Shinichiro didn’t bother holding open the door for her, letting it collide with her elbow. Behind his back, she gave a little huff, wiping off her glare when he turned around to face her. 

“Ochazuke,” he said without preamble. “I assume you have some kitchen skills.” 

The Black Dragon bastard didn’t bother saying anything else. He sat on the sofa, nursing a beer while she set his files to one side and removed her shoes, trying not to get caught dead ogling at the huge granite island in the middle of his kitchen, or the velvet L-shaped sofa which was enough to seat eighteen people at one go. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering luxury of Tokyo—90-stories above her modest apartment right in the outskirts where she would’ve never dreamt of encountering such opulence.

The penthouse was divided into two floors, with a floating stairs leading to the bedroom and bathrooms above; a chandelier dripped from the ceiling, throwing off fragments of light on the neutral walls and he had a large balcony which housed another large L-shaped sofa complete with an infinity pool which glowed a light blue from the neon lights. 

She defrosted the salmon in his fridge, boiled the water for the green tea and started on the rice. The fatty scent of fish frying over the stove together with the tea steeping in its kyusu filled her with nostalgia for the same meal she prepared years ago during family dinners. 

Setting the completed dish on his table, she called for him to eat. 

Preparing another bowl for herself, she froze when he told her to eat outside on the balcony. “I don’t like to speak to anyone during my meals.”

Anger and humiliation bubbled in her chest, but since she was under his tutelage and care, she could not do anything about it. She found she quite liked the view of the city below her as she chewed on the soaked tea rice and clean fish. 

After dinner, he went to take a shower with a clip request for her to join him. Is he expecting me to bathe him, too? 

The reality was far worse. He sat on the ledge of his bathtub, already naked and languishing in hot water. Frothy bubbles spilled over the porcelain lip of the tub, and he beckoned her to join him. She could not refuse, and discarded her clothes, hesitating on the thin piece of her panties. He could not keep his eyes away from her stiffening nipples, unabashedly drinking in her curves. Summoning a strength she did not know she had, the young woman removed the last layer keeping her free from his penetrating gaze, and slowly padded over to him. 

Shin scooted backwards until his back hit the wall, and she gingerly stepped into the tub together with him. More bubbles and water spilled from the side, overflowing from the combination of their body weight and she hid her warming cheeks behind her hair. He scraped it back from her face, touch surprisingly tender.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Her voice shook when she told him about her childhood; her life in a low cost apartment in the outskirts of Tokyo, Wakasa’s distance from her since they were both children, her parents and their never ending concern for their eldest son. She told him of her education, the pets she kept and lost, and friends she made during her highschool years which she still kept in contact with.

“Any lovers?” 

She tensed. “A few.”

“How many?” as he spoke, he sponged her arms with a loofah, scrubbing it lightly. Most likely to lower her guard. 

Her voice caught with uncertainty. “T-two in highschool. Three more when I started in the working world.”

“You never went to university?” 

She shook her head. He started massaging her shoulders, his touch not unpleasant. 

“Why not?” 

“My family was poor.”

He hummed. “Waka-kun never talked about his family much.”

Surprising him, she nodded. “He hated us.”

“Why?”

“Why should I tell you?”

He stopped his ministrations, fingers spasming on her skin. A beat of silence passed between them, and for a second, she wondered if she would be in trouble for such a brazen answer.

“Feisty.” Shinichiro exhaled a laugh and manoeuvred her to face him. His dark eyes remained fixed on hers, and he tilted his head forward. “My turn.”

She reached for the bottle of juniper and sage shampoo, lathering it through his dark locks. He hummed, and despite their brief acquaintance, she did not complain when he laid his forehead in between her breasts. 

“You are like a child.”

He hummed. “Every powerful man needs a place they can unwind.”

“And you chose to do it with me?” He almost purred when she scrubbed behind his ears. 

“Yes. Do you find that strange?” 

She braced herself on her knees, and he tried hard to not stare at her bare tits soaped up with bubbles. “Why me, of all people?”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her even closer. “Waka-kun was my best friend. You remind me of him in some way.”

“Every girl’s dream,” she muttered dryly. “To be compared to her dead brother by a man.”

“Would you want me to compare you to something else?” 

He didn’t have to look up to know she would be smiling slightly. “Not at this moment—no.” 

Shinichiro did not touch her again, showing her to his guest bedroom where she would spend her nights as long as she was under his roof—an arrangement she had no idea how long would last. The bed was soft, the pillows plush, and she soon fell into a deep rest, unaware of the man who was down the hall laying awake because of her. 

Waka-kun… 

He stood up from the edge of his huge bed and ambled to the window, watching the city play out its neon theatrics from his safe perch above it; like a king watching over his decrepit kingdom. 

The reminder of her body pressed to his, her fingers in his hair and how comfortable their banter was gave him a lot to ruminate on. 

Did you send your sister to me as a cruel punishment for my sins against you?

The days spent with the allegedly horrendous Black Dragon leader delved into simple routine. 

During the waking hours, he would watch her sort through documents, pour over deals, and answer his calls. At night, she would prepare his favourite dishes and sit separately while they ate. Bath times were the only stipulated moments in their schedule where they would be in close proximity, and Shinichiro liked to believe that she was slowly breaking down her defenses around him.

About two weeks had passed since their little arrangement, and he was eager to take it a step further.

“Eat with me.”

She paused from her trajectory towards the balcony, unsure if she had heard right. 

He pulled the chair next to him—on his right—and gestured to it. She sank down onto the cool leather seat with mincing movements. 

They ate the oyako-don she made for the two of them in silence, and he praised her cooking after he had finished. 

As usual, in the tub, they would talk about everything and anything. Today, his mind was a million miles away, far more vulnerable than he anticipated and she could sense it.

“Sano-san? Are you well?”  

“Call me Shin.” 

Her silence was telling of her disbelief. No one had ever been allowed to call the great Sano Shinichiro by a diminutive of his name. She pulled him against her chest where he fit in her embrace, taking over his routine of massaging her shoulders by reciprocating the same action for him. He closed his eyes, head tilted back. She has a good, firm grip.

“Tell me what is bothering you.”

She didn’t prod him further when he remained silent. Slowly, Shinichiro opened up. 

“My brother—Manjiro. He would’ve been eighteen today.” 

Her kneading ceased. Shinichiro grunted in warning and she hastily resumed her ministrations. 

“I’m sorry.” Drops of water were hitting the marble floor from the overfilled bathtub, filling the silence. “How did he… pass on… if you don’t mind sharing?”

He did mind, actually. But, it had been a long time since anyone had ever made him feel this open to such tender afflictions born from memories of the last living family member he had left. 

Shinichiro opened his mouth, his  scratchy voice filling the pockets of spaces between them with stories of a blonde boy who was far too brave for his own good. Like the golden Icarus who flew too close to the sun, he leapt across stairs and bannisters, trying to reach for the sky but instead, fell to the frigid ground, crumpling upon the impact. 

Eventually, the brave boy died and the brother who worked hard to save him became consumed by the same hopelessness and despair which deadened his younger sibling’s vegetative body to the world.

