#I have no time to listen to women talking to phantoms! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

undressrehearsal · 8 months ago

Text

dare to fuck this up

summary: ever since your last game of truth or dare ellie's been avoiding you and it's time for an intervention

tags: NSFW, tlou au, college!ellie/reader, mentions of drugs and alcohol (not used), oral (e receiving), fingering (r receiving), finger riding (r receiving), little bit of angst, afab reader, the knee thing

a/n: this took me 2 months cause i work full time and it's 10k words so. enjoy (thank u for all the love on part 1! <3) also for anyone who doesn't know the tiktok dance i mentioned i linked it. don't look under the sound you'll spend way too long watching hot women dance

part 1

You hadn't talked about it.

You had woken up the next morning, the sun blinding you from the window that was still left open. A cold autumn breeze ruffled your curtains, pricking at your bare skin. With one foot still in a dream, you'd groaned, turning over and pulling your blanket over your head. You had burrowed your head into your pillow - it still smelled earthy, rich with cologne and the faintest smell of weed. It had made your nose wrinkle only briefly, before you had reached out, searching for the warmth of another body - but your fingers only landed on the sheets, now cool to the touch.

You sat up with a gasp, the blanket pooling around your lap. But you had fallen asleep on top of your blankets, hadn't you?

The comforter was laid neatly over you, the pillows on the other side of the bed propped against your headboard, unbothered. The sun was streaming through the window, filtering through your curtains and shining in splatters of light against your own bare skin. Your small room was deafeningly quiet.

That had been three weeks ago.

For three weeks, Ellie avoided you. You hadn't seen her when you left to take your exam that morning. By the time you got home - after classes and after your part-time job - it was dark. The door to her bedroom was firmly shut, the muffled sound of music leaking into the living room - you wanted to smile when you realized she was listening to that song you had recommended. You thought about knocking on her door; not even to talk about what happened, really, but just because she was your best friend. Instead, you ate leftover takeout - cold because you were too tired to microwave it - and went to bed. You could hear her quietly singing to the music through your flimsy wall, falling asleep listening to her voice.

At first, you honestly thought you had dreamed it. You thought maybe you had fallen asleep, sleep deprivation and vodka drawing out this fantasy in your dreams to torment you when you woke. But when you looked in the mirror, the bruises were still there. You ran your fingertips across the one on your collarbone, pressing at the one left behind your ear; you could still feel the warmth of Ellie's mouth against your skin, her teeth grazing across your hips. The phantom feeling still sent a shiver down your spine, heat creeping in your stomach.

Ellie was trying her best to avoid you, but she still lived with you. After three days of not speaking, you resorted to a different approach. She didn't seem to have any plan to speak with you anytime soon - certainly not about what happened - so you let your body do the talking. You began wearing primarily v-necks and tank tops - ignoring the fact that it was still fall - simply to broadcast the line of lovebites she had left, her signature written all over your skin. They had faded slightly, but the purplish bruises still blossomed along your collar. You began wearing shorts around, short enough to show the bruise on your thigh; you let the fabric sit low enough to show the one at your hip, a pretty blend of colors that made you ache. The few times you did see her - when she was scavenging for food in the kitchen or right when she got home, before she could scurry away back to her room - you could feel her eyes lingering on you, gaze like a brand against your skin, burning all the spots she had marked.

And she would hurry back to her room, locking the door behind her.

Fine.

If she refused to talk about it, you thought, you'd just have to make her.

Which is why, three weeks after your original game - three weeks after that stupid fucking night - you bought a new bottle of vodka (by the time you had found the old one, it had spilled the last of its contents into your rug. Your room still smelled of it). When you got home, Ellie’s door was shut, just as it had been every day for three weeks. You kicked off your boots, leaving them in a pile in the hall, and knocked on her door.

“Sorry, I’m busy,” she called - just as she had every day for three weeks.

You pursed your lips and knocked again, harder.

“I’m busy!” she called again, her voice hard. It might have stung if you didn’t know her so well.

So, you knocked again. And kept knocking, a steady, continuous rhythm that echoed against the walls. You heard Ellie curse under her breath, could hear the scrape of her chair and her footsteps, and you kept knocking. You didn’t stop - didn’t even slow - until she opened the door in a huff, your hand falling against open air.

“What the hell are you-”

You shoved the bottle of vodka against her chest, cutting her off. She gripped it hastily before it could shatter against the floor.

She looked frazzled. You had seen her during several exam seasons, during harrowing projects and infuriating essays. You had seen her in the hospital, two years ago, after breaking her leg skateboarding to work. But there was something in the way her hair was disheveled, sticking up at odd angles as though she had been running her fingers through it over and over and over again. There were bags under her eyes, purplish splotches like watercolor.

And her eyes…. Her eyes were completely shattered.

So you hesitated - briefly, just long enough for her to see the stutter on your lips - before you said, “Truth or dare?”

And the game began.

Ellie looked at you, staring for several moments that stretched into infinity. You wanted to grasp it, to wrap your fingers around that stretched thread of a moment and hold it there where it couldn't hurt either of you. You weren't ready to let it go. But Ellie was looking at you with those broken eyes, and before you could say or do anything - before you caved and took the bottle back, fleeing back to the safety of your own room - the thread snapped.

Ellie shook her head - and kept shaking it, as if doing so would rid her of this… whatever this was. “No,” she murmured, avoiding your eyes as her grip around the bottle’s neck tightened. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m busy, okay? I have an exam tomorrow-”

She moved to close the door - shutting it right in your face - but you kicked your foot out to stop it.

“When somebody asks the question,” you said, reciting the stupid little agreement you both had written out two years ago, the night you established this tradition, “you have to play the game to its conclusion; when you run out of questions or pass out from alcohol poisoning. Those are the rules, El. Remember?”

And still, she just looked at you, her brow furrowed like you were an equation she couldn’t solve - couldn’t even read, really. Her knuckles were white around the bottle’s neck, and when you looked down, her hands were shaking. You wanted more than anything to put your hands over hers, to still them - to bring those hands to your lips and kiss the white knuckles until she released her fists. Instead, you dug your nails into your thighs.

You watched as Ellie took a deep, steadying breath, clenching her fists tighter before releasing the tension, her fingers relaxing around the bottle; her hands stopped trembling. She smiled at you, but it was tight, her eyes empty of their usual mischief. “Alright,” she said, and her voice was just as tight as her fists had been moments ago - the tension not gone, only transferred. “Okay, I’ll play. But you only get an hour - I really do need to study.”

Ellie’s bedroom was the same layout as yours, only flipped, the two a mirror of each other. Strings of lights hung crookedly along the walls, the bulbs casting a soft, warm glow amongst the room, the same hazy hue of a dream. An easel leaned in one corner, a canvas propped against it; there were only the barest scribbles of an outline, incomprehensible to you. You thought it may be a profile, the gentle slope of a nose and soft lips sketched in pencil, but you weren’t sure.

You ran your fingers over her desk as you passed; it was in absolute disarray. Two different astronomy textbooks lay open, covered in highlighter markings and Ellie’s sloping writing in the margins. There were three different cups on the surface in varying levels of full: a mug half full of coffee, still steaming; a glass of water that was completely full, untouched; and a cup filled with murky, grey liquid. A few paintbrushes had been left to sit in that one, and in large writing along the cup was written PAINT DO NOT DRINK. You almost laughed, remembering all the times you had watched your roommate spit water out after she had picked up the wrong cup.

It felt strange when you sat gingerly on her bed. You had sat in this spot so many times before, more than you could count. You had spent so much time lounging on this bed, your laptop open in front of you while Ellie worked at her desk - on homework or her latest painting or nothing at all. There were days laid out before you where you both at lain in a crumbled heap, eating takeout on top of the covers because Ellie didn't give a shit about crumbs, an open laptop playing whatever horror movie she wanted to show you (she was always more scared than you, hiding her face in your shoulder). God knows how many truth or dare games you had played in this room, a bottle of alcohol passing between shaking fingers. When Ellie bought it, it was cheap whiskey and you hated it; you drank it anyway.

Now, sitting on her bed - carefully, as though you thought it might break - your skin felt aflame, a fire burning in your muscles. When you ran your fingers over the messy sheets, you could only remember how it had felt to have your fingers clutching the ones on your own bed.

Ellie sat at her desk across from you, folding herself so that she had one foot propped up on the chair with her, her knee folded to her chest; her other foot tapped anxiously against the floor. She was looking at you, her face strategically neutral, but it was like she was looking through you; her eyes kept shifting away, unable or unwilling to settle on you. Her voice gave nothing away when she said, looking at a spot above your shoulder, “Dare.”

You sighed, feeling the questions wanting to claw their way from your throat with nowhere to go. You knew what you wanted her to do - what you wanted to dare her to do - but the words would only cause her to withdraw further. You felt like you had to approach Ellie as if she were a scared animal, ready to flee at the first sight of danger.

Wracking your brain for something mild, you said, “Try to recreate one of those dumb popular TikTok dances.”

You didn't miss how Ellie's shoulders relaxed, her hands noticeably unclenching. She looked at you and it was almost like nothing had happened; like she hadn’t been avoiding you for three entire weeks, becoming a ghost in your apartment. Like you both hadn’t made what had obviously been a drunken mistake.

The beginning of a smirk tugged at her lips as she dug in her back pocket for her phone - its case had an astronaut on it, because of course it did. The screen illuminated her face, flashes reflecting minutely in her eyes as she scrolled. She bit her lip absently - she often did when she was thinking. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.

“This’ll be easy,” she muttered to herself, half laughing. She scrolled through a few videos, and she had the volume down on her phone, but you could still recognize the song that kept playing on repeat; you were going to fucking die.

There were several minutes of quiet, only the music playing from Ellie’s phone. With nothing to do but wait, you brought your legs up onto the bed, tucking them under you; your eyes wandered around the room, taking in the stack of paintings by her desk, both finished and unfinished. The figurine she had of Kassandra from Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey had toppled on her desk, her spear falling in a glob of paint, the tip smudged bright yellow. You investigated the posters she had hung up of her favorite bands - almost all of them with female singers; she had a very specific taste. On her nightstand, in a frame made of macaroni, there was a picture of her and her dad, taken at the zoo when she was quite a bit younger, the blurry image of a giraffe in the background. She was holding up a peace sign, smiling so wide her eyes were practically shut.

You turned back when Ellie stood up from her chair, placing her phone on her desk. Shoving her hands in her hair, she said, “Can’t promise this’ll be anything amazing, but you get what you paid for.” Even as she said it, she was smirking, a dangerous twinkle in her eye.

You watched as she rummaged in her closet, shoving aside probably half a dozen flannels and at least 10 different band t-shirts. She rummaged through a bucket with a few beanies in different colors, and you couldn’t see her face, but you already knew she would be wrinkling her nose like she always did when she was getting frustrated.

You jumped, startled, when she suddenly exclaimed, pulling her head from her closet and turning to you with a triumphant grin. She held a black belt in her fist, holding it up like a trophy.

You shook your head at her, even as your throat closed up with anticipation. “If it took you that long to find one, it’s no wonder your pants are always hanging from your fucking ass.”

“Hey,” she said, picking up her phone again and looking at you with mock offense; she was still smirking. “I don’t exactly hear you complaining when my ass is out.”

You heard the stutter, heard the way her breath caught after she said the words. It was so stupid - a stupid little remark that she would have made any other day three weeks ago. She wouldn’t have even thought about it, wouldn’t have batted an eye. You would have rolled your eyes and said something mean in response - something like, “I save my complaints for when I see your face instead.” You would have laughed and then watched a fucking movie or something.

Instead, Ellie only coughed awkwardly, ducking her head to fiddle with her phone. In the dim light, you could see the flush of her cheeks behind her bangs. You looked anywhere but at her, your eyes darting around to find something to focus on that wasn’t how pretty she looked when she was flushed pink - how pretty she looked with her cheeks red from alcohol and exertion, her lips shining wetly -

Your brain short-circuited when Ellie started the music - only the bite-sized sample that was trending on TikTok. She set her phone on her desk and took a deep breath, waiting for the song to loop again as she positioned the belt by her hips. She didn’t look at you, instead casting her eyes to the ceiling and muttering, “This is gonna be so stupid.”

When the music looped again, you were forced to watch as Ellie thrust her hips to the beat, pulling the belt slowly away from her hips. When she brought it up to wrap the piece of leather around her neck, pulling it taut, you were surely convinced you must be paying for some sort of crime, that this was your eternal torture. Her movements were janky, stuttering and unsure and off-beat - she had only watched the videos for a few minutes and was relying solely on memory to guide her limbs. When she tried to tie her wrists into the belt, she got stuck, her hands ending up in a knotted mess. Still, her eyes met yours when she raised her bound hands above her head - coincidentally or purposefully - and you couldn’t look away.

This was definitely Hell. It had to be.

When the song started to loop again, Ellie hastily tried to pull her hands from the knot. The belt clattered to the floor, abandoned, as she scooped her phone up, fumbling with the buttons to cut off the music. She nearly dropped her phone in her haste.

When the room was silent again, Ellie sat back down at her desk. Last time you had played, you had asked her to do something ridiculous for her first dare, and she had grinned with pride, practically preening. Now, she wasn't smiling; she hardly even looked at you, fiddling with one of the many paintbrushes on her desk. You compartmentalized the image of her thrusting her hips with her hands bound over her head, saving it for later. You always did torture yourself with these things.

Ellie was looking at that same spot over your shoulder when she said, “Truth or dare?” She sounded pained, her words strained against some invisible weight. It was like your very presence in her room - on her bed - pained her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave and give her relief.

“Truth,” you said, hoping against hope that she would ask you fucking anything about that night three weeks ago.

But she had never been that easy. Ellie had never been one to give you straight answers and she wasn’t about to start now - especially not now. So instead of saying anything - asking anything - about that night that she seemed keen on forgetting, she asked, “What’s the worst first date you’ve been on?” Before you could protest that you always told her about your worst dates, she added, “One I haven’t heard before.”

So for the span of one question, you let yourself believe that you were still talking to your best friend. That she hadn’t been avoiding you for three fucking weeks and this was only your typical truth or dare game in between studying. You believed that you were simply gossiping with Ellie, who had been your best friend for several years and nothing more. In the space of one question, you let yourself believe that this was still only a game and not an intervention.

So, in the spirit of pretend, you thought for a moment, rifling through the index of all the shitty dates you’ve been on. Ellie had already heard most of them, had been there whenever you came back home; she was there whether you were heartbroken or relieved that you wouldn’t see the person again. There were a few times where you had come home laughing, and she had passed you a joint as you told her all about the horrible date - you would take twice as long to tell the story because you couldn’t stop laughing.

Finally, you said, “Okay, this was before we came to college. We weren’t close enough friends in high school for me to tell you, so I don’t think you’ve heard this one before. Stop me if I’m wrong.” She waved her hand for you to continue, twirling a pencil between her fingers. “I had just graduated high school so I was dating around before I left for college - nothing serious, just casually looking around.”

“Window shopping,” she interrupted you with a grin - that same easy grin she always had with you. Your heart tugged embarrassingly at seeing it again.

You swallowed the lump and continued, “Yeah. So, I went on a date with this guy - he was some friend of a friend’s, I didn’t know much about him. We went out to dinner at some local dive bar - which was already fucking weird because, like I said, I had just graduated high school.”

“Was this guy a fucking cradle robber?” Ellie said, wrinkling her nose.

You shook your head. “He may as well have been. He was either 21 or he was just really good friends with the bartender because as soon as he came in, he got two beers - the cheap shit, too. It tasted like musty ass.” Your stomach twisted when she laughed. “So we sit at a booth and I finally get a second to really look at him.” You leaned forward, bracing your hand on the bed so you wouldn’t fall, and made sure she was looking right at you when you said, “And this motherfucker was wearing a shirt that said Black Rifles Matter.”

You reveled in the way Ellie’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening. Her lip turned up in disgust, and the only thing she could say was, “No.”

You grinned, nodding, and you had to focus really hard to not start laughing. “Yes. And I rolled up to this dive bar, fresh out of the womb, with bright pink hair freshly dyed and a crop top that literally said Femme on it in bright pink letters - which, okay, maybe not the choice to wear on a first date with a straight guy, but still. I was in this booth with a baby face looking every bit as queer as I am, and this fucking dude with a patchy mustache and a shirt that has more problems than I care to admit opens up by telling me he doesn’t like when girls dye their hair.”

Ellie was rolling her eyes, on the edge of her seat. She leaned closer as you continued, “But fine, whatever, everybody has preferences I guess. But this guy gets three beers in, and he’s already been talking about weird shit - conspiracy theories and telling me how kids today are too soft - one of those fucking guys, right? But then he stops,” you hold up your hands for emphasis, leaning even closer, “and he leans into me over the table, and he looks me straight in the eye - you wanna know what he said?”

Ellie groaned. “Tell me he didn’t ask who you voted for or some shit.”

You barked out a laugh; it echoed on the walls. “God, I wish. No, this bitch looks me dead in the eyes, his breath reeking of bad beer, and he says, ‘Are you on your period? I have this weird talent for smelling when girls are on their period.’”

