#Overcoming Mental Fog

[mindsterk]

Overcome Disorganized Thinking: Strategies for Focus

Do you often find your thoughts scattered? Disorganized thinking can block productivity and cause stress. But, effective strategies exist to improve your focus and tackle disorganized thinking. This article will cover strategies that aid in managing disorganized thinking. These aren’t about avoiding thoughts but redirecting them. This helps bring you back to the present. Grounding techniques like…

[maglife17]

Prayer Against Every Spell of Confusion!

“For God is not a God of confusion but of peace. As in all the churches of the saints.” 1 Corinthians 14:33 In the name of Jesus, I humbly come before you today, seeking your intervention in my life. I speak against any spell of confusion that may be affecting my thoughts and decisions. Your word assures me in 1 Corinthians 14:33 that you are not a God of confusion but of peace. Thus, I…

[halfmoonshines]

Just Damon being soft and protective with his gf please! :) love ur work

love this and love you!

only you

damon salvatore x f!reader

summary: Damon only ever had that smile for you.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

You groaned as you trekked behind the group, fully convinced that this could not get any worse. Not only was the southern heat creating a shine of sweat on your skin, but the constant bickering from the rest of your cohort was driving you crazy.

"If you're annoyed Elena, imagine how the vampires feel. We could've just zipped through the woods without you guys." Caroline made an excellent point.

"So why did we even come?" Your question was exasperated and Damon's light laugh came from behind you, one of his hands coming to rest on your lower back.

"The more eyes there are, the more likely we are to find this tomb." Stefan replied.

"I would argue that you guys could've covered five times as much ground by this point if we weren't slowing you down." You paused your walk for a moment, head thrown back to try and gulp in some of the balmy air.

That air promptly left your lungs, however, when Damon swept you into his arms. You couldn't help but shriek a bit, hastily wrapping your arms around his neck. "Damon. I'm sticky and stinky."

He raised an eyebrow at you, lips arranging themselves in a mirthful smile. "My favorite version of you."

Caroline shook her head violently. "Ew, guys."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

The darkness in the room was almost suffocating you but you didn't have the strength to not suffer inside of it. You didn't know how long you had been sitting there, or when it had gotten so bad, but somewhere along the way you had stopped caring.

You had days like this sometimes, where your mental health was virtually nonexistent and you would rather sit alone in the dark with your thoughts rather than flick the light on and reveal the very real things behind those thoughts.

You vaguely heard the door open downstairs, and Damon's voice was like a lance through the fog in your mind. "Babe? Are you upstairs?"

You stayed silent though, brow furrowing while you tried to overcome the block in your brain that was stopping you from speaking. All that came was a frustrated sigh.

That was enough for the vampire, who quickly appeared in your room, seeming unperturbed by the thick blanket of darkness and despair. He came to sit next to you on the edge of the bed, hand finding yours to interlace your fingers.

"Bad brain day?" His tone was gentle, not a hint of judgement tinged into it. You appreciated that.

You gave a nod, slumping into the safety of his arms. He was always so sturdy, a rock against whatever storm you encountered.

He hummed low in his throat and pulled you both back onto the bed, turning on the fairy lights hanging around the room and tucking you under his chin.

That was where you laid for hours before he convinced you to have dinner, more than happy to let you feel whatever you needed.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

"Are we sure that she is not going to lose her mind when she finds us doing this?" Damon sounded incredibly unsure, paintbrush dangling from his fingers.

You discarded your own, placing hands on hips before you replied. "It's washable paint and it's Caroline's 18th birthday!! Decorating her car is a great idea, trust me."

He raised an eyebrow at you and approached, coming chest to chest and threatening to get the paint dripping from his brush onto you. "Painting the most OCD Barbie I know's car as a surprise? Seems risky."

Your smile was devilish in return. "Since when does a little risk scare you, Salvatore?" You had barely finished your sentence before a gasp escaped, a line of paint now going down your cheek.

"Literally never." He lunged away as you grabbed for him, and you ended up painting yourselves much more than you touched the car.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

[innerangeltoadlover]

IDEOLOGY : LIFE IN SCHIZOPHRENIA

1. I was inspired to write this because I believe a diagnosis of schizophrenia silences those who suffer from the illness. I wrongly believed after my sister took me to Court in an effort to make me homeless that I would never have to fight for my truth to be heard again. Poor outcomes for patients are linked to expedient treatments - ones which may ignore salient indicators of abuse in order to place mental illness as the cause of behaviour and the only valid truth. There is probably nothing more demeaning and disheartening than telling your therapist about abuse and having it received as a fairytale. My story will show the consequences of skepticism and disbelief in the treatment of schizophrenia which allows for the generalisation of experiences without differentiation. We are better than this.

Sometimes , well often, when we read a memoir there’s an assumption that the person writing has overcome some insurmountable hardship. It motivates us to think that we can do the same – and at some point we , like the author, will walk into the sunset with clarity, humour and perhaps in hand with another. These are the kinds of books I usually stop reading after the first chapter because life , and in particular my life, has not been like this. I want to write about the ugly side of mental illness and the reason why there are so many of us who exist without that longed for happy ending. For those of us who don’t crawl out of the mire our lives are not improved by the application of lipstick or the urging of those who have. Despite our travels through a social media polluted with inspiring memes and motivational scenarios real hardship is present and remains unchanged despite its synonymous pairing with choice.

So my story isn’t going to be particularly uplifting -there has been no victory here – I write because I have to – not because I want to. I’m hoping in writing that I might gain some internal peace over the war my mind wages with me, particularly at night when the lack of distraction makes sleep elusive. I think publishing is a bit of a minefield for people like me. I’m wary of writing anything that resembles some clueless manifesto but at the same time I think it’s important for people with this illness to write something real that isn’t Instagramable and also at nearly 60 I’ve come to view my illness as a valid part of my individuality and I wish to defend it rather than have this unique part of me trampled into submission by doctors who view me like a bacteria in a Petri dish. The truth is this illness is crap but the treatment is crappier and you are trapped in it , well I have been anyway. However the older I get the more I’ve realised that much of the prejudice and stigma linked to this illness has much of its origins in treatment. I used to have a social conscience and was concerned about the plight of my fellow sufferers but it has been chipped away. When my Shrink tells me of advances in care it sort of hangs in the air like a fog in a windowless room. These days I say very little when these professionals say this nonsense which I’ve heard so many times– I’m nearly old but I was young once and I wasn’t born in the Dark Ages- I was hopeful , though that hope has disintegrated. The old mantra “you can’t reason with a schizophrenic” is alive and well in most psychiatrists offices however it is often only the benefit of hindsight that allows us to see the stark relief against the empty rhetoric. It also painfully exhibits that in my case my treatment was inhibited by doctors who could not tell fact from fiction and who had ultimately decided that some lives are worth more than others.

[ashherahh]

confessions of a scorpio moon

TW: SA, SH, themes of abuse and assault, neglect. Read at your own discretion.

This post does contain themes which are not suited to every audience.

You might wonder why I would create something like this. I am a firm believer that we can see everything we need in our birth chart. We can see our challenges as well as how we can overcome them.

What drew me to astrology was this overwhelming feeling that I needed to understand what was going on and I needed to make changes. I started to do the charts of myself and my family members and I saw trends. I saw similar placements. I noticed patterns.

This post does contain parts of my story, but please don't take it personally. I'm in no way saying that you will have the same experience as me because we might share the same Moon sign. Not at all.

All experiences are different because all birth charts are different.

This is my experience.

THE ASPECTS

Moon trine Sun -5° A

Moon trine Jupiter 7° S

Moon trine Uranus -9° S

Moon square Neptune 4° A

Moon trine North Node -3° A

Moon trine MC 8° S

THE SCORPIO MOON & THE STORY

There is a great connection between my emotions, my identity, and my purpose; yet all of this seems to be outdone by my tumultuous inner world. I feel as though a fog has fallen over me, and I live life through a haze.

Escapism is my oldest and bestest friend. I have learnt their trade since I was old enough to talk. It seemed to be the only thing that could keep me safe, forming a cocoon around me while my entire world collapsed.

When you're a child, your entire world is your parents. Mine was my mother. Seeing her succumb to a mental illness in an environment that didn't want to understand it and swept it under the rug, was absolutely harrowing. She never accepted the help she received because she never saw it as help, but rather as everyone trying to surpress the truth she saw.

My relationship with my mother is an absolute mess. It seems as though my maternal inheritance is both her blessings and curses. I look at her and it's like looking in a mirror. Will I become as mad as her? How can you call someone you barely know mother?

I lived under the same roof as her for 20 years but it was like we were on two different planets. How funny it is to have the same face as someone who is basically a stranger.

Yet, we are two sides of the same coin. Some days, I feel my life is an extension of hers, one which I might never escape. Hers an extension of her mother.

The Scorpio Moon is an inherited Moon sign in a sense. At times it is a byproduct of a culmination of turmoil in the ancestral line. It comes to end the cycle or it begins it. Unfortunately, that is life, everything has a start.

My grandmother has the same Sun and Moon placements as myself, and her story started with abandonedment. She was a child born because of sexual assault. Her mother had given her up for adoption. She stayed in that adoption centre until one day while travelling by train across the country, she too became a victim of assault.

She became pregnant because of this and she was forced to marry this man.

Years went by and my grandmother finally tracked down her mother, but she wanted nothing to do with my grandmother. So the wound festers and grows and consumes.

She tried to take her own life by jumping in front of a train. There were attempts after that but none were successful.

Then I am born, years later, her son's youngest child. The son she adored but cursed, giving him the same name as his father and trying to use him as some sort of compensation. I'm born and I look just like my mother, the woman who took her precious son from her.

She hated me.

She hated me even more when my grandfather assaulted me as well.

There's that saying: "The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself."

Sometimes I think about how she would've felt. Other times, I am reminded by how cynical life can be, to throw our pain back in our face in so many different ways.

As a Scorpio Moon, betrayal and abandonedment are the first knives in your back and the first ones you hold.

The cycle begins and the only way out is to understand and purge. Sometimes understanding comes through the act of doing and the sickening feeling thereafter that you are no better than others and so a great awakening begins.

Abandonedment and neglect are major trends as well. The maternal figure can physically abandon you or emotionally abandon you. They are also the ones who introduce you to your first betrayal.

If not that, the maternal figure uses their child to live life through them. Creating a strong tie that is often difficult to break because of the control exerted over them. The decision to do this is usually made young by the maternal figure once they recognise the potential latent in the child.

If the child has siblings, those siblings are often overlooked and ignored by the parents. It builds jealousy and hatred from their siblings towards them, which pushes them closer to their parents who seems to "understand" them best.

The pedestal is made of glass, and if you look down, you'll see the abyss. So, you hold you head up high and keep smiling.

It is scary to think of a different life for these individuals. Who are they if not who their parents has always told them they are?

Intensity doesn't have a name until a Scorpio Moon is older. Then it either becomes a taboo word the individual wants nothing to do with or it becomes everything they have been looking for. To fear or be feared.

To me, I never saw it as intensity. That just was me. The upbringing I had made me draw away from being intense in front of others. I saw intensity as insanity.

I kept up a good façade. I studied hard, I did my best to always be kind and helpful. To never argue, to never shout, to never share my true feelings. I was a pushover in a sense, for years. I never stood up for myself. Yet, always, when I was alone and in secret I was drawn to the darker parts of myself.

I felt like I was starving, and some days I still do.

As exhausting as it may be, having a Scorpio Moon is about death and rebirth, and the constant act of it. You would think something has ended, but years later you find yourself staring in the face of it again. It always comes back, it has to.

Nothing is ever really over until the memory of it dies.

[liliomme]

✧ Solar Return Chart Observation ⋆⑅˚₊

Take this with a grain of salt.

✦ sagittarius Rising

Having a Sagittarius rising in your solar return chart indicates that the upcoming year will be filled with excitement, abundance, and a sense of adventure. You'll have a strong desire to explore, expand your horizons, and seek new experiences. Optimism and enthusiasm will be your driving forces, attracting opportunities and blessings into your life. Embrace a thirst for knowledge, engage in educational pursuits, and be open to broadening your social circle. With a positive mindset and a willingness to embrace adventure, this year promises to be an exciting and abundant chapter of personal and professional growth.

In addition to the exciting and abundant experiences, having Sagittarius rising in your solar return chart suggests that you'll be guided by a strong sense of purpose and a desire for meaning in your endeavors. You may feel a calling to align your actions with your values, seeking experiences that contribute to personal and collective growth. This spiritual and philosophical inclination will add depth and fulfillment to your year, allowing you to explore the greater purpose behind your adventures and harness the wisdom gained along the way.

✦ Pluto in the 2nd House

Pluto in the 2nd house of your solar return chart indicates a transformative and potentially powerful year in terms of finances, resources, and self-worth. You may experience significant changes and shifts in your approach to money, possessions, and material security. This placement suggests that you have the potential to delve deeply into your relationship with wealth and value, uncovering hidden patterns or subconscious beliefs that may be influencing your financial situation. Embracing these transformative energies can lead to profound personal growth, increased self-empowerment, and a redefinition of what truly matters to you in terms of material abundance.

✦ Saturn in the 3rd House

Saturn in the 3rd house of your solar return chart signifies a year focused on communication, learning, and self-expression. This placement suggests that you may encounter challenges or responsibilities in these areas, requiring discipline, patience, and perseverance to overcome. You may find yourself taking on additional responsibilities related to your intellectual pursuits, such as studying, writing, or teaching. It's a time to hone your communication skills, establish clear boundaries, and develop a structured approach to your thoughts and ideas. While it may feel restrictive at times, embracing Saturn's influence can lead to long-term growth, a solid foundation of knowledge, and the development of effective communication strategies that will serve you well in the future.

✦ Neptune in the 3rd House

Neptune in the 3rd house of your solar return chart suggests a year of heightened imagination, intuition, and creativity in the realm of communication and learning. This placement indicates that your mind may be more receptive to subtle energies, symbolism, and spiritual insights. You may find yourself drawn to artistic and mystical pursuits, such as writing poetry, exploring spiritual philosophies, or engaging in dreamwork. However, it's important to remain mindful of potential challenges, such as confusion or illusions in your thinking or difficulties with clear communication. By harnessing the ethereal energies of Neptune, you can tap into a deeper level of understanding, foster compassionate communication, and infuse your learning experiences with a sense of wonder and inspiration. Embrace the creative flow and trust your intuition as you navigate this dreamy and introspective year.

Neptune in the 3rd house of your solar return chart also has its potential challenges and drawbacks. This placement can indicate a tendency towards mental fog, confusion, and a lack of clarity in communication. You may find it challenging to express your thoughts and ideas in a concise and straightforward manner. There is a risk of miscommunication, misunderstandings, and even deception or self-deception. It's important to be vigilant about setting clear boundaries and discerning between reality and illusion. Beware of being overly idealistic or gullible, as Neptune's influence can sometimes blur the lines between truth and fantasy. Strive for clarity, seek practical information, and practice critical thinking to navigate the potential pitfalls and harness the positive potential of Neptune in the 3rd house.

✦ Venus in the 12th House

While Venus in the 12th house of your solar return chart is generally associated with the themes of introspection and spiritual exploration, it can also bring gains and blessings in certain areas of your life. In this context, the gains associated with Venus in the 12th house may be more subtle or hidden, but nonetheless meaningful. One potential area of gains is through inner fulfillment and a deep sense of inner peace. You may find that during this year, you have an increased ability to tap into your own inner resources, finding joy, contentment, and a strong connection to your own spirituality. This inner fulfillment can be a valuable source of happiness and satisfaction, regardless of external circumstances.

Additionally, Venus in the 12th house can signify gains through artistic or creative expression. This placement can enhance your intuition and imaginative abilities, allowing you to tap into a deeper well of inspiration. Exploring your artistic talents or engaging in creative endeavors can bring joy, fulfillment, and even potential recognition or appreciation from others.

✦ Moon Square Neptune

The Moon square Neptune aspect in a natal chart signifies a complex interplay between emotional sensitivity and the influence of Neptune's illusions. This aspect can manifest as heightened empathy and psychic abilities, but it also brings challenges such as emotional confusion, idealistic tendencies, and susceptibility to disillusionment. Nurturing creativity, developing discernment, and setting healthy emotional boundaries are essential for navigating this aspect and finding a balanced approach to emotions, intuition, and reality.