Her hands stopped moving and this time, Shinichiro did not chastise her. The heavy silence lingered in the air like steam from their shared bath, and he was breathing heavily as though he had run a marathon, his emotions bubbling above the surface like poisonous lava. 

She turned him to face her, palms on his cheeks, and he could barely pull away from the gravity of her mouth before it was pressed onto his. Her lips were sweet if not a tad bit chaste, slightly chapped and flushed warmly from the bath. She tilted her head a little more to the right and he closed his eyes, drinking her in deeply. His arms that were accustomed to pushing people away brought her closer, vining around her slighter figure so her chest was pressed flush to his. 

Sano Shinichiro, the fearsome Black Dragon leader who had blood on his hands all for the sake of cultivating the elusive ability to travel back in time and save his little brother… was completely overwhelmed by his first kiss.

Her mouth moved like a dream on his, stealing his breath, his resolve, and if he were being honest? A little bit of his soul, too. 

Their tongues were like errant flames dancing in the wind, flickering with each other and igniting a deeper spark that seemed to rescind any semblance of common sense or resolve.

His inexperience did little to deter him from nudging her back to the wall, or busying his tongue down her throat, nipping on the thin skin lightly; tasting soap and musk.

She took his hand and he squeezed it, their lips interlocking again.

“I’ll go slow,” he muttered in between breaths she relinquished back to him. The woman who stole the air from his lungs only to give it back with her sweet kiss. His damnation and salvation all at once. 

She caressed his cheek, a silent plea for him to give all of him to her. 

Shinichiro does. He does because she made him feel things his stupid heart had not felt in so many years. The walls which he put up were flimsy; paper thin. Foolish. Years of defences stripping from a soul-stirring kiss she caught him in. 

Again. Again. And again. 

A torn heart could’ve been sutured over from her sweet kisses alone. 

The bath water turned tepid after hours of their soaking bodies in them, but neither Shin nor her minded.

“Shin, you have to try this.” 

The steam from the bubbling pot casted her grin in smoky shades and he fanned it away with his palm, eager to see her smile. She lifted a soup spoon to him, one hand braced under it to catch the stray drops, implicitly asking for him to taste the dish she painstakingly made. 

He bent forward, sipping on the broth and hummed in agreement. “It’s delicious.” He squeezed her hip, and on second thought, wrapped his long arms around her waist when she turned back to stir the pot, hooking his chin over her shoulder to lazily observe her work. 

Shinichiro would never cease to be amazed at how clean her skills were or how effortlessly she made sukiyaki from scratch. Instead of using the prepackaged soup packet, she grated the herbs, mixed the sauces and sliced the vegetables and meat on her own for a truly specialised homecook experience. 

The five-star restaurants he visited could never compare to this simple pleasure of having a person he cared for seated opposite of him, sipping on her broth and telling him about her day. He had trusted her more and more to handle the Black Dragon’s internal affairs and she was gushing all about the paperwork system and how the head accountant allowed her to arrange it to her heart’s content. 

Later that night, they both sat outside the balcony on the L-shape couch, staring at the glittering mass of Tokyo below them. With her beside him, the cold neon lights seemed more welcoming. Less lonely. 

“Shin?” her soft voice stole his attention. 

“Yes, baby?”

“Can you tell me what happened with Waka now?”

The lights suddenly became too jarring. Too claustrophobic. 

He pulled away, physically and emotionally, keeping a safe distance between their figures. 

She twisted her body to face him, a question on her parted lips. He quelled it with his next words.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and left straight for bed, forsaking their daily bath ritual.

She made sure to walk on eggshells when she was around him. 

Shinichiro had not yet returned home from work. He had sent word for her to go ahead first, and that he would join her tonight. 

Her stomach churned, and nausea edged her thoughts. What if he was in trouble? 

The infamous gang leader was known to disappear for days on end when he was handling business on his own. She could barely get a hold of him through text, and spent the next few minutes leaning against the stone counter, chewing on her thumb nail. 

Her phone lit up, and his curt reply did little to assuage her nerves.

Will be gone for a few more hours. Don’t wait for me.

Was it because she had made the grave mistake of asking about her brother? But, she thought Shin would be comfortable enough to tell her.

Unless…

She pulled out her laptop, retrieving the files which she had made a secret double copy of. Wakasa’s expenditure from the ledgers which the organisation still kept. Her eyes quickly roved down the column of numbers and she paused at the last bar he visited before he died.

It was easy for her to retrieve Shinichiro’s records; he kept it all lumped in one binder and paid it off with the company’s burner card. She matched the date of Wakasa’s last spending with a suspiciously familiar amount.

Flickering her eyes back to her dead brother’s tab, she stifled a gasp.

The dates matched. There was no mention of the bar in Shinichiro’s records, but she had no doubt this was the correct space. Upon closer look, the amount spent was about the same. About ¥200,000 each with slight differences to the total number.

Shinichiro was the last person to ever see her brother alive.

She closed the laptop shut, a crease in her brow. 

If this was the case… then why didn’t her lover tell her this? 

Her stomach churned, and she rushed out of her seat, straight to the toilet. Head bowed over the bowl, she spewed out her dinner, green in the face and wiping her mouth with a shaky hand. 

She couldn’t stand without shaking and sank down to her knees.

Uncaring for her own health, she questioned everything she had discovered within these past few minutes. The thoughts roared in her brain, louder than the churning in her belly, and she touched it once more to still the raging fear. 

Shin was undoubtedly a dangerous man. Despite his lack of tattoos and fearsome skills, he still carried weight in the underworld because of his terrifying reputation.

She had to contend with the reality of this question which would not give her rest. 

What if it was him who killed my brother? 

He returned a few hours later, stinking of alcohol and dragging a pounding headache behind him like a ball and chain. In the half-dimness, he noticed her unblinking, sitting at the dining table.

Shinichiro barely opened his mouth to greet her before her voice pierced through him with such muted anger it left him rooted to the ground.

“Were you the last person to see my brother?” 

The flowers he bought for her in his briefcase weighed heavily, and he set down the innocuous object, frowning at her open hostility. His mouth ran dry and ahead of his muddled brain, his voice thick when he blurted—

How did you find out? 

Her righteous anger faltered. She clenched her fists, gingerly getting to her feet. 

So, it’s true.

He had no more cards to play. In this perverted game of finding the truth, Shin had hid the ace up his sleeve. Derailing her from the reality standing right in front of her.

“Where were you?”

An easy answer he could give. “Deciding how to take down the rival head down in the next town.” 

Horror tinged the pocket of silence festering between them. “You can’t possibly be thinking of defeating the Dojins?” 

Possibly one of the worst gangs in comparison to the Black Dragons. They wouldn’t bat an eye to gut a child in front of its weeping parents, amongst some of the horrors she had heard in passing whispers. 

His jaw tightened and he refused to look at her. Afraid that if he did, he would concede defeat and put behind this idea. The same one Wakasa was against. The same one his sister was begging him to reconsider. Shin’s heart was set in stone.