You watched, delighted, as Ellie slapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a choked gasp. “No!”

You couldn’t stop laughing, pressing your hand to your stomach as you fell back against the sheets. Her laugh filled the room like helium, making everything feel lighter - easier. Even now, you couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was being around Ellie. And for a moment, you did forget what had happened. You forgot about the string pulled taut between you waiting to snap. You forgot that this was anything more than simply another dumb game of truth or dare.

Until you looked up and saw the press of Ellie’s lips again, the way her eyes darted away, and you could feel yourself sinking again.

And that’s how the hour went. Ellie - infuriating Ellie - did every single dare you asked of her. She did a handstand for a minute straight, her face turning so red you thought she might pass out. She called the local pizza place you often ordered from and asked for one hundred sardine pizzas, laughing when the poor teenage boy on the other line started stuttering. Last time, she didn’t take all the liquid in the fridge and make a nauseating cocktail; but this time, she did go and find four different liquids of her choosing - apple juice, almond milk, an old flat Dr. Pepper, and the remaining vinegar in a Kimchi jar - and downed it in front of you. She tried her hardest to hold a straight face, but only ended up scrunching her eyes closed, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle a gag. She never chose truth.

For your part, you never chose dare. You answered every pressing, embarrassing question she asked, ignoring the flush to your cheeks. You told her the most absurd dealbreaker for a relationship. (“What do you mean you’ll break up with someone if they don’t like garlic?” Ellie asked, smiling even as she shook her head.”) You went through the original Wiggles band and said which you would fuck, marry, or kill (“There are four of them! Do I choose to have a threesome?”)

And you waited. Each time you chose truth, you held your breath. You watched Ellie mull it over, her eyes darting around as she thought, and prayed that she would just ask you something. You knew it was an unrealistic wish, but you still watched her lips and hoped against hope that she would give you some kind of acknowledgement that this wasn’t all for nothing. You just wanted her to stop being such a pussy and fucking talk about what happened.

But the clock kept ticking.

After about an hour had passed, Ellie looked at her phone and sighed, standing up. “Okay, I really have to get back to studying. I have this dumb astrophysics exam tomorrow and I can’t wrap my fucking head around this shit, so I have to -”

“One more,” you cut her off, standing up from the bed. You followed her as she walked to the door, one step behind her when she put a hand on the doorknob. She paused, her hand frozen there as she looked at you - actually looked at you, not through you. It was only a moment, but it was there; you could feel the way her eyes had branded your skin even after she’d looked away. Your voice was rushed, breathless when you added, “We haven’t even opened the bottle, so what’s one more? Just for fun.”

Ellie looked behind you, back at the vodka bottle on her desk with the seal still intact. She sighed, but she never could say no to you.

“Fine,” she said, and her voice was so quiet in the dark room; the word felt like a secret between you, soft against the tension stretched thin. “One more.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath. You tried to sound casual - you really did - but when you spoke, you found you couldn’t speak any louder than a whisper, afraid to disturb the air around you. You ducked your head, trying to meet her eyes when you said, “Truth or dare, Els?”

She looked at you, meeting your eyes, and she seemed to deflate, sighing out a breath that ruffled your hair - you hadn’t realized how close you were. Her breath smelled of canned ravioli and weed; it was almost enough to make you laugh.

Ellie took a step back, clearing her throat, and answered for one last time, “Dare.” Because she was too afraid of the fucking truth.

And fuck it if your heart didn’t stutter in your chest. You felt your fingertips buzzing, your stomach twisting nauseatingly. You felt like you were going to be sick, but you forced yourself to look up at her. You squared your shoulders, feeling like you were preparing for fucking battle, and said, the words familiar on your tongue, “Kiss me.”

A moment of silence passed, the words suspended between you. They were tangible, and part of you still wanted to snatch them back - to swallow them and leave, to pretend this never happened - but you didn’t. You held them out to Ellie - you weren’t sure if they were a threat or an offering.

Ellie didn’t recoil, and you weren’t sure if that was more insulting. She looked at you for a long moment before turning away, shaking her head and turning the doorknob. “I really need to study, okay? I don’t have time for thi-”

You put your hand against the door, holding it there so she couldn’t open it. Your stomach was a mess, tying itself into knots that you would never be able to undo. And you knew - you were far too aware - that this could ruin everything. It could drive her further away, pushing her further into this little cocoon she was hiding in. Ellie might hate you for it.

But this was too important to ignore.

“Kiss me, Ellie,” you said again, and you could feel the bite of it on your own tongue. When you had said it three weeks ago, you had been so unsure. It had been a rush of words on a breath, tinged with alcohol and desperation. The words had been so careless, a sober idea that had made its way from your drunken mouth.

Now, Ellie was the one who couldn’t look at you. She stared at the spot where your hand pressed to the door, willing you to let go. Her knuckles were white around the doorknob. Her voice was a rumble that you felt in your chest when she said, “I need you to leave. Please.” That last word - please - made your heart break.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat and said, “No.”

Ellie finally turned her whole body towards you, but she was wearing a mask; she had schooled her face into a mockery of nonchalance, her eyebrows raised expectantly as she watched you. She crossed her arms, leaning against her hip, and watched you with measured expectancy, shaking her head. She shrugged and said, “What do you want? I really need to study.”

And it was the lack of care that broke you.

You slapped your hand against the door in frustration, feeling the sting in your palm, disappointed when Ellie didn’t so much as jump. You shook your head at her, and you were so fucking angry you could feel tears stinging at your eyes. You blinked them away and snapped, “What’s your fucking problem?”

Ellie’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth opening in indignant shock. “What’s my problem?”

“Yeah,” you cut her off before she could even continue. “What’s your fucking problem? You know what happened - what we did - but ever since that night you have been so determined to act like it never happened. You haven’t even talked to me in three fucking week, Ellie!” She closed her eyes when your voice broke on her name. “You’ve hardly looked at me all night. And look,” you sniffled, feeling some of the fire in you die down, “if you regret it - if you want to act like it never happened and go back to how things were before, I get it, okay? But can you at least have the balls to fucking tell me?”

Your voice echoed off the silent walls, filling the space between you until you couldn’t breathe. You wiped a hand roughly over your face; your cheeks burned and you hated yourself for it. The room was so quiet you feared Ellie could hear the sound of your racing heart.

It felt like hours before Ellie spoke; her voice was so heartbreakingly quiet, tip toeing on eggshells that were already broken. “I don’t regret it.”

You huffed out a breath, shaking your head as she still wouldn’t meet your eyes. She couldn’t even look at you. When you took a step closer, you could feel the heat radiating off of her body, could feel the warmth in your chest. Your voice had lost its fire, your throat cold and raw and broken. You could only murmur, “Then kiss me again, Els. What are you so afraid of?”

“You,” she snapped. You jumped, taking a step back; your heart lurched when she finally looked at you. Those shattered eyes were watching you, so open and vulnerable you wanted to look away. You forced yourself to watch, to bear witness to it when she shook her head, blinking tears from her eyes. Ellie pressed her lips together, blinking several times before releasing her held breath. She held your gaze like it was a lifeline and said, “I’m scared of you.”

And just for a moment - so filled with silence it might pop - you saw it. You saw how Ellie had run from you like an injured animal, hiding away. You saw the way her hands shook around her biceps. You saw the way she bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

You shook your head, feeling so incredibly small underneath those eyes that had avoided you all night; now they were vividly, overwhelmingly focused, broken in the hazy light and so green it was dizzying (and you couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol this time). You didn’t recognize your own voice, so small and vulnerable that the words themselves ached: “How can I fix this, Els? You want me to-” You huffed out a heavy breath, choking on your own voice. “Do you want me to act like it didn’t happen? Do you want me to leave you alone? I’ll do whatever you want, Ellie, I just… fuck. I just want my best friend back. So just… tell me what I did wrong.”

You jumped when Ellie barked out a laugh, so dry it cracked. It may have been a trick of the light, the soft string lights making everything feel unreal, but when she looked at you again, she went impossibly soft.

“You,” she said, so softly it ached, “haven't done anything wrong.” She sighed, leaning back against the wall; it was like all the fight suddenly drained from her, her shoulders sagging against the weight of three weeks. She looked away, her lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, and said, quiet as a confession, “You were drunk.”

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head. “What?”

Ellie ran a hand through her hair, making it even more disheveled. Pathetically, you wanted to fix it; you knew how soft the strands would be under your fingers.

“You were drunk,” she repeated, as though it pained her; as though it explained everything. Her voice broke, the shattered pieces falling at your feet. “And I…. Fuck, I shouldn’t have pushed you. I shouldn’t have… forced myself on you.” She heaved in a shaky breath, her words tumbling from her, broken glass cutting her throat, leaving it raw. “I couldn’t even… wait for you to wake up after. I just fucking ran - I couldn’t even look at you, and that’s even shittier! And for three weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how to fucking talk to you when I know that we - that I shouldn’t have done that.”

Ellie pressed her hand to her mouth, taking in a shaking breath - her entire body was trembling as she fought to hold it all in. She looked ready to burst, struggling to take in a deep breath. You reached out to grab her hand - to hold her together - but she flinched away.

“I don’t-” you started, unable to find the words. You watched your best friend dissolve, and you couldn’t seem to fit all her pieces back together. “Ellie… Els, are you saying you’re avoiding me because - because you thought you took advantage of me.” The words tasted ridiculous on your tongue, a foreign object.

Ellie was shaking her head wildly, her hands balled into fists. “You were drunk!” she repeated, like a mantra. She pressed a hand to her chest as though to keep everything in. “You were drunk, and you kept telling me no, and I just… pushed. I pushed and I didn’t know when to stop and, fuck, I still can’t believe I did that and I didn’t even have the fucking balls to face you or even tell you I’m sorry, and-”

“Ellie.” You reached out and grabbed her wrist, cutting off her rambling; she flinched again but didn’t pull away. She looked up at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable and so impossibly green. “For one, do I need to remind you we were both drunk. And that I was the one who told you to kiss me?”

She watched you carefully, guarded; her bottom lip stuck out and, embarrassingly, you found you wanted to kiss it again more than anything. She took in a deep, shaky breath, ignoring the tears running down her cheeks; they mixed with her freckles like watercolor. “You kept telling me to stop - to leave it alone. And I didn’t listen.”

“Els, I told you to stop because I was scared,” you admitted in a rush. Before she could respond, you continued, “Not of you. I was scared of how badly I wanted you, okay? And that’s fucking embarrassing to admit, but I’m saying it so you know it wasn’t your fault. I was scared because… fuck.” You scrubbed a hand over your face, feeling tears on your own cheeks. “Because you’re my best friend. And I knew that, as much as I wanted it, it could fuck everything up. But I didn’t want you to stop.”

She shook her head. Her voice was raw when she said, “You couldn’t fuck anything up. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Neither did you,” you practically shouted. “Ellie, I asked you to kiss me! Yeah, I had a few shots that night, but I knew what I was doing. You asked me how long I’ve wanted it - what did I say, Els? Tell me.”

Ellie looked up at you, her cheeks splotchy from crying; she let you slip your hand into hers anyway. “A long fucking time.” It was no more than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you said, gripping her hand to keep her grounded. “Not just when I was drunk. Not just when it was late. And definitely not just when you wanted it too. I’ve wanted you for a long fucking time, Els.”

Ellie watched you, studying you like you were an equation she couldn’t figure out (she really needed to study for that astrophysics exam). She pursed her lips, nodding slowly, rubbing roughly at her damp cheeks. “Yeah.” Her voice broke again; she cleared her throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

You took a step towards her; her body was so warm it was dizzying. You could hear her breath catch when you reached up and pressed your palm to her cheek.

“What do we do now?”

When she sighed, you could feel it on your lips. You felt the warmth of her hand at your waist, a steady anchor. “Like you said,” she murmured, her gaze soft; she reached up to brush your hair from your face, her fingers grazing the side of your neck. “This could fuck everything up.”

Your heart lurched; you swallowed it back down so it could throw a fit right next to your twisted stomach. “Yeah,” you whispered, afraid to break the spell that made Ellie’s eyes watch the way your lips moved, captivated. “But….”

“But,” Ellie repeated, leaning in so her nose brushed against yours; it was cold against your skin.

You hardly had to move to kiss her, tilting your chin up to finally kiss that pouty bottom lip you had been staring at. You heard her breath catch again, her fingers pressing at your waist, drawing you closer so the warmth of her pressed against you. After three fucking weeks, you hadn’t forgotten how her lips felt against yours. It was just as intoxicating as it had been the first time; you were dizzy with the way she moved her mouth against yours, warmth spreading through your chest.

Ellie broke away from you, but she didn’t stray far; she pressed her forehead to yours, and you could see that her eyes were still closed, her brow furrowed. She sounded impossibly small when she said, “Are you sure about this? I mean, what-”

“Ellie,” you interrupted; you twisted your fingers into her short hair and tugged lightly, delighting in the gasp it pulled from her lips. “Just shut up for once, okay?”

You hardly even heard her replied Okay before her mouth was on yours again. Last time she had kissed you, you had felt lightheaded, floating with the weight of alcohol in your veins. Each press of her hands on you had felt unreal and distant, like she was touching you in a dream.

Tonight, the vodka bottle sat unopened and forgotten on her desk, and Ellie was pressing against you with a sharp realness that made your breath stutter in your throat. When her fingers ran along your jaw, cupping your face and tugging you closer, they were lightning against your skin. She had the welcoming warmth of a bonfire, and you were like a fucking moth drawn to her.

Ellie took a hesitant step forward, pressing you back, moving so slowly as though she thought you’d push her away. You let her push you backwards - encouraged her, really, entwining your arms around her neck and tugging her with you. You stumbled on the last few steps, practically falling back against the wall; Ellie braced her hands on either side of you to keep herself up, laughing into your mouth. You wanted to swallow the sound, to take it into your chest where it could curl up right next to your heart.

The wall was cold against your back, but Ellie was quick to chase it away; her warm hands ran up your back, rucking up your shirt and scratching her nails lightly over your skin until you shivered. She was so gentle with you this time, running her fingers over your skin with such careful deliberation, as though each kiss and each caress was meticulously planned out.

It was with this painstaking consideration that she lifted your shirt, pooling it around your chest; you raised your arms so she could pull it over your head.

Ellie snickered, snapping the strap of your bra against your skin. “This is new.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you said, batting her hand away. It was one of your nicer ones, and you couldn't tell her that, embarrassingly, you had worn it on purpose with the hopeless thought of just in case. “Sorry I’m not in my pajamas. I’ll be sure to fix that next time.”

She grinned, ducking her head to press a kiss to your jaw. She hummed against your skin, “No, I like it.”

You didn’t talk about the implication of what you had said - next time. But the way she kissed her way across your jaw, her teeth grazing over your skin and sending a shiver down your spine, promised a next time. As Ellie’s tongue darted out to lick along your pulse, you could feel the words in the breathy sigh that escaped your lips. When she ducked her head to bite at your collar, she branded the words into your skin.

“You’re such an asshole,” she said, her laughter warm against your skin. She pressed a gentle kiss to your collarbone; the bruise had long faded, but the phantom ache was still there. You could feel her smile when your breath hitched. “Just had these on full display. Drove me insane.”

You huffed out a laugh that stuttered when she pressed a kiss at the edge of your bra. “I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?”

Ellie lifted her head to meet your eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper, her breath brushing your lips when she said, “You’re crazy if you think you’ve ever not had my attention.”

When she kissed you again, it was with a new fire that burned bright in your chest. Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer so that you could feel her body against every inch of you. Her fingers dipped below the waist of your pants, pressing at the soft skin there. You felt her tongue press against your lips; when she ran it along the room of your mouth, she swallowed your moan.

Ellie hummed against your lips, pressing you firmly into the wall and shoving a knee between your legs. You gasped at the sudden friction, heat pooling in your stomach when Ellie gripped your hips and pulled you closer, grinding against her sweatpants-covered leg. Her lips brushed against your ear and she murmured, “Tell me to stop and I'll stop.”

She had said those same words last time, pressed drunkenly into your skin. There was an affirmation hidden somewhere underneath: Do you still want me? Before, they had been slurred, like a sloppy kiss against your lips. Now, her hands steady against your hips, her body warm from something other than vodka, it was whispered like a promise.

You answered by pressing your hands to her chest; she didn’t fight you as you pushed her away, didn’t hesitate as you walked her backwards until the back of her knees hit her bed. She let herself fall backwards, but she wrapped her arms around your waist as she did so. You fell into a crumpled heap on top of her, knocking the air from both of your lungs, and you could feel her laughter against your neck.

Lifting yourself up on your elbows, you glared down at her; she only answered it with a grin, lifting herself just enough to kiss you briefly. You couldn’t suppress your own smile when you said, “You’re infuriating.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. She hooked her fingers in your belt loops and gave them a tug as she said, “Yeah, get used to that.”

You kissed her again to hide your smile. You didn’t talk about the inclination of that either.

