#I no longer clean manically

[hivemuthur]

Hi nat! I'm really curious about something. Do you write your fics with an already planned end or do you just keep writing and and figure it out how to end along as you write? I'm really curious because i don't know If i could start write something with a unplanned end because i would probably have a lot lacks of creativity to develop an end for a series.

Hi Anon!

It really depends! 'Writing as I go' was my fear for a very long time, so at the beginning I had a very strict outline. For What Was That? I knew what's going to happen since chapter one. For Game the outline cleared somewhere around chapter four. And that's about it :v I think I've missed out on a couple of opportunities by being so strict with myself.

For Nothing's New I had a rough outline, but there isn't really much plot happening in it. So it was divided into major scenes between Viktor and Reader and additional off-load scenes, like the chat Reader had with Mel.

Then A Deer and a Man happened and my outline slapped me on the face :') Funnily enough, not much of it has changed during writing process, it just grew on the inside, so to speak. So, the main events remained as I planned them, some scenes in the middle were added, and the general atmosphere build up contributed to the word count. I also brainstormed on it heavily with @rennethen and the contract scene was their idea!

For In Thy Name I have a massive mind map with the entire plot planned chapter by chapter. Some things get added/erased, but the major plot points remain unchanged and they are divided into beats. It doesn't have a chapter count yet, since I don't trust myself with a word count in period fics, I seem to not be able to shut up with descriptions of their clothes and interiors. But, fun (I guess? Is it fun?) fact: both Reader and Viktor have 'character sheets' I made for them by Call of Cthulhu 2nd edition RPG rules. So, they have a list of skills represented in percentage. For example, Reader has 90% skill on various languages and Viktor has 90% on Spot Hidden (it's an investigative skill) and 30% on Mythos Knowledge, which makes him instantly 30% insane :v

To Be Known is the first work I'm writing as I go, which is why it's a bit chaotic. Like sometimes it has Reader's perspective, sometimes Viktor's, sometimes an entire chapter is one person's POV. I am currently on chapter ten, and it is only now I see the ending for it, but I can't say for sure how many chapters are left, I think it's going to be something around 14-15 chapters. Again, it doesn't really have much plot. What took me the most time was figuring out Reader's occupation and where everyone lives lol, like I'm the only person who cares about that probably :') But if someone who is British reads it, they will most likely grasp that locations reflect characters' personalities (I hope). The other thing I have for it is 'plot beats', like major moments for their relationship development. It's been a very freeing process for me since I'm a massive OCD freak :')

But honestly I think you shouldn't worry about starting something without an outline. Sometimes you have to start something to see the next part. I kind of suffer with that: as soon as I write down what 'currently' happens I begin to see the next thing and I want to run toward it, like I can't wait, so I end up writing scenes for the future that I build up to. For TBK I have the final scene already written in dialogue form :d

The things I do to ensure that I will finish something are I either start publishing after I'm at least 3 chapters in and feel confident about it or when I have the most important plot beats: the general premise (like why characters are doing what they are doing in the first place), what's the source of the conflict and how it peaks (the breaking point) and how it resolves.

Ok, sorry for such a long yap!

[steveseddie]

empty handed

written for @steddiebingo hop into spring mini event | prompt: flowers | wc: 1,4k | rating: g | tags: injured eddie, hospitals, pre-relationship, steve is a sweetheart

read on ao3

Steve never shows up empty handed when he visits Eddie at the hospital. 

The very first time– only a handful of hours after Eddie wakes up– he walks in carrying his battle vest.

“Whatcha got there, Harrington?” He asks, sluggish from the pain meds being pumped into him. 

Hanging a hand from his neck and looking shy, Steve says, “Your vest. I, uh. I washed off the blood as best as I could, and I fixed some of the rips–”

Eddie’s droopy eyes widen, and he glances down at the vest and notices that it does look better than the last time he saw it, back when Steve shrugged it off after they fled the War Zone. 

“Oh, thanks. You– you didn’t have to do that,” Eddie says, a fluttery feeling building up in his chest. 

“Wayne told me how hard you worked on it,” Steve says with a shrug and Eddie can’t help but wonder for how long he was out that Steve is now on a first name basis with his uncle (he knows it was only a week, Wayne himself told him, but clearly a lot happened in that time). “And it helped– having something to do while we waited for you to wake up.”

Eddie thinks of Steve sitting in his house alone, waiting for news about Eddie, giving himself a task to focus on instead of worrying about Eddie. He feels a little lightheaded suddenly, and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with his medication. 

“Why don’t you hold on to it a little longer, big boy?” Eddie says, watching as Steve’s cheeks pink up at the name, his fingers twisting around the denim. “Until I’m outta here at least. I don’t think it matches my look right now.” He gestures at his hospital gown, and Steve chuckles.

Hours later, after filling Eddie in on everything he missed while he was out, he leaves, taking the vest with him.  

***

The next time, he brings a book. It’s Eddie’s own copy of The Lord of the Rings. Apparently, he asked Wayne for it after Eddie mentioned that he needed some entertainment now that he’d read every magazine in this hospital. 

Eddie accepts it with a smile and that same fluttery feeling in his chest. “Thanks, Harrington. I’ll read it later when this headache finally fucks off.”

Steve bites his lip. “Want me to read it to you?”

“You– you’d do that?”

“I carried your ass out of the Upside Down, Munson. This is nothing,” Steve jokes, grabbing the book back and sitting down on the chair next to Eddie’s bed. 

Except it’s kind of everything to Eddie– how sweet Steve is to him. 

Eddie ends up falling asleep after one chapter, lulled to sleep by Steve’s voice. He wakes up a few hours later and finds the book on the nightstand and a note stuck to it.

Not bad for a nerd book, we’ll pick it back up next time. x Steve

P.D., you drool in your sleep.

***

On his next few visits, he starts sneaking in snacks after Eddie complains about the hospital’s food, most of them from Family Video’s candy display. 

He’s so happy that he even lets Steve steal some of his Cheez Balls. “I��m telling you, Steve, the food here tastes worse than the sole of Gareth’s boot,” he says, spewing orange dust all over his hospital gown.

Steve’s hand pauses mid-air. “Do I wanna know why you know that, man?”

Eddie only grins manically and sloppily licks his fingers clean. Steve’s cheeks look a little pinker when he stands up to get rid of the evidence so the nurses don’t see it.

He sticks to the snacks for his next few visits, taking note of Eddie’s favorites and making sure to bring those more often. By now, the fluttery feeling that Eddie could write off as not being used to having many people do nice things for him has grown into a full-on, undeniable crush that keeps getting bigger and bigger the more time he spends with Steve. 

***

When he doesn’t show up with a snack but with something different, Eddie isn’t disappointed. He’d told Steve that now that they weren’t giving him as many meds, he was having trouble sleeping because of the beeping of the machines still attached to him, so Steve brought him a cassette player and a couple of tapes he grabbed from the trailer. 

“I didn’t know which were your favorites but– Black Sabbath, that’s the one with the guy who bit the head off the bat, right? And Metallica is the one with the puppet song, and Henderson said you nailed that one with the demobats, so I figured you probably listen to it a lot–”

Eddie’s eyes flit from Steve to the tapes, and he has to remind himself that he’s hooked to multiple machines and that there’s an IV stuck in his arm– he can’t jump from the bed and tackle Steve into a hug, no matter how much he wants to. 

“Eddie? Shit, was it a bad idea to bring up the bats?” Steve says with an apologetic grimace. 

Eddie shakes his head. “No, no, you're good, Stevie.”

“Good. Good, man. I don’t know how having guys screaming in your ear is better than beeping machines, but–” Steve shrugs, his hands settling on his hips.

“It is, I promise,” Eddie says with a laugh, sticking Heaven and Hell into the cassette player. When he hears the first few notes from the earphones hanging around his neck, he grins. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Steve’s breath catches, but he offers Eddie a smile. “No problem, Eds.”

***

By now, Eddie shouldn’t be surprised when Steve shows up with something, but when he walks in with a nice flower bouquet on the day that Eddie is finally being released from the hospital, he can’t help but stare at him in disbelief.

“Got a big date to get to after driving me home, Harrington?” Eddie asks, ignoring the sting he feels at his own words. 

“Hopefully,” he says before taking a deep breath and holding the flowers out to Eddie. “These are for you.”

Eddie swallows thickly, taking the flowers with a shaky hand. “What? No snacks this time?” He jokes, but his voice comes out shaky as well because Steve got him flowers.

“Well, Cheez Balls didn’t seem appropriate for– this,” he says, gesturing at Eddie and then at himself. Eddie doesn’t know what he means, but Steve continues before he can ask. “And I didn’t want to show up empty handed, not if I’m gonna-”

“Gonna what, Stevie?” Eddie prompts softly. 

Steve brushes his hair back with his hand. “If I’m gonna ask you out on a date.”

Eddie’s breath hitches. He’s glad he’s no longer hooked to the heart rate monitor, or Steve would’ve been able to hear the way his heartbeat speeds up almost worryingly. “A date? With me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a sheepish grin. “I’ve been thinking about asking you for a while, but disgusting hospital food and watching whatever is playing on that crappy TV wasn’t what I was thinking about for our first date.”

“You– you’ve thought about our first date?” Eddie asks, his voice slightly strangled. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, and if he could move, he’d love to drink some, but for now, all he does is lick his lips– and watches as Steve’s eyes follow the movement. 

“I’ve thought about a lot of things, Eds,” he says, his eyes still fixed on Eddie’s lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mumbles, his face feeling hot. He attempts to hide it behind the flowers and realizes they smell really nice. Steve got him nice-smelling flowers, and he asked Eddie out on a date, and–

Eddie still hasn’t given him an answer. 

“Yes,” he says and watches Steve’s face split into a grin. “How soon can we do it?” He adds, feeling only a little embarrassed at how eager he sounds, because well, he is. He’s eager to go on a date with Steve and to find out what other things he has been thinking about. 

Not that it matters anyway because Steve’s smile only gets bigger and he says, “I can drive us to my house instead. We can watch a movie, I’ll make you dinner.”

“Much better than terrible hospital food and crappy TV,” Eddie says, his grin just as big. “Alright, big boy, let’s do it.”

This time, Steve doesn’t leave empty handed either. He grabs Eddie’s free hand and interlocks their fingers together before he leads them out of the hospital room.

[interstellarflare]

A Cinderella Story || Anthony Bridgerton

-PART ONE-

Summary: Have courage, and be kind. Words that you tried to live by ever since the passing of your parents. Though your step-mother and step-sisters did everything in their power to hide you and your status away from the rest of the Ton, you never expected to catch the eye of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton himself.

Authors Note: This is my first Bridgerton series! I had an absolute ball writing this, and I hope you enjoy it! There is a tag list open if anyone wishes to be kept updated for future parts. Gif by @greengableslover

‘The Prince smiled, extending his hand towards her with grace and ease.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asked lowly, his eyes meeting hers with a kind yet mischievous twinkle. There was something about the Prince that made her heart flutter, that made her place her hand into his and reply-‘

The sound of hurriedly approaching footsteps and a chorus of shouting caused you to stuff the book beneath your pillows, a small panic settling over you as you quickly jumped out of your rickety bed and threw the old sheets over the mattress to at least make it look as if you hadn’t been lying in it mere seconds ago.

The door to the attic swung open, violently ricochetting off the wall and with a loud ‘bang’. You flinched, a shaky breath escaping you as you turned your gaze towards the form of your stepmother, her piercing greyish-blue eyes staring intently at you as she entered. She held her head high, the permanent scowl on her features examining every little aspect of the small space with precision. Her eyes landed on the small wooden table beside your bed, narrowing on the melted candle with the wax spilling over the sides.

“You were reading again, weren’t you?” She growled, her lips pursing in annoyance. Fiddling with your hands in front of you, you shrugged your shoulders slightly. “It wasn’t all night, Lady Worthington, I swear-“

“Nonsense, I can see the candle clear as day girl!” She shouted, a look of disapproval forming on her features. You held her stare, a small sense of guilt settling in your stomach the longer your stepmother remained in the attic. With a long and annoyed huff, she brushed he black-greying hair from her shoulder, looking you up and down with a look of disgust. “Get yourself cleaned up, and once you’re done start with breakfast. My girls are hungry, we have a long day ahead of us” she ordered, gathering her deep purple skirts and storming out of the room.

Releasing a breath you weren’t aware you were holding, your shoulders slumped in relief. You looked down at yourself and sighed, Lady Worthington was right. The clothes you wore currently were nothing but rags, and your day clothes weren’t much better. They were either oversized or too small, but you made do with the worn black and white maids dresses you were given. After getting changed and tying your hair back with a small piece of ribbon, you quickly skipped downstairs and into the kitchen.

You could hear Lady Worthington and her daughters cackling manically in the dining room, discussing their plans for the day, and how excited they were to be invited to Lady Danbury’s ball. Lady Danbury’s ball was one of the highlights of the season, or…so you had heard anyway. It had been a long time since you had seen the dear woman, you believed the last time you held conversation with her was when you were but a child. Your father, just after the loss of your mother, had taken you to one of Lady Danbury’s balls after deciding that leaving you at home would have been unwise at this grief-stricken time.

You remembered the beautiful dresses, the beautiful debutants who smiled and waved at your curious gaze. The kind bachelors who greeted you with a dance. And a young boy, hiding behind his father’s legs, his eyes following you wherever you went. Lady Danbury had been most gracious, you remember. A close friend of your mothers, almost like an aunt to you. But when Lady Worthington came into the picture and had taken control of your father’s inheritance after his passing, you were practically forgotten and hidden away from the ton. A part of you missed it, though you weren’t envious of today’s debutants desperately seeking husbands. Lady Worthington was perhaps one of the most persistent mothers out there, aside from Lady Featherington you hear.

This would be the third season that your stepsisters, Elizabeth and Mary Worthington, would participate in. They very much enjoyed flaunting themselves before the ton, given the state of their rooms with delicate and luxurious dresses and jewellery thrown about. They did not hide their wealth, rather your father’s wealth, that their mother had inherited, and bought the fanciest dresses money could buy. It had almost worked one season, Colin Bridgerton had visited to call on Elizabeth. But upon seeing how lavishly she lived, and how horribly she had treated you upon her request for tea for the two of them, the third-eldest Bridgerton hadn’t called again.

She changed somewhat after that, you recalled. She didn’t find much enjoyment in gorgeous dresses or glittering diamonds. She didn’t speak much to you or her mother anymore either, but Mary was her confidant. Sometimes she would glance at you, a look of guilt on her face, but it briefly passed whenever her sister or mother made some snide comment about your presence.

Preparing breakfast was easily done. Keeping a portion for yourself on a separate plate, you carried the three other plates into the dining room with practiced ease. Mary squealed with delight, snatching one of the plates from your arm and almost knocking the others out of your grasp in the process. “Oh thank goodness, I’m starved!” she exclaimed, hastily digging in as if she hadn’t eaten in days. You handed a plate to Elizabeth, who seemed to nod slightly as you placed the plate before her. Lady Worthington however, merely sneered as you placed her plate on the table.

You excused yourself from the room and retreated into the kitchen, beginning to eat your portion of the remaining food whilst listening to their gossip quietly. They weren’t quiet by any means, though you supposed that it was in their nature to be loud and obnoxious.

“Mother, did you hear! I heard from Cressida that apparently Lord Bridgerton is looking for a wife this season!” Mary exclaimed, her words muffled likely by the food in her mouth. You heard Elizabeth sigh heavily “I won’t believe it until Lady Whisteldown writes about it-“

“Nonsense!” Lady Worthington cried, interrupting her daughter with a squeal, “If the rumour is true than we are going to take every advantage we can get. The two of you are going to do your damned best get his attention-“

“And what if we don’t, mother? What then?” Elizabeth spoke quietly, almost timidly. You heard Lady Worthington scoff “Oh, you will. We are going out as soon as possible to find you both new dresses for the ball tonight”.

“Oh mother, how exciting!” Mary cried, you could hear the chair scrape harshly against the wooden floorboards as she abruptly stood up from her seat, “We are going to be the most beautiful women at the Ball!”

“Y/N! Help my daughters get dressed! We will be heading out shortly, and make sure that the horses are prepared!” Lady Worthington shouted, the sound of her shrill cry causing a sense of panic to surge through you.

Coughing as you chocked on your food, you quickly wiped your mouth and fixed your skirts. “Yes, right away!” You called back, sighing heavily as you rushed back upstairs. Upon entering Mary’s room, your shoulders slumped in defeat. Clothes lay on almost every inch of the floor, dresses, undergarments, jewellery. This was going to be a tough morning.