The Dojins were heavily involved in children and human trafficking, an atrocious act even Wakasa was against. If he went through with this, there was no telling what would become of the Black Dragons. 

“Your brother said the exact same thing.”

She tried a different tactic. Approaching him, she kept her shoulders even and voice steady, her gait unhurried. Her smaller palms were warm around his, and Shin flickered his eyes to her face when she pressed his hand flat against her sternum, right above her belly. 

“Shin, please.” Tears scintillated and shone in those beautiful eyes he could never tear his attention from. “Be rational for a second. They will tear you apart.”

He wrenched his hand from her grasp, nostrils flaring. Unable to face her hauntingly sad expression, he settled for glaring at his dress shoes. “If I take over, I have control of the hospital in the province and I can force the doctors to give proper treatment to children who need it and not discriminate them because of their income—”

“Is that what Manjiro would want you to do?” 

His hands shook when he regarded her down the line of his nose. “What do you know, Y/N? What do you know about family?” 

She reeled back, as if his words had slapped her. 

“I lost mine, too.” Her voice was shaky and paper thin. She could hardly believe this callous man was the same one as the lover who would indulge her in bedtime stories in a porcelain bathtub. 

Despite everything, she gave one last desperate attempt to hold onto him. 

“I know you want to do this because of Mikey-kun. I understand that love you have for him, Shinny. I feel the same love for Wakasa. But, this is wrong. You do not have the resources—” 

“I was the cause of Wakasa’s death.”

This time, she stepped back like he had thrown scalding hot water into her face. Her heart, somewhat mended by his love, fractured once more into a million pieces; worse for wear than when she met him. 

“Tell me it’s not true.”  Her eyes were blown wide with horror, her words marred by sobs. “Tell me you’re lying to me.” 

His unfaltering gaze told a different story. 

“Your brother committed suicide because he couldn’t stand how cruel I turned out to be—how I was putting the Black Dragons at risk.”

Her steps faltered when she backtracked, and she reached out for the edge of the counter before her knees could give out. 

The man who took her on summer bike rides, who washed her when she was too tired after work, who would never hesitate to loudly praise her cooking… 

Was the one behind her beloved brother’s death? 

Any remaining piece of her heart shattered into a million more shards, and she could hardly breathe. The strength she prided herself in carrying in the face of adversity fled every fibre of her being, leaving her bones rattling hollow and breath dissipating in heavy puffs. 

“Why?” her lips could barely form around the question. “Why?” 

Shin’s face was cast in shadows, the lack of light leaving him in a chilling veneer. For the first time, she could see what the world meant about him; how he barely had a shred of humanity left to consider anyone except his own goals. 

How could I have been such a fool to think he would change for me? 

His eyes rippled close. “Y/N, believe me when I say I truly care for you. I want to share so many things with you—memories, dreams, children… a lifetime—but, there are some things I can’t tell you.”

Bullshit. “You were the one who drove him to that point, did you not?” 

He could not force a reply. She had always been too smart for her own good. Shinichiro turned his face away from her, a storm unleashed in his chest from her burning refute of his dreams for them both. It crackled the tips of his fingers with static, raising the hairs at the back of his nape, and he snarled at her, bearing down with more intimidating than necessary.

“It is done. I will be facing the Dojins tomorrow. Stay out of it if you do not want to be tied to me.” 

He stood in the eye of the storm, isolated from the world, an angry king in his own right. Shinichiro never expected her to breach past the tempestuous barriers and wrap her arms around his torso, anchoring him to solid ground through her embrace.  

“Please don’t do this,” a flurry of tears like rain chased down her cheeks. “You have so much more to live for than throwing it all away for revenge.” 

His hubris would always be his pride in never accepting the fact that he was just human. Just skin and bones; not a father-figure, or an idolised man by many in the underworld. Everyone else saw him as Sano Shinichiro, legendary gang leader and yakuza boss.

Not Shinny, the man who shamelessly yelped in fright when he watched scary movies while holding onto her sleeve, or the lover who held her close with promises of keeping her safe for as long as she desired to be by his side. The boy who laughed when the wind violently whipped through his hair and she yelled for him to slow down, both of them hurtling down the countryside roads on his old Mitsubishi bike. 

The same one who cooed at toddlers when they stared at him; firing off silly fantasies in her mind of him pulling funny faces to make their future babies laugh.

“Shin, please—”

He broke the grip she had around his heart the same moment he fought out of her arms. 

“Stay away from me.” Those dark, bottomless eyes penetrated through her defences, leaving her distressed and shaking in fear. “If you have nothing else to say, you can leave. This contract is void since you already have your answer.”

His shoulder clipped against hers when he walked past her, straight into their shared bedroom to clean up and prepare himself for the fight of his life at dawn tomorrow near the docks.

He fell into a fitful sleep and awoke a few hours later, the storm in his chest raging louder, urging him to seek her out. Lurching from the bed, he pushed open the heavy door, padding down the hallways and turning towards her room.

Her door fell open, an aching emptiness spread out before him. 

If you have nothing else to say, you can leave.

The only thing she left behind was the indent of her head on the pillow. Nothing else remained.

His beloved had disappeared. 

What is grief but love with nowhere to go? 

Shin had once heard of that phrase uttered to him a long time ago by a well-meaning family friend during Mikey’s funeral. He had called bullshit on it because why—why?—did grief even have to exist when it could easily be replaced by anger or apathy?

Grief didn’t have a place to sit in his life; he had long given up its seat in favour of blood, violence and monetary gain. Anything to distract himself from its jarring presence at the head of the table. 

Years later, he met a woman who turned his life upside down. She was persistent and kind, loyal to a fault and a person he honestly could envision spending the rest of his days with. Then, he had hurt her and paid the price for his misdoings; he had to watch the foundation of this tender love get ripped from its hinges and burn to the ground. 

All because he was too afraid to tell the truth before she gave him her all. 

Your brother committed suicide because he couldn’t stand how cruel I turned out to be—how I was putting the Black Dragons at risk. 

Wakasa’s death was finally revealed to be a tragic ultimatum to a friendship that was beyond salvation; a man who was at his wit’s end to save his beloved friend from throwing himself into a dangerous situation that would guarantee his death and the dissolution of the gang they worked hard to build.

And when he had told her the truth, she ran in the dead of the night, taking all the light and hope in his life away. 

He had spent years searching for the elusive mistress to his heart, expanding his time and energy scouring the streets for her on his own in nothing but his weathered biker jacket and unwavering hope. 

It’s too risky, boss. 

We need to get you a bodyguard. 

No. He pushed his underling’s good faith in favour for walking this path of atonement on his own. I need to do this. 

A year and a half later, he found her strolling down a park pavement, sun in her hair and on her cheeks as she held a chubby baby boy tightly in her arms. A boy with his dark eyes and hair. 

Shin, please. Her beautiful eyes shone with tears. Be rational for a second. 

She sat on the warmed stone bench, kissing the baby’s cheek and cooing at his gummy smile. The trees above threw their speckled shadows over his son’s carefree expression, those eyes which were not tinged with despair or grief. He gurgled with laughter and fisted his mother’s hair in one, chubby hand. Free to love. Free to just be.