Growing impatient, you swung your legs on either side of her, sitting up and straddling her hips. Ellie’s hands ran up your sides, captivated, as though refusing to keep her hands off you for even a moment. You idly ran your fingers over her stomach where her hoodie had risen up, the warm skin right above her sweatpants; you delighted in the way she shivered at your touch.

“This doesn’t seem fair,” you hummed, running your hand higher up her abdomen, revealing the expanse of soft skin; if you pressed just a little bit harder, you’d be able to feel the muscles beneath. You smiled when you heard her breath stutter, chest rising just slightly to meet your touch. “You’re wearing way too many clothes.”

Ellie - ever enthusiastic - wasted no time in sitting up just enough to tug her hoodie over her head, leaving her hair an absolute mess. She tossed it across the room; you thought you heard it knock something over, but you didn’t have a chance to look before Ellie was grabbing your hips, digging her fingers into the soft skin. You gasped when she used the leverage to pull your hips down, grinding against her.

This time, she was the one not wearing a bra - she had been home studying all day, so you hadn’t expected otherwise - and your eyes raked over miles of fair, warm skin. You wanted to run your fingers over it and watch the shiver your touch pulled from her. You wanted to press your lips to every inch of hot skin and feel the way her body arched into you, chasing your tongue.

But she was watching you with an intoxicating shade of anticipation in her half-lidded eyes. You realized you had been staring for a few seconds too long because she had that cocky ass grin on her stupid face.

“Like what you see?” she teased, pulling your hips down again so you had to bite down a moan.

“Shut the fuck up,” you mumbled. You couldn’t tell her how many times you had imagined what she would look like under your hands or how you had always wondered how far down her freckles went (you couldn’t keep yourself from running your fingers down her chest, tracing them like constellations). You couldn’t tell her how your eyes had tracked her anytime she walked around the apartment in a sports bra or, sometimes, in only a towel, your imagination running away from you.

If you told her, she’d never let you live it down.

Instead, you let your hands drift across the small swell of her chest, feeling the way her body arched into your fingers. You had to bite back a grin when your thumb brushed over her nipple, feeling her body shudder beneath you. You wanted to record the way her breath caught in her throat to listen to over and over again. Her eyelids fluttered, her lip caught between her teeth; you knelt down to kiss her, hard and deep, smiling into it when you pinched her nipple gently and she moaned against your lips, fingers tightening around your hips.

You needed to taste her, you realized. Your mouth watered with it.

You bit her bottom lip between your teeth, grinning when you heard her hiss. You took a moment to kiss your way across her jaw and down her neck, open-mouthed kisses pulling sighs from her lips. You couldn’t resist sucking the skin into your mouth, feeling the way her pulse jumped under your tongue and loving the moan that rumbled in her throat, her fingers gripping your hips so tightly you were sure you'd have bruises - again. But when you pulled away and saw the red beginnings of a bruise on her pale skin, a thrill ran through you. She would have to walk around with a physical reminder of how you had made her feel.

You loved revenge.

But you weren’t like Ellie, who had taken her sweet time in unraveling you. You didn’t have that kind of patience - certainly not now, not tonight. You had spent far too long holding yourself back - too long averting your gaze, never letting your touch linger. You had spent so long schooling your own imagination, trying to ignore the way your heart stuttered whenever Ellie wandered too close. You had spent too many nights letting your mind wander, only feeling safe to let your imagination run when you could hide in the dark; you had spent far too many nights with your hand between your legs and the fleeting image of green eyes and that crooked fucking smile.

So no, you didn’t have any patience left in you.

When you reached between your bodies and pressed your palm to her sweatpants, you swallowed her moan, drinking it in and feeling like you could survive on it alone. Maybe it would finally satiate your fucking thirst.

Kissing your way down her chest, you pressed the words into her skin - “I can't fucking believe you though I didn’t want this.” - before pressing the flat of your tongue to her nipple. You could get drunk on the breathy moan that dripped from her lips, the way she arched up into you like her body ached to be closer to yours. She pressed her hips into your palm and you could feel the heat through her sweatpants.

When you pulled back just enough to tug at her sweatpants, Ellie started laughing, breathy and hitched as she said, “Little eager, aren’t you?” Even as she said it, she was lifting her hips, pushing hastily at her pants to get them off faster.

The fabric was damp when it dropped to the floor, pooling around her ankles. Stepping off the bed, you placed your hands on her knees, pushing them apart. You dropped to your knees and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin above her boxers. Her skin was hot under your tongue when you said, “Haven’t I waited long enough, Els?”

Ellie only responded with a moan as you sunk your teeth into the soft flesh of her thigh and pressed the heel of your palm to her underwear. You grinned against her skin when she cursed, grinding down into you. You soothed the bite with your tongue and backed away to admire the red beginnings of another bruise.

Ellie groaned, twisting her fingers in the sheets when you ground your palm into her. “Fuck, I’ve waited long enough too, right?”

You couldn’t hold back your grin, tugging at her boxers so she would lift her hips. With her underwear around her ankles, Ellie lifted herself up on her elbows so she could look down at you. Whatever she saw - you on your knees between her legs, lips parted so your hot breath fanned over her - made her groan, another breathy curse falling from her lips. She reached down and carded her fingers through your hair, fingers soft against your temple.

You smiled, blinking coyly up at her, and said, “Little eager, aren’t you?” before pressing the flat of your tongue to her clit.

The moan that wracked through Ellie’s chest sent warmth spreading through your stomach, an ache pooling between your legs. You raised your eyes to watch her as you licked a slow, painstaking stripe over her slit, watching the way her mouth fell open in a choked gasp. The metallic taste of her on your tongue made your head spin; you moaned when she twisted her fingers in your hair, delicious pain stinging your scalp when she tugged.

Ellie gasped your name like it was a promise. “Fuck - what the fuck -” Nonsensical words dripped from her lips with abandon, sweet as honey to your ears. When you ducked your head down to press your tongue inside her, a brief, hot pressure, her fingers tightened in your hair, her voice hitching when she cursed again, her words slurring together.

You wrapped one arm around her thigh, feeling the muscle trembling as you pressed your fingers into the soft flesh. You ran your other hand up her stomach, feeling the way her breath quickened in the rise and fall of her chest. Stretching further, you flicked your thumb over her nipple and tightened your arm around her thigh when her hips bucked, holding her in place.

You wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking it into your mouth and fighting back a smile at the keening whine it pulled from her. Her fist in your hair tugged you closer, guiding you exactly where she wanted you - and how could you resist her when she was chanting your name like a prayer?

A shudder wracked through Ellie’s body when you flicked your tongue over her clit, lapping at her like you were starving. (After waiting so long to taste her, you might as well have been.) She groaned when you pinched her nipple between your fingers, her thighs clamping around your ears. Her legs shook when she came, your name on her tongue as though it were the only word she knew. You coaxed her through it, the flat of your tongue licking over her clit until she was gasping for breath, her hips slumping back against the bed.

You peppered kisses over her thighs as she came down, your hand brushing across her stomach in soothing circles. Your knees ached from the cold floor, the carpet burning against your skin, but you couldn’t convince yourself to move just yet. When you glanced up at her, Ellie was looking down at you with glassy eyes; she had slumped back a little against her elbows, her limbs jelly - you tried not to let that go to your head - but she held out a hand to you, grasping for you. “Fuck, come here.”

You both took the time to finally scoot further up the bed, Ellie's head propped on her pillow, her hair a messy halo around her. She pulled you on top of her, bracing her hands on your hips as you straddled one of her legs. When you leaned down, she tilted her chin up to meet you, kissing you lazily, licking into your mouth like she had all the time in the world - like she could kiss you forever and it still wouldn't be enough. With your elbows braced on either side of her head, it felt like you were both in a small bubble, the world left outside to wait for you. Fuck, maybe you did have all the time in the world.

You gasped when Ellie raised her leg, pressing it between your thighs with an intoxicating pressure. She used her hands on your hips to push you down, guiding you as you grinded down against her. She broke away from the kiss, taking a moment to just look at you. Her pupils were blown, swallowing the green entirely.

She grinned, endearingly lopsided, and murmured, “Now you're wearing too many clothes.” You whined a protest when she took her hands off your hips, but she only reached behind you to fumble with the clasp of your bra. It took her a few tries - you bit back a laugh when she cursed in frustration - and she threw it across the room when she finally got off.

“Who the fuck designed those things?” she grumbled, fingers quick on the button on your jeans.

You got off of her for only a moment, just long enough to kick your jeans and underwear off, but each second her skin wasn't on yours was agony. Your clothes hadn’t even fallen to the floor before Ellie was pulling you back in by the nape of your neck, her other hand guiding your hips back over her leg as she kissed you with a hunger that may as well have devoured you. You hissed when her teeth sunk into your lip, her tongue soothing over it before licking into your mouth.

Your breath caught on a broken moan when she pressed her thumb into the dips of your hips, pressing you back to grind against her leg. The feeling of your bare pussy sliding against her thigh made you lightheaded, the dizzying pressure sending sparks through your stomach. Ellie's fingers still on the back of your head twisted in your hair, giving it an experimental tug; you felt her smile against your lips when you whined. You were pliable under her hands, your hips stuttering against her leg.

Ellie pulled away, pulling you back by your hair just far enough away for her to look at you; her eyes raked over your body with a hunger that set you nerves on fire, looking ready to devour you.

“God, look at you,” she breathed, raising her leg just slightly, the added pressure making your heart stop. Releasing your hair, her hand ran down your side, sliding across your chest. You moaned when her thumb grazed over your nipple, your hips stuttering; her other hand on your hip tightened, fingers digging into the bone. “So fucking wet for me and I've hardly even touched you.”

“Shit,” you cursed when Ellie bucked her hips, her thigh grinding into you. You tried to glare down at her even though you knew your own traitorous eyes betrayed your growing desperation. Her cocky smile didn’t quite land, its impact softened by the way she watched your lips in fascination, her pupils blown - you couldn’t see the green anymore. Your voice wasn’t nearly as hard as you wanted it to be, your want softening the words: “Fuck off, Els, don’t be a dick.”

“Am I being a dick?” she asked in mock offense, pouting up at you. “Good things come and all that shit, right?” Ever as she was teasing you, Ellie’s hand crept down your stomach, fingers warm against your hungry skin. She lowered her leg just enough to slide her hand between your thighs. You gasped, feeling lightning in your veins when those calloused fingers slid over your clit, already wet with want. Her eyes darkened, her lips parting. She slowly circled your clit, sending your hips jerking into her, and said, “Fuck, look at you. God, I finally get to see you like this….”

You struggled to speak past the breathy moans beginning to drip from your lips: “Finally? How - ah - fuck - how long - how long have you…?” You couldn’t think of a way to finish that sentence, your thoughts clouding over when Ellie dipped just the tips of her fingers briefly inside you, gathering your wetness.

“Like you said,” she murmured, finally pushing two fingers slowly inside you; even as she kept talking, she watched your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, “a long fucking time.”

Your jaw went slack when she curled her fingers, gasping when she found that spot that made you see stars. She paused, as though giving you a moment to adjust, unaware of just how many times you had done this with your own fingers.

“Shit, Ellie,” you moaned, canting your hips down into her hand. She adjusted her arm, positioning herself so that the heel of her hand pressed to your clit, pulling another breathy moan from your lips. Her other hand was still on your hip; she pushed you back, guiding you to grind on her fingers. “Ah - fuck.”

She watched you carefully, fascinated by the way your eyes rolled back in your head, your brow furrowed; you felt her own wetness on your thigh again. Her voice was so fucking breathy when she said, “How long have you wanted this, baby?” She hummed; releasing your hip, she ran her hand up your side to knead at your tit, her fingers so careful against you. You groaned low in your throat when she flicked her thumb over your nipple. “How many times have you come thinking of me? Did you imagine my fingers inside you, angel? Did you moan my name?”

You couldn’t even think of a snarky response; you were too distracted by the way her fingers curled inside you as you fucked yourself against her. Her rough palm slid deliciously against your clit, grinding into her with a growing desperation that made your thighs shake. Your shoulders ached from holding yourself over her but it was only an afterthought as you felt a tight warmth building in your stomach. You leaned down just enough to kiss her, moaning into her mouth when words failed you.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ellie repeated, groaning when your hips stuttered. You were lightheaded, fucking yourself desperately on her fingers, grinding down against her palm and chasing that intoxicating warmth spreading inside. “So fucking pretty for me.”

She kissed you as you came, licking into your mouth and tasting herself on your tongue. You pressed your clit down into the heel of her hand, riding it out, feeling the way that warmth spread down to your fingers. Ellie broke away from the kiss to trail her lips down your neck, leaving wet kisses along your skin and saving every broken moan that was gasped right into her ear.

Ellie didn’t move as you came down, letting you ride out your high, tracing gentle circles down your side. You slumped against her, your arms giving out; your weight landing on her forced all the air from her lungs. She only laughed breathlessly.

It was several long moments before you were able to move again. Ellie ran her fingers through your hair as you gasped into her neck; she hummed absently and you could feel the vibration against your lips.

When you were able to, you slowly lifted yourself off of her, wincing slightly at the sudden emptiness. With gentle hands, she guided you back down to lay beside her; you curled up against her without waiting for her invitation, resting a hand on her bare chest so you could feel the steady pounding of her heart.

Ellie didn’t wait for invitation either before she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you closer; she was blissfully warm against the suddenly cold air. Something tugged pleasantly at your chest at the realization that you would no longer have to monitor your own movements so carefully - you could touch her, you realized, any time you wanted now. God, how were you going to ever stop now?

Without anything else to say, you sighed against her skin: “A long fucking time.”

Ellie hummed, giggling at your delayed answer. The fairy lights on her walls cast the room in a warm glow; with the hazy lights around you, you would almost believe this was a dream if Ellie wasn’t so solid and warm beneath your fingers. You traced the freckles across her chest, connecting constellations you had seen her chart before.

Her voice was so quiet in the small room when she asked, “What do we do now?”

You hummed, feeling sleep winning the war inside you. “We can figure that out tomorrow,” you said, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Tilting your head, you leaned up just enough to kiss her, warm and deep and breathless, before moving away to meet her eyes. “Just don’t fucking run off again, okay?”

#ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #lesbian smut #ellie x you #ellie the last of us #ellie williams tlou #tlou smut #tlou 2 x reader #sorry for the novel #hope u enjoyed #smash that like button idk

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hemlock-dreams · 9 days ago

Note

Hypothetically, if you were going to write hunting!spider as a fic, how would you do it? Like, where would the story start—with Peter as the bartender, or his backstory? Would you flash back to his old universe?

-🕊️

Like this:

Peter hasn’t worn the suit since here got here. He hasn’t done much in the last two months of his new existence beyond haunting New York like a phantom, trying to figure out who he is and where he stands in a reality that hasn’t been unfortunate enough to have a Peter Parker in the first place.

Or a Spiderman.

Strange hadn’t been kidding about the magic. Peter feels like the victim of his own hubris, asking for a clean start, a world where no one knew him. He’d asked and he’d been delivered.

Almost.

The world is there, technically, but it’s like looking at a painting he’s seen a thousand times, only to realize the details are off. It’s the phones with the home button on the bottom, the different slang, the green money, all his favorite songs with wildly different lyrics, so many painful differences- a slow death by a thousand cuts.

Peter thought it would be easier, like a new beginning stretching out ahead of him, the sea-breeze smell of a fresh start after stepping out of Ryker’s.

But Uncle Ben isn’t waiting for him at the docks this time. Nothing is waiting except the uncanny arms of a city that used to know him. Like running into an ex after years apart, recognizing the same general shape, but being strangers all the same.

Damn it. He should have asked Strange to take his memories too.

At least then Peter would know what to do with himself instead of haunting Brooklyn at night like a ghost, fighting the cognitive dissonance of taking turns he used to know like the back of his hand, only to be startled when they lead into dead-ends or open out into streets that shouldn’t exist.

That’s why he hasn’t worn the suit. Because forget being Spiderman, who the hell is Peter, here?

His melancholy is interrupted by a woman’s voice, faint if not for Peter’s enhanced senses.

“Listen, you’re a sweet guy, but I don’t like mixing work and my personal life.” The voice is extra sweet in the way women get when trying to talk themselves out of a dangerous situation.

No matter the lifetime, Peter can’t ignore that.

So he changes course, beelining towards the source with silence that’s more instinct than experience. He sticks to the shadows, easily avoiding the few flickering streetlights between him and the alleyway. His night vision pierces the darkness, tracing down the detailed shape of the tall, lanky man cornering a woman in the middle of the alley.

He’s leaning, off-balance, clearly drunk, and boxing her in with one leather-clad arm, “Come on, Scarlett. I been asking for your number for weeks. Just one date, give a guy a chance, huh?”

Well, it was comforting to know that no matter the timeline, scum remained scum.

“Paul, you’re wasted.” The woman- Scarlett, is draped against the wall, seemingly at ease and deceptively loose-limbed, even as she fists a set of keys between her knuckles, “Why don’t we have this discussion somewhere a little nicer? There’s a cute cafe that’s open tomorrow-”

“Fuck that. It’s always one excuse after another with you,” The guy- Paul- snarls, swaying from one foot to the other. The frustration is a ticking bomb, “Why are you bein’ such a fucking bitch?”