Tag List:

@ladybirdbeetle7 @sweetsourpus @in-deans-arms @blackthorngirl @kee-0-kee

@sometimesminsan @prawntoastsworld @scoopsahoyspidey @darkness-falls-xo

@reallysparklychaos @hottie-bishop-belova @riptidewaters @jay-being-weird

@khhhhjj @golden-girasol @linnygirl09 @xoxonoire @stanmixtapes

@freyagallileaevans @gracielou0518 @judig92 @rafaaoli @queenslandlover-93

@esquivelbianca @fanfictioncafe @hjgdhghoe @sillynilly27

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 5

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4

Eddie’s just dropped his response in the requested copy of Romeo and Juliet. He’d looked furtively around the library, trying to see if anyone was paying him an abnormal level of attention.

No one even looks up.

There’s a mousy girl in the corner reading a comic book, some band girl muttering to herself as she frantically pulls books off the shelf, and Nancy Wheeler writing, fast enough that Eddie’s surprised the lead of her pencil doesn’t snap clean off.

Could it be her?

Eddie squints at her, trying to look past her frizzy hair and prissy face to what must be hidden underneath. Before he finds any clarity, she looks up from the page in front of her, already scowling before she meets Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie startles, damn-near sprinting out of the library, his smoker’s lungs wheezing hard enough to damn-near expel themselves from his lungs.

No way in hell is it Wheeler—she’s way too scary, and besides, no one’s ever accused her of being an athlete. That band girl, maybe? She looked feisty enough to kick ass at organized sports-ball.

The secret’s burning a hole through his heart and he wants, no, needs, to tell someone.

Eddie feels deranged with it, almost manic as he rushes to find someone, anyone, he can talk to. Hell, right now he’d take Hagan if he didn’t think the dude would punch him in the face.

Luckily, he smacks into Gareth before anything gets that dire. The kid’s obviously rushing through the parking lot to catch the bus before it leaves without him, stranding him at the school before the weekend can truly start.

“Dude—”  he stutters out as Eddie latches onto both of his shoulders and begins shaking him about. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Gareth smacks him off, and Eddie stumbles back, almost buzzing with the frenetic energy built up from weeks of getting love letters in his locker and not being able to tell a soul. Eddie grabs onto him again and just keeps shaking, lest his soul quiver right out of his body. “I can’t keep it in anymore, man,” Eddie says, and he can tell from the bug-eyed look on the other boy’s face that he’s not picking up what Eddie’s putting down. “I’ve gotten four letters, Gare-Bear, four!”

He enunciates the last word with an even harder shake until Eddie can hear his teeth clack together. Gareth makes an unholy noise, like a cat submerged in bathwater, and damn-near claws Eddie’s face off in his attempts to get away. Eddie ends up standing in the parking lot, still holding the shoulders of Gareth’s flannel up despite there no longer being a body in it.

“And each one is sweeter than the last!” Eddie cries, maliciously dropping the flannel into a puddle.

Gareth squawks, bending down to scoop his outerwear up from the ground and twist it until some of the water sops out of it and back to the pavement from whence it came. He’s not looking at Eddie at all. God, he knew he should have picked Doug.

“So, why are you telling me about it?” Gareth gripes.

Left unspoken, but patently obvious between them, is that Jeff, Eddie’s usual secret keeper, is entirely absent. Eddie twirls one of his own curls, bringing it up to shield the blush that’s no doubt blooming on his face as he admits, “Jeff would make fun of me.”

Besides, Jeff’s been weird all day, eyes darting away from Eddie’s like he’s got some sort of disease that might be catching.

He doesn’t want to talk to Jeff right now.

Giving it up as a bad job, Gareth slings his sopping flannel over one shoulder with the beleaguered sigh of a single mother and finally meets Eddie’s eyes.

“Dude,” he says, voice that of someone delivering a deadly blow. “I’m going to make fun of you.”

Eddie can feel himself pouting, does absolutely nothing to try to stop it as he mutters, “knew I should’ve confided in Hagan,” too quietly for Gareth to hear.

“Now, where are these stupid letters?”

Eddie throws his hands up and takes two showily large steps back as he declares, “well, I’m not going to show you now!”

“Oh, Jeff,” Gareth calls, all sing-songy and sly.

Eddie lunges forward to slam his palm over Gareth’s mouth even though Jeff had disappeared from the school long ago. With his hands so close already, he’s hard-pressed to stop himself from wringing Gareth’s scrawny neck.

Before he knows it, Eddie finds himself settled in his room, the letters strewn about Eddie’s unmade bed.

Gareth reads them all; he laughs at all the parts that are sweetest, and despite being born an only child, Eddie can feel himself developing one hell of a Cain instinct. Maybe Cain was actually a cool guy, and Abel drove him to it with his incessant wheedling.

Eddie wouldn’t know; he’s never read the bible.

“Dude, she’s a jock?” Gareth asks, peering down at the letter with a level of glee Eddie’s never seen on the other boy’s face.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Eddie asks, taking sadistic enjoyment in the way Gareth’s nose wrinkles with disgust. He rips—gently!—the letter out of Gareth’s hands and gathers them all back together, intent to hide them from any more prying eyes.

“I was reading that!”

“Girls can do sports,” Eddie replies snootily, tucking the letters away beneath his pillow. “And besides, there’s always cheerleaders.”

All that does is make Gareth start laughing again. “You think you can bag a cheerleader?”

He raises his hand threateningly, one wrong word from smacking that look off his face, the way Eddie’s dad had always threatened. “Do you want to walk home?” Eddie demands.

Eddie’s doubtful it was the threat that got Gareth to stop laughing—they both know they’ll spend the rest of the evening eating stale cereal and watching whatever’s on TV before falling asleep in Eddie’s small bed—but the silence is still welcome.

It lasts a solid three seconds before Gareth asks, “you’re not afraid it’s all a joke?”

Eddie’s going to kill him.

***

The day’s been long despite Steve, Chrissy, and Jeff all skipping first period. Still, nothing could stop him from taking precious time out of his weekend to pick up any notes Eddie might have written.

It’s becoming normal now, to skulk behind Chrissy through the library as she picks up notes. What’s that saying about the third time being a pattern? And there, tucked reverently into a copy of Romeo and Juliet—Chrissy’s idea, not his—is an envelope with Secret Admirer written across it in bold, cursive font. Like Eddie’d gone out and gotten a quill and ink pot just for the occasion.

The ink’s so black, it still looks wet, but when Steve caresses the letters, they don’t even smudge. They both stare down at it where it’s still clutched between Chrissy’s fingers. Chrissy, ever the good friend, waits for his next move.

“Want to come over?” he asks, tired of impersonal whispers in quiet libraries. He wants a girl’s night, the way he and Carol used to before she’d started dating Tommy and everything had gotten so stilted. “I can paint your nails.”

Chrissy doesn’t even hesitate. She’s beaming as she puts the envelope carefully into her book bag, grabs his arm, and drags him out of the room.

She doggedly follows his car all the way home to his big empty house, her headlights beaming light and warmth straight into his heart.

The porch light’s on in front of his house, a beacon leading him home from his rapidly darkening driveway. He always leaves it on, something about its cheerful light making his dark house seem more welcoming, even more so now that he’s got a friend parking her car right behind his.

He’s glad not to get run out of town, but more than that, he’s grateful that it was all just a mistake, that he doesn’t need to let another friendship fizzle out into nothing.

“Are your parents home?” she asks as she bounces out of her car and up to his side.

“Almost never,” Steve replies, not turning back to her, unwilling to see the expression on her face as he leads her to the front door and ushers her inside once it’s unlocked. 

He slides his shoes off, and she copies his movements before following him up the stairs. They settle onto his bed, and he’s tempted to make a wise-crack about what boyfriends and girlfriends usually do in beds, but he’s a little afraid she might slap him, so all he says is, “did you bring it?”

Chrissy rolls her eyes, “of course I brought it.”

She’s already made herself comfortable laying on her stomach, but she dutifully reaches toward the ground to rifle through her bag and pull the envelope that’s been burning a hole in it free. Steve descends on it like a drowning man on land.

He lays on his stomach beside her, tempted to kick his feet and twirl his hair as he slots his finger into the envelope and opens it with the precision born from years of practice opening his parents’ mail.

It’s only as he pulls the tab open that he notices it’s not an envelope at all. Eddie had cleverly folded the note he’d written into the shape of an envelope, tucking the tab into it to keep it closed. He smooths the creases out and devours the words.

       Secret Admirer,

       I want to learn everything about you– the color of your eyes, how your lips curve when you smile, how soft your hands are, the sound of your laughter. But more than that, I want to know what you love, along with all of your deepest wants and needs. You’ve piqued my curiosity with your scant answers. I can’t help but want more.

       Unfortunately, there’s not enough room on the page for the unrelenting number of questions flooding my mind. I know the point of being a secret admirer is that it’s a secret, but I hope that if you really do like me, you won’t stay secret for long.

       I came up with a game I think could be fun! I’ve filled mine out already, for you to keep. Recopy it onto a separate sheet and return it with your next note. That way I get to keep your answers and you can have mine. I also wrote little notes on the back for some of them. I couldn’t help myself.

       Yours,

       Eddie

And there, tucked behind the envelope is a notecard, Eddie’s usual sloppy handwriting covering it with that same, black ink. But he’s circled his answers in red, and added little numbers next to some of them.

       ||Rock or Pop 1 || Board Games or Sports Games 2 || Early Bird or Night Owl || Reading Or TV || Big Spoon or Little Spoon 3 || Outer Space or The Ocean 4 || Art or History || Alcohol or Weed 5 || Cats or Dogs || Holding Hands or First Kiss 6 || Winter or Summer || Grease or Star Wars || Gold or Silver || Halloween or New Year’s Eve || Vampires or Werewolves 7 || Drive-In or Movie Theater || Back Seat or Under the Bleachers 8 || Cuddling or Dancing || Slides or Swings 9 ||

Steve flips it over and finds more little numbers in red, each with a corresponding blurb.

       1. Pop is fun if you’re into that, but nothing beats a good guitar riff.

       2. I know you’re into sports, sweetheart, but come on, board games are the obvious winner.

       3. If you prefer being the big spoon, I’m willing to compromise <3

       4. If you pick the ocean, then you’re braver than me! That’s a body of water you can’t even see the bottom of! How are you cool with that?

       5. If you know me, and it really seems like you do, then my answer here is obvious.

       6. I bet you’ve got really nice hands, sweetheart. Would love to feel them in mine someday.

       7. Werewolves are cool, too, but come on, vampires fit my aesthetic way better.

       8. Under the bleachers would probably be cool, too, but my van’s a lot warmer (does that count as a backseat?)

       9. I was always that kid who would go down the slide and pretend there was a dragon chasing me, what about you?

Steve smiles down at the card and all the secrets it holds.

“Aww, that’s so cute!” Chrissy says.

Steve, for the first time, gets the inexplicable urge to hide Eddie’s words behind his hands. He doesn’t because that would be insane, and also she’s already seen it. So, all he says is, “help me respond?”

She does.

       Eddie —

       I don’t love like you do, not so easily and with my whole heart. But I love my best friend, and I like a whole lot more—hopefully that’s enough.

       I’m just as greedy for answers as you are. I want to write all your answers down on flash cards, study them like you might test me on them. If you do, I’m determined to get an A+.

       I hope my own answers satisfy, even if they don’t include my face, my smile, or my name. But my eyes? They’re brown, but nowhere near as pretty as yours. I could fall into your eyes and die happy.

       Yours, Always,

       Your Secret Admirer

       P.S. This time, put your reply in The Anatomy and Physiology textbook, right next to the diagram of the human heart.

Chrissy tears up at the bit about his best friend, but luckily doesn’t comment, just keeps spinning his yarn into gold. She dutifully re-writes the answer card as well, letting Steve circle his own answers with her pretty pink pen as she peers over her shoulder.

“It’s kind of funny how many of your answers are opposites,” Chrissy says, once they’re done.

Steve frowns, staring between both cards. She’s right; between all the questions, they’ve got three in common: they both chose holding hands over first kisses, drive-ins over movie theaters, and cuddling over dancing.

It’s not much to build a relationship on.

“Yeah, funny,” Steve replies, trying for chill but his voice comes out all wrong.

“Steve?” Chrissy asks, sounding hesitant herself now. “None of that matters, you know that right?”

Steve doesn’t respond; he’s too busy looking between each filled-out card, debating whether changing some of his answers might be for the best.

As if she can sense his thoughts, Chrissy snatches them both from his hands.

“Hey!”

He goes to snatch them back, but she’s pushed them behind her, glare fierce enough to give him pause. “None of that matters,” she says, voice firm. “You really think whether you like gold or silver better is a deal-breaker for a relationship?”

She’s right, that’s not what’s doomed this whole thing before it’s even started—it’s Steve. Steve, who’s a boy, and a jock, and not very bright.

He’s always the problem.

“You hear me, Steve?” Chrissy asks. She’s leaning toward him now, eyes blazing with a conviction he doesn’t quite understand. “You’re perfect just the way you are, okay?”

His throat’s all clogged up so he just nods, looking down at her hands where they’re clutching tightly enough to his comforter that the beds of her nails turn pink, and her knuckles bleach white.

She’s got thin, pretty fingers, and jagged nails. These are the hands that can write letters Eddie will want to read; it’s got nothing to do with silver, or gold, or any of that shit.

It’s Steve.

“Did you really want to paint my nails?” Chrissy asks, biting her lip and not meeting his eyes.

Steve’s up off the bed in an instant, ready for the distraction she’s handed him. He rifles around in the bathroom and comes back with a crate of nail polish which he immediately shoves into her chest with enough gusto that she makes a little oof! noise.

“Pick your poison,” Steve says, watching as her eyes grow wider with every new color she picks up.

“You have so many,” she breathes, touching the small glass bottles almost reverently before picking up a pale pink color that suits her. “What about this one?”

She looks so unsure, like his opinion on her choice of nail polish is the most important thing in the world. Steve’s heart squeezes beneath his ribcage. “‘course, Chris.”

He settles onto the bed, legs criss-crossed. He waits for Chrissy to match his pose before grabbing her hand. She curls her fingers into a fist, a breath shuddering out of her before she forces her hand back open.

Steve doesn’t comment on the ragged state her nails are in. He just grabs a nail file from the crate and smooths them down as best he can. He buffs her nails out before finally grabbing her chosen color and gives the bottle a shake.

The first coat goes on quick, Chrissy watching each flick of the brush like it’s fascinating.

“You’re really good at this,” she says, sounding shocked.

Steve presses her hands down on the bed to keep them still as the first coat dries. “Thanks,” he replies, still not looking up at her. “I used to do Carol’s like every week.”

There’s a silence in the room now that feels one step to the left of stilted. He doesn’t know what to do about it, so he picks up her hand and blows on the nails like that will speed anything up at all.

“Can I do yours next?”

At that, Steve finally looks up from Chrissy’s nails to meet her eyes. She’s biting her lip, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment.

“Do you want to?” Steve asks.

No one’s ever painted his nails before, not even Carol. But in the face of Chrissy’s earnest, nervous expression, he can’t say no.

That’s how he finds himself at school on Monday with bright yellow nail polish painted on each of his fingers, the edges already chipped from where he couldn’t stop himself from picking at it.

No one says a thing.

PART 6

[nonbinoclard]

>>> TUNES TO LOSE YOUR MIND TO <<<

KEEP IN MIND: This is a living playlist! Songs may be added and removed at times to further curate the vibe I'm going for. I'll try to keep this post updated, but you can just check out the link for an up-to-date track list.

(EDIT: Song discussions are not finished! I have a lot more to say. I'll reblog when I've updated.)

This is set in a sort of nebulous time between Harry's life right before Martinaise and the night before he lost his memory. I wanted this playlist to feel erratic-- full of manic energy one second, then slow and bleak the next, dreamy, unreal, then right back to ridiculous.

(In no particular order. Shuffle for full emotional whiplash effect.)