Don’t do this, please. Her sobs rang loudly in his mind like gunshots, the warmth of her body pressed to his mangling his thoughts with utter guilt. You have so much more to live for than throwing it all away for revenge. Was she pregnant then? Did she carry his son when he so cruelly told her to leave him alone?

Grief is just love with nowhere to go. 

She was a few feet away from him, and he could plainly see how unaffected she was. There were no more tears in her eyes and her skin shone luminously with health. Her shoulders were lightened from the burden of loving him; a callous and cruel man beyond redemption. 

I was the cause of Wakasa’s death. 

The baby was suckling his thumb, watching his mother point out birds in the trees and clouds in the sky, like he understood every single word she said, enraptured by her presence. I’ve always wanted a family, he remembered confessing to her one night when they both laid in bed, naked and sated; bubbling in the afterglow of their love-making. Someday, I want to create one with you.

Shin could not stop watching her; the fall of her hair, the angelic tilt of her lips pulled into a smile. How perfect she was in every sense of the word. 

Tell me it’s not true, she gasped, tears misting her eyes. Tell me you’re lying to me. 

Her soft giggle was a double-edged sword of happiness and pure misery for the eavesdropping man. Do you see how blue the sky is? He could read her lips and ached to hear his son’s name (he didn’t know his own son’s name).

Shin took one step forward, close enough to catch her sweet voice. 

“... I bet your daddy would’ve loved to show you how the wind feels in your hair when you ride a bike on this fine day, Shinjiro.”

He was struck in disbelief, unable to move. 

Shinjiro. 

She named my son after Mikey and I. 

His mouth opened before his brain could follow. “I do.” Fuck—when did his voice get this hoarse and raw with emotion? “I would’ve loved to show the both of you.”

She did not run, nor spit on his visage like he imagined she would. Her pretty eyes flickered over his features, seeing the sleepless nights, the fine worry etched in his forehead and the telling frown lines he could never quite get rid of.

In broad daylight, he was a shell of the man he was before she left him without a word; beaten senseless by his own desolation. The child in her arms cooed, and she tightened her hold on him. 

Shinichiro took one step forward and another. When she did not move, he gathered enough courage to sit next to her, towards the edge of the stone bench to put some distance between them, in case it was all too overwhelming.

“Hi.” His voice was fragile as tissue paper.

She tore her gaze from him to stare at the ground. “Hi.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You… look well,” he started.

“And you look like crap.” 

Her sharp tongue would never cease to make him smile. Shinichiro chuckled, easing his hands out from his pockets to place them by his side, enjoying the sun on his face. “I missed that sharp tongue of yours.”

She did not reply. 

He turned to find her chewing on her lower lip. 

“Is he…?”

The funny thing about grief is how tied up it is to guilt. We spend our whole lives chasing relief from such gut-wrenching internal horrors without realising that the more we come to terms with loss, the more we build resilience to it. 

In many ways, grief is like a bandaid.

The first rip will sting. The second will smart. The third will tingle. Until finally, it hangs limp from our skin, useless and unable to hurt us any longer. 

Shinichiro was a man who had let grief sting him over and over again because he refused to let it heal him; to open his heart to its riptides and let it carry him down the stream. He rejected its currents, its natural ebbs and flows in favour of stoppering grief for as long as he could; building a flimsy dam that could barely hold back the true weight of his loss.

Letting it spill over and drown out every single gentle stream of love he was given in his life.

I’m ready to heal. He waited for her reply, palms going clammy with nerves. I’m ready to start anew with her. 

The woman he loved nodded, her lower lip wobbling. Sunshine warmed his cheeks, lifting the hollow fear from between his pinched brows. Emboldening him with hope.

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

She scooted closer, and in that minute movement, the smoke parted to reveal the still standing foundation of a bridge he once thought he burned. Her smile was paper thin like his own, but in it, he saw the strength he always admired; the love shining there which never quite faded away. 

“Shinjiro, I want you to meet someone: this is your daddy.”

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[screams-n-shackles]

Encountering Truths - Hero / Villain Whump

After a long and exhausting day leader finally arrived home. It was already in the middle of the night and the light from the defective streetlamp was less than enough to lit the porch. But when leader climbed the steps to their front door they found the doormat slightly moved from it's original place. Not enough to raise the suspicion of others, but Leader instantly knew that something was up.

That someone got their hands on leaders key.

They already changed to their casual clothes so their gun was safely locked away. They resulted to their second best option and retrieved their emergency knife from their boot. This would have to make do.

Taking out their keys they slowly opened the door, ears trained to pick up any weird noise from inside the dark hallway.

A few Seconds passed in which leader waited for an attack only for nothing to come their way.

They opened the door completely and stepped into the darkness. Only the awful light from outside casting weird and flickering shadows, while they moved a few steps into their apartment.

Still no further noises except for the wind from outside and their own footsteps.

Leader decided to atleast close the door for the time being, so they gave it a light kick before they followed the floor to the living room.

Then, right before they set foot into the room they heard it.

Soft breathing. Barely audible and apparently a little bit strained. And it came from the couch.

Knife ready to slash into the flesh of the unwelcome intruder Leader slowly approached the couch, to encounter a figure draped over it.

Deep asleep. Or atleast good at faking it.

Due to the now nearly none existent light source they couldn't tell who or what decided to invade their very own home and save haven.

But that was an easy fix.

Knife prepared to hold off the unknown person, their other hand extended to the table next to the couch. Switching on a small lamp the living room was doused in a yellow shine.

And finally leader came to see their guest. More or less.

As they stared right into the cracked porcelain mask of Villain. Red stains were smeared all over, and before Leader decided to end it once and for all, their eyes slipped to the torso of villain.

Which was covered in bandages died red from the bleeding. Blood that was probably also soaking the couch right now.

"Allright. What the hell, Villain?", was the first mumbled wonder leaving leaders lips as they rounded the couch to inspect their newfound injured.

[weixuldo]

Unconditionally Epilogue (pt 1)

Anakin X Reader

a/n: UNCONDITIONALLY IS BACK FOR A FINAL GOODBYE!! this fic really means a lot to me and i wanted to end it out with an epilogue, so here is said epilogue!! (i always said i’d get to it, didn’t i? hehe) this one has a bit of fanservice lolll, I had to incorperate the og trilogy somewhere!

10 years later...

Warnings: cursing, kids?

___________________

The sun was hot as you walked from your car into the bakery; today was the twins' birthday and you were going in to fetch their cake.

As you walked across the warm asphalt you offered your hand behind you, in no time a smaller hand grabbed yours and you smiled.

Your daughter returned the expression, “Hi, Mommy!”.

“Hi baby” you smiled back.

Five years ago, your and Anakin’s first daughter together was born, Rey; she was an unexpected surprise that came right as you finished med school.

You had her in the winter before you started your residency at the city’s biggest hospital. 

The twins were 12 when Rey was born and were beyond excited for the new addition. They spent most of their free time playing with her and Leia would even teach her new concepts she learned in school (not that Rey remembered any of that). 