✦ Sun in 11th House

When the Sun is in the 11th house of your solar return chart, it suggests that the upcoming year will be focused on social connections, friendships, and involvement in group activities. The 11th house represents your social network, community, and your aspirations for the future. The presence of the Sun in this house indicates that your personal identity and self-expression will be strongly linked to your interactions with others and your involvement in collective endeavors.

During this year, you may find yourself seeking out like-minded individuals who share your goals and aspirations. Your social circle may expand, and you may have opportunities to connect with influential or prominent people who can support your endeavors. Your presence and leadership qualities may be well-received in group settings, making you a natural fit for collaborative efforts and team projects.

With the Sun in the 11th house, it's important to embrace opportunities for networking and participating in group activities. Your involvement in social causes or community organizations may be particularly fulfilling. This is also a time to focus on your future aspirations and set goals that align with your authentic self-expression. Overall, the presence of the Sun in the 11th house of your solar return chart suggests that the upcoming year will be socially oriented, offering you opportunities to shine your light and make a positive impact within your community. By embracing collaborative endeavors and nurturing your social connections, you can enhance your sense of purpose, fulfillment, and contribute to the collective goals that resonate with you.

༯, liliomme.

[scribbledghost]

The Visitor - Part II

Pairing: Vessel x Fem!Reader (Vessel the character, not the real man behind the mask)

Rating: T

Word count: 1,619

Summary: Vessel continues to do his best to shield his visitor from Sleep's anger. His attempts are... unfortunately inadequate.

Notes: 3rd person POV, use of she/her pronouns for reader. Features II for a bit. Brief discussions of trauma/mental pain.

Part one can be found here. || Part three can be found here.

Today has been... difficult for Vessel's charge.

Or at least, what passes for "today" in Sleep's domain: the standard hues of grey and black are infiltrated by dim light, like a sunrise through heavy fog.

Either way, it pains Vessel to see her like this - curled in on herself, weeping and shaking, having endured one of Sleep's visions. Having survived an attempt at being broken down.

Vessel had already informed her that in order to leave, she must uncover and overcome her pain. He conveniently forgot to mention this mostly consists of reliving it until it is conquered.

At the time, he thought the lie by omission was to protect her.

But now, all he feels is guilt for not properly warning her.

He kneels beside her, gently placing a hand upon her head to open up the connection between them. Vessel flinches at the sheer level of anguish, but wades through nonetheless as he maneuvers some of her pain, relocating what he can from her mind to his.

It's not much. And it's nowhere near enough. But he hopes it helps, if even for a brief moment.

You cannot save her, my vessel.

Sleep's voice echoes in his mind.

I can try.

Vessel can feel Sleep's anger; it's been building ever since the visitor's arrival. Ever since Vessel deviated from the plan Sleep so obviously laid for him - ever since Vessel revealed that he would not be swayed so easily this time by his Deity.

The domain rumbles, a frequent occurrence as of late.

But he remains unmoved.

He simply continues to kneel beside his visitor, his hand on her head in what he hopes is a comforting gesture as her cries begin to slowly quiet.

The others have begun to warn him, telling him in hushed tones that he's playing with fire, that Sleep is more powerful than all of them combined. They remind him that, should he continue to brazenly disobey, not only will he wind up in harm's way, but so will they. And so will she.

He knows.

And yet, he cannot stop. He has tried - it's not as if he has no desire to protect the others or his visitor. But no matter how much effort he exudes, success still eludes him.

Even during the brief moments when he must leave her to her own devices, when he must devote his attention to other matters like the other vessels, rituals, or more proper devotion to Sleep, he has begun to slip.

He's become distracted.

His thoughts drift more often than they should, away from the task at hand and towards the woman. A cardinal sin when he should be worshipping Sleep with his undivided attention.

It seems as though the only times he can focus is when he is with his visitor, just as he is now.

I will tear her apart before I allow her to take you from me, my vessel.

A dark streak of panic jolts through Vessel, and he knows Sleep feels it too, for he is met with a smug condescension that can only come from a being older than he can comprehend.

I am yours.

Then, before he can properly shield his ruminations, he continues:

Do not harm her. Please.

He winces at himself for allowing the thought to slip. A hum echoes in his brain.

What are you willing to do to keep her safe?

Anything.

Again, he thinks before he can stop himself. A cold dread settles itself over him as he realizes that, despite all his arrogance and determination in resisting his Deity, he has just given it a sign of weakness.

Anything... Sleep all but purrs.

He remains on his guard, but as the silence between him and Sleep continues, he allows himself to focus more on the woman. She's ceased her cries, but she is still curled in upon herself, as if attempting to shield herself from the outside world. The hand Vessel has placed on her head moves, as if of it's own will, and he gently strokes his thumb along her scalp.

He startles to a pause when Sleep speaks to him again.

I will hold you to that claim, my vessel.

With that, he feels Sleep's presence leave him for the time being.

He tries not to think too heavily on what the Deity means with its statement.

He's done unspeakable things in its name - things he will never be forgiven for. Things he will never be able to atone for, no matter how hard he tries.

And yet, a dark pit of dread in his stomach tells him his prior sins will all pale in comparison to whatever Sleep will ask for next.

Vessel desperately pushes the thoughts aside to focus on his charge.

He tries to strengthen the mental connection between them; tries to open the channel wider so as to take more of her pain and make it his own instead. She must feel the intrusion, for she shifts her head slightly away from his hand.

"Stop reading my mind," she mumbles.

Vessel's knee-jerk reaction is to correct her - to explain that he's not "reading her mind", but rather attempting to lessen her mental torture. But he holds his tongue, not wanting to upset her further.

"My apologies," he murmurs softly.

It is then that she turns to him, still in the fetal position but at least facing him now.

"I suppose you know now," she says absentmindedly.

"Not exactly," Vessel gently corrects. He is honest - he does not know the exact source of her pain; just that the pain itself exists in blinding quantities.

"The visions that Sleep gives you are not shared with me. I can only feel your suffering. I do not know the cause of it."

She gives a small, noncommittal hum in response.

"Good."

Vessel hides the slight sting he feels. She owes him nothing, after all; especially not any sort of deep insight into her driving forces. Yet, the sting is still present.

He wants to help her. He wants to ensure her safe return to wherever she was before this. He wants to know her as thoroughly as he is able.

But he understands the walls. He understands the apprehension.

He felt much the same when he was first brought to Sleep's domain. Vessel has only vague memories of his guide from those days - memories that fade more with each passing increment of time. But he remembers the distrust. The sinking feeling that he could not be sure of his guide's intentions.

He now wishes he had held the same level of discernment when Sleep itself offered him its bargain: loyal, unending devotion in exchange for everything Vessel could ever want.

At least, everything he thought he wanted.

Now, however, his wants directly contradict those of Sleep. This becomes glaringly obvious the next time Sleep bonds with his mind, after several minutes of silence has passed.

Leave her. Two requires your presence.

Vessel pauses, doing his best to come up with some sort of excuse to not leave his charge while her first vision is still so fresh.

She is in pain. She is still in need of guidance. I can help her along her path if I am closer to her.

The ground rumbles. His best was not enough.

You said you would do anything to keep her safe, did you not? Sleep says. And yet, such a simple task seems to be... too excessive. What a pity.

"No," Vessel blurts out loud as he stands abruptly. He understands the implicit threat in Sleep's words.

The woman makes a questioning sound as she gazes up at him from where she still lay on the ground, eyes bleary and tired.

"I... I apologize," Vessel says as he scrambles to correct his mistake. "Sleep has summoned me. I must take my leave, just for a moment."

She makes another sound, a mixture of resignation and disappointment. Vessel quickly kneels next to her, placing another hand on her head.

"I will return. You have my word."

Her eyes close, a miniscule nod moving her body.

Leave her, my vessel.

This time, Sleep's command leaves no room for disagreement, and Vessel turns towards the inky ether.

He moves quickly, bonding with his fellow vessel's mind to discern his location amongst the monotony. II is not difficult to find - Vessel typically only needs to follow the sound of snares and cymbals.

But this time, it seems that II is not in the middle of his usual activity, but rather he is resting beneath the same red tree adorned with ribbons that Vessel had brought his visitor to not long ago.

"You asked for me," Vessel says.

II jolts, almost as if Vessel must have woken him. But then again... why would II summon him if he were asleep?

"What do you mean?" II asks when he fully wakes.

"Sleep informed me that you requested my presence. It seemed urgent."

II pauses, staring Vessel up and down before carefully choosing his next words.

"I... don't recall asking for you, Vessel."

He feels a familiar sense of rage begin to simmer low in his body. But before he gets the chance to process or act on the feeling, a shrill scream echoes through the atmosphere.

Vessel knows the regular sounds of Sleep's world intimately. He can pinpoint the source each shuffle, grunt, groan, and melody. But this shocks him.

The scream does not sound like any of Sleep's creatures.

But if it does not belong to any of the domain's inhabitants, then that means -

"Vessel, don't-"

He does not allow II to finish his warning as he breaks into a dead sprint through the fog.

[overtaken-stream]

Love, Lust, Lick

Izou x Gn!Reader

Published this on AO3 a while back, but I decided I should post this here too bc I love this man with all my heart and he deserves more recognition <3

Warnings: blowjob, established relationship(I have no clue), hair pulling

Your body shook as though your legs had been frozen and a bolt of lightning had struck your body from head to toe, numb knees bent in a way that makes the pain return every minute your subconscious returns to reality, the depths of your eyelids fog your mind, becoming the past and the present. Through the dank room, the cold of the wooden walls and the outside world have long since passed, instead being replaced by the heat your fervour has conveyed from your nether regions.

The soft lighting coming from the window was your only gateway from the darkness of his slumbering cabin, it makes sense you would want to enjoy the view you so rarely get. The stars innocently shone behind his shadowed face, silky hair coming down in long strands to rest on his shoulders as he tilted his head back, lips part, and released the hot air from his lungs. You could only imagine the view from the top, for the time being, you bask in his pelvis, trying your best to take all of him in, it's hard to get your point across with your tongue slowly going up to his tip, leaving trails of saliva behind on the bulging vein underneath, you note how he shivers from the sudden release and air contact. You hold him at the base, sliding up and down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks you can feel him throbbing between your lips, throat, and the tongue it's resting on, it causes tears to gather and latch onto your eyelashes, it causes you to go harder and faster, just the way he likes it.

Quiet hums stimulate him as the drool seeps out around your stretched jaws and continues its way down to his balls.

His head looks down at your sitting form, his scar over his right eye nowhere to be seen in the shade, half-lidded brown eyes are shining in stimulation you're giving him, he's weary, sleepy but his fatigue can wait. He puts his weight onto his left hand that's on the window stool and gets his sweaty, numb right hand to land on your retreating head. Tilting it back to stare at your glassy eyes. You've always been breathtaking, but looking at your shimmers that are like the sun's rays enchant him and capture his worn-out gaze, though, unlike the sun, he can stare at you all day; look at your face as you flash your toothy smile, listen to your ramblings and hold the precious eye contact as long as he possibly can before you (and him) disappear in your assigned duties, he promised himself to live without remorses, but as he spends more time with you, the more he thinks of the time, more the doubts dictate his thoughts, that he should be spending more time with you. When he knows it's impossible, not to mention inappropriate.

But he needs you, the never-ending thirst for the water which only you hold in the desert that is his mentality craves so impossibly further for you, his heart longs for your warm hands to touch his chest, in the past he has already become one with you, his and your heart, beat to the shared rhythm of reach. (He needs more of you.)

There's spit connecting your bottom lip to his shaft, glimmering in the light before it snaps and lands someplace below where the light doesn't reach. His palm is slipping on the sweat on your forehead, yet he continues to rub his thumb on your glabella. The quiet- yet heavy breathing of your disheveled figure limits the entire world to only you. Only your glazed-over eyes and swollen lips exist in his sight, he feels only your torso press against his legs, only your hands grasping the back of his knees as he sets his eyes on the forgotten (not by you, but by him) and stiff penis, he is surprised by the swollen look of it, flush overcomes his face from the angry red color the tip took, it screams at him to put your head back to work, however before he can advance the cold breeze over his urethra startles him, getting a hiss out of his mouth before he bites down on his bottom lip devoid of his signature lipstick, his furrowed brows get a sly and small, giggle from you that got cut off by him whispering cuss words at the empty space, he doesn't let go of your head, instead his long fingers become tangled in your hair as you lower yourself to kiss the place where his shaft begins and the sack ends. Your hands travel upward as you continue to circle his dick in kisses, they rest near his hips and the stool.

You take in the view, his hand, weak and powerless, rests in your hair as the line of his abs stands out, they flex as he bares himself fully for your sake. You want to, but don't dwell on the sight much., you're too caught up...

The moment a wet cavern engulfs him, he closes his eyes, tilts his head back, he grasps your hair tight in his hand as his cock manages to grow. He starts slowly thrusting and grinding his hips as you deepthroat him, slobbering at the musky scent of his manhood and looking up at him to meet his sweaty body, the muscles hidden from the view now stand proud with droplets of salty liquid dripping off of him, decorating his naked body with moving jewels.

The tears finally slip out of your eyes as he thrusts too sharply, holding onto your hair tighter than ever as he triggers your gag reflex, saliva floods your mouth as the muffled choking sounds intensify.

Only now has he realized just how much he wanted to reach his climax, after who knows how many edging sessions from you, he finally lets go of himself. Draping the intoxicating arousal all around himself and drowning in it.

``fuck... (Y-Y/N)-hah...-`` he moans. With more lubricant you move faster, up and down, up and down, you want to drag and catch more noises out of him. Dirty groans, mewls... loud exhales... Anything.

His simultaneous thrusts only spur you on. It excites you as he lets go of the self-control and roughly manages your head with his hand, you try desperately to clutch yourself around his shaft, to lick it from the bottom up, his gruffs of pleasure the only fuel you'll need to complete the mission: taste his essence.

At the height of his climax, his strong hand hits against the back of your head, sharply thrusting up, pushing you against his neatly trimmed pubes.

"hah... Yeah... That's it... That's... Ah...♡"

You suck and massage, run your tongue over his tip, and as his hand stutters, you take advantage of the slip-up, forcefully making your head gently travel up over his base, teeth grazing against his rounded edges, you take in the sight of slobber all around his pelvis area. You can feel it pulsing in your mouth as you carefully squeeze your teeth and take it to the bottom where your nose meets his dark pubes once again. Faint noises escape your teeth, noises you're sure he can feel. Just a little more and...

There.

The surprised moan and the twitching are the only warnings you get as he exhales, his long lashes closed and eyebrows creased, he cums. The salty taste quickly spreads onto your tastebuds. You swallow drops of it, trying to contain it until the man himself interrupts.

Izou with his eyes rolled back into his head, roughly leans your head back, pulling out of your warmth and pumping his penis right in your face as the translucent liquid smears on your lips and nose, his brown eyes meet yours once again as you run your hands under his testicles, the liquid lands on your cheeks, stained with dried-up tears.

Flicking your tongue on his yet-to-soften cock you hold his gaze as you go down on him to finally lick his shaft clean of any fluid in peace, tracing and mapping out the bulging veins in the process (the process you've done for quite some time now, but a little studying has never hurt anybody).

His breathy giggle and a smirk are worth the filth.

He doesn't need to say anything, pregnant pause turns into comfortable silence as he tucks your hair strand behind your ear, gently taking your face in both of his hands. He brings your face forward.

In the silent night, the whisper of "I ♡ you" is a sign of end of your time with him.

He tastes himself on your salty lips, and wishes for more time.

(You taste the erased lipstick and only lick the sweet aftertaste away, from deep in your heart, the greed grows.)

[agent-cupcake]

Flashbang

Chapter 7 - Look Up, Look Up

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: While you're trying and failing to deal with everything that's happened, it becomes increasingly obvious that running away wasn't as simple as you hoped. Captain Buggy takes this personally.