Like clockwork, the slurs come out, and a peaceful resolution is no longer an option.

Scarlett realizes it too, because the hum of anxiety lacing her syrupy-sweet tone finally bleeds into her body. Her muscles lock, visibly entering fight or flight.

That’s Peter’s cue.

“Is there a problem?” Peter’s voice is like a knife in the dark, popping the bubble and making the two flinch.

“Who the fuck are you?” Paul sneers, face slack and ugly from drink. “The fuck you think you’re doing, butting in?”

Peter ignores him, glancing towards Scarlett, who flicks her eyes between them and the rest of the alleyway. Unfortunately, there’s only one entrance and he’s blocking it. Out of options, Scarlett plasters herself to the wall.

“This is between the lady and me.” Paul is still talking, stumbling towards Peter, “But I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to give you a chance to turn ‘round and walk away.”

“Generous, but I’ll have to decline.” Peter murmurs and crosses the distance, invading his space before the man can respond. The promise of violence always lights something in Peter’s stomach, but for all the man’s shit-talking, the fight, if it can even be called that, is pathetic. Paul is so drunk Peter can taste it in the air, and his spidersense doesn’t even bother kicking in as he dodges one wobbly punch after the other.

He doesn’t bother dragging it out. It only takes one good fist to the gut to drop Paul to the ground, followed by one good kick to the chest to keep him there. The aftermath is anticlimactic, awkward silence punctuated only by the rattling wheeze of the unconscious man beneath him.

Even pulling his punches, Peter probably cracked his ribs. It would take more effort than he’s got to feel sorry, especially since Scarlett is still glued to the wall, eyes trained on him and practically vibrating with adrenaline.

Slowly, Peter creates some space, backing out of the alleyway so he’s not obstructing the exit. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah.” Her reply is curt and wary, but Peter isn’t offended. He knows what he looks like, looming in the dark with his ratty clothes and unkempt beard. Best thing he can do to convince her of her safety is to walk away.

So he does just that, and he’s almost halfway down the block when he hears her behind him, clacking heels loudly in the chill night air, “Wait!”

Peter pauses, turning around.

Scarlett stops a few meters away, clutching the strap of her gym bag over her chest. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you.”

Under the streetlights, her face is striking. Her bright green eyes are smoky and sensual, with bold cheekbones and dark lips framed by wisps of red hair falling out of a messy bun. She’s exactly the type of woman Peter would fantasize about back in Rykers, the kind he would see on pinups in Marko’s cell- tall and feminine, with lean legs and a waist Peter could span with both hands.

The resolute look on her face reminds him so much of M-

He shunts that thought as soon as it appears.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter responds with a shrug. He’s not stupid enough to lecture a grown woman about walking the streets at night. “Was there something else?”

Scarlett chews on her lip, eyes flicking back to the alley before settling on Peter for a few long beats. Whatever she sees in him makes her sigh, and some of the tension leeches from her shoulders. “Feel like walking a girl to her job?”

Peter is a little surprised, and he takes a second to consider, mostly so he doesn’t look threatening, then nods, “Where to?”

“Maggies.” At his confused look, she raises a brow, “Saint Margaret’s?”

Still not ringing a bell, “Is that a…church?” He doesn’t remember any Saint Margaret’s in his Brooklyn, and it just reinforces that fish-out-of-water feeling that’s been choking him for the past few months.

“A church, sure.” Scarlett snorts derisively, laughing under her breath. When Peter doesn’t join in, she shoots him a wide-eyed look, “Oh. You’re serious. It’s an dance bar”

Walking at night makes more sense now. That, and the obvious stage name. “I don’t know where that is. I’m…kind of new in town.”

“I can see that,” She says, and the gold of her hoop earrings catches the light as she falls in step beside him. Peter keeps his strides short and even, staying in her line of vision as they walk. It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s still got her keys between her knuckles, though they’re no longer clutched in a tight fist, “What brought you to New York, Mr. Good Samaritan?”

“Peter.” He says. “I was looking for a fresh start and kind of washed up here,” Peter feels like he’s being called out on some lie, as if anyone glancing in his direction will peg that he doesn’t belong.

But Scarlet is just nodding, unawares, “Nice to meet you, Peter. And I get it. That's why I moved here, too. It might take a bit of time to get your bearings, but it's worth it when you do." They’re heading down the street, taking a turn on 81st that should have led into a main thoroughfare but doesn’t, instead turning into another little set of streets full of gated-off shops covered in graffiti. Even the gang signs don’t look the same. He tries not to think about it.

“I appreciate what you did,” Scarlett is saying, “Paul’s been a pushy bastard but I thought it was all drunk bravado, you know? I never believed he’d actually follow me. I’m glad you were there, but I’m sorry it had to end in violence.”

Resorting to violence is one of Peter’s favorite pastimes, but he’s absolutely not going to admit that out loud. Instead, he hums, tucking his hands into his stained hoodie, “Some people only listen when it's fists talking. Hopefully the lesson sticks.” Peter frowns, “You said he followed you, does that mean he knows where you live?”

Men like that tend to hold grudges. Especially if they've been had their head knocked around in an alleyway.

“Thank god, no.” She shudders next to him, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter at the thought, “He caught me coming from my day job. I’ll have to tell Weasel to put him on the blacklist for the club though…and change my shift. Ugh.”

Peter nods in sympathy. Shiting schedules between two jobs is going to be a nightmare. “Weasel?”

“The owner of Maggie’s.” She clarifies.

“Your boss is named Weasel?” Yikes. Peter can’t imagine what kind of shit someone had to do to earn that nickname.

“Yeah.” She laughs, “But don’t let the name fool you, he’s weird but he’s decent. There are lots of other clubs in the area but Weas lets us have a bigger cut than most other places. Plus, we get to set our own rules.”

They cut the street, avoiding some dark patches where the streetlights gave out.

“That’s good.” Peter agrees, “Otherwise this is a pretty sketchy walk for a small paycheck.”

It really is a sketchy walk, and his spidersense pings at odd moments, though nothing comes out of it save the odd junkie that wanders out of the shadows.

“I’ve had worse,” Scarlett shrugs, finally tucking her keys back into her purse. The stiff line of her shoulders has completely melted away now that they’re in what Peter assumes is familiar territory. “This is nothing compared to my last job.”

“Which was?”

“Telemarketing.”

Peter would rather take his chances soloing Thanos. “Point taken.”

“We’re almost there. Just down the road.” Scarlett points one long acrylic nail toward a looming brick building punctuating the street. Peter wouldn’t have given it a second thought if not for the single garish neon sign of a scantily dressed nun at the corner, directing his attention towards a nondescript door.

“Welcome to Saint Margaret’s School for Wayward Children,” Scarlett enunciates each word with an eyebrow waggle, grinning when Peter cracks a smile. “Finest entertainment this side of Brooklyn. Thanks for walking me.”

Peter doesn’t doubt it, especially if Scarlett is where they set the bar for dancers. “No worries. Stay safe, yeah?” Then he turns, intending to keep walking until his head is empty.

Scarlett pauses with her hand on the door, “You’re not going to come in?”

“Not really my scene.” A true statement, one that doesn’t have to acknowledge that Peter is capital-b Broke. Hard to get a proper-paying job when he doesn’t legally exist. He’s done a few gigs under the table, but the last few weeks have left Peter sleeping on empty rooftops with an emptier stomach.

“Really? I was hoping I could treat you to a drink. It’s the least I can do.” Scarlett sounds disappointed.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

She puts a hand on her hip, “Fine. Let’s consider it a celebratory drink then.”

“For?”

“Ugh,” Scarlett rolls her eyes. There’s no way she doesn’t know how charming that is. “For getting rid of Paul. Making new friends- whatever you want.”

Peter huffs a small laugh, “Friends? We just met.”

It’s not an outright refusal, because Peter is weak for the first real taste of human contact he’s had in months, and Scarlett smirks like she scents blood, “What can I say? I got a good feeling about you.”

Peter snorts. Now that’s a first.

“C’mon, Tiger. One drink. What have you got to lose?”

Peter exhales a long, slow breath, “Nothing.”

#spiderman #hunting!spider #peter parker #yeah im a clown ive been writing bits and pieces #Hopefully it delivers? I'm not a writer T_T

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dcxdpdabbles · 1 year ago

Note

Would it be possible to read what happened during Phantom's mating season peak in The Bakery is a Front from Tim's POV? I just think the pure baffled energy that Tim would be radiating from being taken care of so nicely by his hot kidnapper from another dimension would be hilarious. Really the whole kidnapping had to have been a better experience than some of the galas Tim has been forced to attend; at least definitely the best kidnapping he has ever experienced, 10/10 would be kidnapped again.

It happens so fast.

One second he's suffering through Danny's overdose, and the next, the dead body in his arms is leaping over Bruce and trapping Damian in an iron-clad grip.

Jason and Dick react the fastest, but it does nothing to someone who can density shift. Tim can only watch Danny sobs on top of Damian, speaking in a strange dialect. It sounded like cracking ice every time he wailed.

"Unhand me!" Damian grunts snaping a knife into Danny's side. Despite the apparent red spot growing on Danny's shirt, the other man doesn't flatter in his movements in the slightest. He squeezes harder, but it doesn't seem like he's trying to hurt Damian. If anything, it looks like he's...cradling him? Yes, it did in fact, seem like Danny is attempting to cradle Damian like a baby.

What on earth-?

"Shit! Danny put him down!" A new voice shouts. Three women and a man burst into the room. Tim has yet to learn where they come from, but Bruce wastes no time throwing a pair of Batbolas at them. It hits the target on the man and the red hair women, tangling their legs and knocking them off.

The man yelps while the woman grunts, throwing her arms in front of her in an obviously trained reaction. She can't stop herself from falling all the way, but her reflex is nothing to scoff at.

She doesn't seem to care as she shouts at the drug dealer. "Daniel Fenton, you let that boy go right now! Are you listening to me?"

"Danny is not here right now."

Tim jerks his head in his fake boss' direction watching in horror as the man's usual blue starts glowing green, and his dark hair bleeds into white. There is an unnatural glow emanating from under his skin that makes him appear so beautiful Tim loses his train of thought for a moment.

This transformation seems a bit too much to just be a meta-gene activation. Is Danny....not human?

One of the women- who looks like a younger female version of Danny- blasts him with a zap of green from her hand. It reminds him of Starfire, but while his friend's blast is nothing but heat, the green of the girl seems more light than flame.

He drops, unconscious, letting go of Damian. The newcomers relax when the goth-looking one kneels next to him and presses her hands against his neck. Danny appears returns to the human one Tim is used to in another quick blink of an eye. "No pulse!"

"Thank goodness." The red hair, one says, sitting up. It's then that Tim realizes it's Jazz. The one that talked down Jason and the rest of Danny's men not even two weeks ago. So neither left of the siblings left overseas? How had they tricked Babs? "No pulse means he's still in his mating season. Quick we have to get him quarantined again before-"

"You are not going anywhere!" Jason growls, leveling his gun at her. Jazz blinks down the barrel, then raises a brow. It reminds Tim of Alfred when the man found his hidden coffee machine- disgusted, disappointed, but most of all, unimpressed.

His brother sneers. "I want to know what is happening here and I want to know now!"

"Can you not read?" Jazz returns, speaking as if an annoying customer demands a service she can not provide. "I put up signs that clearly said Quarantine do not enter around Danny's house. Why do you think that is? Oh, maybe, it means to leave this area alone."

"You bats are lucky we got here when we did," The man says, trying to twist out his binds. It's not going too well, as a few electric mobiles slip out of his pockets. "The only way to snap the human side of Danny out of his daze is by making him deny his obsession which is something I hate doing."

What?

"I hate hitting him too" The girl with the energy blasts pouts "I makes my stomach turn."

She twists at her waist seconds before Damian's foot swings through the air, where her head was only seconds before. She sidesteps his three other attacks, face twisting into a sneer. "Hey! Back off! We don't share the same obsession!"

"Silence wrench!" Damian sneers, which makes her even angrier.

"Make me, you wannabe pirate!" the girl hisses, and it's then that Tim realizes they may even be the same age. She is doing a masterful job of barely being out of Damian's deadly reach.

"Don't hurt him, Elle!" Jazz shouts, "Things are already complicated enough-"

The goth woman screams as she is suddenly launched into the air, slamming into Bruce and cutting off the redhead. Dick rushes to the now-standing Danny, aiming a barrage of attackers that the man easily slips through. Bruce throws the woman off him, slamming her against the wall and knocking her out in the same action. The man screams as Jason shoots out his kneecaps and Tim-

Tim suddenly finds himself unable to think as large green eyes overtake his vision. Danny's eyes and hair are bleeding in and out of different colors as the man stares at him. "Mate...."

Tim's mouth dries, and his eyes are drinking in the man. He knows he should be doing something, but Tim can't remember what he should be-.

"TIM!" Dick screams, snapping him out of his daze, and....oh, Tim is falling. Danny- or whatever is pretending to be Danny- has pushed him by pressing his hands against his chest and shoving him through a portal.

Danny is watching his drop with a soft smile, that is at odds with Jason appearing at his side with guns blazing.

Tim drops onto a pile of soft snow- or what he thinks is snow. It looks like it, soft like a fresh full pillow, but it's not cold. If anything, it's the perfect temperature to nap in.....he's exhausted. When was the last time Tim slept? He can't remember.

His eyes are getting heavy. His body is going boneless.....he has never been so comfortable in his whole life....is this what it feels like to rest on a cloud...

Tim blinks, around the room trying to fight the urge to give into the darkness, and he notes that he seems to be in a castle made entirely of ice and snow...like Danny's home.....he also appears to be in a tower? The windows are shaped like one.

Tim takes note of the sky being a bright green color which is..odd, but that's all he can think clearly as he finally goes under.

_________________________________________

It feels like he only closes his eyes for a second when Tim is startled awake by a scream of rage. Jerking away, he sits up, trying to gather his bearings. He needs to find out where he is and where his gear is.

Tim pulls on the crotcheted sweater he's been stuffed into, breathing a sigh of relief when he realizes his Red Robin outfit is still on underneath. He climbs out of the bed made entirely of snow, flickering his eyes about.

He's covered head to toe in other crotchety objects- pants, sweater, socks, gloves, a scarf, and a hat- all big enough to fit comfortably against him and his vigilante costume. Raising a hand to his face, he touches the smooth leather of his trusted mask.

Right. Danny let him keep his secret identity intake. That's... something.

He glances around his surroundings again, this time for sure, that his in some type of castle covered in ice. It's beautiful, like something out of a Disney movie with shiny crystal frozen designs everywhere. He carefully makes his way to the window, looking out into a far darker green of a sky.

He squints into the distance seeing acres and acres of a vast castle and land, but on the far right, there seems to be a drop....a cliff? Or the edge of this island. For you see, he could make out flouting doors and islands in the sky.

This differently wasn't his earth.

Danny, not being human, was becoming more and more plausible.

"Release me!" A voice echo. Damian.

Tim slams the door open, sprinting down the hall toward his younger brother's distress calls. It's a castle; even if everywhere he turns, it seems to be a frozen wonderland.

There are ice sculptures of Danny between every large ice pillar. They portray him as Tim usually is used to or as a being with a tail instead of legs mid-flight. There are portraits of various people hanging on the walls- he can make out Jazz and the others that busted into Danny's apartment- but there all encased in ice.

There are no guards, so when Tim sprints down a giant stairway, he is hyper-aware of his footsteps echoing on the cracking ice. He rounds the hallway, then stumbles to a stop at the sight before him.

It was Danny. At least, he thinks so. The being had a strong resemblance to him, but his skin had a slight blueish hue, his ears were pointed, his hair was pure white, he was glowing, and most of all, he didn't have legs.

The sculptures hadn't been a artistic choice Danny in this form had a tail and he was flying around a restrain Damian.

His brother was in a gaint baby doorway jumper, encased in what looked like a snow swaddle.

Damian is also covered head to toe in crochet clothing, but his Robin costume peaks from underneath it. Danny was flying around him, placing piles of snow on the ground around the struggling child, making noises like creaking ice and purring when he came close to pat Damian.

It also looked like Danny....was nesting with Damian in the center of it.

What in the world?

"I'll have your head!" Damian sneers as Danny gently places a bear beanie on his head. " I am not a child!"

"My baby" Danny coos, then starts making more cracking noise. He rubs his head against Damian like a cat which causes the boy to grimace.

Tim needs to get him out of there. He looks around for a weapon, but his gear doesn't seem near him. The only thing he can possibly use is the ice around the walls-

"Crackle, crack, Clank, Click!" Danny suddenly says in his face. He crossed the room at the same speed Bart would have, or maybe faster since he didn't even see a blur. Tim jerks back, but the glowing figure is already reaching out-.

He places a scarf around his neck with an adorable head tilt.

"Drake! Run! He'll swaddle you!"Damian screams, but Tim can't look away. He's so beautiful. Danny's bright green eyes, sparkling with the stars of the universe, and his lips are so full, he bets they would be perfect to kiss- is someone purring? Tim could fall asleep to that sound- it must be a white noise machine-!