Your daughter looked alot like you, but she definitely had some signature skywalker traits; her thick luscious hair, her high cheekbones, and her beautiful eyes.

You absolutely adored her.

When you told Anakin the news all those years ago, he could hardly believe his ears; he didn’t think that he would have the opportunity to be a new father again, but he was ecstatic. 

Throughout the pregnancy he would kiss your belly and run over your bump with his own arms, rather than the stiff prosthetics; he told you it was because he didn’t want to disturb the baby with the more harsh motions he made with them on. 

Around that time he was just returning to work again and came home exhausted from all of the walking and meticulous tasks, yet he would still make sure you were as comfortable as you could be before he would relax for the night. 

He was so thoughtful. 

As for Anakin himself, he had his good days and his bad days, but as the years passed his good days began to outweigh the bad ones. His body had gotten accustomed to his prosthetics and he was able to go a whole day with them on without too much discomfort. 

He got himself back to a healthy weight and even started working out again; his routine was much different than what it used to be, but with the help of some specially designed prosthetics he was able to go to the gym with little to no trouble. 

Nowadays his biceps and triceps were particularly defined- some of the new devices allowed him to hold weights and even hold his weight on the pull-up bar. He also got some running blades and tried to make it to the track at least once a week. 

He still had bouts of phantom pains, but those only really came after long periods of wearing his limbs or when he would get stressed. 

His lungs also got significantly better over time with multiple treatments in the earlier years; now they only gave him trouble in winter when the air got thin and crisp. 

__________

“Mommy, which cake are we getting for Lukey and Sissy?” Rey asked as she surveyed the assortments of colored cakes in the glass display case. 

“The baker made their’s specially, so we just have to pick it up” you smiled as you waited for a worker to assist you. 

Today was Luke and Leia’s 18th birthday and were planning a big party. When the twins got into highschool they both made a plethora of friends, so since it was their birthday and so close to school being back in session they decided to have an end of summer and birthday party. 

It took a while to get the date sorted out because you and Anakin had your 10th anniversary vacation planned for around this time since last year.

You decided that you would celebrate the twin’s birthday with the family and close friends then they could have their party later in the week when you and Anakin were gone. 

Maybe it seemed irresponsible to leave two newly 18 year olds to an empty house as you went across the country for a weekend, but you and Anakin trusted the kids, they were responsible and with Leia around, nothing would get too crazy. She grew up to be just as mature as you always figured she would. 

Finally an attendant came up to help you and gave you the cake box in no time. 

“Alright baby, let's go home” you said to your daughter who trailed behind you with an sweet smile on her face. 

__________

Across town, Anakin sat in his office going through documents on his large touch screen computer. 

It was a really good thing for him to be able to go back. The office celebrated his return with a nice cocktail party downtown (very fitting for the prestige of his company). 

Even though you had been with him for a decade, you still weren't quite sure what his business did, you just knew it was very successful (obviously with the income he made).

He and Ben tried to educate you countless times, but you were never a big economics or business girly. 

“I think I’ll just stick to my medical knowledge and leave the economy to you guys” you jokingly told him and Ben. 

Anakin’s return was pretty seamless, he never lost the momentum he once had at work. He hated pity and sympathy more than anything so he made sure to let his work speak for his capabilities. And after only a month and a half back he brought the company's stock up 17%; safe to say no one was questioning his capabilities after that. 

Today was no different, he was on a grind to get extra work done so that he wouldn’t be behind after coming back from the vacation. 

His office was pretty tricked out with innovative tech to help him do things easier. First off, everything was digitized since he didn’t have the dexterity to sift through stacks of papers. Everything was touchscreen for his convenience as well (he wore one of those touchscreen gloves at work). 

The doorway to his suite was expanded so he could go in and out easier on days that he needed his wheelchair.

He also had a bigger office so that he could bring R2; he even had a little treat jar for him. 

Anakin leaned back in his chair and stretched. 

“Almost done Artoo, then we’ll go back home, alright?” he promised, petting the dog beside him. 

After another 30 minutes Anakin was finally finished; he gathered up some of his stuff and put on his work backpack and suit coat. He grabbed R2’s  leash and hooked it on to his “service dog” vest before heading for the door. 

_________________

“Leia, who are you all inviting to the party?” Luke asked from the kitchen. 

“I don’t know? Probably some of my friends from model UN and maybe a few from debate club” she shouted back from the couch. 

She turned to the guy she was leaning on, “you’re definitely coming to the party”.

He made a face, “no, actually I’m not coming and I never wanna see you again”.

“That's fine” she said nonchalantly and turned the other way. 

“Let's see how you function without me,” she smiled to herself. 

“You’re right, what would I do without you? How would I take care of Chewie on my own? The horror… the Horror!” he cried dramatically. 

She giggled and cuddled further into him, “You’re so stupid, Han”.

“Right back atcha sweetheart” he winked before kissing her gently. 

Han Solo was Leia’s long term boyfriend; they started talking in middle school but Anakin didn’t want her to date until sophomore year of high school and even then he didn’t want her to date, but you convinced him to loosen up (Leia was insanely grateful). 

The two of them met after they were assigned to a project in physics class; Leia hated physics and just wanted to be in her gov and econ class that was next period, but she was stuck here with a sarcastic lab partner.

She was annoyed, thinking she would have to do all of the work for their labs but he surprised her; one lab required a long list of calculations so they split them down the middle and Han finished all three of his before Leia had even gotten to the second one. 

“You’re not the only one with brains here,” he said.

“B-but-”

“I know I look as dumb as a bag of rocks, but I sure know my numbers”.

From then on, she was hooked. 

Han had an outward impression of a kind of trouble maker, but he was one of the most genuine kids out there. He was very polite the first time everyone met him and even helped Leia choose a birthday gift for you. He was about a year and a half older than the twins, but had taken a gap year to work.

Leia was really really into him; she would come ask for advice on how to keep the relationship healthy and how to be a great girlfriend. It was cute. 

Han also had an absolutely massive dog named Chewie who was a big sweetheart; he had long brown fur and was always smiling with his tongue out.

Often Han would bring Chewie over to the house because he got along really well with Artoo; they spent many afternoons playing in the backyard while everyone else did their own things. 

As for your kids (when the twins were twelve, you legally adopted them), they turned out to be wonderful people with amazing goals; you and Anakin were beyond proud of them. 

Leia was academically focused and even solidified the spot as the class valedictorian. She joined the debate club and model UN- a natural leader and you and Anakin were beyond proud of the young woman she turned out to be (afterall, you had been raising her for most of her life at this point).

You and her bonded over your shared love for learning and not long after you and Anakin were wed, she started calling you “mom”. 

Unlike her brother, Leia was content spending the weekend at the house just reading books and watching random dramas (not to say she didn’t like a good party); she just didn’t need the typical teenage activities to have fun. 

Luke on the other hand was more entertained by his friends and enjoyed doing typically teenage things. Most weekends he would hang out with his buddies at whoever was hosting’s house; mainly they played video games, watched tv, or just did other random shenanigans. 