Warnings: Explicit smut, discussions of pregnancy/fertility, dub/noncon, unhealthy relationship

Word Count: 10.8k

Notes: This story is now just full time horny and the mental health of those involved probably won't get much better. See you next Sunday~

“There's something deep inside of me

It lingers and it presses hard

A tidal wave that never catches breath

The end is just the start

And now I don't know what to do”

xxx

Groggy and sore, your head spinning and filled with uncomfortable fog from the drug last night, you stood in the bathroom off Captain Buggy’s cabin, shivering in the thin sheath of a blanket taken from his bed. You had cleaned yourself up as best as you could, but there was nothing to do about the marks littering your skin, the soreness between your legs, or the ugly little bruise on your cheek from where your would-be kidnapper hit you. You washed your face clean of makeup—Buggy’s and yours—leaving you with a pair of splotchy cheeks and a set of unappealing mismatched eyes. One of them was tired, rimmed in red with flakes of mascara clinging to the lashes. The other was… Well, it was what it was.

Dad told you that you should have been grateful for the injury, that you were lucky to be alive at all. Being mildly deformed was nothing compared to what might have happened if you were nearer to the explosion. But your luck was a scar that started about an inch above your left eyebrow and ended two or so inches below the eye. That had been a nasty gash on its own, but there was also the burn. Covering the top of your cheekbone up to right beneath your brow, the skin crackled in shades of sickly burgundy, damaged enough that only part of your eyebrow grew, very few lashes clinging to the ruined lids. The burn as well as the stitches dad had put into your eyelid limited your ability to close the eye, leaving the milky film of your cornea exposed. 

It wasn’t without reason that you were called a freak. People saw your eye and winced with phantom pain, thinking how grateful they were that it wasn’t their face that had been ruined. They had sympathy and pity, sure, but you understood the underlying emotions were relief and discomfort. Even dad insisted you cover your eye; he couldn’t stand looking at it. Nobody could.

Except for Buggy, but thinking about him didn’t do anything to help your miserable ruminations.  

Bracing one hand on the sink, your heavy head swung down and you stared at the faded porcelain instead. Last night, you vomited and screamed and cried and cried and cried, the grief and pain and self loathing and fear so strong that emotion threatened to overcome you like a tidal wave. Now, the tears didn’t come. You weren’t some sort of victim in all of this, you had to face the facts. 

Fact: Dad was still trying to get you back and the only way you could think to explain how he was doing that was to admit you lied to Captain Buggy. Fact: You were never never going to be free of him, not really. Fact: Last night you got high and threw yourself at the captain, and now you were the whore everybody thought you were. 

God. 

You peeked up at your face in the mirror, searching for the missing part of yourself that physically represented your virtue. That’s what people said. You lost your virginity. You were different now. You felt different, but you didn’t know what you were looking for. Or, rather, what you weren’t looking for. That made no sense, did it? 

Disgusted by your nudity beneath the blanket, you left the bathroom. Moving made you realize how heavy your head felt, how foggy. There was a pinched, sour feeling in your throat, like when you got sick. By now, sunshine formed a bright frame around the blinds covering his windows, but his room was freezing. 

Shivering, you looked around for your clothes, spotting your shorts and jacket on the floor. You had a feeling your shirt was tangled up somewhere amidst Buggy’s bedding. That was a bit of a problem considering Captain Buggy was also tangled up in the bedding. You didn’t want to wake him up. You weren’t sure you could handle facing him right then.

While you were deliberating what to do, cold and confused and miserable, Buggy opened one eye to give you a disgruntled look. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. You hadn’t taken off his makeup last night, adding to his groggy, unkempt demeanor. 

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, unable to look him in the face. “I’m sorry, Captain Buggy. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

He groaned, blinking over and over again in an attempt to orient himself. “Shit. You kept me up too late.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Buggy sighed, opening his eyes all the way to look you up and down. You didn’t see him detach his hand, although you spotted his little smile a second before the blanket was torn out of your hands, leaving you naked. You squealed in surprise, nearly falling over as you tried to cover yourself, prickling chills covering every inch of your skin.

He laughed, reattaching his hand and using it to prop up his head. “You know, if this was how you woke me up every morning, I might be more of an early riser.” 

“Cap-tain, it’sss c-cold,” you said, shivering hard enough to distort your voice. 

“Then get back in bed,” he said.

You frowned, hesitating. “I-I was going to-to go geh-get breakfast.”

Buggy groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Aren’t we past this whole,” he gestured vaguely to you, “coy… schtick? Cut the bullshit and come here, it’s fuckin’ freezing.”

He was right about that at least. Although your hesitation held for a second more, the cold and unsteady dizziness was too potent for you to think of any argument, timidly approaching the bed with an awkward hunch to try and cover your nudity. Buggy obliged with a self-satisfied smile, raising the edge of the blanket for you to slip under the covers and rolling onto his back to make room. There was no graceful way you could think of to join him, but Buggy didn’t let you waste time trying to figure out a natural way to huddle beneath the blanket, pulling you against him regardless of your intentions to keep some space between you. Laying on your side, your head resting against his chest, allowed you some modesty, but every place where your bare flesh met his seared, practically sizzling. 

“Shit,” Buggy exclaimed, “you’re like a little ice cube.” 

“I’m always cold,” you muttered, trying not to shiver at the feeling of his warm hands smoothing over your chills. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Buggy said with a little laugh. “The first night when you slept in here, you were like a little heat vampire. I couldn’t keep you off of me.”

“Really?” you asked, taken aback. “I don’t… don’t really remember.” 

“Of course you don’t, you were completely shitfaced. It was hilarious. Who’d’ve thunk that somebody so repressed and stiff would be such a horny drunk? You are so lucky I’m not some weirdo pervert who’d take advantage of a girl in such a precarious position.” He hesitated before adding, “Well, there was that one thing, but it’s not a big deal, especially now that I know you wanted it anyway.”

“What?”

“Before you get all upset, I didn’t actually touch you. I mean, I had to a little to get you in here and then to get you to settle down, but it wasn’t weird,” Buggy explained. “Trust me, you were begging for a lot more than what I was comfortable with. But then I needed to let out a little steam after all of your teasing, and, hey, if just looking at somebody was a crime, you would be the one with a massive bounty, not me. I bet you masturbate thinking about me every night after you leave.”

“I don’t,” you said, frowning. “I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Buggy said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Innocent little virgin. I bet you don’t know how to make yourself come.”

“I-I…” You forced yourself to not get tripped up by the heat of embarrassment, letting out a big breath. “It’s fine. Just… Did I do anything else that night?” 

“Nah, you passed out pretty quick.” 

“Do you know what I did with my dress? I’ve never been able to find it.”

“Dress?” Buggy repeated, his eyebrows furrowing. Realization hit him a moment later. “Oh! Yeah, right. To be clear, you wanted to take it off. It was ruined anyway ‘cause of the blood so I didn’t think it was a big deal if I used it to clean things up after. Barely any of it got on you anyway, but then I started to get a little worried you’d be embarrassed about what happened, especially if you couldn’t remember anything, so I ditched it out the window.” 

“Oh,” you said stupidly, your skin crawling. “I… Um…” You cleared your throat, hiding your face with your cheek against his chest, trying to stifle the discomfort you felt. 

It didn’t matter, it wasn’t as if you could remember, and you believed him when he said he didn’t do anything else. But it meant that you had instigated a sexual dynamic at the start. Compared to what you did willingly, knowingly, you didn’t think you could reasonably be upset, but the idea that anything like that happened when you couldn’t remember was still unsettling.

“I’m sorry I… For acting that way,” you finally said, looking up at him. 

“Don’t worry about it, babydoll. I’m not mad or anything. I guess I got a little irritated that you were being such a tease after showing me how you really felt that first night, but it worked out just fine, huh?” His eyes dragged down, lingering on the bite marks he’d left on your neck. He licked his lips. “Hey, come up here.” 

“What?” you asked. 

He huffed. “What do you mean ‘what’? Get up here,” Buggy said as he sat up, grabbing your waist to haul you up to him regardless of your nervous squirming. You choked out an objection when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, but that shuddered out into a breathy sigh. His mouth was warm and soft, a contrast to the rough sandpaper of his stubble. The sensation of his nose against your skin was odd, maybe because even still you didn’t expect the texture to be so human. 

You didn’t want to respond to his touch, you didn’t want to enjoy being touched—you weren’t allowed to enjoy that—but it was like trying not to feel pain. You were utterly unable to ignore the pleasure that made your sore pussy tighten anxiously, the muscles aching for more than one reason. When he bit you, gently, just enough for the threat of pain, you didn’t mean to whimper, but you did. Your body hadn’t recovered from whatever you took last night, still caught in the haze of that spinning sense of need and languid acceptance of his touch. 

Buggy pulled away with a wet pop, pushing you down onto the bed so he could lean over you and do the same thing to your other nipple, scattering all your thoughts of protest or nerves for what he intended because of how electrifyingly good it felt. 

Using that distraction, his hand delved between your legs, two fingers pushing between your folds to curl against your entrance. The surprising sensation—was it pleasure? You couldn’t tell, it was too sensitive, too raw, too sore—made your back arch up dramatically, Buggy had to release your nipple and sit up. 

“Fuck, babydoll,” Buggy said breathlessly, casually pulling his fingers up to rub against your clit. They slid easily over the sensitive flesh, coated in your own slick arousal. “Now you’ve got me all wound up.” You tried to squeeze your legs shut around his hand. All it did was trap him in place, casually rubbing against your clit in a way that had your hips jumping in spite of yourself.  

“I’m sorry,” you said hoarsely. 

“You should be. I won’t be able to get any work done today if I don’t take care of this now.”

“What d’you mean?” you asked, although you felt like you knew. 

Buggy pulled his hand out from between your legs, grabbing your wrist and dragging it beneath the blankets. You knew what he was doing, although you still felt an odd zing of surprise when he put your hand around his cock. His breath was hot on your ear when he let out a shaky groan, his hips shifting impatiently, pushing into your touch. Knowing that it had been inside of you was almost surreal. Somehow, it felt harder than you might have expected. Warmer too.

He closed your fingers around his cock before his hand pushed back between your legs, two fingers sliding knuckle deep into your pussy. Buggy ate your little whine, pulling you into a kiss that was all hot breath and tongue and distraction while his fingers pressed a little deeper, his hips pushing his dick into your hand for more friction. It surprised you to feel his cock twitch in your hand, it made your breath catch. Dread, of all things, crawled up your throat like acid. There was a raw ache inside of you, an uncomfortable and unnatural pinch when your pussy unconsciously squeezed his fingers.   

“Captain Buggy,” you said, breaking the kiss to catch your breath. “I’m… I’m really sore.”

“You’re really wet,” he said, chasing your lips with his own, drawing you into another kiss.

To prove his point, his fingers pressed deeper into your cunt, hooking and rubbing at your fluttery walls and you couldn’t help but writhe against him, pulling back with a whimper. “Please, Captain Buggy, I…” 

He groaned, leaning back. “Do you ever stop whining? It’s not like you have to do anything. Just lay down, hold on, and let Captain Buggy take care of you like I always do.”

Your heart sank. It wasn’t like you were whining for no reason, you were sore, surely he could understand that? Or be sympathetic to it? You wanted to try and explain, but the words weren’t there in your cloudy, dizzy head, at least not in any sensical arrangement. You couldn’t think hardly at all underneath the spotlight of his eyes.   

“I’m sorry,” you told him, your stomach twisting into knots. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

Buggy looked at your pouty lower lip, his gaze rising to meet your wet eye, and his expression softened. “Aw, babydoll. It won’t hurt if you just relax a little,” he told you as he sat up, tossing away the blankets and raising your leg to duck underneath it. “You really gotta trust me about this shit. Unlike you, I know what I’m doing. Besides, I got you through your maiden voyage, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, not registering his playful tone until after your automatic response.

Last night, you had been completely under the influence during this part, but now you were stiff and overly aware of your breathing, of the crawling discomfort of being exposed, of what your body might have looked like to him. The surreal rush was no less intense, but now it was chased by the harsh bite of reality.  

You expected him to immediately start lining up his cock, but instead Buggy grabbed your legs and pushed them all the way to your chest, forcing your back to curl. You saw him gather the saliva in his mouth, but it wasn’t until he spat directly onto your pussy that you understood why. You winced with a disgusted sort of humiliation, trying to wriggle away when he pushed the saliva directly into you with two fingers, mixing it with your own arousal.

“Why did you do that?” you asked, your face hot.

Buggy lowered your legs, smirking instead of answering. You covered your flushing cheeks with both hands to hide your embarrassment. At least Buggy didn’t draw out your humiliation, pulling you down to line up the head of his dick with your pussy. You gasped at the feeling, bracing yourself before trying to relax, fighting your body’s instinct to protect itself. 

It took a few targeted thrusts to make it catch, and then some effort to force the head past the initial resistance, but as soon as the head popped in, he groaned, practically falling on top of you. “God, you’re tight. Frankly, it’s a little shocking I can get it in at all,” Buggy said in a strained voice, slowly pushing his cock into you with shallow, rocking thrusts. 

You were glad he pressed his face into the pillow rather than look at you because it did hurt, even if he rolled his hips in little bursts, slowly easing you into it. You made a little sound in the back of your throat, pulling your legs up to make it easier, trying to relax. Buggy’s breath hitched as he pulled out, and then back in. Slow and gentle.

There was still the part of your mind that wanted to play the martyr. To shut it all out, to take no pleasure in what you knew was wrong. The lapping tide of intoxication threatened to pull you back under into the heavy waves of misty bliss, your body too worn out and mind too frayed to properly fight your reaction. And if you weren’t turned on by the physical stimulation of his cock grinding into you, entering in a way that made your hips jump and pussy spasm around him, then it would be because of the feeling of Buggy’s body above yours. The way the muscles of his back worked and moved with each thrust, the sounds he made. His sounds of pleasure—pleasure because of you. 

Even if it hurt and it was wrong and even if you hated yourself for it, you couldn’t help but feel the tightening in your core, the trembling sort of heat that made you writhe beneath him, your hips restlessly tilting to meet each lazy, shallow thrust. 

Until you heard something from the other room. 

You stiffened up, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “Captain, I—I think… I think someone’s knocking,” you said. 

“Ignore it,” Buggy told you, his voice labored. 

But the knocking didn’t stop, and then you heard the door open. “Captain Buggy?” Cabaji called into the room. “Are you awake?” 

You tensed up at that interruption, your cunt unintentionally squeezing his cock. In response, Buggy’s fingers dug painfully into your thigh, his groan muffled into the pillow. You pushed at him, panicking, but he didn’t budge. Finally, he lifted his head and braced himself on his elbow, looking annoyed. 

“What do you want?” Buggy shouted, his grip on you just as tight, his cock remaining halfway inside of you.

“Mohji took command of the other ship, but it’s damaged.” Footsteps from the other room made you think Cabaji was coming closer, and you pushed more insistently at Buggy, disgusted fear of being seen like this seizing your chest. “He’s taking it to the nearest island, should we follow?” 

You tried again to push him off, unable to stand the constant pressure, the way your pussy kept spasming and squeezing him. Buggy made a sound of irritation, pinning you in place with a harsh thrust that buried his cock deep enough for his skin to slap against your own, eliciting a shrill yelp you didn’t muffle in time. The footsteps stopped. There was absolutely no way to misinterpret what just happened, but you didn’t care as much compared to the discomfort, to the weight of him inside of you.

“I need to finish this up first,” Buggy said, his voice hoarse with strain. “Get my breakfast, I’ll meet you up there…” He looked down at you, licking his lips. “As soon as I’m done.” 

“Yes, of course, sir,” Cabaji said, quickly retreating. 

The second the door closed, Buggy was laughing. “You did all this whining about how you’re sore, but got too impatient to even wait for Cabaji to leave.”

“That was you!”  

“Nuh-uh, that was aaaall your fault,” Buggy said, rolling his hips experimentally. Your body jerked anxiously, your pussy spasming around his dick. The raw ripping sort of sensation wasn’t made better by the fresh wave of arousal that smoothed out his movements. “Don’t get too upset, the sound you made was so squeaky and pathetic he might have mistaken it for something else.”

You whined helplessly, your back arching and nails digging into his shoulders. 