He snaps his eyes open, shocked to find himself back in the original room.

Tim is back in the damn nest. Confused, he blinks around the room, noticing the sky is bright again and that he's tucked into the bed with great care. He's never felt more rest, so he knows he just spends hours sleeping.

He doesn't even remember getting moded, damn it.

""Red Robi- can you- where are you- report!" Tim's eyes widened when he realized Bruce's voice. It's his communicator! He scrambles out of the bed, straining his ears. "Re-Rob-in!""

There! His earpiece is in one of the ice crystals hanging from the ceiling. Miraculously it's still working, as he can barely make out Bruce's shouts. After four kicks of the crystal, he breaks it down, shattering it on the ground.

He quickly places it back into his ear. "Batman, I'm here!"

"Thank goodness!" An unknown woman says, making Tim flatter for only a moment. "Listen to me, my name is Sam, and right now, there is only one way to escape Danny's mating season without bloodshed. See, Phantom is in control right now, which means his obsession is at its highest. What does Danny not deem important enough to protect? Himself."

" We have to snap him out of it by having those under his protection stand up to him and....hit him. Anybody attacks will confuse Phantom so much the human side of Danny will be forced to take the front." Another female voice puts it. Jazz. She sounds unhappy, as she admits. "A punch to the head, or slap or something, just one from enough people under his protection will freeze Phantom for a moment."

Tim frowns. "I have no idea what you mean. How will that help get us away?"

"Well, we have a plan for that," A man says wearily. The one with all the electronics. "You may not like it...but we must get you to sacrifice yourself for Robin's freedom."

His siblings start shouting over the communicator but Jazz silence everyone with her explanation.

A very long explanation of ghosts, cores, and obsessions, but the gist is that Phantom and Danny's balance was disruptive, so the only way was to cause his human side to get clarification was by presenting Phantom with a paradox.

Phantom will protect all. Danny will allow anyone to hurt him because of his terrible self-esteem. Hence Phantom will not know if it should defend them when it's Danny in danger but it will pull at his core because something is still under attack in front of him.

However, as ghost king, Danny is crazy strong, so they need to attack with something Phantom would never try to defend himself from. His sister and two best friends suddenly slapping or punching him? Phantom would typically react by beating them away, but that would mean hurting the beings he exists to protect.

That's just the physical aspect of it too. Tim's sacrifice would pull at Danny's human emotions while Phantom would panic about needing to save Tim from the ghost he was sacrificed to. Which would be himself.

It should snap them both by tugging them in two different directions of their instincts.

Tim wonders if it will work-

He wakes up to Phantom purring and messaging his sore muscles. To his left is a feast of all of Tim's favorites. Even though he is the elite of Gotham, he's never been so pampered in his life.

Dang, it better work. Tim is getting far too comfortable in this castle. He may never want to leave.

"Phantom if you let my brother go ill be your mate."

"!" Phantom pauses then let's out a sound that sounds like twinkling bells glowing so bright he could be a star

"Only If you accept me as a sacrifice in exchange for my brother's freedom" Tim holds his break then jumps at the sound of shattering glass that comes from Phantom's mouth.

He blinks a few moments, fighting himself, until Phantom nods determined. "Mate will bring children. I need children."

"Ugh sure pal. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal"

It's a weird Tuesday.

Damian is home ten minutes later, and within the hour, Phantom overloads from the paradox.

Tim opens a portal home that night, and Danny sleeps through the rest of his mating season, going under when Phantom and he fights about Tim's fate.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #The bakery is a front #phantom and Danny can not compute different ideas of protection #Tim falls in love again #Damian was no please #Tim's pov #Part 6

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stusbunker · 2 months ago

Text

Spotless: Ziehen

Chapter Thirty One

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Zachariah, Crowley, Dick, Bobby, Sam and Benny

Word Count: 2053, with other media

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, still unbeta'd, talk of extra-curricular activities coming up, a thirst trap because Jensen has been unfair lately, Benny being a teddy bear, and Bela trying to make amends

Series Masterlist

“And between record store day and Phantom Traveler’s release, Q2 is looking to break records for us,” Zachariah droned on.

“Well, it’s the least they could do,” Dick added glibly.

You couldn’t roll your eyes, you were on camera, but you wanted to. Crowley didn’t reply, but Zachariah chuckled and took a beat to agree before going on down the line of his report. Bobby huffed, but kept a lid on it, which told you how much he knew Dick was right.

“Things are shaping up well with pre-orders and the appearances Bobby and company have lined up between Vegas and New Orleans with the album release. should outshine their previous album sales by a wide margin,” Crowley tacks on, almost bored with the success.

You set that up, not Bobby, but you kept your mouth shut, nodding.

“Y’all can thank Y/N for that, you know,” Bobby said gruffly.

“Of course,” Dick agreed offhandedly, eyes darting down to other parts of his screen.

Thank God for Bobby. You simply smiled and kept listening.

“Sounds great, people! Let’s check back the week of the release to ensure we’re still on track. We’ve got a lot of numbers to move to get in the black here, but I see good things happening,” Dick smarmed and instantly sent a meeting invite for the following month.

“Thank you!” you replied dutifully and closed the window for the chat. After accepting the invite and adding it to your personal calendar, you exhaled long and hard. You checked your phone, Bela had called again and left another two text messages. You ignored her. She could wait.

You called Bobby for a mix of mutual griping and to debrief about where that put you all going forward.

Without even a greeting, Bobby started, “I swear they get dumber every quarter.”

“Tell me about it. Thanks for having my back in there, though, I was starting to see red by the end.”

“You and me both, darlin’.” Bobby huffed. “The amount of stuff you get done is amazing. Even without all the run-around from the last tour, you are doing more than anybody I’ve seen in your position. We appreciate ya, even if the suits can’t see past their nose jobs.”

You beamed.

“Thanks. So, what’s on the agenda for the week? I know Dean and Sam took Gibson and Pamela to the zoo.”

“Yeap. Got the Midway Museum tomorrow if you have time, got tickets for anybody who wants to go. Might be good time for pictures if you need some candids for the socials.”

You knew this was his way of telling you to come, he even gave you justification for doing it on so called work hours.

“Maybe. I might just steal some from the band. Too much to get done before the show on Thursday.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us if you get caught up or not.”

“Thanks.” It felt like all you could say to him today. It was a small word with a lot of connotations, but you were grateful. You owed Bobby so much. Though he never gave anything he didn’t want to give or for any form of repayment. He was too good for this industry. They all were.

“I’ll keep you posted. I have calls with the next couple of venue coordinators today and then some event security stuff tomorrow morning with Benny for some non-venue signings and stuff.”

“You still want to do the battered women's shelter thing?”

“The domestic violence survivors fundraiser in Vegas? Absolutely.”

Bobby hummed.

“I know what you’re thinking, Bobby. And that’s exactly why we’re doing it.”

“Do you think it looks like pandering?”

“I think it looks like community service. And if I didn’t think Dean could handle it, I wouldn’t have signed him up for it.”

“Even after that little disappearing act on Saturday?”

“Dean is a domestic abuse survivor, Bobby. Part of what he’s gone through is accepting that.”

“Yeah, but Cas—.”

“Cas is still family. And he didn’t press charges. And you know Dean—- penance is something he needs to do for himself, too.”

Bobby sighed. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Trust me, this is still my good side.”

Bobby actually chuckled at that. “I bet! Okay, I should get going, promised the missus we’d hit the shops before dinner.”

“Have a good one.”

“Alrighty, bye then.”

You smiled at your desk as Bobby hung up. He was happy and Annie was good for him. It didn’t matter their pasts, they made it work, and made each other better along the way.

Which seemed utterly remarkable and unattainable for somebody like you.

But if anybody deserved it, it was them.

You put down your phone and pulled up Twitter, it was time to dig through the chaos and do what you did best: highlight the good, the band's synergy and the new momentum and bury the bad.

Which seemed to include you this time around, unfortunately.

After Twitter, you tackled Insta, Reddit and even FB, though most people cross posted the same images and anecdotes, some people only used one of the bunch. And some only used them on pain of death, namely Dean. Meanwhile, Bela had posted a couple of great shots from the afterparties, which you liked as the band and as yourself.

You were crabby, not petty.

And busy, damnit.

The next morning, Sam smirked at you when he caught your eye in the hotel’s gym. He was already sweating from running outside, but must have come back to stretch or work something more intensely. What you weren’t expecting was Dean to be hot on his heels, equally as sweaty, equally as mischievous.

“Trouble! How’s business?”

You rolled your eyes and took out an earbud, not sure you really heard them.

“What’s up?”

“We’re gonna lift— you want in?” Sam was teasing you now.

You pedaled stiffly and shook your head. “Fuck no, I’m good here, got another ten mile circuit after this breather.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean taunted and grinned before he crossed his legs and touched his toes. What the hell? Luckily there was only one other guest using the elliptical, so they weren’t being complete nuisances, yet.

They weren’t even directly in your line of sight, otherwise it could have gotten awkward, and distracting.

Still, you felt them keep glancing at you, making faces, and even cheering for you when you shifted up with your ass out of the seat to get the best angle for the various hills. You flipped them off, but kept your eyes forward and your earbuds in place.

Thirty minutes later, you groaned and stepped off the stationary bike. Dean and Sam had been talking more than doing curls with the free weights, obviously being dorks about each other’s efforts.

Boys.

“Good workout?” Dean asked as you sanitized your equipment. Sweat clung to your oversized tank top, all down your back, and between your legs. Thank god you wore your black workout leggings today.

“Yeah? You?” You smirked as Dean made a show of extending his movements slowly and pointedly. Yes, Dean, your arms should be illegal, you thought.

“Good, uh— need help stretching?”

You looked at him a little dumbfounded and then back at Sam, who seemed just as surprised as you were by the offer.

“Nah, I’ve got my bands and stuff in my room. Though, I bet Sam would love to see you try and bullshit your way through a cool down routine,” you tacked on, trying to laugh off the offer. Inside you were imagining Dean’s weight against you, pushing your knees up and out, flexing your hip joints with his thick fingers digging into the meat of you…

“Hey! I was just being nice.”

“Dude,” Sam muttered.

You sighed and gave Dean an apologetic smile. “Maybe another time.”

You pretended not to hear the series of slaps that happened behind your back as you made your way to the elevator and your generic hotel shower.

Benny treated you to lunch after your video calls with the S.A.F.E. House staff and the one with the folks at the radio station who’d be interviewing the band the morning of the first Vegas show.

“Saw your tweet on Cas’ post,” you added thoughtfully, midway through your shrimp po boys.

“Yeah, well, didn’t want him thinking he done wrong by us.”

You chewed and nodded, silently telling him that you got it, appreciated it even.

“You hear anything else from the guys about the last show, you know, after Dean disappeared and, um, everything?”

You needed to know if the guards were loyal, but mostly you wanted to know what they had seen.

“Seemed pretty anticlimactic to most of them, from what I hear. Dean came through, sober and clean as a whistle. —Even the venue goons didn’t clock anything weird,” Benny pointed out before taking another bite, his teeth flashing in the afternoon sun.

After a few moments, Benny continued. “But, uh, that label stooge you got following Bela? He’s the one to worry about, really, seems to keep his cards close to the vest.”

Damn, you knew he was right before he even finished the sentence. Tiny would be the one to squeal to Crowley, or worse, Dick, at the end of the day. You wondered if you could buy him off or treat him in other ways while on the road. Bela wasn’t scheduled to be around until the second Vegas show, you had some time to figure out his motives. Or if he even cared at all.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

Benny sniffed and looked around the small patio outside the restaurant. “Bela’s not really Dean’s girl is she? She some kind of clout pusher?”

You swallowed and took a long slurp of your iced tea, washing away the now muted flavor of your lunch. “I honestly don’t know anymore, Benny. They’ve definitely been enjoying each other’s company more than I expected.”

“Perhaps—- but don’t you worry none. She’s not the type you settled down with and he’s got eyes deeper than the cut of her fancy tops.”

You huffed. Benny certainly had a way with words.

“It’s okay, Benny— I’m not in a place to be jealous.”

He just raised his eyebrows at you and took another bite.

“I did this— I set them up. I’d guess you’d call it reaping what I sow or something?”

Benny nodded and shrugged. “Or something.”

“You won’t— you won’t tell anybody, right? His story is safe with you?”

“Doll, I’ve been covering that boy’s ass since before Lisa— I’m true.”

“I know, Benny, sorry—- it’s just so much posturing all the time. I just want to take pictures and show the world how badass they are. I want people to hear the stories behind the songs, because it shows they’re human too. Sometimes I wish—-”

“Wishin’ for rain in the desert aint doin’ anybody a lick of good. You know the score, you just gotta beat them at their own game. Dean’s a good man, he knows what’s real. Don’t think we all don’t know that, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. Know who your people are, if you trust Bela— then she won’t let Tiny think anything is up. Friends have each other’s back against the world, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, suddenly feeling ridiculously immature for ignoring her for the past few days.

“Eat up, cher. It’s a long tour. You’ll need your strength.”

That was an understatement, but you dug in anyway.

“Y/N, listen— I’ve resorted to leaving you a voicemail. It’s come to that. I’m sorry. I am. I didn’t mean anything disparaging about you the other night— just maybe about how you treat Dean. Not that it's bad, overkill more like, but it’s not like you’re bad or weak for doing it.--- I know how much you loved her, Y/N, I know. Him too, it seems. I just don’t want you wasting so much of your life trying to make up for losing her. It hurts to see you so— subservient. You are so much more than an errand girl. So I’m sorry for my lack of tact. But I’m not sorry I brought it up. Okay? There. Call me back and yell at me properly already, Jesus.”

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

@spxideyver

Chapter 32: Tronco

#spotless series #dean winchester fanfiction #dean/reader #dean/bela #slow burn #rockstar au #fake dating #dean angst #dean is not so smooth

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yokohamapound · 2 years ago

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can i get hcs of dazai and fyodor with an s/o who has big boobs and gets insecure abt them like rly big boobs, i’m talking DD’s and up😭😭

FungusWitch: This is the slut who got me into BSD in the first place so you can all blame her. <;3

Hi there! Amulet here! FungusWitch very kindly offered to let me guest star as a writer on YP, since I gently bullied her into watching this show in the first place! That said, enjoy these! :D

Dazai Osamu

Listen. Let me tell you something. LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING. Dazai Osamu loves all women, he flirts with basically any woman in his vicinity, young or old, tomboy or girly girl. He has a great appreciation for all ladies of any shape and size.

That being said, Dazai loves a pair of calcium cannons. The way they strain against your shirt when you try to button one up, the jiggle when you sit down, how when you get sweaty from a workout or step out of shower/bath and water trickles down your clavicle and disappears down the glorious valley of your tits...

So when he picks up on your insecurity about your boobs, whether that’s how you always avoid low cut tops, or cover yourself with your arms when you’re feeling scrutinised, he’s floored. How could you think there was anything wrong with yourself when he spends so much of his time thinking about drowning in them tiddies?

Needless to say, Dazai wastes no time in assuring you that you have nothing to be ashamed of - your breasts are wonderful, the more of them the better, and he makes sure to lavish lots and lots of attention on them. Especially during sex.

Oh, the sex. Foreplay with Dazai is already a drawn-out affair because he loves watching his lover fall to pieces, to strip away each layer between you (both physical and mental), but once he hones in that there’s something about yourself you don’t love as much as he does?

Oh, it’s ON.

He buys (i.e: steals) you clothes that emphasizes your chest and begs you to try them on in the comfort of your bedroom. He hoots and hollers like you’re walking down the catwalk in Paris and eventually you gain enough confidence to wear more revealing tops in public - Dazai’s like your one-man cheerleading section.

Also he likes to wedge his hand down there when his fingers are cold. Feel free to punch him.

Not to mention, if anybody gives you shit about how big your breasts are, Dazai will pop up like a phantom, the shine leaving his eyes as he looms over them, exuding malice even as he smiles.

“Hm? Did you have something to say to her? Why don’t you speak a little louder - I don’t think I quite heard you.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor canonically likes pretty people, so if he’s with you he probably doesn’t especially care what size your breasts are.

But make no mistake, he likes them. He tends to run rather cold thanks to his anemia, so being able to warm his hands up by cupping your deliciously large, soft breasts appeals to him greatly. Plus it amuses him when you yelp because of how chilly his hands are. (Do not try to punch him - unlike Dazai, Fyodor will punish you~)

Also unlike Dazai, he will pick up on your insecurities easily because he isn’t shamelessly drooling over the sight of your tits quite so much. He’s very good at reading people’s body language and planning for what they do next, so the way you always hunch forwards like you’re trying to hide yourself, the way you rub your back and wince...it’s clear as day.

He doesn’t like his beloved speaking negatively about herself, so he’ll lightly scold you when he hears you complaining about your breast size and wishing they were smaller.

“Nonsense, myshka. They are a part of you, da? Then surely they are just as worthy as your care and praise.”