I Don't Like My Mind - Mitski

I don't like my mind, I don't like being left alone in a room [...] And then I get sick and throw up and there's another memory that gets stuck / Inside the walls of my skull waiting for its turn to talk / And it may be a few years, but you can bet it's there, waiting still

The days before cleaning out the rooms... also, eating an entire cake and throwing it all up again feels very harry-esque... Overindulgence

A whole cake, so please don't take / Take this job from me

End Of The World - Hether

I mean, I could just post the entire set of lyrics as evidence, tbh. Struggling to find meaning and purpose in his life in the wake of heartbreak (5 year old heartbreak, but who's counting anyway)

I wake up in the morning and I wonder / Why everything's the same as it was I can't understand / No I can't understand / How life goes on the way it does

Cane Shuga - Glass Animals

Baby, don't go / I'll stop breathing coke / No more bloody nose / No more John Does Burn through my love / Just like your drugs / I've had quite enough / Or lack thereof

This is about the last moments of Harry and Dora's relationship to me. The chorus (a kind of circular, endless, self-aggrandizing internal monologue likely fueled by stimulants, implied in the song) continuing after the second verse kind of reflects the solution for Lonesome Long Way Home.

"11 Voyager Road. You no longer live there. Those times are gone, and so are those people. Why did you come here? Why are you still here? And where’s the dealer? You have to get back to work. That’s all you have now."

Hot Venom - Miniature Tigers

Hot venom is mixing with my blood / I can feel it on my fingers and taste it on her tongue / It feels so good to fall in love with you

I've heard a lot of people say this song is about heroin addiction, which is thematically appropriate for this playlist, but also. Harry's unhealthy obsession with Dora/Dolores Dei. Adoration (and hatred) so strong it's killing him.

Her venom makes me strong / Stronger than I am on my own / Before too long, I'll wake up to it gone / Wondering how I ever was happy [...] You can't go back now; that's not how this works / And as long as she's gone, I can never be happy

Who Is She ? - I Monster

This is just straight up about Harry's recurring dream to me. Just. Gestures at the lyrics.

Oh, who is she? / A misty memory / A haunting face / Is she a lost embrace? Am I in love with just a theme? / Or is Ayesha just a dream?

I feel like it falls in line really well with the idea that Harry's mind has been affected by the Pale-- a lack of memory, or maybe mixed memories, in a misty haze beyond the boundaries of reality. (and maybe Dolores Dei has started haunting him via Pale? Like some theories I've read.)

Somewhere across the sea of time / A love immortal such as mine Will come to me / Eternally

I Don't Miss You at All - FINNEAS

Dummy - Portugal. The Man

F the World - The Northern Boys

You Stupid Bitch - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV Show)

These shards are a metaphor for my soul Won't stop the self-pity 'cause I'm on a roll

This song perfectly captures the inherent melodrama of a mental downward spiral imo. Catastrophic and all-encompassing. This is what I think it sounds like in there (Harry's head).

You ruined everything / You stupid bitch / You ruined everything / You stupid, stupid bitch / You're just a lying little bitch who ruins things / And wants the world to burn / Bitch / You're a stupid bitch / And lose some weight

Oleander - Mother Mother

Intermission - Scissor Sisters

Skit #2 - Kanye West

Self explanatory. He's got no money. He's got no clothes. He has no car and he has no hoes.

We broke, broke broke phi broke We ain't got it Broke, broke, broke phi broke We ain't got it Don't spend no money, ain't got no clothes Ain't got no cars, ain't got no hoes

Nobody - Mitski

My God, I'm so lonely, so I open the window To hear sounds of people, to hear sounds of people

This one is more about the feeling of the song itself rather than the lyrics specifically; I love the upbeat tempo that continues through the song (trying to remain steady, continue working), how the beat is simple at first then builds into a kaleidoscope of sound by the end of the track (overwhelmed by the world), then ending in a distorted loop (trapped in a cycle). This song has always felt really authentic to my own experience with mental spirals. The themes of loneliness tie it all into a nice bow.

I'm A Broken Heart - the bird and the bee

Not Allowed - TV Girl

Party Time - The Northern Boys

Comfortably Numb - Scissor Sisters

(Do The) Act Like You Never Met Me - TV Girl

Novocaine For The Soul - Eels

Basket Case - Green Day

Do you have the time / to listen to me whine About nothing and everything all at once? I am one of those melodramatic fools / Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it

I just think this one fits him well during Martinaise... just shaken up and unloading trauma onto unsuspecting strangers like a can of soda (bad analogy lol), depending on the dialogue you choose.

I went to a shrink to analyze my dreams She says it's lack of sex that's bringing me down I went to a whore, she said my life's a bore So quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down

Sometimes, I give myself the creeps / Sometimes, my mind plays tricks on me It all keeps adding up / I think I'm cracking up Am I just paranoid, or am I stoned?

Also it's just a little pathetic, which just... it fits. Sorry Harry.

Labyrinth - Miracle Musical

[dearlenore]

A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO LOVING YOU • S.REID

SUMMARY: after Spencer attends his first support group meeting, he discovers an odd girl who recently relapsed after using the same drug he did. Weirdly enough, he sticks around to see her reckless behavior

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: fluff and sort of angst mentions , reader wears gn clothes, mentions of drug use and addiction, rushed relationship (breaking thirteenth step sort of), Spencer is down bad, reader is sort of manic pixie dream girl coded… (not in a senorita awesome way.) y/n usage

a/n: I’m BEYOND excited to post this one I’ve been working on it for a little while tho🥹 idk why it wasn’t turning out how I wanted

w/c: 1.8K

The first time you met Spencer you were shaking.

Your fingers trembled against the Styrofoam cup of stale coffee, barely steady enough to keep it from spilling over the edge. You’d picked a chair in the corner, shrinking into yourself like you could disappear into the peeling wallpaper.

You hadn’t wanted to come to the meeting — your chest still ached from the hollow pit your fiancé had left behind, and your mind buzzed from the remnants of a mistake you’d sworn you wouldn’t make again.

But here you were.

The meeting droned on in the background — voices blending together — until you heard him.

“I’m Spencer,” he said softly. “And I used to have a problem with Dilaudid.”

That word hit you like a slap. Your fingers clenched tighter around your cup.

He spoke quietly, like he didn’t want to take up space. But there was a weight to his words — the kind that only came from someone who knew what it was like to fall.

“I’ve been clean for a while,” he continued. “But… I’ve been thinking about it more than I should lately.” His voice faltered. “I know where that road leads, and I don’t want to go back.”

You watched him carefully, something about his honesty anchoring you in place. He didn’t look like someone who’d ever touched a needle — not with his too-big sweater sleeves pulled halfway over his hands and his fingers twitching nervously in his lap.

But you knew better than anyone — addiction didn’t care what you looked like.

When the meeting ended, you didn’t plan to talk to him. But somehow, your feet carried you toward him before you could change your mind.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He blinked, surprised to see you. “Hey.”

“I’m (Y/N),” you offered. “I relapsed…recently…”

His eyes softened, and you knew he understood.

—

You hadn’t expected Spencer to stick around after that. People came and went in these meetings — some stayed clean, some didn’t. You figured he’d just become another face in the circle.

But a few days later, he called.

At first, your conversations were cautious — two people afraid to say the wrong thing. He’d show up on his day off, coffee in hand, and the two of you would sit in a park or walk through quiet streets. He talked about work sometimes — something about profiling and the FBI — but mostly, you just talked about life.

It felt… easy. Like maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

But the longer Spencer knew you, the more he realized that ‘easy’ wasn’t exactly how you lived your life.

—

The first time he caught you being… you, it nearly gave him a heart attack.

“Y/N!” he shouted from across the street, watching in horror as you sprinted down a graffiti-covered alley — sneakers barely touching the pavement before you leapt and caught hold of a low-hanging fire escape ladder.

“What are you doing?” Spencer demanded when he caught up to you.

“I forgot my sketchbook!” you called down, halfway up the ladder already.

“You can’t just climb things!” he scolded, voice breathless.

“I climb things all the time!” you shot back.

“That’s not comforting!”

Moments later, you hopped back down, landing with an exaggerated flourish and holding up your prized notebook. “See? Safe and sound.”

Spencer stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Relax,” you teased, nudging his arm as you walked past him. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” he muttered.

But despite himself, he smiled.

—

It became a pattern after that — Spencer watching helplessly as you danced dangerously close to chaos.

He found you sitting barefoot on a bridge railing once, legs swinging as you tossed bits of bread to ducks below.

“You know you’re, like… one strong gust of wind away from falling in, right?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, smiling as the ducks squabbled over the crumbs. “But I’ve always been a pretty good swimmer.”

Or the time you convinced him to sneak into a rooftop party — not for the drinks, but because you “just had to see the view.”

“What if we get caught?” Spencer whispered as you tugged him through the back stairwell.

“Then we run,” you grinned.

“I’m not good at running!”

“Good thing I am.”

Moments like those made Spencer’s heart race for all the wrong reasons. But somehow, despite the stress you caused him, he couldn’t pull away.

Because no matter how chaotic you were, there was something about you — something bright.

You were like sunshine — golden and warm, refusing to dim no matter how much the world tried to smother you.

—

It wasn’t until a quiet Sunday afternoon that Spencer realized how much he cared.

He’d been walking home from the bookstore when he spotted you across the street.

You were sitting on the pavement, cross-legged, sketchbook open in your lap. A little girl sat beside you — maybe six or seven — eagerly copying your drawing with her own crayons.

Spencer slowed his steps, watching as you laughed at something the girl said, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

You looked… happy. Like someone who hadn’t been through half the pain you had.

“Hey,” Spencer called as he crossed the street.

Your head shot up, smile widening when you saw him. “Spencer!”

The little girl waved too, flashing him a wide, toothy grin.

“Making friends?” Spencer asked, glancing between you both.

“Always,” you said brightly. “I was just showing Hazel here how to draw a dragon.”

“It’s so cool!” Hazel added, proudly displaying her scrawled creation.

“It’s very impressive,” Spencer agreed.

The girl’s mom called for her a moment later, and after a quick hug, Hazel was gone.

“You’re good with kids,” Spencer said as you packed up your pencils.

“I like them,” you replied simply. “Kids just… they don’t assume the worst in people.”

“Not yet,” he said quietly.

You gave him a sad smile — the kind that told him you understood more than you let on.

“I think that’s why I like them so much,” you murmured. “I want to believe people can be good, too.”

Spencer swallowed hard, suddenly desperate to say something — to tell you that you didn’t have to be the bright one all the time, that you didn’t have to run so fast or shine so hard to make people love you.

But all he said was, “I think you’re a good person, too.”

You smiled — a real one this time, soft and grateful.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel like he needed to save you.

He just hoped he could keep up.

—

Falling for you wasn’t something Spencer planned.

He thought love would be neat and logical — a series of carefully measured steps with clear markers along the way.

But love with you wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t slow. It was loud and fast and messy.

It was him losing sleep because he couldn’t stop replaying the way your smile hit him like a punch to the chest.

It was the way you kept finding ways to sneak flowers into his apartment — a daisy in his mailbox, a tiny sunflower on his desk, a bright red poppy tucked between the pages of his book with a note that read: Because you’re my favorite nerd.

It was that day at the flea market when you’d found a stack of old records and spun him around right there in the aisle, laughing as you hummed along to some forgotten tune.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” he muttered, stepping awkwardly to the rhythm.

“I know,” you laughed. “But you’re dancing with me anyway.”

He fell in love with you then, too.

—

But for every moment of warmth, there was also fear.

Because sometimes your brightness dimmed.

Sometimes your smile faltered just a little too long.

And sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, Spencer would catch you staring off into space — your eyes distant, shoulders tight — like you were holding yourself together with nothing but stubborn will.

It terrified him.

Because he knew what that emptiness felt like — how easily it could swallow you whole.

He remembered the night you called him — voice thin and shaky.

“I messed up,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I couldn’t stop thinking and everything hurt and… I just wanted to stop for a little while.”

He was at your apartment in minutes.

You sat on the floor, knees drawn to your chest, tear-streaked and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, dropping down beside you. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m trying so hard,” you choked. “I just… I don’t know how to make it stop sometimes.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

He stayed with you that night, sitting on the floor until your breathing steadied, until your head tipped against his shoulder and you finally fell asleep.

And in that moment — watching you cling to sleep like it was the only thing tethering you to the world — Spencer realized how badly he wanted to protect you.

Not because you were fragile — God knows you weren’t — but because you were the brightest thing in his life… and he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.

—

Falling in love with you wasn’t graceful.

It was messy and terrifying — full of too-fast heartbeats and late-night worries.

He worried when you didn’t text back. He worried when you climbed things you shouldn’t climb. He worried when you laughed a little too loudly like you were trying to drown out something else.

“You need to stop looking at me like I’m going to break,” you said one afternoon, perched on the railing of a bridge like it was the safest seat in the world.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted.

“Spencer… I’m fine.”

“You say that like it’s true,” he muttered.

“It is true,” you insisted, hopping down beside him. “I’m not perfect, but I’m okay. I’m still here.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And you’re still here, too.”

His heart stuttered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

And somehow, you always made that enough.

⸻

The moment Spencer knew — really knew — was quieter than he expected.

You were sitting in his apartment, curled up on his couch in one of his oversized cardigans. Your head rested against the armrest, a book balanced lazily on your stomach. You weren’t dancing or climbing something dangerous — you weren’t even smiling.

You were just… there.

Soft. Quiet. Safe.

And in that stillness, Spencer realized that loving you wasn’t about chasing your chaos.

It was about being your quiet place — the calm after the storm, the steady heartbeat you could rest against when everything felt too loud.

And as he watched you — curled up and breathing peacefully, like for once you weren’t fighting to keep yourself afloat — Spencer knew there was no turning back.

He was completely, hopelessly, undeniably in love with you.

[youryanderedaddy]

Summary: Your sins catch up to you. After all you can't keep running forever. tw: female reader, bully!reader, gray!reader, obsession, insults, hinted jealousy, love/hate, dub-con, death threat

He's looking at you now. Truly looking at you - not averting his gaze, not hiding beneath glasses and layers upon layers of shame.

You in your soft, warm princess bed, all rosy and pink at your big age - and you look just like an angel, squeezed between the silk and the satin. Your hair is perfectly still, perfectly combed, perfectly light to the touch. You reek of vanilla and fondant and something tooth - rottingly sweet. He wonders if your skin alone tastes like honey.

He's looking at you now. At those big, angry eyes filled with fire and mockery - even now, when he's holding your life in his palms, all you can give back is a measly bark of a laugh.

Painful memories flood his broken psyche. Him on his knees, merely 13 years old, surrounded by older boys - all laughing, all kicking and screaming at him to stop crying; to stop being a pathetic loser. And you, towering above it all - as if you're so much better than those lowly human creatures. As if you weren't the one who made them do it, with a quick snap of your carefuly manicured, perfectly sharp nails.

He's looking at you and he wants to strangle you.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" You shout, sweet feminine voice breaking into something twisted, high - pitched and ugly. You're completely immobilized, tied up tighter than a high - level criminal before the electric chair - and yet your mouth knows no rest from scorn and vile. "Do you know who my daddy is? He will fucking kill you." You hiss through venomous eyes, and he thinks, you really haven't changed at all - but he already knows that.

He already knows everything there is to know about you. You don't have a job - you've never had one, you simply leech off your parents' fortune. You don't have a boyfriend - you change men like tissues, growing bored after a week or two. You scream at servers and cashiers, you spill coffee over waiters when they take too long - and you throw away pretty green bills when things go sour. You've never gotten a ticket, despite countless drunken crashes. You drink too much gin. You smoke two packs a day, Golden Sherry, always. And you should look worse - much, much worse, for the sins you've comitted. But alas, you remain an angel - at least from the outside.

But he knows who you are.

"If you don't untie me at once, I am going to ruin your miserable little life, do you hear me, freak?!" You keep screaming manically, as if you're incapable of understanding the danger you're in - the fact that you're all alone with a man much stronger than you, who obviously hates your guts enough to break through your million - dollar security system through sheer force.

And he stops dead in his track, taken aback by the insult - freak. You used to love to call him that - any time you saw him in the hallway, when your lackeys were beating him up, when you drenched his only clean uniform in milk and whatever they served for lunch that day - to the point he could hear it in his dreams, in his nightmares. And that sound, that word, it never truly left.

He shakes his head, trying to banish the dread away. He is no longer that poor weak boy with an empty stomach and a broken heart - and he's killed men for less than what you did.

"You already did." He whispers, inhaling sharply. He can't let his emotions go just yet - even when his teeth itch to break into your skin, when his hands ache to wrap around that vulnerable, naked throat. "What?" You bite back, sleazy confusion written all over your small pretty face. God, he wants to smash your head against the concrete - mess it up for good, so you can never deceive again with those lips, those lashes, those cheeks. Nature is cruel, he realizes, adorning predators with the most luscious skins and the sharpest claws underneath, leaving those little bleating sheep to die in the trenches.