He got really into mechanics and welding early on in highschool, so you had him enrolled in a certification program. He now worked at a car shop after school and absolutely loved it. He even had a little crush on one of his co-workers who attended a college nearby (that would have to wait until a bit later). 

On occasion you would smell the nostalgic smell of weed on his jacket as he breezed by to head up to his room; most of the time you would shake your head with a smile, remembering those days. 

But of course you gave him the typical “be smart and safe” talk, but he needed to learn his limits himself, when did telling kids they weren't allowed to smoke ever stop them…?

Exactly.

The age gap between you and the twins never really crossed your mind when they were younger, but since they were growing up and puberty hit them and their friends you noticed some things. Luke’s friends would spend more time asking you how your day had been and their curious eyes lingered longer. 

You really were only about 15 years older than then but apparently they thought you were a milf- you only enjoyed their juvenile attention when Anakin was around (you liked to see him get annoyed by their terrible flirting). 

Often he would walk up and place his mechanical hands on your waist or grip your hip as he came up to “tell you something important”; usually it was just him whispering naughty things into your ear. 

His jealousy was endearing- both of you knew these kids were just sorting out their hormones and that they didn’t stand a chance- but he still felt the primal need to show them that you were his. 

_____________________________________

You pulled into the long driveway of your house and helped Rey out of her carseat before grabbing the cake box from the passenger seat.

Your daughter excitedly ran into the house to find her beloved siblings, which made you smile . 

Soon enough, you saw Anakin’s car pulling in beside yours; you always loved when your schedules would align. You set the cake back down and went over to his door to greet him. 

“Hey, darling. How was your day?” he asked with a tired smile as he opened his arms for a hug. 

“It was pretty good, I’m ready for this vacation though” you smiled into his chest. 

You felt the familiar stiffness of his mechanical hand cradling your waist, “yea, me too” he said, kissing the top of yoru head. 

“Shall we?” he asked, motioning towards the house. 

“We shall” you agreed, picking up the cake once more. 

He turned off his car and Artoo hopped out of the passenger seat; the fluffy dog came over to greet you with a wagging tail and a smile. 

“Hey buddy!” you smiled as he rubbed against your leg. 

Once you set the cake down on the counter, your sleek cream colored cat came sauntering from your bedroom; happily you picked him up and kissed his head. 

“Hello, 3PO” you exclaimed and he meowed back. 

After Anakin had R2 for a couple months, you realized how much you wanted a pet of your own; you always really liked cats and thought that it would be better to have a cat than two dogs with all of the other responsibilities you already had at the house. 

You continued the tradition of naming the pets after your liscence plates; 3PO was the last digits of the car you had when you first started working for Anakin. 

3PO was a very loving kitten, he often curled up in your lap or on your chest at night. At first, Anakin wasn’t a big fan of him- he didn’t really like cats- but as the years went on 3PO grew on him (just like you did). 

Now adays 3PO almost acted as an emotional support pet while R2 carried out the duties of a service animal. 

Either way, you were just glad that he finally approved. 

Anakin walked into the kitchen with a slight limp. 

“Are you alright, Ani?” you asked, helping steady him at the counter. 

“Yeah, my right leg is just giving me trouble today. I think I might have gone too hard at the gym” he said.

“Alright” you said, before tilting your head up for a kiss. 

He brushed your hair out of your face and smiled, “Nothing to worry about, Angel”. 

Afterwards he granted you the kiss you were waiting for; even after all of these years he still gave you butterflies. 

***

a/n: so i made ur kid Rey since shes "an honorary skywalker" in the sequels and in this universe, she's luke and leia's halfsister (technically. even though she sees them as her real siblings). this was a lot of background and hopefully it wasn’t too muddled!, i really just wanted to write this for funsies :)) i hope you all enjoyed though!! there will b one more part!!

Taglist: @katsukiswrld , @wtf-andys , @angeelcoree e , @jetiikote , @khaleesihavilliard , @sxoulchvn, @sakura-amethyst, @dottodottoo , @vader-is-hot , @circuloctm , @jellydodger , @shadowheads-shitshow

[tottis]

Blackbeard and The gentle(?) Beast.

One of my favorite disney princess movies is beauty and beast, only second to the princess and the frog (I ADORE princess and the frog you don't understand) and since we all collectively agree that Edward Teach has the most Disney Princess Doe Eyes in the media right now i just couldn't stop thinking about an ofmd disney princess AU and it happens that i was JUST listening to the abc b&tb musical thing SO. Yeah.

I like to think that Ed is Belle, I feel that some parallels just fit.

He's isolated from his peers, trapped in an image that isn't feeling like him anymore, probably never has. Daydreaming about something else, somewhere else, being someone else. Just. Living differently from this. From Blackbeard.

And he's hot as FUCK.

The major difference between Ed and Belle is that, in this really loose comparison, Belle craves adventure, she wants to see the world and experiment it but Ed already has. He has had all the adventures, all the treasures, seen so much of the world that the funny magic has already dissipated. I mean, of course he can still enjoy some of it, but he's not that young and naive to see the world with rose tinted glasses.

What Ed is craving is a life of softness, of leisure, of luxury and soft love and warmth and everything else that he has been deprived of because of his status, his skin, his gender and preferences.

I imagine that our Belle and our Beast get to understand each other in a more deep way with these roles. Both of them feel monsters, and both of them see the other as a Beauty.

Stede being The Beast is a little more combobulated, I'm afraid. I mean, yeah, he sees himself like a monster, or at least like something less than human. He has been abused because of his soft manners and soft preferences, soft self all his life. He has been too, like our Belle, depraved from being himself, but as the flower flowering from the asphalt, he has in some degrees, resisted. Learn to thrive in the harsh world of toxic masculinity, homophobia, i dare to say misogyny and from being fucking rich and white or whatever (check ur privileges stede ! lmao love u tho <3)

And he IS a flawed man, he has made mistakes, hurt people, being absent and negligent as some sort of copy mechanism from all of this. I feel empathy for him, of course i do, but we can't deny his damage. And he becomes The Beast because of that damage.

I like to think that he encounters The Witch while he is running away from his family. Seeking adventures like og Belle, and maybe because he wanted some pretty thing for himself in some Village, not thinking about the well-being of his crew first, The Witch sees that selfishness in him. He has to learn to really care about people. He cares on a superficial level, yes, but he can't really see beyond his privileges. He can't comprehend how a lot of his crew can't read. How important are the oranges for their health. He tries in his own way to care about them but, sadly, is not enough. Not for The Witch at least. Now, he's the reflection of what he sees in himself. He's a horrible beast that scares the humans away. He is trapped in a castle of pretty things he cannot enjoy. That hardly can be understood because of the grunts and the roars of his voice. He's too big for his pretty clothes and his hands too sharp to not shred everything in sad rags. To not defile beautiful things. He can't eat anything but raw meat. The Castle is maintaining all of them alive, especially Stede. He can't live, he can't die... He just... can't. He is trapped in his own guilt and trauma for eternity. That is his punishment. A one a little too harsh, imo but The Witch is probably the third badminton sister or something.