He likes how womanly having such big breasts make you look, especially the contrasts between his thin, lean body and yours. He likes to rest his head on them after a long day of malicious scheming to purge the world of sinners. You may run your fingers through his hair if he does this - it’s one of the few times he takes his ushanka off.

Unlike Dazai, he won’t try to completely cure your insecurity, because he isn’t your therapist and he likes his lovers to have a little vulnerability to exploit. Even if Fyodor adores you, he also adores his mind games too.

But he does put in some work to have you accept your body. He likes to show you off when he gets the chance, buys you fabulous outfits that shows off your figure and that includes your breasts. He’ll never indulge your requests for a high neckline - it seems mean but it’s a brand of tough love. He believes in a little short-term discomfort if it leads to long-term satisfaction.

Speaking of satisfaction, he too will lavish attention on your breasts during sex. He especially loves to leave little bite marks and hickies on your boobs and your nipples will be tender and overstimulated by the time he’s had his fine.

Oh, and nobody ever breathes a word about your bust size to your face - they just need one look at Fyodor’s cold, violet eyes and feel the icy claws of terror clamp around them.

If that ain’t a confidence booster, I don’t know what is. <3

#Yokohama Pound #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #Dazai Osamu #Fyodor Dostoevsky #Dazai x Reader #Fyodor x Reader #bsd headcanons #bsd imagines #Amulet

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wh0refornikolailantsov · 2 years ago

Note

Prompt: “He doesn't love me. He's not that stupid.”

Song: Rosyln - Bon Iver

For Tolya x Reader please!! could be with Tamar and he overhears etc. or something else x

By Stars - Tolya Yul Bataar

Yes.

Is this sad or angsty, I honestly cant even tell anymore it is my default.

Content Warnings: No Beta/Proof Reading, Feelings???

"This is a celebration," Jesper reminds you, handing you a drink.

You take it, nod at him and hope his attention will return to Wylan, but Tamar is watching you like a hawk. She has been trying to decipher exactly what you're thinking since the burning of The Darkling's body.

She'd rather hoped some of that infectious hope and joy her brother was expressing would have reached you by now. But you were still quiet.

She has her best guess as to why. Tamar, no stranger to romance, to the eyes that linger longer than they should. To the way a heart beats that much faster when they move near. To the way a tone can change when speaking a name. Tolya may be the one to read the high romances of poetry but Tamar is the one to know them, to recognise them.

And you have been holding your breath, keeping your self close, arms tight across your chest, focusing on keeping your heartbeat as calm as you can, trying not to give yourself away.

Tolya smiles at you from his seat and there it is, that leap in your chest and Tamar's guess has all the evidence she needs.

"Okay," Jesper smiles, another drink in, "go on then, read us something you gentle giant."

Tolya laughs and looks up from his book. "From this?" he asks.

"From a confession if you like," Jesper says, leaning back and into Wylan who is watching him with those bright adoring eyes of his. Had you ever had doubt in love, the time spent with the crows would have swayed any doubt. Nina's dedication to freeing her love. The selfless and understanding quiet of the love Kaz and Inej clearly share. And the love that is bright and shining between Jesper and Wylan, so bright even through all of his obliviousness Tolya noticed.

"I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light," Tolya reads aloud. Wylan turns his eyes from Jesper to smile at Tolya.

"You know I find that quite wonderful," Wylan states.

"Don't encourage him," Tamar groans. "He will start recalling from memory."

"If you insist sister," Tolya's tone is jovial and light and Tamar tries to brush his words away with a hand and a glare, but it does not discourage him. "In ecstasy the heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and Saints-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive."

"Excuse me," you say getting up. Tolya's eyes follow you as you leave, but it's Tamar who walks out the door behind you.

"You are upset," Tamar says, joining you by the wall outside.

"I am not," you attempt to lie.

"Well I could've told you that isn't true without the ability to listen to your heartbeat," Tamar says. She bumps your shoulder gently, a reassuring gesture, a familiar one. "Talk to me."

"There's not much to talk about," you say.

"Because you're stubborn and want to keep your feelings to yourself or because he is my brother?" she asks out right. You whip your head to the side to look at her and she shrugs it off, giving a knowing look up to the sky. "I am not too wrapped up in the pretty women to ignore those around me."

"Nadia is very pretty," you say, trying you deflect.

"I am surprised you noticed, I thought you only had eyes for my brother."

"I don't have eyes for your brother."

"Oh, and the second lie so far," Tamar says, "come on, you don't have to lie to me, or to you, if it runs that deep."

"I... what is the point?" You ask.

"You have feelings and they're clearly affecting you, that's the point," Tamar says.

"That's my own fault," you say.

"Walk me through it," Tamar insists. You want to tell her to leave it be, but Tamar is persistent. And also brutally honest, so maybe hearing the need to move past and move on from her mouth instead of just the voice in your head will finally do the trick.

"We made it," you say quietly.

"We did," she smiles.

"We... all made it," you reiterate.

"By the Saints."

"And he was so happy and so proud and he had," you inhale deeply, "and he shares that joy so willingly."

"He is always himself," Tamar agrees, her eyes are watching your smaller movements, listening to the shuddering of your breath. She wants to help, to calm you down, to push off your nerves, but you asked long ago for no interference and she respects that. You want to feel what you feel, even now, even when you don't.

"So when he said he was so glad that I was okay, and he wrapped his arms around me, I forgot how to breathe, and for one- blindingly stupid moment I thought... I don't know what I thought, and it doesn't matter because it wasn't real."

"I wouldn't assume to know my brothers feelings so easily," Tamar says, "he might surprise you."

"Tamar, I fell in love with your brother a long time ago, he does nothing but surprise me," you say. Tamar tilts her head impressed at the honesty, impressed more at the bluntness.

"You cannot know his mind without talking to him," Tamar says.

“He doesn't love me. He's not that stupid.”

"To love you isn't stupid," she says, "besides if he did not love you, that would not be about you. I am somewhat convinced my brother is not built that way."

"Between his books and his faith what more could he need?" you ask.

"You're asking the wrong person," Tamar points out.

"I am not asking," you reply, "not really."

He held on just a moment longer than you thought he would, smiling down at you and that was it took for your hopes to jump high above your expectations, and come crashing down into you when he finally let you go. You do not know what you thought would happen, that you would win, all make it out alive and finally the timing would be right, things would be different, you would know it because you would feel it in the way he looks at you. But all you feel is this regret at letting yourself think it would change, letting yourself be disappointed in something that you knew would never happen. Your love for Tolya did not need to be requited but in the moments you hoped it would be, you had broken your own heart.

"For someone who reads so much of romance, with such a true admiration for the poetics of love, my brother is not always aware enough to recognise it, I have watched the same two lovestruck fools dance around each other for the same time that he has, and he has seen nothing where I have seen all that was unsaid but equally wanted," Tamar gestures. "He would not presume to know your feelings for him, because he sees love as something on a page, between the words and the mind. I think he has never considered it as something he might do, but that isn't to say he can't."

"I do not think you give him enough credit, you should have seen him with Jesper and Wylan," you state.

"A blind man could see what was happening between Jesper and Wylan," Tamar offers. "I think you should talk to him."

"I do not wish to waste my time Tamar, and it would be better that he know not at all, keep him in this blissful ignorance instead of him feeling some obligation to be delicate around me," you say.

"My brother would not treat you differently out of pity, his feelings are only ever genuine, and his actions intentional," Tamar defends.

"I do not want him to see me differently, and I do not want to hurt myself further, please let me wallow in peace," you say. Tamar sighs.

"You won't come back inside?" she asks.

"To listen to him read poems about love, show the beauty of romance, and wish for something else?" you ask. "No I shall wait for this feeling to pass, as it will pass, and I can be normal for him again."

Tamar just shakes her head, and says nothing else as she leaves.

You stare up and the sky is so dark and the stars so bright that that ring of light is soaking into the darkness, giving the stars a bigger brighter saturation, and you just want to breathe the cold air in and deep better. But you now just feel alone.

You feel the movement behind you before you hear the approach. "Tamar I have nothing more to say about it," you say.

"Not Tamar," comes Tolya's voice and startles you. You turn to look at him and he is so much closer than you realised, you want to chastise yourself for not noticing, for letting your guard so completely down.

But you were always like that with Tolya.

"I did not mean to upset you," Tolya says.

"How much did you hear?" you ask, leaning back on the balls of your feet, the guilt of all you may have put on him pulling at you. He goes to speak but his eyes give him away. "So everything." You sigh. "it's not your fault Tolya. My feelings are my responsibility."

"And so are mine," he says, coming to stand beside you as Tamar had before him. "You know, for all my love of poetry, I cannot claim to have felt what these poets have in their ways."

"Tolya, you don't have to explain," you say quickly, "I did not mean to put this on you-,"

"You are putting nothing on me," he states.

"I am not asking you to love me," you say, looking at your hands, begging them to stay steady.

"I know you're not, but I am not telling you I don't," he says. You look at him now, and his eyes are soft and golden, and his expression kind and light. He looks like the things poetry talks about, by the light of the starred night. "I care about you, and I don't know if it's in the way you want me to, but I don't know if I have ever felt that way, or if I will ever feel that way, but I need you to know that in my way, in all the ways I know how I do love you." You give him a weak smile and he feels your heartbeat steady for the first time all day. "Maybe I am just that stupid."

"You heard that?" You ask, relaxing enough to allow your shoulders to lean against him.

"I can pretend I didn't if you like," he offers. You laugh, and it's gentle, like the moment.

"I loved you: love may not have died

completely in my soul,

but don’t let it disturb you,

I don’t wish you any pain," you recite, your breath standing cold in the air, but the feeling ever warmer than before.

"I loved you without hope or voice," Tolya continues.

with diffidence, jealousy,

as tenderly, truly, as Saints grant

you may be loved again."

#shadow and bone #six of crows #tolya #tolya x reader #tolya yul bataar #grishaverse #fanfiction #Tolya is so aroace coded that when I am writing romance stuff it shows #platonic love is one of the most important things to me #tolya my darling I adore you

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laufire · 4 months ago

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june reading meme!

BOOKS

The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman. The book was fine, but no His Dark Materials. And Sally is far from being half as interesting as Lyra. I had all but decided on not continuing the series, even if on paper I'm definitely down for some more girl detective stories in my life... but my edition included a few pages from the next installment. And those intrigued me lmao. I won't be picking it up any time soon, but I'll probably give it a try.

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux. The best part of this novel, by far, were Chapoulet's illustrations. I find the concept of the story very, very appealing, but after so long anticipating reading it, I was so let down by the execution. I found the prose unremarkable and the drama underwhelming. And I fucking hate Raoul and his Madonna-Whore complex lmao. However, I liked enough of it (if most, sadly not what was in focus) that I'm still intrigued about watching the musical properly (as opposed to listening to a few songs).

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. As good as every other Discworld novel, but there are two things that means it's never going to be among by favourites. One, I remain so, so uninterested in religion itself -as in, a philosophy, as in religious beliefs- that really nothing in it "hits" the way the themes in other novels do. And two... it needed women. It SO needed women smh.

Unholy with Eyes Like Wolves by Morgan Dante. This novella is quite a quick read, written by an indie author. It's a gothic story centered on a dishonored widow serving as handmaiden to Lady Erzsébet Báthory. It's a poly sapphic horror romance loosely inspired by Carmilla (Mircalla is the third part of the poly romance, but Noémie/Báthory was the strongest dynamic). The religious themes (specifically related to the subjugation of women) worked a lot better here, in my opinion, maybe because they felt more grounded, and they provided some of my favourite conversations in the book. The novel definitely scratched that itch I'll always have about monstrous sapphic dynamics, and I'm thankful for the recommendation ^-^

COMICS

Barda by Ngozi Ukazu. Very enjoyable! I know very little about this side of DC Comics, so I don't know how this YA one-shot fares in that sense, but it succeeded in making me want to read more about Big Barda and Mister Miracle (big badass hardcore woman/dainty trickstery soft man romances, come to me <3).

Gotham Central: "Dead Robin" (#33-36). I talked about this story arc here. It's given me brand new issues. I love it. I need to read the rest of the run.

Superman for All Seasons. It lives up to the hype as a Superman staple comic. Each issue is narrated by a different character: Jonathan, Lois, Luthor, and Lana, with beautiful illustrations and a great depiction of Clark that, were to be used now, I firmly believe it'd garner far less appreciation than it did then.

Chris Kent's appearances. I went through all of his appearances in new earth (and also the few on Earth-16; do not recommend, they do NOT get him lmao. Why the hell would he judge someone for their parentage...). He's now officially one of the characters whose erasure consist in one of the biggest fuckups of the reboot lmao. He was a great addition to the Superman lore, far better than Jon (in many ways a cheap copy that obeys to the new conventionality trends) could hope to be. *sighs*

The Legend of Wonder Woman (2016). Overall a pretty neat entry to Wonder Woman lore for modern audiences, which is what it clearly aimed to be. I'm sure if I was more well-read on WW I'd have issues with it, but overall I enjoyed it. Though I think it should've been gayer (I think Hippolyta/Philippus was made canon in the mainline after this run 👀).

#reading meme #books #dc comics #my thoughts #dc thoughts #id in alt text #captioned #sally lockhart #the phantom of the opera #small gods #big barda #indie authors #gotham central #superman for all seasons #chris kent #the legend of wonder woman #superman #wonder woman #mister miracle

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askbensolo · 5 months ago

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Journal Entry #42: Call me your brother.

I finally got Fannie to talk, on a picnic blanket by the lake, while we shared a Gungan fish egg tea (which is merely an unfortunate name—they're tapioca pearls).

"I feel...lost," she admitted. She glanced at me, as if to gauge my reaction. "What I mean is...I've been back on Ryloth for almost four years now, doing what I always knew I'd be doing...what I thought was my life's purpose. Fighting injustice, and working to heal those who have been harmed. But...injustice never goes away, and there are always more who need help. The problems will never be fully solved..." She shook her head and bit her lip. "It's gotten to the point where I find it...hard to care anymore. And that truly frightens me. I do not want my heart to be dead."

"Hey," I said quietly. "There's a word for that, you know. Burnout. It's pretty normal."

"Well, it shouldn't be." She blinked out tears and looked at the sky. "How is it that I can listen to these women tell their stories, share their nightmares with me...and feel nothing? Or worse yet...I find myself getting bored. Or annoyed. Waiting for my lunch break. Watching the minutes with impatience while they weep. I feel like such a horrible person, and it's not like me at all. Unless I've changed, or...unless I've always been this way in secret, deep down." She looked terrified at the thought.

"That can't be it. You're the nicest person I know," I said. "Sounds like you're just a little depressed right now. And anyway...it looks like you do feel something." I took a napkin and patted the tears off her cheeks. "Have you talked to Luke about all this?"

Fannie sighed. "A little bit. Your uncle is so kind and a wonderful teacher and has good advice...but I don't think that's enough to help me. It's not like before, when I lived with him and the other Jedi and had their constant support. I go through my days alone now. And I don't know what to do."

"You're not alone," I told her. "You just have to reach out."

"Yes," she agreed. "But surely you know more than anyone that it's not as easy as it sounds, when you feel darkness all around you."

I nodded. She was right.

She laughed a little. "Imagine: me, talking about feeling darkness all around. Me, with my knitting and my ribbons and my bright pastels." She held up the corner of her sky-blue tunic with the pink ruffles she had sewn herself, and let it fall with another sigh.

"Hm, yeah." I bumped my shoulder against hers. "You know...I know a guy with a ton of black turtleneck sweaters he never wears. Maybe he can lend you some."

That got her to laugh, more genuinely this time. It felt good to make her laugh.

"Seriously though," I said. "It doesn't matter that you're Little Miss Ribbons McRuffles. Life can get anyone down. And just because you feel like this right now doesn't mean you're not still who you've always been. I know you're still you."

"Well...thank you, Ben." She smiled a little.

But then something else seemed to cross her mind, and her smile vanished like air being sucked out of an airlock. Her face grew dark and concentrated. I noticed her fingers start to twitch in her lap—a phantom knitting project.

"...Fannie? You okay?" I scooped up both her hands with one of mine and made her lose count of the invisible stitches. She looked at me, surprised, and shook her head.

"No...Ben....there's...well, there's something else going on."

Her hands were quivering. I had a feeling this was bad.

"Okay," I said solemnly. "Spill."

"It's—" She stopped abruptly, as if desperately holding back the words from leaving her mouth, then tried once more. "It's my—" She choked again and planted her face in her hands.

I got on my knees and shuffled around so I could face her. "Hey. It's okay," I said. I gently pulled her hands down.

Her eyes shot open, like sharp unseeing daggers. I jumped a little and almost withdrew my hands from hers.

"It's my youngest sister," she blurted. "Pennie." Her voice was strained, yet monotone. As if she could not feel. "My father...Pentarra..."

Then she started to crumble, her lips trembling, her eyes blinking rapidly and darting around like panicked fireflies. She took a few jagged breaths, in and out, in and out—then suddenly she locked eyes with me and spoke hoarsely.

"My father has made my sister one of his dancers."

The statement hit like a space freighter slamming into me. I stared at her.