"You already ruined my life." He repeats slowly - carefuly, so your cruel, tiny brain can comprehend each word. You remain oblivious, pouty lips ajar - so he finally takes off his mask, sighing. Every inch of his body is begging to let go and tear you into pieces, but he can't. Not yet.

Your eyes widen.

"Daniell?" You gasp, chest tightening. "You, what happen-" Before you can finish the sentence, his palm connects to your cheek with a loud clap, but the pain doesn't register - it's his wet, burning gaze that truly sinks in the reality of your situation.

"Do not," The man shrills, nostrils flaring like a wild beast's. "say that name." He's taken a step closer to you, chest heaving up and down rapidly. "He died years ago. You killed him." He slowly raises your head with a single finger - and you try to look away, but his eyes keep you pinned in place. "W-what do you want from me?" You whimper, lower lip shaking in terror.

He wants to enjoy your fear, wants to slurp it up like air, to cling to it like a lifeboat, he wants to derive pleasure from it - but even this small comfort, this solace, is painfully ripped from him as he realises he's too far gone, too broken. He doesn't want to see you scared - he wants to see you dead. Only then can he sleep again, only then can he be whole.

"I want nothing from you." He smiles, a crooked, hollow smile - it somehow makes you feel even more uneasy. "What could you possibly give me? You're just an empty doll." Daniel says to himself, reaching over for his knife. Cold steel folder, heavy metal, French - a very beautiful blade indeed, and all for you. All eight inches. "Still, I need you gone." He whispers, looking at his own reflection. He looks nothing like his past self; he's a giant, a cyclone, all rough edges and pure muscle. He could absolutely destroy you - beat you red and blue, and leave you deformed, nailed to a wheelchair with thousand needles in you just to stay alive.

He thinks, that would be a fitting punishment for a wicked bitch like you. Death feels too lenient, like an easy escape. If he takes your beauty, your youth, you'd be ruined forever, gone for. You'd be unrecognizable to your parents, your friends - and the halo protecting you would shatter, finally. But he can't bring himself to do it - and it burns him from the inside.

"Please don't kill me." You plead softly, black mascara running down your cheeks through the pearly tears. They stick to your wet lashes like sparkling jewels, and you try to lean towards him, offering a defeated pose. "I am so sorry, Daniel-“ You keep begging, but he cuts you off with another slap so sudden your head bounces back. Now - now you're truly shaking.

"I just told you," The man spits out each word like it's poison, grabbing your hair into a fistful. He pulls at it until you're arching your back, neck pressed to his lips. "not to say that name. You don't fucking deserve to even feel it on your venomous tongue." He whispers in your ear, pulling even harder. "Say it again and I swear I'll cut it off. I'm sure I will do everyone a favour if I finally get you to shut the fuck up for once in your life." He continues, voice as sinister as can be. You tremble all over, a fresh wave of tears tightening your throat.

"And stop fucking crying. Don't think for a second that I believe those big crocodile tears of yours." Daniel shakes you up all over before finally shoving you backwards. You lose your balance, falling on your back. "God, you're pathetic. This will be even easier than I thought."

He picks his knife again, crawling towards you, and you instinctively hug your knees together, trying to protect your stomach and chest. He’s walking slowly, dragging the moment as much as possible before finally kneeling before you. As you wince, expecting insufferable, scorching pain, you feel his gloved finger slowly stroke your cheek.

“Tsk, it’s such a waste.” He mumbles quietly, getting a hold of himself. You blink through heavy lashes, barely lifting your chin, his mood too unpredictable to bet on. “Your skin is so soft…” He starts off, still grazing your side with his cold touch - your heart sinks to your knees. “And that face…” He groans, conflicted. On one hand, he wants nothing more than to jam the sharp end of the dagger deep into your breast - to twist it more and more until it probes a bone. He wants to go down nobly, as a hero; as the only one who didn’t give into your deceit, your curse. On the other hand, you’re all alone now. You’re tied up. You’re squirming on the floor like a filthy worm stuck to a pin needle - and for the first time, you’re all his.

And he’s never had anything of his own. Not friends, not a family and certainly not love. Hell, even his adoptive parents abandoned him the moment the government checks froze up. So maybe, just maybe, he deserves this for once.

“Spread your legs.” The man commands hoarsely, pushing you down with one hand as the other reaches to unbutton your flimsy white shirt. Your cruel little eyes widen in fear, and he shudders at the sight of you oh-so-defenceless. You used to be his biggest nightmare, the very scorching bane of his existence, but here in his arms, trembling and afraid, you're just a frail, fragile little girl. You haven't changed - you haven't become kinder, better, stronger. You're still a demon under all that makeup, under the fake smile and the bougie ten - carat laugh, and he's a hero. And he will take what he fucking wants, what he deserves, because he's the hero of this story and you're just a pesky little nighmare that's been stuck at the back of his brain for far too long.

"L-let me help..." You mumble through tired, shaky breath and reach to pull down your panties, little hand trembling at the pink lacy elastic band on top. "I don't need your fucking help to rape you." The intruder grunts with fury, but lets you continue with your pitiful attempts.

"God, how easy is it for you to just lay down and take it? Fucking whore." He snarls, fists tightening around your hips with little passion, and when you gain the courage to look down, his own body is equally disinterested at the promise of brutal, emotionless intimacy. It's his brain, his wounded pride, that keeps pushing. "Makes me wonder how many have had you... Aren't you even going to pretend to fight back?" His voice turns crazed, unstable - and he tears your underwear apart, throwing it across the floor. "I am going to violate you, and you are just going to allow it?"

Your breath stills completely, so silent you can hear a needle fall.

"What's the point?" Your forehead creases slightly, voice barely above a whisper. Your breasts are moving up and down rhytmically, but your heart is beating rapidly - and yet, you can't find the strength to keep fighting. "I always had a feeling you'd come back for me, Daniel." You sigh deeply, your naked insides staring at you from below. "Just get it over with and let me sleep in peace once again." You pronounce slowly, spreading your legs just a bit further as you look to the side - hoping it will end quicker just like all those other times in the past. Can't be so different, you think. It's not like the boys in the club or any of your hundred one-week boyfriends were ever sweet or gentle, so.

But Daniel doesn't touch you, doesn't reach in to stroke the inviting skin. He looks at you once again, so intensely he might eat you whole with his eyes, and then he laughs. And again and again and again - then he grabs your chin, nails sinking in. Until they draw blood.

"You really think this," He gestures to your shivering body with disgust, twisting your chin so you look at him as he's looking at you. "Would change anything? That it will make me forget, that it will make me forgive?" His eyes darken and he squeezes you more, harder, hoping you'll vanish like the nightmares, like your face, like your body, like your very existence will be squished between his rough grubby fingers, and perish. "Don't make me laugh." He spits out, letting go of you with such force you bounce back down.

"Then why come here at all?" Your voice is back full - force, bolder, stronger, reassured that he too, just like you, lacks the strength for action. That he's all bark and no bite - same as you. That you're still so similar, so synced, it makes you hate him once again.

"Because I hate you." The man suddenly screams, pinning you down with two heavy hands on your wrists. "Because you broke me down and made me weak," He eyes you with savagery so severe your cheeks flush. "And even now you make my heart ache. Looking at you, it's like you never left. It's like you're still in my brain, breaking me further."

Now it's your turn to laugh - a short, mocking laugh. Just like before.

"So do it. Fuck me." You quickly wrap your hands around his neck, pulling him in while he's still distracted, fully convinced you're out of danger now. Fully convinced you can talk your way out. "Who knows, maybe being inside me will help you forget." You whisper into his ear, pressing your naked breasts against his strong arm, letting him feel your warmth. The only part still human about you, perhaps.

"Or maybe," You let your lips linger over his left cheekbone, lipgloss leaving a rosy stain. "You'll truly go off - the rail. Maybe you'll hear me when you're all alone." Your hand strokes his thigh - but the man himself is frozen. "Maybe you'll see me in the dark. Maybe my name will sink into your heart until it pierces whatever's left of that rotten mess." Your nails graze his chest. "Maybe you'll fall in love with me, tragically, and never learn peace. So why try fate, hmm?"

Daniel screams - choked, terrified as if he has seen a monster, but all he sees is you. You in your beautiful, cruel, absolute glory, your madness sucks him in once again.

"Get out of my head!" He yells, drawing his knife close to his chest before pointing it to your neck. His hand shakes, hesitant, but unrelenting. "I should have done this from the start - you are nothing, but a parasite."

"Go on then, do it. Avenge your pain. Show me just how strong you've become." You whimper, pained as the very edge grazes your soft skin - playing the game to the best of your abilities. "Kill me, if you must. But just know, whether in life or death," You grab his hand, directing the dagger towards your heart. "You will never have me."

The knife falls down with a loud thump, bursting dust all over the floor. And then he kisses you, with a fatal ferocity, he kisses you - as if to prove you wrong, as if to prove you right, he kisses you with teeth and claws all over your body, sticky and sick, and yet he kisses you for as long as he can hold his breath. Your lungs heave slowly - trying to calm your breathing.

And you do nothing to stop it.

[aspenmissing]

ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ/ᴊɪɴx x ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ/ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ)

ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 4023 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢᴜɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴄʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴊɪɴx, ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴊɪɴx ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ɪɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 || ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 || ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4 || ​ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ​

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ʜᴀʟʟᴜᴄɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

The sun was setting over the bustling streets of Zaun, the deep orange hues of dusk clashing with the smog that constantly clung to the city’s underbelly. Y/N had been sent on a task by Silco: retrieve the cargo from a ship that had docked near the outer docks. It was a simple job, or so it seemed.

However, things never went as planned.

By the time Y/N and her group arrived at the docks, the cargo was no longer theirs to take. Word had gotten out, and an opposing gang had already secured it. The air crackled with tension as weapons were drawn, and a vicious fight broke out.

The opposing gang had the upper hand at first, but Y/N was no stranger to fighting. Her agility and ruthless efficiency helped even the odds, but the fight was messy. She ducked under a swinging knife, slamming the hilt of her own weapon into her opponent’s stomach, sending him sprawling. But there was too much chaos, too many enemies.

A brutal exchange of gunfire erupted. Y/N’s group took cover behind crates and debris, but her pulse raced. Every moment felt like an eternity. Her sharp eyes locked onto the leader of the opposing gang, making her way through the fray with precision. A final clash between the two gangs left several dead and injured, but the cargo was still out of reach.

Barely standing and covered in bruises and blood from the fight, Y/N managed to rally what was left of her group. Retreating, she left the dock with no victory to claim, the cargo still slipping through her fingers.

When she finally returned to her factory, her boots clattered heavily against the cold concrete floor. The door creaked open, and she stumbled inside, her breath ragged, her body bruised and battered. The stench of blood was thick on her clothes as she wiped a smear of blood from her brow, and the harsh, fluorescent lights of the factory only made her injuries more evident.

The sound of metal clanking echoed through the factory as she limped toward the back, where Jinx was always tinkering away in her little workshop. There, surrounded by a mess of tools, gears, and parts, Jinx was lost in her work, humming softly to herself.

Y/N paused for a moment, watching her. Jinx looked up, her bright, manic eyes glinting with curiosity as she noticed the state Y/N was in.

"Woah, rough day?" Jinx's voice was playful, almost too carefree for the situation.

Y/N gave a tired smile, trying to hide how exhausted she truly was. "You could say that," she rasped, her voice hoarse from the fight.

Jinx's eyes widened when she noticed the blood, the bruises, and the cut along Y/N’s cheek. She hopped up from her workbench and rushed over, her face softening for a brief moment. "You're a mess, mom!" She grabbed a nearby cloth and began wiping the blood from her face, working quickly but gently.

"I couldn’t get the cargo," Y/N said, the words feeling heavier than they should. "Another gang beat us to it. Silco won't be happy."

Jinx paused, then gave Y/N a mischievous grin, her usual energy coming back. "Well, maybe we just need to find another way to make it fun, huh? You know, maybe blow something up along the way? That always makes things better!"

Y/N chuckled weakly, but the exhaustion was catching up. She leaned against the workbench as Jinx continued cleaning her up, wiping away the grime and blood.

"Next time," Y/N whispered, "we’ll make sure they don’t get the drop on us."

The hours dragged on in the factory, the air heavy with the hum of machines and the faint smell of oil. Y/N had just finished stitching up her last cut when the door slammed open, its harsh sound vibrating through the concrete walls. Silco stood in the doorway, his presence commanding and unmistakable, but his usual composed demeanor had been replaced with something raw. Anger. Concern. Fear, barely held in check.

Y/N froze at the sight of him. Her heart skipped a beat, and her hand faltered for a moment as she finished her work, the sting from the wounds a distant reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. She had seen Silco furious before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just about the failure—it was about her.

"Y/N!" His voice, rough with emotion, cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Where the hell have you been?" His gaze swept over her, noting the blood, the bruises, the way she stood, clearly exhausted and hurt. "I sent you on a simple job. Why the hell didn’t you report in? I thought... I thought something happened to you."

Y/N's chest tightened as she met his eyes, feeling the weight of the worry there. She hadn’t realized how much Silco could care about her safety—how much the uncertainty of her well-being might affect him. His words hit harder than anything she’d endured out in the field.

"I'm here," she muttered, trying to steady herself despite the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. "I’m fine, Silco. The cargo... another gang got to it first. We fought for it, but we lost. I couldn’t bring it back. I didn’t think you needed to hear it until I was back."

Silco’s gaze flickered between her and the bloodstains that marred the concrete floor. His jaw clenched as he processed her words, the rage simmering beneath the surface, but now tinged with something else. A flicker of relief? Worry? It was hard to tell, but there was no mistaking the tension in his posture.

"You didn’t think I’d need to hear it?" Silco’s voice was tight, frustration evident in every word. "I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. You didn’t check in, didn’t send a damn message... I was starting to think the worst."

Y/N’s heart sank, understanding now. This wasn’t about the job. It was about her. About Silco’s fear that she might not make it back. His anger faded slightly, replaced by something deeper, something she hadn’t expected to see from him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the weight of her silence settling in. "I got caught up. I didn’t want to worry you, but I should’ve—"

Silco cut her off, his voice softening, but only slightly. "You should’ve reported in." He stepped closer, his dark eyes scanning her face, taking in the bruises, the cut along her cheek, the exhaustion that weighed on her like a thousand bricks. His hands were steady as he reached for her chin, gently tilting her head upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His thumb brushed lightly over the bruise on her cheek, the action tender in a way that sent a chill through her. "You think I don’t care about you?" His voice dropped to a near whisper, the words almost fragile in the stillness between them. "I don’t give a damn about the cargo if you’re not safe. Don’t make me lose you over some senseless fight."

Y/N swallowed hard, her chest tightening with the enormity of his words. She could feel the weight of his care pressing down on her, something she hadn’t realized she needed until that moment. Silco rarely showed this side of himself, but when he did, it was disarming. Vulnerable, in a way that made her want to reach out and steady him.

"I’ll be more careful," she promised, her voice hoarse from both the exhaustion and the gravity of their conversation. "Next time, I’ll make sure you know I’m alive."

Silco didn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes remained locked on hers, the fire of his anger now a faint ember beneath a layer of something softer. He exhaled, the tension that had gripped him easing just a little as he studied her face, his thumb gently tracing the outline of the bruise on her cheek.

"Don’t make promises," he finally muttered, his voice low, the softness lingering in it. "Just don’t keep me in the dark next time."

Y/N nodded, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name, something between guilt and relief. She had never been in a position where Silco’s care for her had been so clear, so direct.

As the silence hung between them, Silco’s hand remained on her chin, his thumb brushing over her skin with a tenderness that sent a shiver down her spine. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he pulled her close, his arms encircling her tightly, as though trying to keep the world—and his fear—at bay.

Y/N froze for a moment, shocked by the sudden closeness, but then she melted into him, her face pressed against his chest as he held her with an intensity that made her heart race. She could feel the steadiness of his breath, the rhythm of his heartbeat, grounding her in a way she didn’t expect.

"I would’ve hated for the last time we were alone to have been a fight," Silco murmured into her hair, his voice low and steady, but with an unmistakable edge of sincerity. "I’d never forgive myself if that was it."

Y/N nodded against him, the words settling deep inside her. This moment, this unexpected tenderness, was something she never expected from him. She had always seen Silco as a force, a man with an unyielding drive. But now, standing in his arms, she saw another side of him—the one that cared, fiercely, about her safety, about her life.

"I won’t let it happen again," she whispered back, her voice muffled against his chest, her heart steadying as she breathed in the scent of him. "I’ll always come back to you."

In that moment, the factory, the bruises, the chaos—they all seemed so far away.