Ed being trapped (kidnapped) in the castle is not it, so we replaced it with Ed wanting time to himself away from Izzy (Gaston) and the other crew, maybe galloping with Fang (Maurice aka Belle's dad...?) and finding themselves in a fucking snowstorm. Looking for a place to survive the cold, they found a relatively small castle that seemed in good enough conditions. They enter, meet Lucius (Lumiere), Pete (some sort of Babette), Oluwande (Din Don / Mrs potts) and Jim (?) first. They got scared, obviously, so, they flee the fuck away, damn the storm. But oh, The Beast is slamming open the door. A Blood Covered Monster with fangs and claws, tall as 2.5 meters at least. It's grunting. "Don't. Run. Can't. Go. Out." that to Fang and Ed sounds like they're trapped and fucked, and to Beast Stede that the floor is covered in animal blood and melting snow and the climate is terrible so they're gonna get hurt. Fangs gets to escape thanks to Ed fighting with the Beast, Stede gets hurt because he isn't even defending himself, and because the curse is unpredictable, the crew lock Ed in a room and let Stede heal.

The curse being resolved with a Rose and True Love is cool and all but i prefer that the curse is influenced by Stede self image and relationships, and finished with Crew respect and Ed's love, the more he feels better with himself and the people around him, the more human he gets to be. At some point, he gets to fluidly talk, gets to walk in two legs permanently, gets to have less sharp claws, The Castle and the people cursed in it get to slowy get more human too until they really think that they're finally get free BUT. Fangs gets to izzy, he's so confused and can't remember too well why was escaping, where was Ed? Fuzzy memories, oh damn fuzzy memories... YES, The Castle affects the people out of its radio. If Ed gets to go... he forgets about Stede? Does Stede let Ed go knowing that he would not remember them? ... ohhhhh how is this gonna end??? Idk I'm just babbling out my ideas to everyone to take and properly write down. I'm not an English native speaker so, sorry for the grammatical horror that I just write lolz !

[simply-shifty]

Realizing that, now that i've made a modern genshin dr, i'll get to experience CR life with my favorite people. Just without all the bs.

My trauma will still be there but with safeguards in place to keep my current situation, minus the few good things, from happening.

I'll get to wake up and roll over to texts from Xiao and Rain and get to roam a new city with Venti after college classes and dance in the summer rain with Yoimiya while the street lights light up and the smell of rain on fresh asphalt....

I'll get to go to Xiao's backyard and laugh with Xiao as the fireflies light up the darkening summer night.

I'll get to tall Venti why i dislike alcohol and get to hear him say it isn't and never was my fault.

I'll get to whack Ajax on the back of the head playfully after he and Cyno make really corny jokes during a terrible tv show...

I'll get to see Tighnari's ears flick as we walk down a darkened country road as the moon and stars hang overhead and he rambles about his botany major and how collei, his little sister who is friends with my sister amber, is always learning new things from him and that he's so proud to be her older brother.

I'll get to be home here before i get to be home in the og genshin timeline....and that is such a blessing that shifting has given me

[perennialwitness]

The Real OG(an excerpt)

Please say the following aloud:

When you’re here, 

You’re family. 

If your mind made the connection to Olive Garden just now then we probably come from a similar background. Semi-suburban– too far to take public transit into the city, close enough to drive. Forty-five minutes, with no traffic. And we all know there’s no such thing as ‘no traffic’, only varying levels of density. The freeways more like rivers than roads, their red halogen flood line rising and falling with the moon and the weather. Kept fed by a sprawl of Commuter Towns, their  farthest edges in constant creeping development.

I grew up in one of these places, vast stretches of single-family homes connected by high-speed stroads. A town with clearly delineated lines between the Blacks and the Whites, everyone else fell somewhere in between. Then there were Subsections within that for the rich(meaning they more than likely owned their home) and the poor(straight down past section 8 and into the dusty outskirts). Streets would change suddenly from one to the next. The asphalt under your feet rapidly degrading as you made your way toward the Blacker, Poorer side of town. It mattered that you knew this. It was a way to communicate things oftentimes hard to say aloud. For instance, I lived on the poor Black side and went to school on the poor White side. Anyway,

Growing up, family events that warranted a drive to the city were rare. If it was your birthday, graduation, funeral, divorce– didn’t matter, there were only a handful of places to celebrate, all of them inhabiting the same mile long shopping plaza. There was; Applebees, famous for their happy hour specials. Chevy’s, Tex-mex where they make the tortillas out in the middle of the restaurant, which had the appearance of a beach cabana. Sizzler or Red Lobster if you were feeling extra spendy(dim lights, lots of wood grain, for date nights and so forth). And then there was the Olive Garden, which was reserved for nights when you really wanted to fill up. 

“Ain’t no bigger bang for your buck than Olive Garden on a coupon,” My step-dad would say then he’d rap his overstuffed wallet against the table and let out the hoarse rattle that was his laugh. He was right, if you were smart about it you could make one dinner last three days easy. 

Truth be told the food is barely food, classic recipes trimmed down to the bare necessities as a way of cutting costs and increasing turnover. Heapings upon heapings of pasta swimming in sauces brewed by the vat. Bread sticks, soggy with butter and oil, coming out in the dozens from the kitchen like clockwork. Servers in a mad dash to ensure every table’s basket full, lest they screech about meal comps, how they were advertised endless breadsticks and how they would sue if they weren’t offered compensation.

Bigger bang, bigger buck. 

To their credit the owners of the Olive Garden had tried to keep the place classy. The walls were painted to look like the cracked plaster of a Mediterranean villa, there were “stone” columns wrapped with vine decorations, arranged by someone unconcerned with structural support. Italian-sounding string accompaniments droned over the PA to complete the immersion. It was, all things considered, a nice place to bring the kids. And my parents, swept up in the fantasy, would drink wine there, instead of their usual Whiskeys and Vodka Sodas. They’d pretend they were in love, and we-- the kids I mean-- we tried our best to behave like “family”.

In my adulthood I avoided these places. Not because I cared about the quality, I don’t have qualms with cheap bad food. My aversion was psychological. These chains represented a place and a lifestyle that I couldn’t return to. The make-believe of it all. The gamified domesticity. It isn’t simple to correct your vision, removing the blinders is painful, seeing the truth of things deteriorates the sense of self. There’s just too much comfort in familiarity. So easy to lull oneself back to sleep amongst the herd, so more than anything else what I feared was regression.

[udekai]

35. things you said at the top of your lungs MattFoggy

Ohh, that's a good one. Hope you don't mind if i take it and run. 35.) things you said at the top of your lungs

This is not the first time Matt's been shot.

Deliriously, he thinks he should probably be better at taking them by now. Practice makes perfect, right?

But now he's lying on the asphalt, and he can't really move. He's literally in a suit and tie, because this happened before he had gotten home. It's not a heroic feat. He heard some screaming and some crying. He rounded the corner towards an alley, a second soon enough to distract the man with a gun from the guy he was waving it at.

It sounds like a family dispute gone awol, and instead, the bullet goes to Matt, and both people involved run like hell before they get arrested.

He's trying to pull spider-web threads of consciousness away from the urge to let his head roll to one side, and they keep snapping on him.