Fannie had often told me about her family on Ryloth, her story unusual to someone who'd grown up in the Core Worlds like me. How her father Ruut Pentarra, a rich and powerful Twi’lek, had several "wives" who were really more like slaves—one of whom being Fashha, Fannie’s mother. She’d told me about her three younger sisters, Connie, Ginnie, and Pennie, and about her nine other half-siblings. And she’d told me how Pentarra praised his sons and treated them as such, but seemed to ignore his daughters.

Well...until now, at least. Ew.

"...How old is Pennie now?" I asked, after a long silence. I was thinking of my own sister, Rey, who was thirteen. I couldn't remember, but I hoped Pennie was older—not that it would make things much better.

"Nineteen," Fannie said. "But she is still more girl than woman."

I didn't know what to say. My first thought was something along the lines of "that has to be illegal," but we'd had that conversation so many times before. Ryloth was an independent world, not part of the New Republic, so their laws and law enforcement were different from ours. And anyway, Pentarra's influence and wealth protected him from a lot. Fannie had told me stories of things he'd gotten away with that I couldn't believe.

“Pennie is too immature to understand,” Fannie went on, staring hard into the distance. “She has always felt overlooked. So now, she is pleased to receive what she sees as extra attention, a recognition of her adulthood, and an honor not given to any of her sisters. And Pentarra sees Pennie’s hunger for love, and uses it to his advantage. I tried to speak to my sister, to convince her to leave, but she is so blinded by delusion that she accused me of being jealous. My heart is broken for her."

Fannie's lips curled into a faint odd smile, and she looked straight at me. Her brown eyes, normally soft and kind, were intense.

"I would love to spill my father's blood," she stated calmly, sweetly, with an eerie lilt. Her lips pulled back to reveal a feral, toothy grimace that sent a chill down my spine. "And drink it. Drop by drop."

I could only look back at her, shocked. Not at what she said, because I felt she was entitled to that sentiment (well, okay, maybe the drink-it-drop-by-drop part was just a little unhinged)—but shocked because it was coming from Fannie, the good girl Jedi who had asked me not to use swear words in front of her.

And then her eyes widened and she looked all scared and she shuddered all over and turned away. "Oh my goodness. It just came out. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I would say such a thing. You see? I'm not myself." She gave a distracted whimper and went back to her imaginary needles and yarn.

I chewed on my lip, thinking carefully. All right. Well. This was...a lot. Like...a lot a lot.

After a pause, I reached out and took her hands in mine.

"...Okay," I said slowly. "So. You're not going back to Ryloth. At least, not after we go back and get your stuff. You're gonna stay here with me for a while."

She shook her head again without looking at me. "I told you already, Ben. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to be roommates with a boy."

"Hey." I swiped my knuckles against her cheek playfully. "I'm no boy, sister. I'm a gentleman."

“Maybe if you’d been wearing a shirt this morning, I’d believe you.”

There was just a hint of a smirk on her face—the mischievous side of her that rarely revealed itself. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m just teasing you,” she said with that tiny smirk, then cleared her throat and picked at some fuzz on the picnic blanket. “But…I don’t know, Ben.”

"Come on. I lived in the same house as Rey for three years and she's a girl."

She gave me an exasperated, are-you-stupid kind of look. "Well, of course, Ben. Rey's your sister."

"Not by blood," I reminded her. I was going somewhere with this. "What's that Twi'lek thing you always used to say? Kartakk..."

Her eyes told me she'd picked up what I was putting down (even if my Twi'leki pronunciation was atrocious). "Kartakk erai de numa,'" she finished begrudgingly. It was the phrase that Twi'lek slave women were said to have whispered to one another in passing to show camaraderie. Fannie had said it to me many times in the past.

"Which means...?" I gave her a nudge with the back of my hand.

She sighed. "'Call me your sister.'"

"Yeah. See? You're my sister, too."

“But...I can't leave Ryloth. I have my work…”

“Which is…?” I prodded. She blinked.

“...Holocounseling.”

“Exactly. You can do that from Naboo.”

She was quiet.

"...Hey," I said. "You had fun today, right?" She nodded slowly. "Well...maybe getting away for a bit is just what you need. You said you feel like you face every day alone, so...maybe it could be good for you to be less on your own. At least for a little while."

She stayed quiet. I saw her counting stitches in her head.

And then...

"...Well...maybe I can stay with you for the summer," Fannie said finally. "For just a couple of months. Till...till I can get back to my old self again."

She smiled. Genuinely. It was like that time I'd called her a month ago. Like sun breaking through the clouds.

I smiled back. It was good to see her smile.

#askbensolo #written #ben's diary #ben tells a story #fannie #story event: an awkward situation 2

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aspensboring · 3 months ago

Text

starry night (tw: talk of SA and abuse)

a lot of people believe that dreams are a window to a person’s goals.

so then why is it that some people get to dream about cupcakes chasing them

or their dream life on the beach

maybe even their cat being able to talk

why is it that when people have, quote unquote, weird dreams, they mean aliens or warped realities

why is it that my dreams aren’t dreams

or even nightmares

they’re memories

why would my goal be to relive the way i kicked you away from me

after i told you to stop and you didn’t listen

the way you told all of our friends what we did in private

or how you would make fun of what i wear

and compare me to so many other women

the way your phone was filled with pictures of other women

and i had to find out in front of your mother.

why is it that people love sleep

and love dreaming

and even get to dream about living in a fantasy world with wizards and elves

and i

hate

sleeping

i hate waking up to phantom pains

and having panic attacks

and suddenly remembering every time you hurt me

in ways that no one even knows

maybe dreams are the window to a person’s soul.

#tw depressing stuff #sad poetry #sad thoughts #depressing shit #sad poem #poets on tumblr #original poem #poem #poetry #writers and poets

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xx-state-of-mind-xx · 1 year ago

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Phantom

A fic based off the song Phantom by Of Monsters and Men. Enjoy :)

Phantom – Of Monsters and Men

All this time wasted and all this time gone You are still waitin' on me Every time you leave the house Remember you're not safe But you are hardly ever

And all those times that I could swear I heard you speak You spoke in such a low voice Of how if you could choose, you would choose not to feel 'Cause you are hardly ever happy

Sometimes I find myself standing in those stairs With eyes so blank and unsure Realizing this is not where I want to be And not where I want to go

And I don't mean to somehow, always to disagree But I feel that you do not see In order to love, you have to be all you can be And mostly, you have to love yourself

Oh, with all this time wasted and all this time gone You are still waitin' on me Oh, but if I could choose, I would choose not to feel 'Cause I am hardly ever happy

I am hardly ever happy, hmm-mm

Hmm-mm I am hardly ever happy

Dovey’s POV:

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my aching forehead and stare helplessly at the mountain of paperwork still on my desk to do. The sun has long since left the sky, the brilliant scarlet glow fading to a deep navy blue blanketed in a smattering of stars. My thoughts drift inevitably to my Evil counterpart as I wonder: is she staring at the same stars as I? Does she gaze with those strange purple eyes in wonder at the heavens above?

Although she’d never admit it, Lesso’s passion for knowledge illuminates her soul. I could sit for hours listening to her pour out her knowledge of the universe and never get bored, content to watch her wine-flushed cheeks smile in that soft way of hers while her eyes dance mischievously at every witty remark. I miss those long lazy evenings we’d spend talking and laughing, drinking wine, grading papers, or sometimes just basking in the other’s company. And the first time we kissed… in that kiss was passion, like a million thoughts condensed into one moment. One moment of bliss. One moment of peace. One moment of love. Oh, it was so wrong but it felt so, so right.

And yet… I didn’t do anything with it, convinced that Evers and Nevers couldn’t be together, let alone two women. I pushed her away, ignoring the feelings that bubbled up inside. After that Lesso seemed to tiptoe around me, never sure where she stood in our complicated relationship. She moved tentatively, almost as if seeking permission to push any further. She didn’t show this, of course. If anything, she became colder and more detached than ever. But I knew. I knew the pain I left in her heart after drawing her in too many times. Those purple eyes. Those damn violet orbs that gave her away. Every single time. All this time wasted and all this time gone. You are still waiting on me.

A soft knock breaks me from my thoughts and I lift my head wearily - I have no patience to deal with another whiny student.

“Come in,” I all but groan. I nearly fall off my chair in shock when a familiar head of red curls pokes around the corner.

“You busy?”

“Ah no. No! Not at all!” My mind is spinning as Lady Lesso sinks down in a chair opposite, relying more on her cane than usual. Her eyes are vacant and unsure, and she holds herself with the kind of awkwardness one would associate with a teenager or even a child, so unlike the figure of dominance and grace I’m familiar with. She fiddles with the head of her cane nervously and her violet eyes stare emptily through the window behind me. I suppress the urge to find out what is bothering her as that will only scare her off. Instead, I settle for drawing the visit out.

“Tea? I was just about to make some,” I smile. Lesso nods absently. Still trying to discern the mood, I set about preparing it all on a tray. I hear a soft murmur – so soft that I don’t know if I actually heard it and when I glance up at the other woman, she’s looking at me with her mouth open as if she wants to say something. As soon as she catches me watching, she drops her head and I smile gently. I take the tea tray over to the low table in front of the fireplace and motion her over.

“Shall we go over here? It’s much more comfortable.”

We sip in silence for a while, basking in the warmth of the flames before I glance up at the other woman and find her still looking at me with words on the tip of her tongue. She looks down quickly.

“Lesso, dear?” She turns her weary face toward me and I give her an encouraging smile. “Is there something bothering you?” Instantly the Evil Dean’s guard goes up and her face morphs into an unreadable expression.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” She says finally. “I just… needed a distraction tonight.”

“Of course, anytime,” I reassure her but there’s something still bothering me about the situation. From the way she’s so vacant but also in the way she doesn’t seem like her usual sharp self. She seems softer somehow, almost blurred at the edges and I get the sense she’s not entirely here. Physically maybe, but mentally…

“He’s still with you, isn’t he.” It’s more of a statement than anything and I frown at the way Lesso tenses and at the realization of what she’s risking just by coming here.

“Always.” Comes the whispered reply. I nod and silence falls between us once more as we finish our tea. I know little of what occurred between her and Rafal but the limited knowledge I have gleaned from Emma and from Lesso herself has given me enough insight to realise the danger of her situation. My heart breaks for the woman, for the child she once was, so full of innocence and wonder. I see her face soften in the gentle glow of the firelight as she stares transfixed into their depths, focused on something for her eyes only. Every time you leave the house. Remember you're not safe. But you are hardly ever.

“Hey, I’m always here you know, if you ever need anything.” She smiles softly, not quite meeting my gaze and nods.

“Thank you.”

“Anything at all.” I whisper.

“Feel like getting beaten at chess?” I ask, pulling my chessboard out from a drawer and setting it on the table.

“Challenge accepted, princess,” Lesso smiles, arching her brow, some of the life returning to her face.

We begin, me playing white and her black as always. Although she plays well, I beat her easily in a few quick moves. After a few more rounds, Lesso throws her pawn down when I take her king for the fifth time that night.

“God, Princess, are you sure your not cheating?”

“You know what they say, Good always wins.” She leans back in her chair, cheeks rosy from the heat of the fire.

“It seems they do.”

I grin at her and she rolls her eyes in response, seemingly back to her usual self. “Well, I suppose I better be off, or I’ll fall asleep just sitting in your office, Dove.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t mind that,” I tease, helping her up off the sofa. She turns away, busying herself with her heavy grey coat but I don’t miss the way her smile fades or the soft words that slip barely audible out her mouth. And all those times that I could swear I heard you speak you spoke in such a low voice of how if you could choose, you would choose not to feel 'cause you are hardly ever happy.

We linger in the doorway, unwilling to part.

“Sorry for intruding on your evening, Clarissa,” she says. Not princess, not dove, Clarissa. The thought makes me shiver.

“Don’t apologise. I quite enjoyed it.” My gaze lingers on copper curls, drifts down to perfectly arched brows over those enchanting violet eyes before landing on plump pale lips. Before I can stop myself, I reach up and catch those lips in my own. All the breath seems to leave my body as her eyes flutter close, lips moving against mine in a soft kiss. Lesso draws back first, leaning her head on the doorframe, looking slightly woozy as she slides her tongue over her lips as if tasting the last of our union. I lean forward again when a slender figure presses against my lips, stopping me in my tracks.

“Don’t,” she whispers. I open my eyes in confusion. The Evil Dean smiles sadly.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

I nod as a single tears slides down my cheek. “Good night, Leo.”

Lesso’s POV:

I stand unmoving on the elegant marble steps, my left hand placed on the gilded banister, staring at the crowd beneath. A rainbow of swirling ballgowns makes idle chatter with teachers, parents, and prospective suitors, waiting, hoping for someone to notice them. Waiting for a prince to scoop them up in his royal arms and make their problems disappear with a kiss or a magical solution.

A coward’s solution.

I glare with disdain at the tables lined with punch bowls and snacks, at the small orchestra in the corner and the shimmery, showy decorations lighting up the hall.

My eyes drift inevitably to Clarissa Dovey, Dean of the School for Good, and fairy godmother of the Endless Woods. I somehow find her amidst the sea of bodies filling the grand ballroom, always drawing me in like a dark creature to a bright light. I watch her, transfixed, as she talks animatedly to a small group of parents. As usual, she is dressed in a gown of resplendent gold, layers upon layers of frills and glitter. Her hair is down tonight, carefully set curls sitting perfectly on exposed shoulders. A large pearl necklace rests on her smooth brown collarbones. On anyone else, this get-up would have looked ridiculous but on her… on her the dress is a bright sunspot, matching her brilliant personality and undying optimism.

My carefully painted lips twitch in a small smile as the woman nearly upsets a tray of champagne with her passionate hand gestures. Impossibly, her laughing brown eyes alight on mine and I find myself captured by her gaze.

In that moment, time seems to slow, and the noise of the ballroom fades out. All that exists is us. All I can focus on is us. On the buzz in my ears and the gentle eyes inviting me closer. All I can see is us.

In that moment, we are connected. Across the great room hung with banners and lanterns and set apart by hundreds of guests we are connected. Dovey’s words die on her lips as her smile fades slightly and she curtseys elegantly in my direction. I incline my head in return and lift a hand in greeting, my many rings glittering in the candlelight.

A cold hand ghosts across the back of my neck and all of a sudden, reality hits me like a blow to the stomach. The distance yawns between us once more and I am suddenly aware of all that separates us. Any chance of a more-than-friendly relationship was blown years ago. What am I doing, standing as if on top of the world, fantasizing about possibly the most wonderful woman in the world? It could never happen, I’m Evil and she’s Good. I’m broken and she’s… well, fairy godmother of the whole fricking woods. We look at each for a moment longer, warm brown eyes meeting hollow violet before she smiles again and returns to her conversation. The moment is broken but I stand there, staring at the woman I can never call my own as laughter and chatter flood my ears once more, bringing me out of my thoughts with a jerk.

I sigh and nod my head slightly toward the left acknowledging the figure dressed in red, always lurking at the edge of my periphery. I see a smirk play on those dangerous saccharine lips and am repulsed as he draws closer, pressing his body against my back, breath skittering across my ear. I shudder and move slowly down toward the party, away from him, joining the crowd as the only Never. A black raven in a flock of doves…

“Lesso?” An impatient voice jerks me back to the present and I shake myself out of my daze. The memory of that moment at the summer ball is forever imprinted in my mind, a constant reminder of all that we are and all that we could’ve been and with it, a hollowness so heavy it could almost be mistaken for sadness. Sometimes I find myself standing in those stairs with eyes so blank and unsure, realizing this is not where I want to be and not where I want to go. The woman snaps her fingers in front of my face, and I turn my attention to a slightly older but no less beautiful Dovey standing in front of me, hands on her hips staring at me expectantly. I stare back. She sighs in frustration. “The curriculum, Lesso! The curriculum. What do you think of it?”

My mind reels frantically. What is she going on about now? What curriculum? I glance down at the pages sprawled out in front of me.

Oh.

I still have only the faintest idea of what she’s talking about so I do the only thing I know. I shake my head.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? You worked on it for months! All I did was edit it. Come on, Lesso, you can’t be serious!” Dovey’s eyes are wide with frustration. Guilt churns in my stomach but I can’t back down now, it would be weak. So I lean forward and smirk, watching as she flinches back, colour staining her cheeks.

“Did I fucking stutter? I’m saying no, I don’t like it. It was perfectly fine the way it was. I don’t need some frilly little fairy to tell me how to run my school. You have taken two classes out of the course. My villains deserve the same opportunities as you Evers so why the fuck can’t we use the Blue Forest like you?” Hurt is written all over the shorter woman’s face as I snatch up my papers and stand. We stare each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. I open my mouth to apologise but she raises a hand to stop me.

“Thank you, Lady Lesso,” Dovey says quietly, almost sadly. “You may have your classes. I’m sorry for interfering with your lessons, I was only thinking about the good of the school, that’s all.” She takes the papers from me with shaking hands and carefully crosses out her own emerald ink. All I can do is stand there foolishly and not say a word.