The hideout was bathed in a dim, flickering light as the air hummed with tension. The chaos inside Jinx’s mind mirrored the storm outside. Her hands trembled as they clutched a broken toy in front of her, eyes wide and unfocused. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the voices swirling louder, more insistent. Her chest tightened as they pressed in, suffocating her.

"Jinx…" Mylo’s voice came first, soft and familiar, but it was twisted, distorted. "You always mess it up. You’re nothing without us…"

Her head jerked as if she could escape the voice, but it only seemed to grow stronger. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her skin.

Claggor's voice cut through, his tone like a distant memory. "It's your fault we're dead. You killed you You never could."

Jinx’s eyes darted around the room, trying to focus, trying to push away the overwhelming pressure of the hallucinations, but it was as if the walls themselves were closing in on her. Every shadow seemed to mock her, every sound turned into a distorted echo. She could hear the footsteps of those who had left her, could almost feel them standing just behind her.

Vander's voice came next, he deep, resonant voice, firm but filled with a sadness that gnawed at her. "You got them all killed. I looked after you. Took you in with welcome arms. And this is how you repay me. You are a monster"

"No!" Jinx cried out, pressing her hands against her ears, trying to block out the voices that circled her mind like vultures. "No, no, no, you’re wrong!" Her words were a desperate, frantic plea. Her breathing quickened, panic rising within her as tears began to spill down her cheeks.

And then, a figure stepped out of the shadows, her presence like a weight in the air. Jinx turned toward her, eyes wide and frantic. It was her sister, Vi. But something was different. Vi’s face was twisted in anger, eyes hard and unrecognizable. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her posture defensive, accusatory.

"Why didn’t you listen to me" Vi’s voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of the hallucinations. "I told you to stay home. And because of you, they're all dead!"

Jinx’s heart clenched in her chest. The image of her sister—the one person who could ground her—was slipping through her fingers, distorted, unreachable. "Vi, please… no. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want this. I’m sorry."

The hallucination of Vi stepped forward, her face hardening. "Sorry won’t fix anything. You’ve already ruined everything because you're just a JINX!"

"No!" Jinx screamed, falling to her knees, her hands clutching her head as if she could physically force the voices out. The word Jinx echoed around her, coming from every direction, distorting with cruel laughter. "Please, stop… Stop, stop, STOP!"

In the midst of the cacophony, Jinx’s breath hitched as she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder—warm, steady. It was real. She could feel it. She turned, her tear-filled eyes meeting the concerned gaze of the one person who had vowed to always be there for her—her mother, Y/N, standing behind her.

"Jinx," Y/N’s voice was soft, grounding, like a lifeline in the storm. "Jinx, come on, Powder. I’m here."

The voices seemed to fade, the shadows retreating just slightly as Y/N’s presence pulled Jinx from the edge. The weight of the hallucinations still lingered, but they no longer pressed on her as suffocatingly as before.

Jinx looked up at her mother, her chest heaving, her body trembling with exhaustion and raw emotion. "I... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… I just can’t stop it."

Y/N knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around Jinx and pulling her close. "There’s nothing wrong with you, Jinx. You’re not broken. You’ve been through so much, but you’re not alone in this fight. I’m right here, every step of the way."

Jinx buried her face in Y/N’s shoulder, tears streaming freely now, her body shaking with the weight of everything she had been holding in. "I’m scared, Mama. What if I can’t get better? What if I lose everyone again?"

Y/N tightened her hold on Jinx, kissing the top of her head softly. "You don’t have to do this alone, Jinx. You’re loved, just as you are. You always have been, and you always will be. I’m not going anywhere."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Jinx let herself go, sobbing freely in her mother’s arms, the hallucinations no longer able to drown her in their cruel whispers. Y/N held her through it, knowing that this was just one battle in the war of her mind, but she would always be there to fight beside her.

The dim glow of The Last Drop cast long shadows across the room as Y/N and Sevika sat in a quiet corner, the clinking of glasses and murmur of patrons muffled by the thick walls. They had been talking for hours, the conversation drifting from one topic to the next, but there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that the fragile peace she’d managed to build with Jinx was beginning to crack.

Sevika, ever the stoic presence, leaned back in her chair, her mismatched arms crossed over her chest, a half-empty bottle of something strong sitting between them. She had been a steady presence in their lives, a protector of sorts, even if her rough exterior sometimes hid that side of her. She wasn’t one to offer reassurances or sentimental words, but Y/N knew Sevika cared—her actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

"So," Y/N began, her voice softer than usual, her gaze drifting toward the door where Jinx had been last seen, the faint sound of her laughter—hollow, manic—still lingering in the back of Y/N’s mind. "I need to ask you something, Sevika."

Sevika raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "What’s on your mind?"

Y/N hesitated, the weight of the words she was about to speak sinking deep into her chest. Her gaze flicked briefly to Jinx’s empty chair before returning to Sevika’s unwavering stare. "If anything were to happen to me…" She swallowed hard, the words thick in her throat. "I need you to look after Jinx."

Sevika’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face before it disappeared. She sat up straighter, her voice low and steady. "You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Don’t talk like that."

"I know," Y/N replied, her voice barely above a whisper, the concern evident in her tone. "But if the worst does happen, I can’t have her alone. She… she’s not the same. Her mind is… slipping, Sevika. I’ve seen it. The voices. The paranoia. She’s starting to unravel, and I can’t protect her from everything. I know Silco will try to help in his own way, but I’m not blind to the fact that, when things get too heavy, he’ll likely retreat to his office, locked away from it all. Jinx… she’ll need someone to stay with her when that happens."

Sevika studied her for a long moment, a rare vulnerability showing in her gaze. She didn’t have to ask the details—Y/N knew Sevika understood the silent battle Jinx was fighting inside her own head. The manic episodes, the hallucinations, the overwhelming guilt that twisted her mind. Sevika had seen it too, though she was more pragmatic about it, never one to show much emotion toward Jinx’s spirals.

Finally, Sevika nodded, her voice gruff but sincere. "I’ll keep an eye on her. You have my word. I won’t let her fall apart alone."

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her, though it was bittersweet. "I know you can’t fix her, Sevika. But just… just be there for her. She needs someone who won’t run from her when things get too dark. Someone who won’t be scared of the mess she’s become. She needs stability."

"Don’t worry," Sevika replied with a grunt, though there was a softness to her tone now. "I’m not going anywhere, either. I’ll look after her. I promise."

Y/N gave a small, grateful smile, but it quickly faded as she glanced back toward the door, knowing Jinx was somewhere in the hideout, lost in her own world. "Thank you, Sevika. You’re one of the few people I trust with her. I just… I want her to have someone when I can’t be there anymore."

Sevika didn’t offer any more words, but the weight of the promise hung in the air between them. She wasn’t one to offer comforting words, but Y/N knew that Sevika’s loyalty was unwavering. If anything were to happen, Jinx would be in good hands, even if the road ahead was uncertain.

"I’ll take care of her," Sevika repeated, her tone final, as if sealing the promise between them.

Y/N nodded, a deep sense of relief washing over her, knowing that Jinx wouldn’t be alone, no matter what happened. She could only hope that, with Sevika's help, her blue-haired girl she sees as a daughter would find her way back from the darkness before it consumed her completely.

The sky was darkening as Y/N made her way to the bridge, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. The same bridge where so many lives had been lost all those years ago—where the rebellion had taken everything from them. And now, it seemed, history was repeating itself. The distant sounds of explosions and shouting told Y/N everything she needed to know: Jinx was causing chaos again — caught in her spiralling mind, tearing through anything in her path.

As Y/N reached the edge of the bridge, she saw her in the distance. Jinx was laughing maniacally, her wild eyes flicking back and forth between the people she was tormenting. It was as if she hadn’t even noticed the growing danger around her, the imminent threat of death on every side.

Y/N’s heart twisted in her chest, but she knew she had to act fast. She couldn’t lose her now—not like this. She dashed forward, her feet pounding against the old, cracked stone of the bridge, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to close the distance between herself and Jinx.

"Jinx!" she called, her voice cutting through the chaos. "You need to stop! Now!"

Jinx’s head snapped around, her manic smile widening as she saw her mother approaching. "Y/N!" she screamed, her voice high and twisted, filled with a mix of excitement and something darker, more desperate. "Come join the fun!"

Y/N’s heart sank as she saw the look in Jinx’s eyes. The girl she once knew—the one who had loved and trusted her—was slipping further away, lost to the madness that was consuming her. But Y/N wasn’t going to give up. Not now. Not when her daughter was so close to the edge.

Without thinking, Y/N lunged forward, dodging the debris and smoke as the sound of another explosion ripped through the air. She caught sight of Jinx as she stepped too close to the edge of the bridge, unaware that the blast from a nearby explosion was heading straight for her. Y/N’s instincts kicked in just as the ground beneath them shook, sending chunks of debris flying through the air.

"POWDER!" Y/N cried out, her voice barely audible over the roar of the explosion.

But it was too late.

Y/N acted on pure instinct, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She shoved Jinx roughly, throwing her out of the blast’s path, but the explosion was too powerful. Debris rained down on them, large chunks of metal and stone tearing through the air, and Y/N felt the crushing weight of the wreckage slam into her. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air as she felt the sting of metal against her skin.

Jinx froze, her wide eyes locking onto her mother as the dust and smoke from the explosion began to settle. The sounds of the bridge and the chaos around them were drowned out by the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. She blinked, unable to process what had just happened. Her mother, the only person who had ever truly protected her, was lying there, crushed beneath the debris.

Jinx’s mind seemed to fracture in that moment, her vision blurring as her world spun. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for the briefest moment, she saw her mother—Felicia—exactly as she had when Jinx had last seen her, dying in the same position, blood staining the cracked stone beneath her.

A flash of memory flooded her mind—the same bridge, the same loss. She had been just a child, hiding behind the wreckage, seeing her mother and father’s bodies sprawled across the ground, knowing they would never come back. And now, here she was again, staring at her mother—Y/N—pinned beneath the rubble, a cold realization settling in her chest.

“No… no, no!” Jinx screamed, her voice raw with panic. Her trembling hands reached out, desperately trying to clear the debris from her mother’s body, her heart racing with every inch of progress she made. The images of the past, of her parents’ deaths, of that devastating moment when she was left alone with no one to turn to, came crashing back in waves.

But there was no time to wallow in the memories. Y/N’s breathing was shallow, her body barely moving beneath the weight of the rubble. Jinx had no choice. She couldn’t lose her again—not like this.

“Come on, come on,” Jinx muttered to herself as she tore away the debris, her hands covered in dirt and blood, her mind racing. "You can’t— You can’t leave me too… I… I can’t do this alone."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jinx pulled the last of the wreckage away. She gasped when she saw Y/N’s face, pale and bloodied. Her hands shook as she touched her mother’s face, a sob tearing free from her throat.

“Mama!” Jinx cried, her voice breaking. "Please, don’t go. I can’t lose you."

"MAMA!"

[octuscle]

Hey there! I'm having a debate with my roommate and wondering if you can help settle it. He says that if you gave someone the body of a jock, without any mental changes, they'll eventually start acting like a jock anyway. I don't think that's true. Just because you have muscles and look like a jock doesn't mean you'll start acting like one, right? We were thinking of trying to set up an experiment for our honor's thesis and wanted your input, thanks!

Are you really sure you want to go through with it? We are happy to do it. I'll create a preset for you that only changes your body. But really. 1.90 m tall. 140 kg of pure muscle mass. But everything else stays the same. To be honest, you don't look like you're ready for it. But it's up to you. I can only recommend that you are in a safe and, above all, unobserved place when you activate the preset.

You take a deep breath. You stand naked in the middle of your room. Next to you, you have laid out a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a tank top, a jockstrap, a pair of socks and a pair of sneakers. You can only hope that the clothes will fit your new self. 3. 2. 1. enter!

Wow! Holy shit! Now that was quick and without a transition. You look down at the floor from a slightly greater height. And when you look down, all you see are pecs. Fucking huge pecs. You need a mirror. Phew! Very slowly! The new body works a little differently than the old one… Your center of gravity is much higher up. You stand in front of the mirror. This no longer has anything to do with you. It's more Greek demigod than human. Your cock is getting hard. A huge cock that fits this huge body. You never wank. Especially not in the middle of your room. But now you have to. Not for long. And a huge load lands on the mirror and the floor. Yes, I've changed a few details apart from the height and muscle mass. You've already noticed one thing. You'll notice the others too.

You're convinced that the new body won't change anything. So you act as you always have. First of all, you clean up the mess. You are manically clean and tidy. Then you put on your clothes. The shoes are a bit tight, but otherwise everything fits pretty well. So off you go to the library. After all, your honors thesis isn't going to write itself.

Iris and Rita at the information desk didn't recognize you when you greeted them. They looked at you as if you were an alien when you wished them a good morning. You sat down at your regular place in the library. You like routines. You started working on your thesis outline when Vincent came over. Vincent always sits three tables behind you. Nice guy, similarly obsessive as you. He clears his throat and says that you can't sit here, the seat is taken. Actually, you should have said something along the lines of "Vincent, don't you recognize me, it's me!". But somehow you can't help it. You have to try it out. You cross your muscular arms behind your head, look deep into his eyes and just ask who cares. Vincent retreats like a beaten dog. Three minutes later, you have a WhatsApp message: "There's some stupid musclehead sitting in your seat!" You reply that it's okay, you're not on campus for a few days for empirical studies anyway.

But you're not as productive as usual. Your new body is keeping you busier than you thought. It feels so good to tense your muscles. Your hard cock is constantly leaking precum and is always half stiff. Shit, after an hour you have to jerk off. Fuck, you make quite a mess in the toilet. You try to clean everything up with toilet paper. When you come out of the stall, a student is standing at the urinal, looking at you and wanking. Get out of here quickly, you think to yourself.

The incident is definitely worth recording. After all, you've never experienced this before. But it was hot. As you type out your thoughts, your stomach begins to growl. So loud that Vicent hisses "Pssst". It's actually too early for lunch. But the canteen is about to open. So you're one of the first in the queue. You can hardly wait. And you heap heaps of food onto your tray. You're so hungry.

The weather is good, you sit down at a table in the sun and, ignoring all the table manners, you wolf down your food. Suddenly you hear a voice shouting "Hey, guys, there are empty seats here with the big boy!" You look up. A couple of idiots from the football team are standing at your table. "Dude, okay if we join you?" asks one of the guys, who seems to be some kind of leader. "Sure thing," you say with your mouth full, spitting a bit of your chicken across the table. "Cool," he replies, giving you a fist bump, which you return somewhat hesitantly and also a little awkwardly. And before you know it, you're sitting in a cloud of sweat, testosterone and stupid comments.

You start talking to the boys more for scientific reasons. They ask if you're Fresman because they've never seen you before. You say that you're actually studying somewhere else, but you're here to work on your Honor's thesis. The leader spits his Coke across the table. "Fuck, dude! You already have a degree? In what? Lifting iron?" Everyone laughs. Very loudly. You too. It's actually really funny with the boys…

The boys go to the gym after lunch. I wonder if you're coming too. You don't even think about it. You just say that you haven't got anything to change into. Everyone laughs and asks if anyone is interested. So you go along. It's a field study, you think to yourself. You're observing everything very closely. You don't want to attract negative attention. The processes seem very simple. You copy what you see the boys doing. You even enjoy it. You work up a sweat. You forget the time. The others are gone at some point. You're still here. You look in the mirror. Your long, sweaty hair falls across your forehead. Your friends all have much shorter hair. It's also more practical when working out. You look at your watch. Shit!!!!! You have to get your stuff from the library before it closes. Trevor, sitting at the information desk, doesn't recognize you either. It's already very empty when you pack up your things. Vincent is still there, mumbling something about how antisocial it is to occupy a space you're not using. You don't know why you're doing this now. But you go to him very slowly. You press his face into your armpit. And say that you had more important things to do. Shit, Vincent is seriously licking the sweat out of your armpit hair now? Pathetic little fucker, your new friends would say now. You're far too surprised. By you. By him. Slightly disturbed, you go home. You throw yourself on your bed and think about your first day as a jock. You fall asleep.

You are actually a person who is always well prepared. But you are amazed at how little you have prepared for this experiment. You have a combination to wear. It's still sweaty after yesterday's workout. But you don't have anything else. So this morning you're not going to the library, but to the paint shop. Shopping. A pair of sweatshorts, a few tank tops, socks and jockstraps, sneakers. A bit of compression gear for training. You pass a barbershop. There are a couple of guys inside who are obviously no strangers to the gym either. Fuck it, you think. Down with the long hair!