“That’s exactly my point. Squeaky hinges, rats in the walls… Ship stuff,” Buggy said, the last word coming out with a heavy grunt as he dragged you back into place, his hips meeting you halfway so he could slam his cock into you. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, but all that did was make Buggy moan. 

“Captain Buggy, please, it hurts.”

“If you hadn’t wasted so much time earlier complaining, we’d already be done,” he told you. “Just hold on, honeybuns. I’ll make it up to you later.” 

Nothing. And then awareness. And then confusion as a million memories played out all at once, none of them quite right, none of them truly belonging to you. But the state of unconsciousness was familiar in its own way, recognition of its daze independent of your own understanding. That is to say that, at this point, you were familiar with what it felt like to wake up after passing out, unpleasant as it was.

“Don’t panic,” somebody said, the words slowly filtering through your brain until you could comprehend them, reality slotting into place. “You fainted, but you’re alright.”

Your eye fluttered open, slowly focusing on the face above you. 

“Crina?” 

“Good morning,” she said with a wry smile. 

You grunted, getting your elbows beneath yourself to sit up. It wasn’t surprising to realize that you were in her clinic. The smell would have given it away, followed up directly by the uncomfortable surface of the table bed you were laying on. 

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

Groaning, you laid back down. “I was…” You rubbed your eye, trying to shake your head clear of the fog. 

“You collapsed in the passageway,” she prompted. “You were nearly trampled.” 

That’s right, you had been looking for a quiet place to be alone because you were very upset. Very, very upset. After everything, every little awful thing, it was the realization that Pippa had left with the other ship that set you off fully. Already you could feel the rising tide of breathless despair as it all hit you again. 

“Rest,” Crina told you. 

“I’m okay,” you said, gritting your teeth and getting an arm beneath yourself. Moving immediately disproved your reassurance, the painful spinning of your head nearly knocking you right back down. Soreness throbbed between your legs, like you’d pulled a muscle you weren’t even aware of. The drug from last night lingered like smoke in your thoughts. In addition to the bruise on your cheek, your spine ached in several places from hitting the deck when the man dropped you. Separately, any one of those things would have left you weak. It was no wonder you fainted. “I just got really dizzy and…” You shook your head, although that did nothing to dislodge the cottony confusion that laid behind your temple, or to pierce the bubble of tumultuous emotion swelling in your chest. “I’m fine.”

“Did you drink last night?” 

“No, no I…” You breathed in, trying to sort your thoughts. “I was, um, upset and so Captain Buggy gave me… I think it-it was an opiate, like my dad used to give me. Just so I could calm down. He was helping me, and I wanted it, but today it feels like��� Like having a hangover, but heavier. I didn’t sleep much either, so that’s probably why I… I’m tired is all.”

“This should still help,” Crina told you, holding out a cup of water. 

You eyed it warily, your stomach churning at the idea of accepting anything. “No, thank you.” 

Her lips pursed, but she set it aside, returning to her workbench. Various vials and herbs littered the surface. It looked like she was preparing something that smelled very strongly of antiseptic, but also other things. Crina’s medicine was never as astringently assaulting as the types your dad used. The water she had boiling—boiling bandages, perhaps?—had a comfortable sound, warming the room. 

“What are you doing?” you asked her, grasping for something to ground yourself.

“My job,” she responded wryly. “Pirates fight recklessly, even an overwhelming victory means wounds to tend.” 

You nodded.

“My first medical training was as a midwife,” Crina suddenly said, grabbing a fresh cutting board and quickly chopping up what you recognized as ginger. “My mother taught me, and her mother taught her. I helped deliver several babies before I was old enough to conceive one myself.” 

In so many ways, Crina was an enigma to you. Hearing her volunteer personal information so randomly, so abruptly caught you off guard. “A hospital hired you when you were a kid?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing. 

“No hospital,” she said with a trace of amusement at the idea, setting aside the knife and sweeping the chopped spice into a kettle which quickly replaced the pot on the stove. “Our community was small and poor. Even if we could afford doctors, we couldn’t trust strangers to safely care for our mothers, daughters, and sisters—and we certainly couldn’t trust them with our babies.” 

“Why did you become a pirate?”

“I had few other options,” Crina said, crushing up an herb in a mortar and pestle. “I left my village and sought education as a surgeon when I was old enough to do so, but the medical community thought I was… difficult, to say the least.” She smiled to herself. “It was a mutual feeling. So stuck on the rigid path of modernity that they reject anything they deem to be outdated. I left school with the proper training and debt, but none of the credentials.”

“Why didn’t you go back to your village?” 

“There wasn’t much to go back to,” Crina said brusquely. “Poverty is as wicked as any plague.”

“I’m so sorry,” you told her. 

“I do not mourn what was, I can only be grateful for what I was given,” Crina said, washing the herbs with a liquid to continue mixing. By now, the smell of ginger was getting quite strong. Warm and spicy and alluring. “I believe my upbringing is why I can handle the brutality of this position better than most. I’ve known many men who will readily amputate a crushed limb or set a bone that has broken skin, but balk at the miracle of childbirth. So eager to impregnate, but unable to face the consequences. To them, a woman’s health is unsympathetic. They will never experience the things we must, so they do not care.”

“That’s not true,” you said. 

“Really? You more than anyone should know the truth of it. Your father was not interested in your health, only your dependence. Captain Buggy is not interested in your health, only your service.” Crina looked at you, her smokey dark eyes cutting past any defenses you might have been able to put up. “Can you deny that?”

“I…” You were saved from answering by the squealing kettle, your body jumping in panic at the sudden noise. 

Crina took the kettle off the heat, leaving it to sit. “Women must look out for one another. I think, so far, you’ve taken my questions as accusations and mistrust my aid for fear of mistreatment, but I do want to help you. If not for personal reasons, then because I would risk Captain Buggy’s ire if I were to allow anything to happen to you for my negligence. Do you understand?” 

You swallowed hard, nodding. 

“We need to talk about what happened last night.”

“Nothing,” you answered quickly, bristling. “Nothing happened.”

“I’ve been honest with you, I would appreciate it if you didn’t insult me by lying,” Crina said. 

You met her eye, guilt swelling in your chest. “Captain Buggy and I… We… We slept together.”

“Did he force you to have sex with him?”

“No! Captain Buggy would never, ever do that,” you told her quickly, shocked by the question. 

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, he wouldn’t.” You looked down, biting your lip. “It-it’s normal to be sore after, isn’t it?” 

Crina pursed her lips. “Did you notice any blood?”  

Last night—and even in the morning—you hadn’t been aware of any blood. Everything was so coated with other bodily fluids that you wouldn’t have noticed. But earlier, when you were changing your clothes, you dropped your shorts and saw the mess of cum that had slowly oozed out of you after you left Captain Buggy’s cabin. It wasn’t the normal milky color, but a sickly pink. Dyed by your blood. Since the color was so mild, you didn’t think it was a lot of blood, but the quantity didn’t matter. Pure, clean girls didn’t bleed. And there you stood with a man’s cum and your own blood staining your panties, the reality of what you had done setting in fully.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice choked.

“Was there enough to be worrisome? ” 

“No, there wasn’t that much.” But the amount didn’t matter. Pure, clean girls didn’t bleed.   

“What was happening before you fainted?” 

“I-I started to—to… I couldn’t breathe,” you said haltingly. “It’s hard to think and my head aches and I’m… tired.” 

Ruined, you were ruined. And although everybody was too busy to pay you any mind today—the ship was a flurry of activity after the raid—they would all know soon enough. It was easier to bear the whispers about you and Captain Buggy when you knew it was untrue, but now it wasn’t. Now you were exactly what they said you were. Then you had to think about what happened last night with the man, and your dad, and the entire mess only got worse. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, speaking softly to keep your voice from cracking. 

“Right now, you’re going to drink this,” Crina said. She poured two cups of ginger tea, filling the room with its spicy scent. She added a spoonful of powder and forced the cup into your hand. “It will help.” 

“What’s in it?” you asked weakly.

“Ginger, turmeric, and something to help your head.” 

The steam washed over your face, and that alone was a comfort. Although it was hot, you took a sip. And another. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I-I just… I didn’t think,” you told her after a bit, your voice weak. “I don’t get why…”

Your statement was met with a solid block of silence. For a moment, you thought that she wouldn’t say anything at all. “Think about your situation,” Crina told you. “You have few skills, very little practical value to him other than what could be provided by any other member of the crew. You are here because Captain Buggy enjoys having a toy to play with. Do you think it’s a coincidence that he never uses your name? That he calls you his babydoll?” 

“He never said anything about…about any of that,” you argued. “I thought he wanted me to-to be like… like I was for-” You cut yourself off before finishing that thought. Saying it out loud now, after everything, made a plethora of disturbing implications, but it was the innocent truth, and something to cling to now that your ignorance had come back around to bite you. 

“Your father?” Crina finished for you. “Is that how you see the captain?” 

You wondered what she was thinking, what conclusions she might draw, but you were too afraid to look up and check her expression. You sniffled, taking another drink. The hot spicy mixture of flavors was a balm to your sour, cold insides. If only your mind was as easy to placate.

“I’m going to have to insist on a comprehensive physical exam,” Crina told you. “I need to know if he hurt you more than you’re letting on, and how your father interrupted your menstrual cycle. The methods of preventing it can significantly interfere with your sexual health.”

For a long time, you didn’t say anything. You knew what she meant, and your insides cringed at the very idea, but you didn’t see a way out of it either. Looking up at Crina, she met your eye openly. Stern, a little intimidating, but not cruel. There were so many reasons you were going to hate yourself anyway, what did this matter?

“Okay.”

The ship was the busiest you had ever seen. Most of the loot had been left on the other ship for Mohji to take it to the nearest island to sell, but there was enough left that needed to be cataloged, organized, cleaned, and repaired. Nobody was looking at you. You told yourself that over and over and over again as you looked for Captain Buggy. 

Although Pippa was gone, she’d given you enough to piece together an outfit without her assistance, and Crina had helped you style your hair after she finished her examination. She said that it would help. That it would feel better if you acted like nothing had changed. That you didn’t need to make a big deal out of it. The flowy dress didn’t help you feel much better. Of the things Pippa had lent you, it covered the most skin, but you couldn’t help but cringe at the excessively girlish frills and flow of the fabric as the breeze caught the hems, exposing the bloomers you wore underneath. 

“Hey there, girly,” somebody called, his voice raised above the wind. You squinted at the speaker, your shoulders untensing when you saw it was Marty. You trotted over to him, relieved to see a friendly face.

“I was worried you’d gone with Pippa,” you said. 

He shot you a smile, finishing tying the knot and moving the secure the next. “Nah, Captain Buggy can’t spare me.”

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting a boat ready. The captain mentioned sending a pair of guys to town. Guess there were some things Mr. Mohji forgot.” 

“Oh,” you hesitated, crossing one foot in front of the other. “Um… Marty?”

“Hm?” 

“I think I lost the knife you gave me last night. I’m so sorry.” 

“Did’ya stick someone with it?” 

“I… yes.” 

“Then I don’t want none of your ‘sorrys.’ There are plenty more knives in the world.” 

“Then, um… Thank you.”

“That’ll do,” he allowed, finishing the knot. “Oh, Captain Buggy’s at the helm, if you were lookin’ for him.”

“Thank you,” you said. “Thank you, Marty.” 

He grinned, touching two fingers to his brow in a jaunty send-off. 

You turned towards the quarterdeck, weaving your way around the chaotic crowd.

Buggy stood on the uppermost deck at the helm alongside the helmsman, issuing instructions in his usual manner. He wasn’t wearing his hat or jacket and opted to merely touch up yesterday's makeup rather than redo it entirely.

“Captain Buggy!” you called, but he didn’t hear you. Unsure of how else to get his attention, you ascended the stairs. 

Buggy happened glance in your direction, doing a double take. “What are you doing?” he barked.

“I just, um, I… I was wondering if you were going to break for lunch.” 

“What?” he asked, his face scrunching.

“I was wondering if you were going to take a break,” you repeated, raising your voice. He seemed to hear you this time, walking around the helmsman to approach. There was no shame to the way he looked you up and down. It felt hungrier than usual, or maybe that was just your discomfort.

“That’s cute,” Buggy told you, grabbing the skirt and pulling you closer. “Though I’m not sure white’s your color anymore.” 

Your heart dropped. “Yeah, I-I guess not,” you muttered.

“So what was this about a break? I’m awful busy, kiddo. Some of us have real jobs to do.”

“It’s lunchtime, Captain Buggy.”

“Really?” Buggy asked, raising his eyebrows in shock. “Okay, fine. Take it to my office and wait for me.” 

“Yes, sir.”

He turned away to issue orders to the helmsman, and you retraced your steps to go down to the galley. The soreness between your legs wasn’t as noticeable, but you could still sense it. A weight, an understanding. You knew now what it was like to have something inside of you. Fullness, and absence. 

The trip up from the kitchen was uneventful. You were getting used to navigating the ship. Everybody was busy, far too busy to bother with you.  

Buggy was not in his office when you set up his lunch. You didn’t dare eat without him, so you sat in your chair and folded your hands in your lap and waited.

You stared at the off-white fabric of your dress, rubbing it with your thumb. It reminded you of something you had nearly forgotten—a doll you once had. Her frilly pinafore was made of the same type of fabric. You could remember her perfect round cheeks, her bow-like mouth, and those beautiful, round blue glass eyes. She only had one pink dress, but three pinafores and two pairs of shoes. 

Crina said that the sex hadn’t hurt you, that it wasn’t uncommon for there to be some blood. She said that you weren’t fertile right now. She said that, based on her experience with women like you, even if you did become pregnant one day, you likely would not carry a healthy child to term. 

The doll’s name had been something silly. You couldn’t remember it. Blossom? Rose? Even though she was a baby, you always called her sister. Your little baby sister. In hindsight, maybe you already understood that you weren’t the motherly type.  

Having a child wasn’t a reality you’d ever seriously considered. When you thought of your own mother, you thought of her sitting at the window. Always turned away, always so sad, so sharp. You understood, although you hadn’t when you were a child, that she was an unhappy woman. Hysteria was one of the few things the two of you had in common. Such was the magnitude of her pain that it outlived her—it echoed within you, within her memory. And when you thought about that, it was hard to blame her. It was hard to feel anything other than grief. There were moments, little treasures you kept buried deep within yourself. Even as a young child, you had been sickly. If there was any sort of illness to be caught, you would be the one to catch it. You remembered a long, cold night all alone in your room. It was a cough. The thick, broken glass type that had you hacking up globs of blood and yellow phlegm. And then mom was there. She emerged from the dark like a beautiful angel, petting your sweaty hair and spooning medicine into your mouth and singing a lullaby. 

Had the doll been named Cherry? You couldn’t remember what became of her. In all likelihood, she was one of the many girlish things you gave up when dad began taking you along on his ship.

“There was a girl most fair whom I happened to meet

Late in my room one night trading tricks for a treat   

I almost turned down this girl so sweet 

Because, as you see, she was quite petite-”

The door into Buggy’s office opened behind you, his raucous singing getting louder. You were only half listening, coming out of your daze as if waking up. 

“Even with some spit                                

I worried that something might split

But it turned out to be a perfect fit—

“Oh, hey there, babydoll,” Buggy said as he passed you to sit down. “What’dya think of my new song?”

You blinked, sitting up and focusing on him. “It was good, Captain Buggy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, dropping into his chair. “Sing it back to me then.” You frowned, realizing he was calling your bluff. Buggy sighed dramatically. “You really need to get better at the whole listening thing.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I guess I got a little lost in thought.”

He pulled the lid off his tray to immediately start eating. “What were you thinkin’ about?” 

“I was… Um… Nothing important, sir,” you said. Although you weren’t very hungry—your stomach lingered on the verge of unsettled and outright angry—you started eating too. 

“It’s embarrassing, isn’t it,” Buggy said with a lopsided smile, an interesting expression when his cheeks were stuffed full. 

“No! Not… not really.”

“There’s no point in hiding it,” Buggy said. “There’s nothing I didn’t see last night.”

“It’s not like that,” you insisted, flushing hotly. “But it is silly, I was just thinking about stuff from when I was a kid.” You shrugged, shoving a spoonful of stew into your mouth.

Buggy pulled a face. “Why?” 