“As I thought,” I manage curtly and snatch the papers from her. And I don't mean to somehow, always to disagree but I feel that you do not see in order to love, you have to be all you can be and mostly, you have to love yourself. I want to say all of this and more but in the end, I just sit down and try to tune out the rest of the meeting.

Several times I catch Dovey looking at me with those large doe-eyes and several times I catch myself reaching for her hand. A million wasted opportunities, skirting around each other.

Divided.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Oh, with all this time wasted and all this time gone, you are still waitin' on me. Oh, but if I could choose, I would choose not to feel 'cause I am hardly ever happy.

#school for good and evil #lady lesso #clarissa dovey #dovesso #ao3 #sge #phantom #of monsters and men #dovesso fic #song lyrics #fic based off song lyrics #angst #hurt/comfort #lesso needs a hug #dovey needs a hug #no beta we die like rafal #leonora lesso #rafal mistral #rafal

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general--winter · 2 years ago

Note

Could we please get general relationship headcanons for Ann from Persona 5?

author's note: Ann my beloved. My best friend in the whole wide world. I see a lot of myself in her actually, if I wasn't so reserved lol. I bestow upon you the headcanons. Please, enjoy and thank you for the request!

rating: general

fandom: persona 5

pairing: ann takamaki x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of objectification of women's bodies

word count: 671

summary: What would Ann be like in a relationship?

Oh gosh Ann, I love her with all my heart. There’s a reason her element alignment is Agi (fire), she’s a passionate and driven woman who will stop at nothing to see her way to her goals. So, I imagine that when her mind is set on pursuing someone romantically, she would be the one to pull out all of the stops, but only if she’s already comfortable around them. Perhaps as a friend or acquaintance she has a positive history with, that she can trust. I definitely don’t think she would want to be in a relationship before being friends with someone, just to make sure their vibes are proper.

Chocolate on Valentine’s Day? She’s suave as all hell about it. Flowers? Any time you meet up to hang out, she’ll sneak to the florist and get you a single rose (or whatever your favorite flower is when she figures it out). A nice night out? I’d imagine once her modeling career takes off, and why wouldn’t it, she would treat you to a delectable and fancy all-you-can-eat buffet and take you on a walk through Inokashira Park.

Her love language is acts of service and gift giving, these two especially going hand in hand. She loves to do things for people, to show them that she cares about them through what she does. That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t also appreciate a good gift though. Perhaps buy her that makeup collab set she’s been talking about all month? Or the new album from her favorite band that just came out? Just to show you listen to her and care about her interests as much as she cares about your own!

Despite her forward nature when pursuing a romantic interest, she’s pretty shy about physical contact. The first time you hug her, she’s stiff as a board and takes a minute to relax into it. You initiate your first kiss together, and it flusters her beyond all belief. This stems from her negative experience being objectified as a model, especially as a woman with traditionally Western features (naturally blonde hair and blue eyes) in Japan. She definitely has to be eased into it very gently, and reassured consistently along the way that you’re not there just for her physicality, but for her as a complete person. Either way, she’s not really touchy-feely, but if your love language is physical touch, I guarantee you that she will do her best to make sure you feel as loved as you make her feel.

I think the Phantom Thieves would all really enjoy your presence when you’re introduced to them (if you don’t already know them), except the way you make Morgana bicker way too much. If it is your first time meeting Ann’s friends, their opinion is incredibly valuable to her; she trusts their instincts as much as she does her own. It would be best to make a good impression! Especially with Shiho too, I imagine that she’s Ann’s personal shadow defender and will hurt you if you do anything to Ann. (Don’t let the kind and outgoing facade fool you after her recovery from depression, Shiho can and will throw hands for Ann for playing such a huge role in saving her life.)

Overall, day-to-day with her I imagine to be very exciting and fun. Ann is always down for an adventure to the beach or the amusement park to spice up the day, but she’s more than content staying bundled up inside or just hanging out at Leblanc all day with you. Her personality is unpredictable and she can have an incredibly short temper, but overall it's usually in jest. It’s easy to tell when Ann is being sarcastically pissed off for comedic effect or when she’s really angry by the tone of her voice. She’s incredibly impatient, and you catch yourself teasing her until she’s incredibly flustered and “enraged” about her overreaction to the crepe stand’s wait times. She secretly enjoys it, not that she’ll ever admit it.

#persona #persona 5 #persona fanfiction #persona 5 fanfiction #ann takamaki #ann takamaki x reader #request #headcanon #gender neutral reader #GOD i love ann she's so awesome #i want to be her when i grow up.

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abbyfmc · 2 years ago

Text

Yandere ¡Phantom of the Opera! x ¡Actress! Reader:

This is part of a wattpad order.

Yandere: Darius (Curiously, in the original book there is a character named like that XDXD).

Warning: The facts reported here will be based on the book that was written by Gastón Leroux. If you have not read the original book, do not read this section because it probably has some spoilers except for some things changed and shortened.

*Narrator PO.V*

Ah, Opera music becomes beautiful, doesn't it?

It becomes beautiful especially in true prodigies who put all their effort and dedication for a long time. Counting on long and exhaustive preparations in which, if you are good enough, you can have the most beautiful of voices, those that are capable of reaching the skies and conquering the hearts of the public with each note, each word and each blessed intonation worthy of belonging to an angel.

That was the case of a 26-year-old young lady named (y/n) (y/y). Nobody knows how she got to the National Academy of Music in Paris as she has never said. She is one of the new girls that the little women of the dance corps invent rumors out of envy, but also because there are rumors about a dark secret that is about a character that is about something or someone inside the opera building that some consider true. and others consider it a simple speculation… until they run into it.

That is called the Phantom of the Opera.

--No one has seen him exactly, but I know he's real because I've heard him once!-- That's what one of the girls from the corps de ballet said every time the subject was brought up, and the others were no exception. That night the now former directors of the academy were being bid farewell with a famous gala party where everyone went in stunning outfits and (Y/n) (Y/a), who was the maiden who interpreted some passages from Romeo and Juliet at that time. The girls listened inside one of the dressing rooms behind the stage to everything. He how he made his seraphic voice resound through the air, making each soul fly to the heavens in this show after an arduous training with someone mysterious.

(Y/n) sang in this case substituting an important Opera personality since she was indisposed. It was something never seen or heard! It was what many called a "new Daisy" with a brightness and splendor never seen before. The entire room applauded with a thousand cries of joy that later turned into concerns because when she finished singing, the aforementioned leading actress fainted on stage from exhaustion. Everyone in the audience was worried, including a certain elegant man who had known her since childhood.

As they treated (Y/n) and rushed her to her dressing room with a doctor who happened to be a guest at that off-duty party, the girls continued to talk quietly about the ghost.

--That's what you say, Vanessa, because I think there is someone else who has seen him. Ask Mr. Buquet, the chief engineer-- One of them said that she thought she saw said man talking very animatedly with (Y/n) and that later he crossed paths with the ghost, but since he had not been there, Vanessa could not know if it was true or not. Suddenly, someone breaks terrible news to everyone again.

Mr. Buquet had been found hanging in the cellars. Nobody knew what had happened to get to that exactly since not even the closest friends knew that he had a depression or something similar exactly, although they suspected that Miss (Y/n) had something to do with it, since in the night before his death he was seen speaking in high spirits.

But few know who was really behind all this.

Someone who only looked at them from a distance with a mocking smile before heading to the actress's dressing room, without realizing that Viscount Anderson was also there with his utmost concern for the artist.

Time has passed like many other things.

Viscount Anderson, a very good childhood friend of (Y/n), was heartbroken and devastated by an unfortunate event for his heart and hopes. He heard a male voice that he had never heard inside the Academy or opera, which not only congratulated his beloved for the act but also sympathized with her sudden fainting from exhaustion on stage and said something that left poor Anderson in shock. shock.

'It's necessary to love me (Y/n) (Y/a)!' Those words disconcerted him, but what hurt him was the singer's affirmative answer, as if a pin had gone through his chest.

On the other hand, more events have occurred in the opera at the hands of the ghost, such as the time in which he threw the new directors out of their respective box, box No. 5 which he reserved for each performance in which our mentioned actress made an appearance on stage debuting with all her power. The directors had tried to rent the box but its owner took it upon himself to make them pay. The third event was the absence of (Y/n), which worried Viscount Anderson very much, the fourth was the worst humiliation to one of the glamorous artists in revenge of the ghost towards the new directors for not making HIS (T/ n) was the protagonist tonight.

The ghost watched EVERY corner of the opera whenever he could, and he knew that Viscount Anderson was looking for the diva, who was in the town where her old father died, who was a well-loved peasant violinist who told him so much to his daughter as to Anderson the legend of an Angel of music that he promised to send her once he was in heaven, and yes, it seems that as soon as she arrived at the Opera as a substitute actress for a lady called Carlotta.

--If it weren't for the fact that I enjoy seeing how you suffer when you find out that (Y/n) will only be my Angel of music, I would have already killed you like I did with Buquet-- The ghost whispered, thinking about what he could do to make Anderson suffer more with the idea that (Y/n)'s fate is now his alone.

He always had (Y/n) under his eye.

Time continued to pass and (Y/n) continued to have more visits from that Angel of music, while Anderson continued to investigate what was happening with the beloved he had known since he was a child, coming to be surprised months after that Angel of music forbids her to marry even if she loves him and that even the good genius was with her when she visited her father's grave.

She found out that this "good genius" gave her private lessons at the Opera when no one was there, especially around eight in the morning. He wondered to himself if he was going crazy or something, which he hoped he wasn't. All of this continued to the point where he received a letter from his beloved telling him to attend the masked ball that would be at the Opera near the ball foyer, indicating VERY specific clothing and to be well masked, which made him happy. only to be baffled by the very specific clothing requirement.

--I'll be there, (Y/n), don't worry-- He whispered after putting the letter in his pocket.

She planned to give her an interview to find out who was manipulating and controlling her, and to see if she could do anything to help her.

And the day of the appointment arrived faster than he expected, and he was dressed as the diva told him, who was also very discreet, and after they bumped into each other, they walked together. Anderson was a little nervous, since he didn't know where to start asking and the diva was just as nervous or more nervous than him. Suddenly, when they crossed the public foyer, where there were other people with masks, where a strange fellow with an elegant feathered hat and an elegant scarlet suit called himself The Red Death, who seemed familiar to Anderson for a moment.

She wanted to chase him, but (Y/n) pulled her arm away from the scene as if something was chasing her, as if the red death was looking for her. Then they reached her dressing room and she closed the door behind her, although she recommended that he stay in the back of the dressing room and not peek out. which Anderson obeyed. He was totally astonished to see the girl lean slightly towards the partition to listen carefully to what was happening on the other side, and then he said in a low voice:

--He must have gone to the "dressing room of the blind people"!-- Then she heard some footsteps.

--He is coming down!-- Then, after they were sure no one was listening, Anderson said:

--I have to find out who that red death is-- Anderson was willing to help her and when she was about to go out and go after him, the diva stopped him.

--In the name of our love you will not go anywhere!-- Anderson froze for a second. What had she said? Did she say she loved him? But she never told him, though she had no shortage of occasions to do so. He was even sick with love for her but she preferred to run away. And now she was telling him that she loved him!

--Liar, I was looking everywhere for you and even got sick because of it. You owe me a good explanation miss-- Poor skittish (Y/n) didn't know exactly where to start, until she said:

--I brought here to tell you-- Uncertainty began to cruelly disturb Anderson's soul, but he tried not to get out of control, however, he did not control the following words from coming out of his mouth:

--Will you tell me what all this means? You are free as far as I know, without fetters… You walk around the city… you put on elegant clothes to run to the dance… Why haven't you come home? …What is this story of the Angel of music? Someone could have tricked her, and I witnessed it myself a long time ago and you know it… That makes a lot of sense to me, (Y/n)… You know what you're doing! … What is that "good genius"?… Explain yourself miss (Y/n), I beg you! … What's all this fuss?-- Faced with this bombardment of questions and questions from the viscount, the diva took off her mask, revealing how the fresh colors had disappeared, being replaced by a deadly pallor.

--It's a tragedy!-- The diva's face only showed sadness, which alarmed the lover. Who has caused this? Could it have been the Angel of music? She didn't know because she put her mask back on and ran out of there, leaving a confused and sore Anderson, who thoughtfully returned to the corridor that led to the back of the stage, looking for the red death, which led him to the place where he was suffering emotionally, but this time there was no one there.

He wanted to leave her a note, but he heard footsteps coming towards the dressing room, so he hid and kept quiet to listen to everything, because he knew it was his love. When she entered, she was distraught again, tossing her mask on the coffee table, muttering wearily:

--Forgive me Anderson, truly forgive me-- That surprised the man greatly. So she loved him! I really loved him! But now another voice, unhappily familiar to Anderson, echoed through the room.

--Oh come on, (Y/n). Don't feel bad for him. He just wants you to get his last name for being a singer and having an angel voice-- The aforementioned was internally angry when he heard that from the ghost, but it had also made him question one thing while a vein stood out on his forehead, had he been listening? No, because he saw him in the public foyer, but perhaps he was able to move and in that case… Did the ghost know that he was hiding there? It wasn't something I wanted to try at the time.

--But how is that possible? I don't think so, he has been a person of strong confidence for me even since my father was alive, since childhood-- That was true. They were always very attached, especially in that beautiful stage.

--With more reason. Knowing you so thoroughly knows where to give you better pain, instead I will always take care of giving you the best and everything you want-- Anderson clenched his fist while the strange man's voice said all that, how was he able to manipulate her with all that? I would end up finding out.

A month has passed and some things have happened.

Anderson has met several times with (Y/n) privately while the ghost watched and planned his revenge against Anderson in a big way to make (Y/n) understand that it will only be his Angel of music. Anderson found out that the male voice was called Darius thanks to her naming him while he was hiding in the dressing room once more. At first his beloved refused to give any explanation, until the viscount noticed a golden ring on the diva's finger.

It was from Darius.

He supposed that Darius was the one who put the ring on her finger, and after the diva's disappearance for a few days, his suspicions were more accurate according to his beliefs. Darius, meanwhile, manipulated every event he could at the Opera House so that his beloved music maiden would be its leading lady, and if she wasn't, then (Y/n) was the only person who could stay in box #5, which made the new directors begin to question her, only to appear very very scared and even paranoid after, according to the ghost, "messing with his lady". He also manipulated (Y/n) to turn her against Anderson, as long as he made her believe that 'Anderson doesn't want her to continue to succeed, that he doesn't want her to be a bigger star than him' And he made sure to lure him into his set of trap doors in the basements.

--I will save you from his power, (Y/n)-- Anderson whispered, mentally cursing Darius while Darius was just watching from the shadows, glaring at him from under his white mask.

But sooner rather than later, a catastrophe occurred at the Opera.

He knew that Anderson and his beloved were planning to flee, but he, angry and jealous at the same time, went ahead, taking his beloved with him to his domain, to his empire. A part of the work was already done, only the other large part was missing so that finally his angel of music was his alone forever without interventions.

Assassinate Viscount Anderson.

Anderson was the first to search like crazy for the kidnapped diva, because more than anyone he knew the danger they were in. When the woman woke up, she felt that she was in a very comfortable bed, but it was not her dressing room at all. Then by his side he found a note that said:

"Dear (Y/n), don't be alarmed by your new fate. There is no better or more respectful friend in the world than me. I know that you are alone in my house, which is now also yours, but I have gone out to buy some things for you, my love".

The poor thing could never find the way out, and heartbroken, she cried all night.

More than a year has passed.

The diva was still trapped with that horrible ghost, who, seeing that she discovered his terrible ugliness under the mask and that she will never love him on her own, kidnapped her in his empire under the basement of the opera, making her sing solely and exclusively for him. the. At first she tried to escape, but the ghost always had a trick up its sleeve to trap her back into his domain.

On the other hand, Anderson tried to rescue her. He sneaked into the Opera at times when no one was there to try to decipher Darius's trap door system and after a very long time of effort, he succeeded, which the ghost did not like so he decided to teach him a lesson, sending him to his precious torture chamber where he made him undergo a lot of terrible torture behind the back of his beloved, which ended up killing the viscount, feeling like a failure for not having rescued her as he promised himself, for not having been happy at her side .

--I´m sorry... (T/n)... i´m really sorry...-- They were his last words so that his body was later taken from there.

Since then, our beautiful diva was turned by Darius into the protagonist of each song and verse, into his maiden with a pure heart, into his beloved wife, and of course, also…

In his Angel of Music.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

-The End.

*Clarifications:

I had to cut a lot because it's a one shot and because surely there will be people who haven't read the original book. 2. I took some characters from the original book and replaced them with my own while I left others like Mr. Buquet that way. The replaced characters were:

-Viscount Raoul Chagny.

-Christine Daae.

-And of course, Eric, the Phantom of the Opera.

The original book is by Gastón Leorux, I highly recommend it, so go enjoy it and tell me what you think.

-Now yes, the end.

#yandere oc #platonic yandere #yandere male #male yandere #yandere #yandere love #yanderecore #phantom of the opera #cw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #oc x reader

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