You haven't been in the library this late in a long time. Vincent has blocked your seat for you. With a few protein bars. Cute! He winks at you when you come in. You raise your arm and smell your armpit. Shit, you haven't showered! Fuck… Well, maybe the little prick will like that even more…

By lunchtime with the boys, you at least want to have logged yesterday and this morning. And you're looking for some literature on the connection between mind and body. Most of it is ancient. Nothing has been published on the subject for a long time. And if there is, it's more about the effect of the state of mind on the body. Less often on the effect of the body on the state of mind. That's obvious, because normally a genius like you doesn't acquire a body overnight…

The lunch break with the boys was cool. The guys are just very chilled, you like that. No highbrow topics. Just sport, fucking and partying. Unfortunately, a lot of football too. You have no idea about that. After lunch, the boys want to throw some balls on the lawn. You have to go to a colloquium later. And Luke said that you should finally replace those nerdy glasses with contact lenses. The visit to the optician was a good excuse not to embarrass yourself at football.

A whole day without going to the gym sucks! That's why you got up early today. You didn't do your thesis assignments yesterday, nor did you get your muscles burning. That has to change. Shit, you're still struggling with your contact lenses. But it looks a thousand times better. You're screaming alpha with every trained muscle fiber. And that's great! You almost feel at home in the gym. And nobody questions your position. In the library, Vincent provides you with everything you need. He fetches books for you and takes them away again. He has also already offered to help you with your work. What a loser! You don't need to order anything in the canteen after just two days. Your extra large portion of extra protein-rich food is prepared especially for you. Twice. You come once when the canteen opens. And once just before it closes. Your body is a machine. And this machine needs fuel. Lots of fuel.

You sit in the library and document the developments of the last few days. It really is only a few days. Reading through the last few lines almost makes you nauseous. Has your body replaced your mind so quickly? You need to get a grip on yourself. You did your Master's with distinction. You're working on your honor's thesis. You have a chance of getting a professorship at your old college. And you suddenly prefer to spend more time in the gym or with the airheads on the football team? You make a plan. Two hours of gym in the morning, two hours break with the bros at lunchtime, two hours of gym in the evening. And in between, focus on your thesis and your studies. It shouldn't be that difficult. You're an intelligent and disciplined man. So let's get going!

You have made every effort. And you actually come to the conclusion in your thesis that the body of a jock does not automatically lead to the mind of a stupid, arrogant and superficial jock. You have fun with both. Training in the gym and hanging out with the bros. And working scientifically and researching the human psyche. But in a lecture you realize that it's not you who changes, it's your environment that changes you. Since you got this body three weeks ago, no one has spoken to you about your studies. Vincent, who you thought was intellectual through and through, just wants you to let him lick your armpits in the evening. Your bros didn't even ask you what you were studying. And then the day comes when you attend your doctoral supervisor's lecture. Since your transformation, you've only spoken or written on the phone. You sit in the front row. You appreciate your doctoral supervisor for his liberal political views, his rhetorical skills and his incredible knowledge. At the end of his lecture, he looks at you. And asks if the young man, who unfortunately was unable to dress appropriately, understood a word of what he had just said. He assumes you were mistaken in the lecture hall. But if you invest your energy in your biceps and not your brain, that's to be expected.

First you think about whether you are saying anything particularly intelligent. To express your indignation at his insolence. To justify yourself. But then you think about what has been really fun in the last few weeks. And who you really had fun with. And you answer "Nah, professor dude! Dat wuz alot of words n stff u sed. I dnt thnk I need all dat for my degree as a personal trainer. wdut, bro?" You make your pecs dance. The lecture hall laughs. You stand up. Fuck the honor's thesis!

You started studying sports economics again. You also work as a trainer in a fitness studio. And you have a pretty successful YouTube fitness channel. You recently received a call from your old doctoral supervisor. He read through the draft of your honor's thesis again. It was all very promising. Why did you drop out? You say that you obviously have to choose between brains and brawn at some point. And you're grateful to him for helping you decide. And with that you hang up.

[carnalconcinnity]

There’s something fascinating about Fuuta’s T3 sprite and the way him turning to religion has rid him of his individuality entirely.

He’s taken his hoodie off, his tracksuit bottoms are swapped out for what look like grey slacks and his shoes have gone from unique trainers to something way more simple.

Uniforms are often considered a clean slate and an identifier that you belong to a group. Cults can also enforce uniform to discourage independent thought.

It shows that Fuuta isn’t thinking independently anymore, he’s turned his back on all of his old ideas including the gratitude he once had to Shidou. He’s no longer panicked about the voices because ‘the standards have changed’ and it’s true. His standards have changed.

Right and wrong to him now follows the doctrine and I think the relief of being ‘absolved’ of his internal guilt and denial has led to the manic expression he has in his sprite. An extreme high over what he thinks is the end of his problems.

Also, to those victim blaming Fuuta (although I haven’t seen much on this app compared to others), cult mentality has always been a big part of his story.

[bbystark]

hi beautiful and wonderful writer, I requested the part 2 of Simon being a bad stalker and I need moreee

It is so gooodddd

♡ badstalker!simon extras ♡

♡ masterlist ♡ request more! ♡

summary: just more of what simon would do to make your life easier while he was simultaneously being a lil freak stalker. mdni

a/n: thank you sm for requesting pt 2 and more anon ily!!! i bet you guys thought i up and left again, surprise, i am no longer depressed and am manic and full of inspo. enjoy xoxoxo

simon was constantly around, lurking in shadows. and when he couldn't be near you physically, he was watching you through the cameras, stalking socials, you name it

he didn't really want to admit it to himself, but he felt guilty when he was deployed or was otherwise taken away from you.

that's really where the (strange) acts of service started, he was trying to ease his guilt of not being there to protect you by doubling down with his affections when he could

it started with things you would never know about, trailing you home to make sure you got back safely, watching your house as often as he could to make sure no one broke in, one time cleaning up after your cat broke a glass while you were gone. "bad cat arn't ya" he had mumbled, "gonna giv your mum a heart attack one of these days when I ain't around."

then he was leaving you umbrellas when he had watched you forget one in the morning as you left for work. linking prepaid cards to some of your random bills, smiling to himself as he watched you discover you "magically" had a few extra dollars left over at the end of the month and bought yourself something special.

hated seeing you sad, thought you deserved nothing but pure happiness 24/7. called and complained to corporate about a fellow employee you were having issues with, making up some lie to get them in trouble all to prevent you from dealing with the stress of workplace drama

he can think of dozens upon dozens of times he silently showed his devotion to you. it always left him with a whole feeling, like he was finally doing something right.

he didn't realize it, but being silent and distant stopped being enough for him when he was sitting in his bunk one night, drowning out soap's god-awful snores with your voice drifting through his cheap earbuds.

you were on call with a friend, and simon couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips when you giggled at something dumb your friend had said.

"i'm serious! this has to be my year or something, i'm having the best luck ever and i have no idea why."

he went a little rigid at that, feeling the overwhelming need for you to know it was him making your life so good, not some mysterious force of the universe.

it got worse after that

he'd watch you sleep, adjusting you when your neck was in an uncomfortable position, (bad time to be a heavy sleeper), shooing your cat away from bothering you, re-cover you when you'd seek out the blankets you had kicked off 10 seconds prior.

started hanging out in your house a lot, desperate to be as close as you as possible. military training would kick in as he would silently organize forgotten corners of your house, cleaning spaces you wouldn't have bothered with because you never see them

even replaces the batteries in the smoke alarm when he realizes there were none, knowing you had probably taken them out to make it stop chirping and forgotten to replace them. hides a carbon dioxide alarm too, just in case

he was feeling particularly desperate one day and took a shower, lathering himself in your scented body wash while working his fist up and down his swollen cock, imagining you were with him. you were mortified when you return home to see drops of water still dripping from the walls of your shower.

he flies too close to the sun, getting sloppy. you're suddenly more on edge, casting more glances over your shoulder. he stops making as many visits to your house when you start seeing a therapist.

that doesn't stop him from reaching out in other ways though, leaving notes, calling you, sending texts and random gifts.

this time his advances scare you a little less, and intrigue you more than they should.

he almost wishes he had been more careful. almost. he can't deny the thrill that goes through him at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he isn't deluded, and this could actually work.

he'd just have to wait and see.

besides, he wasn't exactly confident in his ability to leave you alone whether you wanted him to or not. and that is something he could promise.

[vervepain]

Lena Luthor, but she has a severe mental illness…in a fun way?

Hottest hot Supercorp take: I wish there were more fics where the Luthor family had a serious problem with highly heritable bipolar disorder.

Like Lionel has it, this leads him to develop alcohol addiction and have a string of affairs.

He passes it to Lex. Who well…turns the sun red during what is in part a manic episode. (Obviously he was probably planning for longer than a single episode…people can be evil and mentally ill.) (I just think it would be fascinating to see Lena grapple with the issues of: he was my brother, and kind when I moved to Luthor Manor, but evil…if he also had decreased capacity.) okay okay

And Lena. Lena was really smart. She took herself to the doctor, and then the psychiatrist and got her own diagnosis. And she started Lithium at 16 after a mild manic episode in which she: a) hallucinated all of the spice girls working as custodians in her school and b) wrote a clean energy manifesto. Sometimes she also has to take an a-typical antipsychotic.

She’s also secretly in therapy.

I just think this would be a cool headcanon, because then the whole “Kara, you have to stop me from turning into my brother thing.” Becomes much more…not plausible…but like understandable?

And Kara probably has fairly evolved notions of psychiatric illness. Kara also probably would find antipsychotics rather primitive and horrifying (they have kind of terrible side effects, like sometimes losing teeth. Krypton would have figured out how to keep teeth and brains together.)

But I think Alex might be kinda weird about it. “Kara you cannot date a Luthor. And do you want to date someone dealing with all that?”

Um…but mostly I had this thought because of the sick fic potential. I guess a small percentage of people on lithium have chronic nausea? Like they just vomit once a week or more. My original thought that got all this going was Kara finding Lena vomiting in her office late and night and flying in. And Lena groaning from her waste basket saying:

No, no, I’m fine. This is happening because I am the good Luthor. The good medication compliant Luthor.

But yeah…Lena as calculating and mildly condescending to a lot of people around her would hit different were she: always dizzy, and her toes had just gone numb.

[shini--chan]

Hey, could I request yandere Allies punishing dear reader, only to realize afterwards that the Allies themselves misplased the knife ect? And thank you for the amazing writing you do!

The pleasure is mine, dear. And please people, don’t read this during, or after eating - this especially refers to the France part of this post. Rated mature for reasons. 

Trigger warnings: Attempted murder, temporary death, body horror, gore, domestic violence, animal death

Yandere Allies - Oversight

America

Now that had been unexpected, it occured to Alfred while he was in limbo. Limbo generally was a weird place, and it was best to focus on the internal going ons, than the external happenings. The alien geometries and starburst fractals and the unliving creatures haunting the semi-shadows would only make the aroma of his own death linger longer in his mouth should he inspect them. No need to pass over to the other side yet, either - he wasn't at the end of his life either. 

You were going to be in so much trouble when he got back. All that blood on his desk, it really wouldn't do. Perhaps he should force you to clean it up. Couldn't you have opted for a less bloody option, than slitting his throat? For all that you claimed to be kinder and fairer than him, with your modus operandi you had demonstrated that you were anything but that. And you called him a hypocrite. 

All of this because of your damn attitude problems and a misplaced knife. Hormone imbalance, mayhaps? He should have you take a blood test, just to make sure that a thyroid dysfunction wasn't on the table. 

Slowly the connection to his physical body started to reestablish itself and he felt the chill of death creep in his bones. Thankfully, due to his superpower status, his time in the limbo was relatively short and his body was therefore not too cold when he returned to it. Though, the dead time had been increasing as of late, and that was worrying all on its own. Something he would have to look at another time, though. 

Air entered his lungs and his heart gradually started pumping again. His throat felt like shit, but thankfully was closed. By the feel of it, you had covered it after you had murdered him. Speaking of you, he felt your hands rummaging in his jacket pockets. Rude. 

With some effort, he cracked his eyes open and observed you through his half-closed eyelids. He was on the floor, spread-eagle. Even through the postmortem blurr, he could recognise that you were pale beyond belief and you were shaking. The hands searching his person were frantic and your breathing was erratic. As his sense of smell kicked in, he caught the sharp sting of bile floating from his waste paper basket. 

Double Rude. If you had to kill someone, best not be a pussy about it and not vomit after doing the deed. Blazes, what was wrong with you that you couldn't even murder somebody probably? Maybe he'd have you kill one of those rats that once had vyed for your attention. Good riddance and a lesson all in one, that would be fantastic. 

Now, just to get your attention.

A hand wrapped around one of your ankles, and with his sight becoming clearer, he could see how your eyes went wide. Hands froze, and you turned your head to look down in that slow, comical fashion that was so typical of horror movie protagonists. When you screamed, he yanked your leg out from underneath you, causing the scream to morph into a yelp. 

Now this was funny

Given how distracted Alfred can get, he'll probably overlook where he placed the knife and will only realise what happened when it is too late. The best course of action would be to book it. If you want further time then you'd have to put Alfred even further out of commision, so that more time is spent healing.

When he does get you again, he'll be borderline manic and you can be assured that whatever punishment shall commence will be worse than the one that allowed you to obtain the knife in the first place.

Canada

"I do hope you just have the knife 'cause you wanna cook something", he remarked. Matthew didn't even look up from where he was plucking his eyebrows, just kept staring intently in the small beautician mirror he had before him. There were more important things than you waving a knife around as if you knew how to use it. You couldn't even chop vegetables properly.

"And what if I don't?", you asked snidely. Slippers scraped against the floorboards as you approached him. Turning the mirror just so, he saw you over his shoulder, with a knife held high. Was your pallor and trembling due to the blood loss, fear, or both?

"You wouldn't dare to kill me. We both know that."

"How can you be so sure? After everything you've done to me, why shouldn't I?", you asked in return. Your voice wasn't even - it cracked and faltered at the end of some words and he had to strain his hearing to make out the others.

The personification turned around slowly, intent on being dramatic. He jad seen Alfred and his Lord Father do so often enough for him to be able to imitate them perfectly. 

There you were standing, holding the never some knife he had used to cut paper fine cuts in your back, a tally of all the spanks he had inflicted on you. You had been so upset, the humiliation and pain forcing tears from your eyes. Not surprising that you were having a tantrum, therefore.

Matthew was taller than you and therefore it was so easy to look down on you. 

"You've never hurt somebody. You wouldn't even dare cut a bunny's throat and then skin it, even if your life depends on it. Everytime somebody talks about organs and blood for more than five minutes, you become green. Do you really think it is believable when you say you want to injure me? Or even go further than that and kill me? 

So stop lying to yourself. You don't have the guts to kill me, 'cause that would mean staining your ledger with red", he explained, and with each other word, took a step closer to you. Eventually, you had to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.

 Trembling like a frightened rabbit, you clutched the blade even tighter to make sure it didn't fall out of your hand. No further words were said, but there was no need, for when he met no resistance when he pried the implement out of your grasp, he knew his words had hit home. 

It would come as no surprise to Canada should you approach him with a knife and malicious intent. Judging from your past reactions to punishments, it would be a given that you would act out more than usual, should you get your hands on a weapon

He would be willing to let it slide, as a way of showing just how inconsequential you arming yourself is to him. It is not like you can gain the upper hand over him or something of the sort, so why should he punish you for that? Besides, he is more angry with himself for making such a mistake. He is supposed to set a standard, to have a certain image in your mind. How can he have that if he is constantly slipping up?

China

The steel felt cold against your skin. This whole thing was rather silly, even petty. It wasn't like that you didn't have unrestricted access to a whole assortment of knives. Heavens, it would take little convincing for Yao to let you take up fencing, and with historical swords for that. With a little work, you could then turn a blunted long sword into a sharp blade. This was more about the principal than the outcome.

Yao was enjoying a book on the couch, as was typical for a workday evening. There was even a cup of tea … no, herbal infusion on the table beside him and every now and then he would reach over and take a few sips. 

You just had to get your timing correct. 

After a few minutes of waiting, he finally reached over again and that was the moment you chose to strike. Quickly, you lunged in order to cross the space in the blink of an eye and rammed the knife downward.

The ugly screech of metal being embedded in wood filled the room, and the steel glinted crimson with droplets of blood. Yao hadn't even let go of the tea cup, now lifted slightly off the table surface. What he had done was spill some tea. 

There wasn't even a change in expression when he fixed his eyes on you. The cup exchanged hands and your partner lifted his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away that was seeping out of the shallow cut in his hand.