“I don’t know, I just remembered something.” 

You could read the disinterest on his face, so you dropped it, focusing on eating. You had to force yourself, methodically taking bites while you contemplated how you were going to tell him about last night, and how you would answer his questions. It was inevitable that you would have to reveal how you lied to him, and the thought alone was enough to make you queasy, your hands shaking and slick with a cold sweat. 

“Captain Buggy? I was wondering if-if we could talk?” you said when he was more or less finished. Almost immediately, you regretted speaking, backing down. “But, um, I know you’re busy today so if you can’t spare the time right now, that’s fine, I just-”

“Spit it out,” Buggy said impatiently, cutting you off. 

You looked up and met his eye and felt all of your fragile confidence shatter. 

“Why do you never use my name?” you asked instead. “My-my real name, I mean.” 

“Your real name?” Buggy repeated. “You mean the name your shitstain of a dad gave you?” He let that incredulous question linger as if baiting you to say yes. Eventually, you nodded timidly. “That’s not you. That’s the girl you used to be. She was pathetic and sad. I don’t want her.” His eyes tracked you up and down, softening his expression. “I want my babydoll. Besides, it suits you way better.” He considered that for a second. “Maybe that should be your thing—an animated doll who desperately longs to be a real girl.” 

“If that’s what you… what you think is best,” you said, the words somewhat distant. You weren’t sure what to think, how to feel about his explanation. 

“Come over here,” Buggy said after a moment, pushing out from his desk and motioning you towards him. You looked up, the question ‘why’ already formed on your lips, but that was the wrong response.  

So you dutifully stood up, smoothed your skirt, and circled his desk. It seemed so impossible that you had been in the same position yesterday, only twenty-four hours ago. Everything was different then, the entire world centered upon a different axis. 

Buggy grabbed your hips, tugging you closer. “Are you still sore?” he asked, smirking. 

“A little,” you said, squeezing your thighs together. “Crina said that’s not-not unusual.” 

“‘Cause you were a virgin?”

You swallowed hard, unable to meet his eye. “Captain Buggy, this is… really embarrassing.” 

“Or is it ‘cause you’re so small? That’d explain a lot. I’m still shocked I got it in.” His hand left your hip to press against your abdomen instead, dragging down. 

Your insides clenched hard in response, reminding you of the sharp ache and making you gasp. Buggy obviously caught the noise, his eyes flicking back up to your face.

“Shit, that’s hot.” 

You froze. “Sir?” 

“You’re wearing shorts?” Buggy asked. He didn’t wait for your response, lifting up your skirt to see the bloomers beneath. The sight of them made him scowl, immediately tugging them down to reveal your significantly less cute underwear. He didn’t seem to care, shoving the bloomers down to your ankles while you squirmed, wanting to push him away but knowing you couldn’t. 

“Sheesh, calm down,” he told you, letting your skirt fall. “I’m trying to help you out a little.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “You’re busy and I-I wouldn’t want to, um...” 

“It’s not like it’s gonna take very long,” Buggy said. He leaned back into his chair, using his grip on your hips to turn you around and sit you on his lap. You nearly fell over, your ankles tangled in the bloomers. “I bet I can get you off over your panties.”  

“You really… You don’t have to,” you said again. Your breathing came out unsteadily and you couldn’t stop squirming around, unable to get comfortable.

“Pay attention, Professor Buggy’s gonna teach you how to make yourself come,” he said, looking at you over your shoulder, his nose brushing your cheek when he turned his head. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t want to look down at his hands, so you just squeezed your eye shut. 

“Captain Buggy, I… I don’t need to know… I’m fine.”

“Your fingers are way too small to fuck yourself with, but that’s okay,” Buggy said, tightening his hold around your waist, keeping you in place while his other hand crawled beneath your dress, the fabric of his gloves rough against your skin. When you tried to press your thighs together to stop him, Buggy hooked your ankles with his own, prying your legs open. He laughed at your helpless whimper.

When his hand reached your clothed pussy, you jolted with the little strike of electricity. The way your inner walls squeezed around nothing hurt, but there was more to the feeling. You wanted to hide, to escape, but there was nowhere to go. 

“You know, it’s weird,” Buggy said, sliding his gloved fingers up and down, pushing the fabric of your panties between your folds, pushing his way in between to focus on your clit, “usually I wouldn’t go for this sort of thing, but the way you react is so funny. Most people have an instinctive take on how they’re supposed to act, but here you are. Somebody’d think I was torturing you even though it’s obvious you fuckin’ love it. You know what it reeks of, sweetheart? Other than fish, I mean.” 

You weren’t sure if he was looking for an answer or not, but even if you had one, it would have fled your mind the second he began to put more pressure against your clit. Blood rushed between your legs and the more your clit swelled beneath his touch, the more targeted he was.

“Damage,” Buggy supplied for you. “A whole lot of it.”

“Captain Buggy, please,” you begged. You didn’t know what you were asking for, just that those were the only words you could think to say when he had your body immobilized, when you couldn’t stop your hips from tilting up for him, your hands seeking purchase in the fabric of your skirt as the only anchor. 

“You’re so pathetic.” When Buggy pulled his hand out from between your legs, you mourned the loss, letting out a broken whimper. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I wouldn’t leave you hanging before the finale,” he reassured you, his voice dripping condescension. 

You opened your eye just in time to watch him spit onto his fingers, leaning forward a bit so he could wipe it on your panties—directly above your clit. Your groan of disgust became a helpless moan as he rubbed it in. The wetness added just the right amount of give to the friction, you could feel your thighs tremble, your entire body surging up into the pleasure.  

“‘m ss-sorry,” you said, embarrassed by your reaction. He needed to stop, you could only imagine how stupid you looked, writhing on his lap. But you couldn’t help it, not when he was touching you like this. 

“You are sorry,” Buggy told you, his voice a little lower, a little huskier. “What kind of girl gets off on this shit? It’s like you’re a masochist but backwards. The better it feels, the more you act like it hurts. I swear, honey buns, you’re a brand new type of freak.” 

“No, Captain Buggy,” you said, your voice mostly just breath. “That’s not… I’m not like… Please, it’s… I’m… pleasepleaseplease—I-I-” And then you couldn’t speak anymore, that required too much brain power, the only thing you could do was strain towards your approaching orgasm, towards the heat building in your core, that forbidden and intoxicating wind of tension.  

“Come on,” he urged. His stubble scraped against your cheek, and then your neck when your head fell back against his shoulder. You could smell him. The details changed, but there was the fundamental musky warm smell that you remembered so clearly from the first time he held you and it threaded through your entire body like poison.  

Coming with his fingers slamming into you had been a heavy, wet feeling. Something snapping, breaking, a little flood of heat that rushed through your body in waves. This was a dry spark, a flash and fizzle. You yelped abruptly, your body jerking forward, kept in place only by the iron bar of his arm across your waist. And then it diffused outwards, ending in your fingertips and toes, at the very top of your spine. 

“That was it, wasn’t it?” Buggy asked, his fingers slowing their torturous circles.

You swallowed against your dry throat, nodding, trying to catch your breath. The dizziness from that morning had returned in full force, the world rocked with it. Buggy stopped, pressing his entire palm against the seat of your panties instead, soothing you with the warm, generalized friction. 

“I figured. It’s pretty easy to tell with you. I mean, you’re so goddamn dramatic about it.”

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, awkward and spinning and sweaty and disgusted and a million other things that culminated in the bite of tears in the corner of your eye. 

“Aw, are you embarrassed?” Buggy asked, playfully pinching your cheek with the fingers he’d just used to get you off. You frowned, turning your face away so he couldn’t see your expression. 

He huffed, grabbing your chin to force your face towards his. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, you could barely bear to meet his eyes at all. Finally, Buggy released you, pushing you off of his lap. You nearly tripped, steadying yourself on the edge of his desk. 

“Go change your panties,” he said flippantly, waving his hand. “We’ll work on this,” he gestured vaguely to you, “later.” 

You didn’t really know what that meant, but you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing?” 

Those words drew you out of your tired daze. You had been sitting in an out of the way corner in a passageway to the officer’s mess. It was just a small break, you didn’t want to faint again. You blinked your eye clear, shaking your head of the gauze as you looked up at Cabaji. 

“Hm?” 

“What are you doing?” Cabaji asked again. 

“Oh, I… I got a little dizzy so I…” You frowned. “Sorry, I heard the bell, I was about to head up.” 

“The bell?” Cabaji repeated. “That was an hour ago.” 

“Oh.” 

“Captain Buggy needs you.” 

Those words made your heart drop. You had no idea how you had lost so much time, but you doubted Buggy would accept any excuse you could give. Not only that, but the idea of seeing Buggy after what happened at lunch filled you with an absurd amount of anxiety. It wasn’t him, it was you. There had to have been some other way for you to handle it, but instead you played the role of a whore. You were disgusting, and when you thought about it you simply didn’t understand why. The person you thought you were wouldn’t have done anything like that, and yet you did. 

But that was you.

Getting to your feet was a difficult process, especially when you were trying to hide your fatigue and pain from Cabaji. Which was stupid, you weren’t going to fool him. You were glad he didn’t make a point of your weakness by offering you a hand. 

“Where is he?” you asked. 

“I’ll go with you,” Cabaji said. 

“You-you don’t need to.” 

“Come on, Captain Buggy doesn’t like waiting.” 

You hesitated, nervous to be around him, but there was no reason you could think of to reject Cabaji’s company either. Embarrassment about what he may or may not have heard that morning wasn’t his fault. 

As the two of you traversed the narrow passageway to the ladder, you tried to peek at his face and determine what he was thinking. Which was kind of impossible. He let you go up the ladder first, probably because he was worried you would fall, and so you stood there for a moment in the blinding sunlight. Sitting in the dark had done nothing to help you handle the heavy, hangover-like dizziness. 

“Are you okay?” Cabaji asked. You hadn’t realized he was beside you. 

“Yeah, of course,” you said, squinting at him. He nodded. 

“He said to meet him in his office,” he said, motioning for you to go first. You didn’t fall, although you stumbled on the first step to the quarter deck. It was a relief to walk into the shaded map room, even if it rendered you blind all over again. The door into Buggy’s office was open, but the captain wasn’t there.

You didn’t want to think about what happened in the empty chair only hours before, so you focused on your stoic companion. He saved your life last night. He deserved at least a thank you. There wasn’t much else that you could offer him.  

“Cabaji?” you said. 

“Yes?” 

“I wanted to… to thank you.”

“What?” 

“For last night, you...” Taking a heavy breath, you reached out to grab his hand, holding it in both of yours. “Thank you, Cabaji.”

Cabaji looked more than a little bewildered, although not offended. “I was following Captain Buggy’s orders, there’s no need for you to be grateful.” 

“But I am. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, I-” The door opened. Startled, you dropped Cabaji’s hand, taking a step away. 

“There she is!” Buggy called as he stalked in. “Kept me waiting long enough.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Buggy,” you said, bowing your head. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you could help me understand something,” Buggy said. You could immediately tell by his tone that something was wrong with the situation. All of the sudden, Cabaji’s inclusion felt more confrontational than comforting. 

“Sir?” you asked, tugging down your bandana and trying not to fidget.

“Earlier,” Buggy said, taking slow, measured steps in your direction, “Cabaji was telling me an interesting story. It involved a strange man attempting to make off with a very,” he stopped in front of you, dropping a heavy hand on your shoulder. The cold smile he fixed you with left you without any air in your lungs—you wanted to disappear. “Special member of my crew.” Squeezing your shoulder once, Buggy released you, turning to pace the length of the room. “The thing is, he only knows part of it. I was hoping you could fill in the blanks.”  

“Captain Buggy, I-I was going to tell you,” you said.

“Oh, were you?” Buggy asked, turning around to look at you with round eyes, his expression mockingly curious. “When was that, exactly?” 

“I just…  I didn’t know how to explain it.” 

Buggy wagged his finger at you. “That’s the problem, sweetheart. Truth is self-evident, there shouldn’t be any need for explanation if you’re being honest.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” you said, desperate to think of a way to smooth this over. “I just didn’t want you to think-”

“You wanna know what I think?” Buggy asked, cutting you off. “I think you’re hiding something.”

“No, I’m not, I swear,” you told him, clasping your hands together over your chest. “There was a man last night who… He tried to take me, but I managed to escape when he got to the upper deck, and Cabaji killed him.” 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.” 

“My-my dad sent him to get me, that’s what he said,” you told him, the words smearing together from your nerves. “He said he was getting paid for it. He-he thought I was your prisoner.”

Buggy looked at you for a long moment, considering your words. And then he burst out laughing. “That’s what you’re going with?” he asked. “If you’re gonna lie, at least try to make it sound believable.” 

“That’s the truth,” you said, your voice rising into a whine with your desperation to make him believe you.

This time, Buggy didn’t laugh. “You expect me to believe that, by complete coincidence, we happened to attack the one ship that had a man who was hired to rescue you? Do you have any idea how big the East Blue is? No? You’re about to see for yourself when I toss you overboard and sail away.”

“I think it’s the map,” you said, your voice choked. “You’re following the stolen map, aren’t you? My dad was the one who charted the new trade route. That map is his.”

You could tell the exact moment that Buggy understood what you were saying, his gaze agonizingly intense when it fixed on you. “You said that map and the journal belong to a retired Marine.”

You nodded meekly. “That’s m-my dad.”

“So you lied to me. After everything I’ve done for you, you lied to me.” 

“I was scared you wouldn’t take me if you knew my dad was a Marine, and… He has a-a lot of enemies from back then, he was pretty well-known, and so I thought that maybe you’d see me as-as a liability. I was… I was afraid, Captain Buggy. I’m so sorry.” 

“You’re makin’ him sound like a big deal.” 

“He… I mean, he was… People knew who he was.”

Buggy rolled his eyes. “I bet I haven’t even heard of him.” 

“They used to call him the Surgeon.” 

The name caught both men’s attention, you could feel the zip of tension in the air, but neither said anything until, finally, “Bullshit,” Buggy said.  

“It’s the truth. When he retired, he stopped using that name and tried to-to distance himself from it. He said that if people knew, they would hurt me because of him. My mom and me… That happened because so many people hate him. That’s why I-I lied to you, and I’m so sorry. I was scared that if you knew, you wouldn’t let me join your crew.”

Buggy let out a bark-like laugh. “Sweetheart, if I knew you were the Surgeon’s daughter I would have dragged you onto this ship. I’d say you’re worth your weight in gold, but it’s more like double, no, triple that.” He shook his head. “What do you think someone would pay to get their hands on the Surgeon’s pretty little daughter? Shit, what would he pay to get back his daughter and keep his dope operation a secret? That is his, by the way, right?”

“The map and the journal are his, but I never-never knew about that… stuff.”

Buggy accepted that, nodding as he continued to pace. After a painfully long moment, he shook his head. “No, that still doesn’t explain the guy last night.”

“Captain Buggy?” Cabaji cut in.

“What?” 

“It’s possible that the Surgeon sent around a description of the girl to ships in the area. We can assume that he knows we were the ones to take her.”

“You’re saying there’s a merc on every ship in the area looking to rescue a one-eyed midget girl?” Buggy asked incredulously. “No way. How could he possibly know we’d follow his stupid map? Unless…” Buggy looked at you. “Unless his adoring daughter has been reporting back to him.”

“I wouldn’t, Captain Buggy. I-I swore myself to you. Just you.” 

“And assuming he knows we’re in the area,” Buggy continued, ignoring you, “why wouldn’t he call the Marines to rescue his precious princess? This place should be crawling with them.”

“Unless he was hoping to do this quietly,” Cabaji said. “Alerting the Marines would put his criminal endeavors at risk of being discovered.”

Buggy didn’t respond to that, staring hard at Cabaji for a second before returning to pacing. After one agonizingly slow lap, he turned on his heel towards you. “There’s no way you’re the Surgeon’s daughter. I saw the guy a couple of times, he looked like his mom fucked herself with the ugly stick while he was still hanging out in there. You’re…” he gestured to you, shrugging, “I mean, the eye thing aside, you’re cute.”

You shrunk away, looking at the floor. 

Buggy walked to his desk and leaned over it, his hands flat on the surface. For a second, there was quiet, and then he made a sound like a growl. “Get out.” 