He doesn't realize there's anyone around until they're on top of him, and their heartbeat is crystal clear. His hearing is never as good, nor as fleeting, as after an adrenaline high.

He knows this guy. Foggy, his mind offers from nothing, and though he can't really grasp the urgency of that right now, he thinks it's telling that he recognizes him right away. That he can even think to try and form the syllables, even if the "f" won't quite happen.

"Og. Hhhhhfogg."

He can't map out where he is right now, but he can hear the stir of the air, and he can hear a gasp of horror that moves from his right side to over him, and assumes Foggy's spotted him.

Warmth seeps into his side when Foggy gets close, kneels down, cussing like he's listing every one that he knows.

"Fuck. Dammit. Shit," he mutters, shrill. "Matt."

Ah. Matt's name is included.

He groans, because there's a hand smacking his cheek frantically, and he can't lift an arm to swat it away.

"Hine," he grumbles, and he is most certainly not fine, and he's really not sure why he said that. Maybe "fine" in this context was only to mean that he wasn't dead.

He knows he's going to be fine, because there's Foggy next to him. Even if he's going to die here, he's fine, and he feels his head start to roll. A hand yanks it back upright by the cheek, and he can't even grunt in protest.

"No, no, nononono," Foggy orders, like he's reeling in a leash. "Not today, buddy. Not today. Stay awake, alright? The ambulance is on the way. No naps."

"Innuh."

"What?"

"I knuh."

"You know. You know?"

"Sssorry. Can'. Sorry, 'og. Sosry."

He thinks his cheek's swollen, but it's hard to say. His hearing's starting to go, or else he's just not processing any of it. He thinks he might actually die.

It's been a long time coming.

His head shakes, and it jostles a little bit of consciousness around.

"No!" Foggy snaps. Matt's heard him almost this mad, a couple of times before. He can't remember them now, but he knows it was his fault.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Stop talking. Stay awake."

"'Orry."

"Matty, stay awake."

"Why?"

"Because I love you, you fucking asshole!"

His voice is truly the only thing that comes in over the garbled mush of cars and people and blood. This is not in the least because he screams it so hard that his voice breaks.

Matt knows that. He thinks he's lucky to be near to someone who loves him right now. He wants to touch him and he can't. He can't lift his hand. It's a very, very bad time to talk about emotions, and it's a very, very bad time to tell him he loves him too. Even though Matt knows he'll have a hell of a time spitting it out later.

"Tryin'," he says, anyway, his fingers grasping the air two inches above the ground where he tries to hug him. "Tryn."

He doesn't quite make it, but a large car screeches to a stop at the curb. He knows what an ambulance sounds like.

"Just hang on."

Foggy's voice sounds like it's been through a cheese grater. Matt has never been more upset that he couldn't reassure him.

"'Kay."

_

Thank you <333333

[fabdante]

*happy stimming about all the DMC talk* Many thoughts, head full, thank you so much! 💜

-Not sure how plausible this would be in canon, but I love the idea of reboot Dante being able to read, speak, and understand different languages innately because of his angel heritage. Slowly, at first, and he probably needs to hear a language spoken a lot before it "clicks" for him, but he gets there. It gets easier the more into his angel powers he delves/uses. I headcanon the first time he spoke in a language he didn't previously know, the only reason he noticed the difference is because Kat asked him when he learned to speak that language afterwards. It just sounded/felt like English to him. Not sure how this magical translation would effect slang, since even in its native language, that varies so much, but its still fun to think about.

-Dante unlocking healing abilities (from either side, tbh, since we've seen demons heal people in the preboot continuity, and angels being able to heal people just seems like a given) in order to help heal Kat. Also love the idea of him sprouting wings/angel feathers (like Vash from Trigun) as a way to shield Kat or someone else from harm. And maybe learning how to do that shield thing the Witches do, that'd be cool. Just! Let him be protective! Let him have powers that focus more on building and maintaining connections rather than just destruction. I love that trope!

-Idk if you've read Brandon Sanderson's "The Stormlight Archives" series, but I keep chewing over the idea of angelic and demonic energy being less like opposites and more like Stormlight and Voidlight from Sanderson's series. If you haven't read the series and have no idea wtf I'm talking about, just skip this, sorry.

-Something I noticed when playing the reboot after playing all of the original DMC games:

The demons in Limbo City all look... less organic, I guess? Than the demons do in the original DMC timeline. Like, OG DMC demons all look like things that coupd exist in nature, if a bit twisted into something more dangerous, like goats or monkeys or lizards. Even the bigger demons, like Berial or Echidna or Bael and Dagon all look more organic/natural than the demons in the reboot.

This isn't a complaint, btw, I really do like this detail! Because the only demons that I think can really compare to how mechanical/constructed the reboot demons look are the Angelos- i.e. something Mundus literally made. And Mundus has made other, more "natural" looking demons, too, like the Blades and Frosts and such- but the designs of the demons in the reboot make me think that THIS is what the demons that Mundus "designs" (shapes to his purposes) look like after 2,000 years of having the Human Realm as a testing ground for his minions and no Sparda to stop him.

This could also just be what the demons under Mundus look like after they've had 2,000 years to adapt/evolve in or to the Human Realm, since according to the OG DMC canon, demons change based on what they want or a driving desire, like moving really fast or having extra mouths to make it easier to cast spells. But also I kinda like the theory that the demons we see in the reboot are like this because this is the way Mundus made them to be. It vibes well with Mundus' boss form being a big construct of asphalt and fire and darkness, and that weird darkness that the collaborators bleed from their eyes after Lilith/the demons brainwash them.

of course!! i am always very happy to talk about dmc 💖

I have a huge soft spot for bilingual characters so I think this is a very fun concept! I personally headcanon reboot Vergil as fluent in Italian (further elaboration is his adopted family is Italian American with close roots to Italy and family still there and he has to talk to his Nonna somehow). And I've always liked the idea of Dante kind of picking up something in osmosis. He's a clever boy I would love for him to speak more languages and this is a fun idea!

Expanding upon the healing abilities is very fun to, I think. It would be very cool to for him to adopt a sort of power focused on defense particularly since in the reboot he kind of explicitly picks up a protector role and everything, it'd be cool to see!

(Also I have not read the thing you mentioned but I do like connecting the angels and demons in the reboot more then just having them be sort of opposites)

However I think the idea that a lot of the enemies we see in game are created by Mundus (or someone in general) is really interesting and makes a lot of sense with their doll like motifs. The bulk of the demons in game that we fight feel very...controlled. I've mentioned before on other posts but I've always kind of thought of Limbo as a body and the things in it acting like an immune system so the idea of the demons being a fabrication of Limbo to protect itself like antibodies is something I find interesting. But given the preboot and the Angelos it makes a lot of sense that Mundus could have made them also. Something I like a lot about the reboot to is how there's such a contrast between the more sentient demons (the Hunter, the Succubus, Mundus, Phineas, Lilith, those guys) and the bulk of the ones we fight in game and it just makes me really curious about what the demon world is like in the reboot (very fun to fill in with headcanons and fanon!)