"That was planned?", he finally inquired, his hand falling down to the table. He pushed himself upright and set the cup back down. 

It was kind of strange, now. You were kneeling at his feet and he was sitting above you, like you were some child begging for leniency from the patriarch of the family. 

"Yes."

"Don't tell me you are still upset about me eating the last of your chocolates."

"That is what you think this is about. No, it is about the dress."

"Really? That is even worse than the chocolate argument."

"Excuse you, but not everybody takes it well when you cut a dress from their body and burn it in the fireplace. It was new!"

Thin eyebrows shot up and he gave you a nasty sneer as he recalled the incident that had occured last weekend. Oh, he had made it so apparent that he hated seeing that piece on you. 

"Why would you insist on clothing your body with that filth gifted to you by that mutt? He wasn't doing it to be a friend, he was doing it because he wanted you in his bed."

Scoffing, you rose to your feet and brushed the dirt of the trousers you were wearing. 

"Don't you think I noticed? He was being rather obvious about it. And before you accuse me of wanting to sleep with him - no, just no. But I wasn't going to say no to that expensive dress.

Since China wouldn't use the knife itself to directly harm you, he'll quickly brush this all off as an overreaction. Due to such an incident occurring rather early in the relationship, it would be easy to make you see your own actions as being unreasonable. Will do his best to make you feel guilty about the whole thing.

Would treat you like a brat afterwards. You better think of something good to make up to him. This treatment would go on for a while until you "prove" to him that you are mature. Yao will use this incident to his advantage in the future - such as making you turn two blind eyes to his red flags so that you can't be accused of overreacting. 

England

Arthur had his features drawn together in a pinched expression. Muscles in his cheeks jumped as he visibly kept his anger in check. Stretch a hand out to you. 

"Now, now darling. Be good and give me the knife", he said, with that soft, light tone that was more fitting when talking to a child than with you. It made your skin crawl. It made you grip the knife in your hand ever tighter. 

"No."

"Don't draw this out longer than it has to be. Give me the knife, and then you can go curl up on the couch 'till I'm finished tending to the fire.”

He was trying so hard to reason with you, to persuade you into complying with his will. But you know, that if you do, he’ll be no more lenient with you, than if you hadn’t. That is the part of the inherent cruelty of Arthur Kirkland. He is a callous and selfish man, who parades his supposed virtues not out of the pureness of his heart, but because they are fashionable. With you, there are enough times when he forgoes keeping up appearances, because it is not like you can leave him. 

And so the sheathed blades are unsheathed, and if you step out of line, a world of pain awaits you, both in the metaphorical and the literal sense. Arthur has an ideal that he wants you to live up to, and he doesn’t take it well when you break the mould. 

He took a step forward, and you one back. This couldn’t go on. Constantly he goaded you on being weak-willed and therefore needing him to make major decisions in your life - this was the opportunity to make him eat his words. 

All factors weren’t considered when you charged forwards, blade thrusted forward and aimed at the heart. The next few seconds passed in a blur, but afterwards, looking back on it, you knew what happened: 

The fire poker was pointed downwards and used to push the kitchen knife to the side. With the momentum you had put in the move, you weren’t able to take a step back and redeploy. His right arm wound itself around your outstretched one, fastening you to his side. The poker moved swiftly, swinging over the outer side of your elbow and the tip found its home at your jugular. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to be subdued by me. You know how aroused I get when I get to tame you. So tell me, did you want this all along?”, he asked coyly. 

A wild spark danced in his eyes, not akin to one that you had ever seen before. A hunter that only went after the biggest, most dangerous quarry and delighted in the fight itself. The scent of blood and sweat, the screams of the dying - you had feared Arthur before, but this was a different story. There had been to much ease with how simply he turned the tables. Perhaps fears of him being a berserker at heart were well founded. 

You tried to wind out of the lock, and subsequently bent your arm. Thankfully, the poker was no longer a few milimetres from penetrating your neck, but now it was pressing you down by the elbow. The strength behind the move forced you to give in and follow the course that Arthur was directing you to. Being led around like that, you were forced to make an arc around him. The fire poker pressed your elbow towards him, giving you no choice but to flop down on your back. 

Hand and metal implement vanished and you breathed deeply. Arthur was still standing in front of the fireplace, the fire shining behind him. That, and with him standing over you, made him look like some angel about to punish you for your sins. 

“If you have to attack, then never do so half heartedly or when full of rage. I can tell you this, because either way, you never stand a chance of winning against me.”

Arthur would be very irritated in this whole matter. But if you are so insistent, then he’ll gladly play teacher to his new, so willing pupil and give you a lesson that you wouldn’t forget so fast. With all the years of combat experience and practice in swordsmanship under his belt, his victory would be a given. He would even go so far as to say he would be able to defeat you with a cooking spoon. 

Would make a whole game out of it. It has been so long since he has had a decent sparring partner that he might as well train you up to par. That way, he could easily demonstrate his superiority on a regular basis, he would have the perfect conditions to bully you, and you would get to release all those pesky emotions of yours that otherwise make you so disagreeable. Win-win, right?

France

You glowered at France. The bastard was sitting across from you, arms crossed in front of him and with a disgustingly smug grin on his obnoxious face. It was sickening really, the whole thing was sickening, and he was acting as if justice had been served. 

So far, you had managed to avoid eating the meat part of the dish, and had wasted a lot of time pushing around the chips and carrots before consuming them. The piece of meat was covered with cheese, something that you had decided on so that you wouldn't have to see it, that you wouldn't have to smell it.

Cooking your beloved pet had been bad enough as it was. The scent of blood still lingered in your nose, and even now that last panicked scream echoed in your ears. 

Now it would be time to start eating it; there was nothing else left on your plate.

You wanted to puke. 

Grabbing sideways, you managed to get the knife in your grasp. You didn't even look as to where the offending thing went exactly. Eyes were just focused on his face, and the time went in that general direction. He even had to duck.

The next moments didn't register by you, as you buried your face in your hands and sobbed loudly. All of this just because of one man's jealousy. With a sweeping motion, you sent the plate crashing to the floor, not caring that the results of you resisting your punishment. 

You just wanted this whole nightmare to be over. 

France wouldn't really be the sort to resort to physical violence, except if very specific circumstances apply, like war, colonialism or dealing with treason to the nation. Since that can't really be expected, the knife would be an instrument in your psycological torture. In the case described above, that would take the form of forcing you to kill, process and eat a pet that he is jealous of. 

In his eyes, you should be his lover and not share your love with somebody or something that isn't him or his. If you would not let him bask in your love and attention, then drastic measures shall be needed. And what is more valuable than a life? 

Russia

With a nauseating squelch, the knife buried itself in the meat of his shoulder. Blood sprayed upwards and some of it immediately seeped out of the wound. A loud grunt broke the silence as your victim was torn from his sleep through the violence. 

You wanted to wrench the blade out while you still had the chance, but it was harder to pull out than you thought. Perhaps the force behind the blow had been enough to lodge the knife in the bone. It apparently wasn't sharp enough to effortlessly slide out of it. 

On top of that, Ivan scooted out of the bed before you could dislodge the blade, fast despite the injury and the sleep weariness. Your captor stood a good few metres away, the twilight of the room making him look like some giant beast. The heavy panting and the knife handle sticking out of his shoulder only added to that image. 

"Are you insane?", he hissed. 

One large hand reached up and pulled. Now the blade came out in a fluid motion, and drops of blood sprayed forward. Due to the very loose nightshirt that he was wearing, you hadn't managed to emesh the fabric with the wound - the metal had only penetrated human tissue. 

Ivan hadn't even let out a single grunt of pain. Even now, when blood was running down his chest, then disappearing down the hemline of the shirt, staining it red, he seemed unfazed.

"You're one to talk", you snapped back. "Did it never occur to you that I might get fed up with the way you treat me and decide to retaliate?" 

He scoffed and stepped closer to you. The knife was tossed to the side, and he glowered. 

"And did it ever occur to you that I don't punish you because I find it fun, but because you need to learn that your actions have consequences? You are not some child, so you should know better than to think I'll simply let you do as you please. Though, from the stunt you've pulled now, I'm actually inclined to reassess my thoughts about your maturity", he stated. 

With each word, he took a step closer until his toes were touching yours. A strange crawling motion could be seen in the area of the wound, like it didn't want to accept the parting. 

"Oh, and weren't you of that same opinion when you put me over your knee and gave me a hiding with the flat side of that blade?", you challenged him. Oh the terror had quickly morphed into humiliation once you had realised what was going on. 

"Perhaps you should stop behaving like a sugar-addled brat then."

The skin and meat knitted itself together, a grotesk acceleration and bastardisation of the natural heal process. Ivan signed in relief and took his attention off of you and inspected the scarless skin, rolling his shoulder and flexing his muscles. 

Your heart dropped and your thoughts slowed to a standstill in shock. You had severely underestimated him.

"And also not turn to being a traitor. You know very well what I do with those."

Ivan would take your actions against him as treason and if there is something that he can't tolerate, it is a traitor. Gone are all the privileges and outings and affection. If you aren't quick to make up to him and express your remorse and see the error of your ways, you're going to have a long road ahead of you. You'll have to work hard to get back into his good graces; even just getting him to treat you with human decency would take a while. 

In his eyes, if you choose such disproportionate retaliation in response to his actions, then you either have an attitude problem or something went wrong in your upbringing. He'll be happy to correct that. It'll range from what you are allowed to eat, to the media you consume, to your bedtime. Imagine a strict headmistress or matron. 

A/N: The move I described is actually a real technique used with one handed sword. It was a cool day learning that one. 

France was hard to write, so I decided to keep it short. 

[wizardrousactivity]

Feel better now?

Warnings: Angst, mating press, mentions of self-harm, mentions of relapsing, Fem!reader

Pairings: König x fem!Reader

Note: I am not very proud of this one because of my STUPID WRITING!!! but I did end up spending 2-3 hours on this so I’m hoping some people would enjoy it. Mwah love you all 2.3k words! 

König felt his chest shrivel up once he saw your pouty lips and half-teary eyes, watching you storm out of the room while he was stumped.

Thinking of ways to apologize to his sweet girl flooded his noggin and he threw his hands out and fell back into his chair almost comically, grumbling and getting back to his paperwork while he tried to push away any other thoughts besides the box of his work. You shoved yourself into the bathroom, rubbing your hands all over your face to try to stop the tears that were making your face feel icky. Thrashing around to find your towel, the water running loudly in the background - the sounds couldn’t compare to how loud your thoughts were. 

The shower felt harder that day, the water burning the red lines you inflicted on yourself yesterday.

You sat down on the wet floor, head in your palms as you sobbed, the tears falling from your face entwined with the water and vanished along with it. On your knees you grabbed the shampoo - cleaning yourself should never feel this difficult, you’ve grown soft. 

Standing up, your body immediately planting itself onto the wall as your knees buckled. Nibbled lips, fingers clasped your mouth. Trying to suppress your gasps and whines. —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’ve managed to do your hair and apply lotion to your body, since you’ve fixed yourself - you find that you’re capable enough to make dinner, putting on clothes you just washed, they’re warm and make you feel a bit better. The harm is visible, and you try to forget about it. Too drained to change into other clothes that hide your pink and white scars, busy prodding at your pajama shorts to make them just a little longer, even if it wont make a difference. 

Leaving the bathroom you walk into the hallway hoping to see König doing paperwork in his office, or holding out his arms for you. Instead what's in front of you is a closed door, making the air catch in your throat.  

The descend down the stairs feels melancholy, you feel as if your brain is off, walking only as if you’re a zombie dedicated to pleasing others. You want to make him happy, make him forget about your previous interaction with the blessing of food. 

This week felt like the final straw, constantly trying to please people at your job - you’ve been trying so hard. Nobody was there for you, König looked at you with a face of anger, eyes narrowing yours. Going on about how he has helped you while you try to squeak out your words, and he yelled at you. Piercing and loud, making you tremble as you looked up at him like he had betrayed you. He screamed at himself in his head, scolding himself for lashing out on you. Years of aggression had changed him truly, down to his entire system - he doesn’t know how to respond now. 

As soon as your hands touch the stove, you begin shaking, tears running down your face. You couldn’t find the energy in yourself to cook and it made you feel all the more disappointed in yourself, the walls of discipline you’ve built come crashing down.

Nails snuggled firmly into your arms as you sink down onto the floor, hyperventilating in frustration. 

You cry into your skin for the umpteenth time, biting into your flesh so the man upstairs doesn’t hear you. Nothing has ever made you feel so useless, and you can't get over that. 

A heavy hand on your shoulder makes you jump, interrupting your thoughts. You turn your back slowly, only to see the kindest pair of sleepy eyes looking back at your manic ones. Your eyelids shut tight, hands finding his shirt and pulling him in. “M’ so sorry..”  It’s muffled into his shoulder and he pats your back, hands resting at your hips. He shushes you gently, eyes scanning over the numerous scars on your legs that looked almost too fresh - and he swore his heart paused for a second. König punches himself in the head mentally once again, biting his lip. “Not your fault..I shouldn’t have yelled. Shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.” 

Your face digs itself into the small dip between his neck and shoulder, sobbing even harder - gasping for air between them. And he feels like a monster at this point.. “I’m sorry, mein Liebling, don’t waste all your tears on me.” König brings you in even closer, landing sloppy kisses to your forehead and cheeks. "I was wrong, never cry for me like that." He says, reassuring you in a stronger voice, yet it remains soft. König mumbles something under his breath, like he cursed himself forever, never to let you cry over something he failed to do - control his emotions around you.

You grab onto his jaw with need, locking lips with him in vast movements, and he lets it happen. Letting your tongue win the fight for dominance, hand gently resting  at the back of your skull, the salty tang of your lips stimulating his organ of taste. But he couldn't care less.

Hums vibrate into your mouth pleasantly, he taps your back to let you know when he needs to breathe.

The kiss is broken after only his lungs start to burn for air, you’re still hungry for more of it. His breathing is heavy as he claws at the soft skin under your shirt, massaging your lower back and pulling you even closer to his warmth, pleasantly surprised at your actions. “Need more-” You hiccupped, mouth-agape with feeble sounds. “Please.” 

“More of what? Tell me.”

“Want more of you- Need you.” You confess, and his heart cinches from its beat. Almost seizes to continue at the sight.

He simply nods, picking you up by your waist and putting you up against him - not where you're flat against his chest, holstered up enough so he can kiss your tummy, electrifying butterflies filling your abdomen. König plops you down on the bed, as gentle as he can possibly be - you look like glass to him right now as your legs hang off the side of the bed, you're sitting on the edge of it as he lowers himself.

He’s right in front of  you, crouched. He’s kissing your thighs all over, strings of apologies you can’t hear when he runs along one of your scars. “Can I please.. I want to show you how sorry I am.” You know what he’s implying when his eyes drift down to your pussy, clothed but getting absolutely drenched underneath. 

“Yes.. please.” A simple sniffle and he’s making snail work of your shorts with little kisses, pulling them off along with your panties. He’s purposely taking it slow with you, testing the waters. 

Successfully spreading your thighs, he salivates. One look at your perfekt swollen clit and he’s down on his knees, offering one long lick to the slick heavenly gates. “So good.” He groans, now flicking your bead with his tongue in vast motions - and you mewl out, high pitched and needy. He’s so good at eating your pussy, wrapping his lips around the whole thing once he made you sensitive for it. “König..” A pule of his name leaves your lips, sending blood straight to his cock once again. 

You gasp once you realize he’s rolling your hips onto his tongue, making you fuck yourself on his tongue with his hands. “Holy fuck-” Your toes curl, biting your bottom lip. The changes between flicking his tongue and sucking all feed into your upbuilding orgasm.

“König!” He stops abruptly at the last squeal of his name, right at the moment you felt yourself coming undone.

Standing at his full height you pout up at him. “I’m sorry- please, can’t let you cum yet. Need to show you.” He repeats, almost defeatedly, like he wants to fulfill your needs now.

König pulls down his pajama pants down to his ankles, before he positions himself in front of spread legs. Rubbing his tip against your clit, prodding against it deliberately. Making you sob, kick your feet against his back needily. “Uhuh. None of that, you’ll get what you want in a second.” Gentle, affirming.

“Gonna slip this in, slowly. You got that?” He affirms with you, and you're nodding your head urgently. It makes him chuckle, how pliant and needy you are. 

You throw your head back once you feel his stretch, a wince passing through your lips. "Er nimmt es so gut auf.." He praises with a moan, a hand gently caressing your collarbone from where he stands.