“I’m so sorry, Captain Buggy,” you said, bowing your head in contrition before going to follow Cabaji out of his office.

“No, no, no. Not you, princess,” Buggy snapped. 

You stopped, your heart racing frantically as you watched Cabaji shut the door behind himself. 

“What was that with you and Cabaji before?” Buggy asked.

You slowly turned to face him, your apologies and explanations all fizzling out on your tongue at the abrupt lurch of topic. “Uhm… what?” 

“I asked,” Buggy said, speaking slowly, emphatically, “what was that with you and Cabaji when I walked in? It’s pretty shameless of you to throw yourself at him after he heard you moaning this morning. Do you think he’ll buy the whole innocent act if you bat your eyelashes enough? I don’t think it’ll work as good with just one eye.”

“I was thanking him,” you said, your voice faint. The anger Buggy had now was different than before, but you didn’t know how to qualify that. There was a petulant edge to it. Not as incendiary, but far more nasty. “He saved me last night.” 

“Oh, I get it,” Buggy said, nodding with a little smile. “You think he cares about you. That’s cute.” The smile dropped, his eyes cold. He pushed away from his desk to approach you. “Grow up. Cabaji is my subordinate.” He pointed to himself with the word, his voice slowly getting louder. “The only reason he saved you was because I wanted him to. The only person you should be grateful for is me.”

“I am grateful for you, Captain Buggy,” you told him, shying away with each of his heavy steps. Rather than placating Buggy, your words seemed to rile him further. 

“Liar,” he shouted in your face, loud enough to make you flinch back with a whimper, bracing yourself for a blow that didn’t come. “Do you really think that you can make a fool of me? On my ship, in my office. I know there’s something going on with you. You asked him to teach you to fight, and I’ve seen the way you watch his tricks. All wide eyed and ‘oh Cabaji you’re so cool, can you teach me to do that.’”

“I don’t mean it like that,” you insisted. 

“Are you trying to tell me that it's all in my head? Is that it?” 

“No, sir.”

“If anything, you’re the delusional one for thinking he’d actually care about you,” Buggy said, getting in your face to emphasize his point. “I get it now. Pops was right about you being crazy, wasn’t he?”

When you didn’t respond, Buggy shook his head and turned around again, muttering under his breath. The sound was drowned out by the thumping of your heart, the whir of blood rushing through your ears. You wanted to apologize, or argue, or try to defend yourself, or anything, but you didn’t. 

“Okay,” Buggy said after what felt like hours. When he turned around, his expression wasn’t nearly as animated. He pressed his hands together, tapping his index fingers to his lips as he thought. “I’m sending a boat to meet up with Mohji at the nearest island, and you’re,” he pointed at you, “gonna be on it.”

You were already shaking your head by the time you realized what he was saying. “Captain Buggy, please don’t make me go,” you begged, your chest clenching painfully at the thought of going anywhere without him. “I can still do my job. I’ll do anything, just please don’t make me go.”

He looked at you flatly, anger simmering in his eyes. “Not a chance. Consider this a demotion, kiddo. Right now, you’re worth a lot more as a hostage than you are here being a pain in the ass.” 

[theanonymousmystery]

Headcanon: Monomon, Queen of the Oomas/Uomas

Monomon is the “Queen” of the jellyfish creatures that inhabit the Fog Canyon, but not in the traditional sense. She does not have a monarchy that she governs—She is the “Queen” that her “hive” serves and protects.

Like normal jellyfish, the oomas and uomas are like a bundles of nerves. They cannot see or hear, but they react to changing stimuli in the environment. The only one among them able to think independently, to see and hear the world around them: their queen, Monomon.

Before the rise of the Pale King, Monomon was incapable of higher thought. However, she was clearly more intelligent than the primal beasts that roamed the depths. She had a very strong sense of curiosity, which the King learned when he’d found a hidden stash of tomes and journals in her possession. Inspired by her desire to learn, he granted her higher thoughts along with the other bugs of Hallownest.

With her mind expanded, Monomon began to learn as much as she could about the world around her, including the nature of her jellies. She knew that they would respond to her mental state, but she didn’t know the specifics. There was clearly a pattern they would follow depending on her emotional state:

When she was happy or excited, they would gravitate to her and cling to anything around her. Her theory was that they wished to partake in whatever was causing her joy.

When she was upset, they would grab anything around them and bring it to her. She believed they are trying to cheer her up by presenting her with gifts.

When she is scared/angry, they turn hostile and attack anything that draws near. This seems to be a primal instinct to protect the queen when she senses danger.

It wasn’t until she took on her apprentice, Quirrel, that she was able to learn more about their behaviors. Since they behaved in response to her, there was no way for her to see how they reacted without her presence. But with Quirrel able to study them away from Monomon, he learned that the strength of the reactions that the jellies had was entirely dependent on their distance from Monomon. The further they were from her, the weaker their reaction. This has led Monomon to believe that she is unknowingly emitting pheromones out into the environment that they are sensing and responding to.

With this knowledge in hand, Monomon began an experiment to see if she could teach any of the jellies to ignore her pull or think somewhat independently of her. This would eventually lead to the creation of Uumuu—a being that was created solely for security purposes. It would be able to ignore her pulls so that it could remain vigilant, and had been taught to identify threats without Monomon having to identify them as such beforehand.

When Monomon became a Dreamer and was sealed away, it turned the Oomas/Uomas completely docile. Without their queen to guide them, they merely drift aimlessly, awaiting the call of their queen once more. The only exception: Uumuu, who still spends their days guarding the sleeping Monomon from any intruders who dare try to wake her. But with the infection slowly overcoming it, and without Monomon’s guiding tentacle, Uumuu has lost the capability to differentiate friend and foe. Even in the presence of a familiar face, it can only follow what it was trained to do:

Protect Monomon at all cost.

[cockslutpadalecki]

Say You Won’t Let Go

Summary: After a bad experience at a haunted house attraction when you were a kid, you promised never to step foot in one again, but Dean helps you to overcome your fear.

Characters: Dean Winchester x F!Reader.

Words: 1.2K.

Warnings: mostly fluff.

A/N: Written a very long time ago for a Halloween Patron. Thank you to my pre-readers @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons ❤️ While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing and reblogging our work.

Dean does nothing but complain the entire time you’re standing in the queue waiting to enter the haunted house. “Lame” and “predictable” are his preferred choice of words as he begins to repeat himself once he’s run out of reasons as to why they’re so crap.

You know he’s doing it in part to help calm your unease— after confiding in him that ever since you’ve been scared at one when you were a little girl, you’ve stayed well clear of anything remotely resembling a haunted house at Halloween. You feel ridiculous considering the things he and Sam fight for a living, but he’s never made you feel embarrassed for your childhood fear and instead tries to help you overcome it.

Last year in Beloit failed spectacularly when you were met at the door by a man dressed like Ash from The Evil Dead wielding a chainsaw and the year before that, in Sioux Falls, you hadn’t even made it out of the Impala. Just the sight of the spooky house peering through the fog— which you hoped to god had been intentional— was enough for you to plead with Dean to drive you back to the bunker and let you sit out the rest of the night under a blanket fort with a mountain of candy.

After two failed attempts, you’ve almost lost faith you’ll ever surmount your phobia, but the idea of Dean being there to, in some way, protect you from the phony ghosts and monsters waiting to pop out at you has helped to ease your apprehension. And so far, the scariest thing you’ve come up against are the poor attitudes of the kids standing in the queue behind you.

You can see Dean’s jaw tightening with every passing minute and the interruption of the guy monitoring the door couldn’t have come at a better time: “Hey leather jacket dude! Your turn!”

You step forward with trepidation, and Dean mouths at you to ask if you’re alright. You nod silently, sucking in a deep breath amidst the cotton-wool dry texture your mouth has suddenly formed as you step towards the entrance, mentally trying to prepare yourself for the fright no doubt waiting for you on the other side.

-

Dean’s hand finds yours as soon as you pass over the threshold. It’s almost pitch black inside which almost helps to stifle your fears a little, the darkness swallowing the images of the scariest things your mind can conjure up. Yet at the same time, the darkness isn’t a comfort. Who knows what could be lurking in the shadows ready to snatch you away from Dean’s warm grip?

Your chest starts to slowly constrict and you can feel your fingers slipping from Dean’s as the sweat in your palm makes it hard to keep hold of him. Once you round the first corner, the strobe lighting coming from a doorway off to your left illuminates the hallway just enough to make out the fake cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and the almost juvenile decorations covering the walls. The overwhelming urge to run subsides as you study the place through squinted eyes, the detail in the decorating incredibly lacklustre compared to what you’re used to.

Who decorated this place? A ten year old? Your inner thoughts jibe taking on the sound of Dean’s voice which instantly calms you.

“Well that’s fake,” he mutters, pointing at a severed arm laid out on a surgical table amongst blood-spattered weapons. You glance down and scoff a little— it almost looks like it’s made out of papier-mâché and smothered in corn syrup.

Who made that? A second grader? There it is again. With every passing moment, you head deeper into the house and with your eyes on the cheaply made scares, you start to feel less and less on edge.

Turning the last corner, you know you’re nearly home free when you notice the fire exit sign with its eerie green glow looming in the distance as your gaze is distracted by movement coming from a curtain below and to the left of it. Through the dim light, you can just make out the shape of a person hiding poorly behind it in what you think is a Jason Voorhees mask and as you head closer, you brace yourself for the impending scare.

Any minute now. Any minute now. Any minute now.

Dean’s distracted by a mannequin dressed as a poor imitation of Leatherface, chuckling to himself as ‘Jason’ jumps out with the least convincing yell you’ve ever heard, wielding what looked like a kid’s prop knife. It’s… boring. You actually smile, expecting to hear Dean’s laugh from beside you, but instead he screams at the figure ahead of you and squeezes your fingers so tight, you think he’s going to snap them off.

“Ow Dean!” You chastise sharply, trying to pull your hand from his grip as you stifle a giggle.

“So— sorry,” he mumbles, a hint of humiliation in his tone as he lifts your hand to his mouth and gives your knuckles a gentle kiss. “C’mon, this dump blows. Let’s get outta here,” he adds with a little more bravado.

You nod. “Let’s.”

Dean’s hand holds yours a little tighter than before and by the time you reach the exit, you’ve never felt less scared in your life.

-

The entire ride back to the bunker, you talk animatedly, unable to hide your excitement that you may be on your way to overcoming your phobia. You know it’s premature to assume such things, considering that that particular haunted house wouldn’t have even scared a bunch of kindergarten kids, but you take it as a win nonetheless. You can tell Dean is happy for you, but you know he’s pissed he’s $20 out of pocket for admission, and trying his best to hide the fact he got more scared than you.

“Sorry that was such a bust,” you say softly as Dean pulls up outside the bunker, shifting the Impala into park.

He glances at you with a sincere smile. “Don’t be sorry, I’m just glad it helped.”

“So,” you smirk, “that lame Jason was really something, huh?”

“Yeah, totally,” he shrugs, looking away to concentrate a little too closely on turning off the ignition. “So lame.”

“You scream like a girl.”

Dean snaps his head to glare at you. “I do not.”

“Oh please, you were totally crapping yourself in there.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.” Dean narrows his eyes with a pout and huffs loudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sam,” you laugh gently, beaming at him.

“You better not, or I’ll hunt you down.”

“Ooh, don’t tease me like that,” you flirt, sliding across the front seat to snuggle up next to Dean. “So, now we’ve done my thing, wanna snuggle up in bed, eat our weight in popcorn and watch some movies?”

“That sounds perfect. Any preferences?”

“I hear My Bloody Valentine is pretty poor, but the lead guy is supposed to be super hot,” you gush.

He pretends to act offended. “Lead guy, huh? Is he hotter than me?”

You lean in with a timid smile and press your lips gently against his. “Nobody’s hotter than you, Dean Winchester.”

[popcornoncemore]

I'm so sorry for cutting the deadline so close!

Here is my gift to the amazing @wilwywaylan for the Les Mis @drinkwithme-exchange 2024!

They requested Joly & Jehan, so here's a angst and fluff fix of them supporting each other through their struggles with mental health problems:

I just want to say that this exchange was amazing and that I was so honored to write for someone that I just love in this fandom. I hope that you like this!

Full work under cut: (tw raw chicken, panic attacks):

The morning started out as usual, a good day, a slow turn from night to day, Bossuet and Musichetta pressing a light kiss to Joly’s forehead, slightly interrupting the fog of his sleep. As their footsteps and hushed conversations retreated further into the apartment, Joly turned over once more in the bed and let himself drift off again.

The second time he awoke, Joly was much more alert. While he loved sleeping in, curled in the duvet that Courfeyrac had gifted them as a housewarming gift, cozy in the dappled light streaming through the curtains that had once belonged to Musichetta’s grandmother, it was hard for Joly to truly laze the day away. Spending too long in bed tended to summon a quiet yet incessant internal chatter about the merits of a rigid sleep schedule and the dangers of a lack of daily progress and simple movement, a nagging sense of conscious that refused to let Joly sleep past nine in the morning. Joly needed to start out on the right foot.

With the urging of the voice, Joly disembarked from the safety of his bed. Musichetta had left early to cover her coworker’s shift at the laundromat where they worked so that the other woman could visit her ailing mother. Bossuet, in a typical bout of his characteristic misfortune, had managed to do a great deal of damage to a neighbor’s fence the day prior in an incident involving Gavroche, a lawn mower, and approximately $15 worth of clear fishing line. Today, he had taken it upon himself to do the necessary repairs in hopes of smoothing things over with the disgruntled elderly couple.

This left Joly alone in the apartment with only his thoughts and the growing heat of the summer morning. Joly obeyed the near-instant urge to brush his teeth, making a beeline from the bed to the bathroom. When that was finished, he closely inspected his face, taking note of every new spot of acne and mentally listing off the names of the medicated creams that he needed to acquire. He tried not to pick at the spots, it would only make them worse, but it was so difficult when it made him want to crawl out of his skin. Joly then washed his hands, showered, washed his hands, put on moisturizer and sunscreen, washed his hands, dressed himself in a button-down and khakis, debated whether or not the day would be hot enough to give him heatstroke wearing a long-sleeved shirt, decided to change into a light-weight cotton t-shirt, and tried to style his hair which absolutely refused to lay correctly on his head.

Joly was overcome by a sense of dread as he tried to will his hair into place. He was not going to be able to get the results that he wanted, but he almost certainly was not going to be able to stop rearranging his hair until it was perfect. This devolved into hurried breaths and lightly pulling his hair. If Bossuet was here, he would have taken Joly’s hands in his own and told stories of his and Grantaire’s latest outing until Joly could get control of himself and move on to the next task. Today, Joly had to make do with imagining his boyfriend’s words and trying to manage his breathing. Joly squeezed his eyes shut and washed the remaining hair product off his hands, then quickly fled the bathroom before he could accidentally get a glimpse of his reflection.

Crisis averted.

Joly distracted himself with the daily cleaning, re-making their large bed and adjusting the incredibly large number of pillows that had been brought into bed by the culmination of Musichetta’s search for tasteful decor, Joly’s interest in the medical benefits of different shapes of pillows, and Bossuet’s near constant need to prop up one injured limb or another. Then it was a quick vacuum of the living room to limit the dust and potential allergens in the apartment, emptying the trash and recycling from every room, and reorganizing the perpetually undone shoe rack, lest Bossuet trip over a lose high heel coming in the door.

The next order of business was making sure to eat a hearty breakfast. As Joly checked the dates on all the food packaging in the refrigerator, he notices that the egg carton was empty. In general, there was hardly any protein in their apartment. Joly furrowed his brow. He was very tempted to resort to eating just a bowl of cereal and moving on with his day, but something inside him knew that that was a bad choice.

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, he had to eat a balanced meal, or the rest of his day would be thrown off and who knew what could happen if Joly introduced that sort of chaos to his life. While he didn’t have class today, he was supposed to meet up with Combeferre to study. If he neglected a nutritious breakfast, his hands would shake while he took notes, and his attention span would be affected. It was only natural that the consequence of that may be failing the next test, putting him behind in the class, behind in his degree, and behind schedule. No, it was best to eat an appropriate meal.

Nothing in the refrigerator was suited to food that one would generally categorize as breakfast food, but Joly was willing to sacrifice that for nutrition. He opened the freezer, hoping to find some sort of meat that could serve as his protein.

To his disappointment, the only thing that he found was a bag of frozen chicken breasts. He cringed at the sight. It wasn’t that Joly wouldn’t eat chicken, on the contrary, Bossuet’s family recipe for lemon baked chicken was one of his absolute favorites; it was just that the idea of raw poultry was beyond revolting. In addition to its odd texture and appearance, Joly couldn’t help but imagine all the illnesses that could be caused by the raw or undercooked meat. In particular, the sight of the chicken brought up hurried thoughts about the dangers of salmonella and the image of a documentary he had once seen that tracked how the germs from poultry could be accidentally transferred about a cooking space.

There was an instant conflict between the voices in his head, debating the dangers of handling raw meat and not paying attention to nutrition. Joly desperately wished them to shut up but resolved himself to making a choice. He could cook chicken, people did that all the time and it was fine. He was being stupid, he couldn’t let his anxiety stop him from being a normal functioning person. Joly snatched the bag of chicken from the freezer, dropped it on the counter, and then immediately washed his hands.

Defrosting the meat was a nightmare. Joly removed the chicken from the bag with a pair of tongs, resting it on a plate, and then microwaving it until the it defrosted. When he took the plate out, Joly gagged at the sight of the raw poultry, sitting on the plate in a pool of melted frost and juices. He moved the chicken breast to the cutting board specifically designated for meat, leaving him with the disgusting plate of liquid.

He knew that he was supposed to dump it down the drain. It wouldn’t congeal like bacon grease and unfortunately, Joly lacked a way to incinerate it like food waste in some sci-fi film. But pouring it down the sink would contaminate the basin, the germs would spread when the water turned on, then there was no stopping the salmonella from moving to other surfaces. He put the plate down, it was a dilemma he would deal with later.

The next part was arguably the hardest. Joly had to cut the chicken into smaller pieces in order to properly seer it. How was he supposed to do that without directly handing the raw meat? With the tongs in one hand, he stabilized the breast, cutting it slowly with the knife in his other hand. It was going to be okay, it was going to be okay, he could do this, he had to do this. Normal people did this.

Joly’s trembling hand slipped on the tongs suddenly, the piece of chicken sliding across the cutting board and making contact with the hand that was still holding the knife.

Everything immediately went dark, then the color and sound and light and fear all rushed back into Joly’s perception at a lighting pace. God. God. It had touched him and… The knife slipped from his hand, narrowly missing his foot as it clattered to the floor. Joly whipped around in his panic as his breathing became more and more rapid. He made for the sink, but only managed knock the discarded plate of germs he had been avoiding to the floor, spilling its contents all over.

Joly was dying, there was nowhere to go. The situation was consuming him, he was going to pass out. His hands scrambled at his face, wiping through his tears to pick at the scabbing acne, scratching his cheeks with his fingers… His fingers that had just touched the chicken seconds before.

Oh god. His breathing got worse as he sank to the floor, to the puddle of yet more germs. He was going to throw up. He was going to die.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

There was a knock at the door.

Jehan had started their morning off noticeably poorly. Their melancholy was far past the point of being poetic, rather it was consuming and disheartening, destroying his creative thinking. While a passing phase of downcast and remorseful feelings was an important given in the life of a romantic, a rain spell that spoiled the weather but watered the crops, this was less of a rainfall and more of a tropical storm of sorts.

The morning sun was too bright as it cut into his bedroom, waking Jehan from their rest early. His body was sore for no good reason, as if his back had just taken a sudden disliking to the mattress, and the street outside was unusually loud for the time of day. The blankets had partially fallen off, leaving their legs cold.

Jehan did his best to right his mood, but to no avail.

From the bedside table, they pulled their current poetry journal, a beautifully bound thing that had been gift from Grantaire last Christmas. In an attempt to channel his feelings into something appropriate, they scribbled out lines of poetry onto the creamy pages of the book, scrambling to find a way to put a voice to the way he felt. Nothing took form from the words though, no matter what he wrote, the paper just became more and more marred by messy lines of bleeding ink. It was ugly, not in a way that inspired deep thought, but in a way that forced Jehan to angrily turn his eyes from the journal, to snap it shut and throwing it to the cluttered floor.

Getting dressed proved just as frustrating. Nothing fit right, Jehan’s body just looked incorrect in anything they put on. The limey cardigan that they picked to go over their floral-print sundress and stripped slacks itched in a way that made him want to just melt into a puddle on the bedroom floor. Jehan slumped and let himself lay down on the carpet, pulling the awful sweater off and throwing it as far away as they could. He moped on the ground, trying to reason with himself. It was silly to let this pessimism get them, but it seemed just as silly to blatantly ignore it. Why was this so complicated? Why did he feel so absolutely under the weather?

Rolling to get off the floor, they spotted the book they had discarded prior. He apologetically picked the journal up and set it back onto the nightstand, brushing off its cover with care. Jehan ran their hands through his hair, resisting the urge to pull at it and scratch at his scalp. They couldn’t just waste away on their bedroom floor, let themself drown in this floor of bitter sadness that was trying so desperately to sweep them away.

Using the last of his strength, Jehan dragged themself to their feet and promptly made straight for the door of the apartment. He couldn’t just sit here alone feeling bad for himself, letting himself drown.

He knocked on the door, but no one answered it. That was odd, Jehan could have sworn that Joly at least was home, it was part of the reason they had come here, apart from the fact that the apartment the trio shared was the closest to his own. Maybe he was wrong, of course, that would follow the pattern of the day. Maybe some of Bossuet’s bad luck had accidentally brushed off on them the last time that they went for drinks together.

Jehan shook off the thought. They were here to fight their pessimistic spiral, not feed it. He knocked on the door again, listening for the sound of movement in their friend’s apartment. Instead of someone approaching the door, Jehan heard what almost sounded like sobbing, muted, but definitely still present. Without a second thought, Jehan grabbed one of the spare keys hidden about the hallway in front of the apartment, placed there in the event that Bossuet left his keys on the counter, in a car, at work, or, on one particularly unfortunate occasion, at the post office inside of the package he had been mailing to Quebec.

Jehan entered the apartment warily. Someone was definitely crying, the sound clearer once inside, coming from the kitchen.

When he reached the kitchen, Jehan was met with a truly upsetting sight. Joly was alone, curled on the wet floor, hyperventilating and tearing at the skin on his face in a mindless fashion. It appeared that the other man had previously been cooking something, from the discarded cutting board, thawed chicken, and the shards of plate that were strewn across the ground.

Jehan approached him lightly, kneeling on the floor next to the man. “Joly, my friend, please listen to me. I am here to help. I heard your distress from outside and I simply had to come in. Let me help you. Here, breathe with me.”

They took Joly’s hands in theirs, pulling them away from his face. His friend did not quite register what was happening, but he didn’t fight the action. Jehan held Joly in his arms, slowly rocking him, speaking softly into his ear. Several minutes passed like this as Jehan helped his friend regain some control over his mind and body.

Any despairing thoughts that Jehan had awoken with took a back seat to helping Joly. “Joly, dear, tell me what is wrong? You do not have to deal with this alone. We’ll make this right, whatever it is. You are so very safe.”

Joly sniffled, then looked Jehan in the face for the first time since the other had entered his apartment. “The chicken… It slipped…” He paused, gagging a bit. “Oh god, the germs are everywhere, on the floor, on my hands, my face, on you! I was just trying…”

Ah, so that was what had triggered this fit of panic. Jehan surely wasn’t as familiar with the risks of raw poultry as Joly was, but he did know the basics of cooking and killing food-born germs. And knowing Joly as they did, the idea that Joly had panicked after accidentally coming into contact with the meat, and more importantly, his complicated thought process surrounding something he saw as a health hazard, was a fairly understandable one.

Jehan hugged their friend to them. “Oh Joly. I am so sorry, I know how much that sort of thing bothers you. It will be alright, I will help you.”

Joly frowned, another tear sliding down his cheek. “I shouldn’t need help. It’s just food, people cook all the time… I need to eat healthily, I should be able to eat healthily. I was trying to eat…” He breathed raggedly. “Everything is all wrong with me, I can’t cook, I can’t look right, I can’t relax or clean enough or even fucking feed myself correctly.”

He spoke desperately, like he was finally spilling a long-kept secret. Jehan’s heart hurt in their chest to see their friend lambast himself with such vigor, with such a belief in the cruel words he threw in his own direction.

“You, Joly, are perfectly acceptable as you are. I may not know all of the details of how you feel, but I do know that you aren’t a stupid man. You do not simply feel this way on a whim, or because you are lazy or incompetent, you always have reasoning behind it. You should not have to fight your own mind like this, but you so often successfully do so. There is no shame in asking for help or feeling despair, any man would become overwhelmed in your situation.”

“I just want my head to be quiet,” Joly pleaded softly. “The second I wake up it is like I am fighting with my own system of right and wrong, I debate danger and health and the thousands of ways to do something properly. I just can’t shake the feeling that I must follow these thoughts, but then they conflict and shout at each other and I slip up trying to do right by them all.”

Jehan nodded, listening to their friend while continuing to rock him gently. They ran a hand through his hair.

Joly paused in his rambling speech for a second. “I just want to feel something that isn’t this downwards spiral that ends in me crying on my floor like cooking chicken or brushing my hair is the end of the world.”

“I understand.” Jehan gave Joly a small smile. “I completely understand. It is hard when your mind works against you and it feels like you cannot escape this moment, the pattern of your thoughts that so quickly arranges itself into a maze. But you are not weak to feel this way, many people have to fight as you do against one foe or another. In fact, I came to your door today because I felt similarly trapped when I woke up this morning. It was like there was nothing I could do to chase away the dark feeling that the world was out to get me today, and I wasn’t up to the challenge. But I managed to come here, I found you and now we are together. And I know that while I am still simply melancholy and you are so understandably distraught, we will not fall victim to that vicious spiral. Let me help you, if the voices will not quiet, I will shush them most aggressively. And if that doesn’t work, I will sing over them so that at least you may hear something relaxing rather than demanding. Let me clean you up and help you back to your feet, I think it would do a world of good for us to fight our battles together today.”

Joly buried his face in his friend’s sundress, letting a few more tears fall. “Yes. Okay. Please help me to get out of this mess, it’s too much, and I feel faint even beginning to think about what may go wrong as a result.”

Jehan gave him a squeeze. “Of course, my dear friend. I will help you, for you have helped me so greatly already.”

Jehan had scrubbed down the kitchen, doing their best to meet Joly’s standards of cleanliness as they mopped, wiped, and bleached every inch of the room. The two friends then took as shower together, Jehan helping Joly to wash his face gently.

The clothes they had been wearing earlier all went straight into the old washing machine down the hall. One of the benefits of having all three occupants of the apartment share a room was that there was more space for some of the utilities that helped Joly to feel more sanitary and Bossuet to get the never-ending tie dye of stains out of his clothes.

They re-dressed in assorted clothing. Jehan pulled one of Bossuet’s zip-down hoodies for Joly, an easily removed layer in case of a sudden change of temperature. Joly brought Jehan one of Musichetta’s flowy blouses and a pair of his own plaid shorts. Jehan felt themself relax into the fabrics, their textures safe and comfortable.

Jehan combed Joly’s hair, and the two talked quietly about life; Bossuet and Gavroche’s recent run in with disaster, Grantaire’s (latest) blunder in front of Enjolras, Bahorel’s supposed mistress.

“Thank you for coming, Jehan.” Joly said the words as their conversation drifted into a pleasant silence. “I didn’t know that I needed someone today, but apparently I did.”

Jehan pressed a quick kiss to his friend’s forehead. “Of course. Absolutely any time. Thank you for being here. We’re going to be okay.”

When they finally set the brush down, Joly turned and crushed Jehan in a hug and the pair burst into laughter. When Joly finally released him, Jehan grinned at his friend in a way that seemed impossible only a few hours ago. “Would you like to go out to get some breakfast before you meet up with Combeferre? They say it’s the most important meal of the day!”

Joly smiled back, “Sure.”

It was looking to be a good day, it was only just getting started after all.

[cassandracrazionz]

November 1 - CG/Grian

Mumbo walked to the door, peering through the eyehole. The ring of the doorbell still echoed in the air, causing his concern to increase. 

There at the door was Grian, head down. Mumbo could see that he had flown here in a tizzy, hair messed up by harsh winds. His wings were visible, twitching weirdly and some feathers looked like they were melting into purple goop. 

“Grian! What happened?” Mumbo hurriedly threw the door open to shake his friend. 

Grian didn’t look down when he heard Mumbo’s voice but he was not looking at him either. “The creatu-“ Grian interrupted himself with a yelp of pain. “They didn’t get rid of it! Mumbo-“ Another groan of pain. “help.” 

Mumbo didn’t know what to do. Seeing Grian in pain hurt but what could Mumbo do? He didn’t know what stopped the ‘creature’ when it happened that Halloween. 

“How did they stop it last time?” Mumbo helped Grian onto the couch for more comfort. 

Grian’s eyes slightly glazed over for a moment before they snapped back into focus. “Call Tango- he’ll know what to do- I think.” 

The moment Grian finished his sentence, his eyes glazed over and an unearthly scream ripped from his throat. The voice was off, sounding more like feedback from a microphone. 

His whole body shook in panicked fear but Mumbo managed to get Tango on the phone. 

“Mumbo? What’s u-“

“Come to my house quickly! The thing from Halloween is back and Grian’s in pain!”

There was silence on the other side before Tango replied. 

“On my way.” And the call ended. 

The time between the end of that call and Tango’s hurried arrival was hell for the two friends. Mumbo kept his distance from Grian’s sweeping wings that kept flapping haphazardly, loose feathers and purple goop that flew around. Grian was having a significantly harder time. Fighting Motherspore for control was taking a toll on Grian’s mental capabilities. 

So when Tango arrived, he was greeted with a smaller reenactment of Halloween, with the unfortunate lack of an Emerald Soldier.

“Mumbo! Are you okay?” 

A thumbs-up could be seen from behind the fallen table. “I’ll be fine. How do we stop… this?”

Tango cast around the room desperately for a solution. His gaze landed on a chair near Mumbo. “Mumbo! Could you try to use the chair and trap Grian under it? Just keep him in one place for me to burn the thing off him.”

At the word burn, Mumbo kinda froze. “Will Grian get hurt?” 

Tango shook his head in response. Then with his fingers, the countdown started. 

Mumbo hefted the chair over his head, yelling and running towards ‘Grian’. The latter turned to look at him, eyes flashing between clarity and a chalky fog. “Sorry!” Mumbo brought the chair down, trapping ‘Grian’s’ arms and wings between the chair legs. 

‘Grian’ struggled, kicking his legs, swinging his arms and flapping his wings. It was all to no avail. 

Tango didn’t miss his chance. The creature possessing Grian noticed his presence. Knowing its possible downfall was arriving, ‘Grian’  struggled harder but Tango was faster. 

In the next few moments, Grian was limp on the floor, the purple goop glued onto his wings losing its stickiness and sliding off. 

Tango leaned against the wall, overcome from the effort. He locked eyes with Mumbo, who looked pale as a sheet. 

That was certainly going to be a long day. 

[wrr000]

Ok I've been craving some protective Heimdall so hear me out.

Reader is getting harassed by someone and they eventually lay a hand on the reader bruising them pretty badly, Heimdall witnesses this and loses his shit. this could be a headcanon or a one-shot I don't mind

(f you somehow find this and want to write it can the reader please be male I'd really appreciate it) <3

Thank you for requesting! You requested it ages ago, but 'write block' kicked in :|| I'm trying to get back to you guys! Keep in mind that I'm also a slow writer so let me take my time C: As for this - not the best, kinda rushed, but I need to start with something in order to write as much as weeks ago.