He’s trying to distract you from the feel of his cock spreading you open, you’ve tightened up so much since the last time. 

He finally gets the whole meat slab in with a plap, and you let out a sigh of relief. He finds it really cute, how you struggle beneath it. “You’ve got it.. Good girl, the best.” He dances his hips into yours, balls flat against your ass. “Made for my cock.” “So deep..” Your thighs tighten around him, begging him to start a pace already - the torture of slow, deep thrusts. “Hah- fuck.. Too slow Köni..” Ugh, you’re so fucking cute. Stop it. It’s taking enough of his willpower to not fuck you right into this bed. 

“H-Harder..” König chuckles, grinning at how feverish you are. “Dirty girl.” Your knees are then pressed next to your ears, he’s putting you in some sort of mating press - making you swallow in anticipation, a little fear maybe. This position makes him feel deeper than ever, you’re clenching around him.

 He swallows. “This is what you want? You can take it?” He doesn’t relent his rolls into you, like this is a casual interaction. “Yes- fuck- Please!” You beg and he immediately complies, making you jump up with every thrust of him into you, heavy balls slapping right against you. “You like this?” He doesn’t even need to have you answer, your mewls are speaking for you. 

As soon as he gets you where he wants, a hard thrust is battered into you - making you cry out at the sheer force of it. He’s not cruel though, bending down so you could hold onto his shoulders. He gulps, adams apple bobbing. “This is what you wanted? Tell me, please.” He needs to get confirmation from you, eyes scanning over your face for any signs of discomfort. “Keep going.” You take his breath away, good girl. Taking all of this cock. 

He bites his lip, denting your can roughly - the smacking of your skin is loud and sinful. His hands lay planted on your ankles, driving into you like a two dollar whore.

Broken moans escape your mouth as you constantly feel his dick ram against your cervix. ”Gonna show you how sorry I am.” Your body tensed up as you felt your orgasm approaching humiliatingly quick.  Your legs tried to kick at something, but that's impossible with them suspended in the air, unable to move.

He just wont stop thrusting either, watching you try to form a sentence underneath him. 

Waves of pleasure incinerate through your body, burning your insides with ecstasy and heat. The constant sliding of his shaft against your walls doesn't help it either, he's changed the angle which his dick hits to where its constantly drubbing your g-spot.

"Good- good pussy. I'm' hitting that pillowy spot." He laughs, orgasmic yet a little bit deranged in the middle of sex.

You gasp out, feeling a string in your stomach get unbearably thin. Your pussy clenches, it’s slightly nauseating from how tightly you’ve clamped. He moans, back arching from the feel of you squeezing him dangerously tight. “Fuck yeah, cum for me. Cum for me.. Ja..!” His head is thrown back, lost in just you completely. 

The coil finally snaps and you squeal, your juices coming out squelching and running down your ass. You’re drooling, lips coated in saliva. And he just wants to clean up all of that with his kisses, connect your saliva together. 

"Ah! König!" You yelp, vision turning white as overwhelming waves of bliss start hitting you like a truck.

Your toes uncurled once you’ve gotten off your high, signs of it still lingering around in your stomach - feels like your pussy is beating as fast and hard as your heart.

But you can’t forget, he’s looking for his release as well. Mouth open and panting above you like a mutt.  His moans announce his upcoming orgasm while rutting into your sensitive pussy like a bitch in heat. Your hand comes up to his chest to try and get his pace to relent - but it’s not possible to push past a brick wall. You’ve already started sobbing at this point from the overstimulation, mewls for König to be gentler goes in from one ear out from the other. Or if he can even hear you. 

With the clenching of your snatch he's throwing his head back with a broken moan. "Hng-auh..! It's been so long since he's had good pussy like yours, and you best believe he's enjoying himself.

A rumbling deep inside of him, lingers of an upcoming orgasm taking over his well-mannered self. Now his hands have moved up to your ankles, putting himself in a plank and pounding so hard you think you'd die.

König's trying to match your moans like an orchestral performance, seemingly like he's mocking you, yet it's full of honesty and neediness. "Close hmng- yes.. fuck m-" He announces before cutting himself off unplanned, spurting into your storage room with his buttocks clenched forwards to push semen further into you.

The mongrel of the house squeezing your ankles with a sob once he feels his high hit him like it did yours, keeping his shaft nestled in you while he finds himself in ecstasy - unknowing of your suffering from overstimulation beneath him. Beaten and battered pussy.

He doesn’t notice your trembling body underneath him till he hears you let out a feeble sound of his name. Looking down to your shaking legs, thighs covered in your splattered juices. And by god, are you a sight.

“No more..” You mumbled, unable to coherently speak to him anymore. He pulls out of you, a small squelch being heard from how good he's spread you out. "Ja, won't fuck you anymore." He gravely snickered, letting your legs down from the sore position they were in.

König practically purrs out his praises, running his hands up and down your body. “Let’s get you to the bathroom now, a bath?” He suggests, your ears perk up at the sound of a warm bath surrounding your achy body. 

Bonus ;)

[weltonbmarsland]

The Photo (You Know The One)

This is a personal post. Very personal. Very waffling. And TMI. And deals with some mental health issues (and grief stuff and trans stuff and alcohol), so if you decide to read on, be forewarned. Apparently it's too big for tumblr's liking, so i'll have to post this part one then reblog that with part two added on. (seriously, tumblr, it's only just over 1500 words! just lemme post the stupid thing!)

I kept promising @fecklesheckleshacklesschmeckles that I'd try and explain eventually about how The Photo (you know the one) wrought its change upon me. And I got up early this morning and just started waffling and it became this. Apologies in advance! :)

I Have Issues

I'll try to get this background stuff out of the way quick as possible.

~ Alcohol Abuse Issues - see end of section for notes

~ Mental Health Issues - Introvert, social anxiety, chronically self-conscious, shy, past panic attacks, breakdowns in 1989 & 1997, lifelong cycles of depressive episodes, short manic episodes, and some generalised sort of... stasis.

~ Gender Issues - miserable late-childhood and adolescence through to young adulthood due to railing (angry fucking RAILING!!) at myself, at my femininity, at my body spectacularly failing to be the image in my head. Seriously started looking into medical transition in my late teens (we're still in the 1980s here, folks!) but got talked out of it by the gay man I was in a relationship with. Found some self acceptance in my 20s and managed to stop railing so hard at things I couldn't change / stop being quite so angry at myself all the time for soomit that wasn't even my fault. Found a wonderful bi man in my early 30s who completely accepts me (yay!)

~ Grief Issues - *takes a deep breath*

My only sister died in 1992, my closest sibling (brother, Alan) died in 2005, then between 2013 and 2019 we lost two more of my brothers and my brother-in-law (my sister's widower). I'm the youngest of 6 but there's only 2 of us left now.

There's also my best friend from childhood, one my closest fandom friends, others... To live is to grieve, right? There's no life (or love) without death, etc, etc. You have to accept it or you'll drown.

Our cat Eddy died the week before Xmas 2021 and just 20 days later, in the first week of 2022, we had to have my cat familiar, Sparty, put to sleep because his cancer had spread. All the human deaths I've absorbed and kept going from, but THIS was the death that made me weird.

During the days, while D was at work, I became -for the very first time in my life- the only living thing in the household. Even my potted umbrella tree (a present from my sister, it had ended up being in my life longer than my sister had), developed a fungal infection and died.

I developed some new neuroses. I started having to physically check the locks after D had left in the mornings. Check the knobs on the gas stove. When the first anniversary of Sparty's death rolled around, I wore his collar around my wrist for the day and slept that night with his ashes urn in the bed with me.

Are you guys keeping up with this list of misery okay? Because then... my Mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

March to May 2023, I spent a lot of time cleaning cleaning cleaning Mum & Dad's house while we all waited for a place in palliative care to come available. Some of those days were very fraught, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Mum died in the May. Dad tried living on his own for a bit but his health slid, too. By the September, my brother David and I started taking it in turns to spend 3-4 days at a time living with Dad, so that he'd never be on his own in the house. It was exhausting and unsustainable (would've been easier if we'd had a few other siblings around to help share the load!), but we did what had to be done.

Finally, at the start of February last year, Dad went into a care facility (initially just for 4 weeks of respite care, and to see if he liked the place; he's continued living there and is the most independent resident they have).

I could half-way breathe out again.

End-of-section Notes:

Q - Why do you abuse alcohol, Welton?

A - *refer above*

Part Two....

[save-the-spiral]

Barrow

(Previous)

Content warning for Dehumanization, Blood, Muzzles, Referenced Torture, Alcohol Mention

(Ao3 link)

1.8K words, Vampire Whumpee, Human Whumper.

Beau woke up collared with a chain connecting him to the wall. He had been gagged, a dirty rag shoved in his mouth. It tasted strangely sweet, like fruit just on the verge of rotting. He had been ordered to kneel the floor, and he was doing so, with his hands in his lap as he looked up through his eyelashes to watch his master without making eye contact.

"I do wonder if you've ever heard of vampires before this." Beau's master's tone was light, curious. He lounged in a chair, almost dangling his nearly empty wine glass between pale, uncalloused fingers.

"They are quite rare these days, but a few centuries ago they were nearly everywhere. Much like rats." He mused, not waiting for a response. He carded a hand through his normally tidy blonde hair, the gel he always used barely working anymore.

"And like rats, they were in every shadow, wallowing in filth. Vermin that drank blood, preying on the living. Oh sure, there were a few wealthy vampire families, but they were more cults than anything- rather gauche, if you ask me." Icy blue eyes flicked over to Beau before continuing to examine the wineglass. The smallest bit of white wine remained, slipping around the glass as he toyed with it.

"Eventually the powers that be started movements to kill off all the bloodsuckers- paying a pretty penny in bounties. By the time the twentieth century rolled around, most countries proudly declared vampires an extinct breed. Forgotten about, even by those of longer-lived races who experienced it." His nose scrunched, the expression of distaste still refined on his face somehow.

"But I paid attention in my history classes. I knew what they were. And it came in handy when the right opportunities came my way. They wanted to sell that thing off for cheap, but I knew its true value." There was a manic light in those blue eyes as he set the wineglass down.

He stood, imposing and looming over Beau.

"I knew there were rumors of secret enclaves, isolated with their own little vampire societies." He began to pace, the racks of weapons and tools behind him a sinister backdrop.

"No need to feed it or clean up waste like with a person." He turned on his heel to walk back across the room.

"The perfect punching bag." Another turn.

"Unable to die." Another turn.

"I thought any tales of vampirism being transmitted were fiction, fear mongering and propaganda." He finally stopped pacing, right in front of Beau, staring down at him.

"But you, servant of mine, are living proof." His master smiled, not the disarming grins he gave to guests, not the barely there twitch of his lips when he was alone, but a wide, unhinged grin.

Despite spending his whole life serving his master, Beau had never seen such an expression from him. It made him want to run and hide.

Then came laughter. Not jovial chuckles from bantering with his colleagues, but something darker, more genuine. Beau was shaking with fear.

Beau had never had reason to fear his master before now. There had been clear rules to working and living as a servant in the estate. And Beau had followed all of them, taught at his mother's knee.

He had followed his master's orders, not struggling when he had been gagged, kneeling when told, and he still felt like he was in danger. It didn't compute in his brain, a complete divergence from how his life worked for nineteen years.

"Well- 'living proof' is a bit of a misnomer, hmm?" His master said, laughter dying down. His eyes bored into Beau, making him feel small.

Beau was still shaking, knees aching from kneeling for so long on the unforgiving concrete floor. He didn't feel as cold as he should- he knew this. He had visited this room for only minutes at a time before, and it had felt colder then.

It was sinking in now. Beau had died. He didn't know how long ago- minutes, hours. But the body of the thing- the vampire- that had previously resided here was gone, leaving only its slowly draining blood as proof that it had existed at all.

Except it had also left Beau behind. Dead, but not.

He was dead. That was why everything felt so strange. Why he wasn't hearing the usual dull roar of blood rushing in his ears and the rapid thud of his heartbeat even though he was terrified.

Why there was a collar around his neck, heavy and chaining him to the wall.

Beau hadn't been given permission to speak- he had never spoken in his master's presence before, not when he was a simple servant rarely in the same room as his master. He wanted to speak now, to ask if he really was dead. If he was a vampire as his master claimed.

Beau dared to lift his head, meeting his master's eyes for the first time in his life. He immediately regretted it. All that was left in himself was animal fear, clawing and begging for him to bow his head, submit, curl into the corner and hope he didn't die again.

"I think you'll be the best behaved yet when it comes to my toys, yes?" His master nodded to himself as he spoke, not acknowledging the eye contact.

Beau nodded as well before bowing his head once again. He stared down at the bloodstained concrete floor and resolved to not look up unless ordered to.

The sigh that filled the room sent another cold shock of terror through Beau, grasping at his dead heart and squeezing. Why did he feel so much if he was dead?

"I can't have you spreading your disease, though. It wouldn't do for the government to come knocking down my door for hosting a parasite like you, would it?" Another rhetorical question, his master walking away and towards the racks on the wall.

Beau hadn't realized he could do what had been done to him to others. He didn't want to attack anyone, he'd never been in a fight in his life. He wasn't a violent person. Surely he wouldn't devolve into that feral beast that had killed him?

It wasn't inherent to being a vampire, was it? If that's the case, no wonder everyone tried to kill them all off.

Beau didn't want to hurt anyone. He couldn't bear to imagine any of the estate's staff entering the basement and being hurt by him. Those were his friends, his family.

His master spoke in a lower tone, mostly to himself. "We can try defanging, but that seems rather arduous, and I have a meeting scheduled early tomorrow. For now… yes, this'll work."

The sudden clinking of metal made Beau startle, unnecessary breath catching in his chest. Footsteps drew closer.

His master clicked his tongue. "Take out the gag and raise your head."

Beau followed the orders, grateful to have them, to have something to follow and cling to when he's been left unmoored from normality, from life itself. He kept the rag that had been used to gag him in his hands, glancing down at it.

The scrap of cloth was more red than its original white, splotched with blood. Had it tasted sweet because he was a monster now?

A small cage of metal with black leather straps dangled from his master's hand. Beau had seen many of them on the hunting dogs in the estate's kennel.

Relief made his shoulders relax, some of the tightly wound tension fading. He wouldn't be able to bite anyone. He wouldn't be able to tear into anyone like that thing did to him.

Beau kept his chin tilted up, eyes downcast to not make contact with his master's. The metal was cold, pressing tight enough to bruise against his cheeks. The straps were buckled around the back of his head, parting through cropped black hair.

"There's a good dog." His master's hand was warm against his scalp as it ruffled Beau's hair. He turned and left before Beau could react, the door to the room shutting and locking.

Beau had been too shocked to duck his head away from the hand, but now that he was alone shame and embarrassment washed over him. He wasn't a dog. He was a person! He was a nineteen year old man! He was…

He was collared, and chained, and muzzled. Like a dog. And he had just sat there and let it happen because he was a servant of the house and didn't know how to disobey his master. There was always punishment for orders left unfollowed. But he didn't have a job to lose anymore.

His mom did, though. She spent most of her life in the estate as a servant. She had nowhere else to go, no one outside of the estate to rely on. Their master could dismiss her and she'd have nothing.

The stakes for Beau were different now. It wasn't about losing his job and getting kicked out onto the streets. He wasn't a human being anymore. He wasn't even alive. His master had no reservations about chaining and muzzling Beau, and why would he stop there when he had tortured dozens of people in this very basement.

That was probably Beau's purpose. Why keep him down here otherwise? He had all the traits of the previous vampire that made it the perfect 'toy', except he already was trained to obey.

Indignation rose. He may not be human anymore but he wasn't a dog. He had his pride even in death.

It wasn't like he could do anything about it now. His mom's livelihood was on the line, even if she didn't know it yet. He was already chained. No victims had ever escaped the basement.

No one escaped Beau's master.

The thought chased away all the fear and indignation, replacing it all with the heavy weight of dread.

Beau was trapped. No one ever escaped before. No one would be rescuing him. Everyone he knew worked here, and wouldn't risk their jobs to save him. His mom couldn't afford to.

He wondered if this was it, if he would live as his master's dog forever. But he wasn't alive, he reminded himself.

In times like this where his thoughts became to depressing, he would usually lose himself in washing dishes or peeling potatoes or something else mindless. Now he had nothing. No tasks to complete, no orders to fulfill. Just a concrete room full of tools that would be used in his torture.

Beau found a patch of floor with the least stains and curled up, resting his head on his arms and bringing his knees to his chest.

He hoped the dead could sleep.

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