»»————-　♡　————-««

Summary: gender neutral reader is working for Odin and his family, but after getting into relationship with Heimdall they got better job and treatment, but not everyone likes it

Warning: swearing, abuse, killing, very short with not many details, maybe I'll write a one shot for this promp! Heimdall being overprotective

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Since you got officially in relationship with Heimdall something has changed and certain people started to treat you differently

Before you confessed to God of Foresight you were working for Odin as well as for the rest of Aesir and you knew how he was towards others. Despide this you develop feelings towards him and most imporant - eventually get his attention

After you two got together your job slightly changes. It was still work for Odin, but your tasks were different and they treated you better. Maybe that was the flash point for your three 'ex-coworkers'

At first there were only unpleasant comments and strange looks. You heard them gossip about you. It was annoying, but you didn't pay attention to it. You didn't even care when they started insulting you, that was just stupid trash-talk. But you got fed up when they sabotaged your work or even destroyed your stuff. ALWAYS when none was watching. Always when Heimdall wasn't around. You had enough

You decide to confront them and ask what did you do. You were always nice and polite, never refused to help. Nothing changed after Heimdall became your boyfriend. So why? But things turned not the way you would like to. It all happend so fast

"You didn't earn this job! You didn't earn to be treated better! You just fucked that asshole meanwhile we are working hard to be not treated like trash... To fucking survive in this world"

And one of them striked you right in the face. Of cource you could defend yourself, but you didn't understand. You didn't wish to fight them. You fell on the ground. Pain was overcoming your senses, but you could feel your cheek throbs. Everything was blurry, every sound and every person in front of you. A lonely tear ran down your cheek mixing with the blood you didn't even notice

"You motherfuckers"

It was Heimdall. He saw and heard everything. One thing he couldn't understand is how low creatures like them even thought about hurting you. Mentally and physically. His lover, the dearest person in the Nine Realms, you. They made you bleed. It made him furious.

He was striking really fast and most likely very painful. They couldn't touch him nor dodge his attacks so it was safe to say that their lifes were doomed. He was going straight for the kills, it wasn't the first time and just as then none can stop him.

It was the first time you saw Heimdall like that. Full of anger, savage. Was that the true face of the Gods? His true face? You watched the person you love kill those people, one by one. You saw some blood. He swinged his sword and other was down. Someone tasted his godly shoes. They were hopeless like little children lost in the fog.

Were you afraid? Rather not, it was more of a big shock. You didn't want this to happen. A thought cross your mind that that's the price to pay for being close to All-Father and his family.

It ended fast.

You finally got up from the ground covered in mud. Your clothes were fit only to be thrown away, but it wasn't cause for concern. You looked up at Heimdall. He stood with his back turned to you. A single strand of hair fell over his sweaty bloody face. He was panting heavily, his hands clenched into fists and jaw tightened.

"I'm sorry..."

"You are not the one who should be sorry" he said more calmly than you expected.

Your eyes meets his. You wanted to tell him everything, but not a single word could escape your mouth so you just say eveything in mind. More tears appeared on your red cheek. You sobbed quietly.

And then Heimdall took a few steps forward. In a blink of an eye you were in his arms. He rested his chin on your head and you snuggled into his chest. His grip tightened. It was very comforting. You felt safe.

"You should tell me right away when it started. None will rise their hand at you, hear me? None" he said harshly, but he wasn't upset with you. He just wanted to protect you.

"Now let's go. We need a bath and you need a solid rest. Don't worry, you're safe now, sunshine"

Little smiled crawled on your face. You two indeed looked awful. But you weren't sure if bath and sleep would erase everything that happend. It was too much for one day.

[trashbag-baby666]

Between Tridents and Knives-Finnick Odair

Chapter One

Summary: Fawn Viridis, victor of the 68th games from District Four. That's where she got to know Finnick and they fell in love for each other fast. Snow put no time between them announcing their relationship at the end of her victor tour and beginning to sell their bodies together to the capitol. Now it's been six years of trying to live in solitude together in the victors village. Then the 75th quarter quell is announced. Both are worried for each other as they're reaped. Things change of course, Fawn isn't ready to let her lover die for Katniss.

This Work Is More Based On The Books Rather Than Movies.

Word Count: 2,069

C/W: Mentions of violence, blood, and trauma.

Series Masterlist!

“Fawn,” Finnicks voice was small as he choked on his own blood. A spear in his chest as he bled out.

“No, Finnick stop it.” Fawn held her hands over the wound trying to stop the bleeding. Finnick laid on a beach in an arena, blood soaked sand around them. A dead fellow victor nearby who just speared Finnick.

“Fawn just let go, there can only be one of us.”Finnick was trying his best as the blood seeped down his chin. Fawns hands covered in blood.

His blood.

“Finnick stop saying that, I can fix this.” Fawn grabbed a part of the pants she was issued and ripped a chunk off stuffing it into the wound.

“I love you,” Finnick let out a long breath. As she added more pressure her light brown bangs fell into her face. She pushed them aside, soaking her hair and her skin in his blood.

“I love you too.” Fawns voice was desperate as she grabbed another chunk of her pants holding them tighter.

“Finnick?” panic ran through her body as she saw his chest not moving.

She grabbed one of her knives from the slots in her belt and held it under his nose. Not fogging up he definitely wasn’t bleeding.

“Finnick!” Fawn screamed, shaking him.

“Fawn, Fawn.” Finnick sat up grabbing onto her. She shot awake with a gasp tears streaming down her face, “I’m right here.” Finnick held her in his lap stroking her shoulder length sandy brown hair.

“I’m sorry,” Fawn sobbed into the loose, thin gray sweater he wore. They’d announced the third quarter quell during the mandatory broadcast that night.

President Snows’ voice echoed through her head, "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

“Fawn,” Finnick kissed her head, wiping her tears away with his thumb, “It’s not guaranteed our names will get drawn.”

“For you, sure. It’s between me, Mags, and Annie. I’m the only one out of the three of us that has a chance to win. But if we both go in, one of us has to die…” Fawn rubbed her eyes moving further into Finnick as he laid them both back down.

“Annie can’t mentally handle that, Mags will for sure die in the blood bath.” Fawn sighed as she met the eyes of Finnick. His seafoam green eyes

“Sweetheart,” Finnick pushed some of her bangs out of her eyes, “We don’t know what's going to happen yet. There's uprisings going on here, maybe something will change. The capital's people will be too sad and upset thinking about their favorite victors going up to kill each other.”

“We can hope,” she yawned. She was tired but if she shut her eyes she’d see Finnicks lifeless body, the small boy they had mentored last year getting blungened within the first few minutes of the 74th games, having to get up close with her opponents in her games.

Fawn sat in their kitchen as her stylists prepared her doing a soft makeup look on her face. A soft pink blush to highlight her cheek bones and give her color, soft sparkly sunset orange eyeshadow brushed onto her eyes to bring out her green eyes with a dark red lipstick on. The stylist came in with a cream colored sweater and deep blue ocean-like pants.

“You and Finnick will match with the sweaters.” She spoke quietly, she had to style the three female victors of district four. She handed the carefully folded clothes to her then the stylist laid her necklace on top. A choker-like style of brown and white shells around it, a small blue heart pendant in the center. After she won her games Finnick gave it to her. She wore it almost daily but now the stylist is basing outfits around it.

“Thank you Nava,” Fawn gave her a sad smile as she went to her room to change. Everyone was somber, no one wanted to see any of the District Four victors go. Especially Fawn and Finnick.

Fawn was reaped for the 68th games at the age of 17, Finnick was her mentor that year. He also was freshly 17, both of them knew of each other. They were in the same grade and attended school together. Fawn also worked for Finnicks fathers fishing company. When Fawn was young, probably 9 or 10 she saw a girl in the games who threw knives. Since then she was hooked. She started taking kitchen knives from her parents and throwing them at trees for practice. Then it became a hobby, or maybe a way to keep her worry down that if she was ever reaped she had a way to defend herself.

Then she was reaped.

She remembered the way the girl next to her rested her hand on Fawns shoulder when they called her name.

She was just hoping anyone would volunteer. But no one did. She shakily walked towards the stage with peacekeepers following her. She looked at her family as her mother began to cry, her father comforting her. But no one was there to comfort Fawn as she stood on the stage as the district four escort pulled a boy's name from the reaping ball.

Fawn kept to herself during her training. She didn’t really show what she was good at in training. Finnick taught her that, then during her private with the game makers she managed to pull a 10. She did a near perfect display of knife throwing in an interactive training session.

But while she was training she could admit she was distracted.

Distracted by him.

She knew of Finnick but didn’t really know how charming he was.

They were able to grow close quickly, he would offer small touches on her. A hand on the small of her waist, taking her hand in comfort.

The night of her interview with Caesar she portrayed herself as this gentle girl from district four. Her brown hair still long at the time tied into space buns down at her neck to give her a more young look.

She wasn’t stupid if by some crazy miracle she won she would most definitely have her body sold to the capitols people. Just like Finnick and Cashmere.

Finnick told her that after the opening ceremony so many people were lined up to sponsor her.

Then she was in the games and as she proved to herself she was lethal. The arena was desert-like with lakes.

Killing within the first few minutes of the blood bath. That had plenty surprised, the plates were on the edge of a sand pit with the cornucopia in the pit. They had to strategically slide down then there were two sets of stairs to escape. Fawn did a few killings there.

The capitol was fast to name her the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Her partner was fast to join the career pack of district one, two, and him from four.

She decided being alone was her best chance. She saw the district one and two tributes as unpredictable, they could snap at any moment and kill each other. Fawn took up a small hiding spot by a lake. It took her about two days to find one. Each lake had a different quality, poisonous electric, stuff like that.

She lived off of fish she caught in the only safe lake and sponsors. During the day she would seek out areas looking for other tributes. She quickly was sought out by the careers.

By the end of the ten day mark it was just her, district four partner, a girl from 1, a boy from 2 left, the boy from four, and a girl from 8. That was the feast day. For the last two days there were no deaths, just people hiding out. Caesar announced that the bags in the cornucopia would have the district numbers on them.

So before sunrise Fawn made her way to the cornucopia and hid in there. A strategy advised by Finnick. It happened most years.

By dawn the career pack came into view. There was only one bag for four, she was going to take it.

The boy from four came running at the cornucopia as she put her hand on the bag as she emerged from the cornucopia.

“Let go,” he let out a hiss as he put his hand on it.

“Sorry,” was all Fawn could say as she grabbed a knife from the holister on her chest and threw it into him. His eyes went wide as his hand came close as he hit the ground. The canon going off not long after. She grabbed it and ran for the stairs. She had no time to think or mourn or how District four would take it.

She heard footsteps behind her as the girl from one readied to throw a spear at her. Fawn grabbed another knife throwing it at her just as threw the spear both of them dodged the opposers weapon and Fawn lunged at her taking her down at the legs. She hadn’t had to have any hand to hand combat yet and the games.

They both rolled each other around trying to scratch or grab at anything.

Then Fawn was able to wrestle her so she had the girl from One pinned over her as they laid on the stares. Fawn spent no time slicing her throat then rolling her off as soon as the canon went off.

She ran back and opened up her bag. A fresh set of a dozen throwing knives and a bag of dried fruit. that night in the sky saw, District One girl, The boy from four, and the girl from eight.

It was just her, the boy from one and the other boy from 2 left.

Wonderful two careers to take on, on her own. It had gotten hotter in the arena and the lakes started to lose water and fish. She was disoriented; they also had to be as well.

She decided that night she would get a good night's rest, eat half of what she had left and go out tomorrow to hunt them down.

Fawn walked through the sand dunes looking for other tributes when she heard a canon go off and she flinched.

This was it, the capitol's finale. They would probably release some kind of mutts to drive them together. Fawn could feel her heartbeat in her ears. There was a 50/50 shot now that she could make it back home and be with Finnick. He heard a male scream and a series of barking. She began running for the cornucopia sliding down the sand carefully. She was able to see the other tribute and the mutts as she climbed onto the top of the cornucopia.

The mutts barked and jumped at it as the boy climbed on top. Then the mutts all ran towards a glowing circle. Leaving just the two of them standing there.

Fawn could feel every twinge, tingle, bruise, everything as they stood there staring each other down. He wielded a sword and she grabbed out one of her longer knives.

They fought, fought hard.

Rolling off the top of the cornucopia both of them getting swipes at each other. Both bleeding off into the sand as they were both hanging on by hopes and prayers.

Finnick was the only thing she could think about as she grabbed a knife flinging it at the boys hitting him in his calf.

There’s no way she could beat him in hand to hand combat. He had height on her and he was much stronger. She just had to land the perfect shot with a knife.

Then she did, she threw one right into his neck as he wielded the sword up to slash it into her. He coughed up blood as he fell back dropping his sword. Fawn pinned his shoulders down with her knees and grabbed the sword slicing his throat wide open. The canon went off and the trumpets sounded.

The adrenaline stopped and she fell into the sand clutching her side that bled. Claudius Templesmith came over the speakers, “We present to you the winner of the 68th Hunger Games: Fawn Viridis!”

[d0iezz]

MOVING ON...

Michael Bluth x fem! Babysitter!reader

Summary: its been a year since she's been gone and Michael feels horrible about how fast he's moving on, but he just can't resist her

Warnings/rating: smut, kinda angst ig. Reader is in her 20s. Beta read we die like nana. I made George michael b younger cuz it wouldn't make sense if he had a baby sitter if he was like 12. Also Michael and geroge Michael don't both sleep in the attic.

This is my first fanfic lolz

He was overcome with grief, it had been over a year but he still wasn't able to lift this fog that was constantly weighing on him. He keeps on catching himself turning to her as a voice of reason, but she isn't there. He feels trapped, unable to tell anyone about his feelings, he didn't want to bring anyone down with his sulking, especially not George Michael, he didn't deserve it he’s just a kid.

His moping must have become visual because he sensed someone behind him, and due to this he was forced to turn around.

“Are you okay Mr. Bluth?” she said in a somewhat timid voice, as if she was afraid to speak to him. “Yes… yes i'm alright, just-” He stopped himself before he revealed too much “where’s George Michael?”

“I just tucked him in, after I read him a story he was completely knocked out” she giggled, as did Michael. But he didn't respond, he wasn't sure how, so you both stood there awkwardly waiting for the other to say something.

“Um.. well, I guess I should g-” but she was interrupted by a loud crack of thunder and the sound of heavy rain starting to fall. This shocked her, making her stumble backwards, tripping on the stair placed right behind her, causing her to fall on her back. She let out a small cry before she had realised Michael had rushed to her side. “Are you okay Y/N?” he asked frantically while lifting her head so it wouldn't be touching the hard floor it had just crashed into. Butterflies flew to her stomach, she was embarrassed to admit it but she found her employer very attractive, though she felt horrible about it because it was very clear that he was not in the right space mentally for anything that she desired.

“Ye-yeah im alright, just hit my head a little” she laughed awkwardly. “Maybe you should stay, that storm sounds heavy and I wouldn't want you to get in an accident” he said while helping you off the ground and helping you over to the couch. “Are you sure that's okay? I mean where would I sleep?” she couldn't keep eye contact, she was too nervous by the idea of waking up in the same house as Michael. “you would sleep in my bed” this made her even more nervous “and I would sleep on the couch”. She was hoping that he hadn't noticed how very red her face was. “Well I suppose it would be safer” she admitted.

He patted her on the shoulder and led her upstairs to where he slept and encouraged her shuffling inside. “ so I'll… be down stairs if you need anything”. And without another word he closed the door leaving her alone in his room. His hastiness worried her.

He shouldn't feel this way, he had only lost his wife a year ago and he couldn't move on so soon. But he was, I mean how could he not. She was kind and knew how to look after George Michael and that's not to mention how pretty she was. She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, he couldn't deny it even if it felt so wrong to feel that way.

Michaels thoughts were cut short by the sound of socks thudding down the carpeted stairs. “Mr. Bluth?” she quietly questioned. “y/n, anything that you need? And you can call me Michael, in fact I insist on it”. He said while standing up and walking over to her. “Well… Michael” she pushed out, “I have nothing to sleep in, I would sleep in this but it's not very comfortable” she gestured to her clothing which, indeed, didn't look like something you could sleep in comfortably. She insisted on wearing professional clothes even though the job never required it, she thought it made her look older. “oh… yes, I'm sorry. You can probably wear some of my old clothes, I think I have some up there“

Michael quickly shuffled through his clothes in his closet, picking out clothes suitable for the girl to wear to bed. “Here, these should do'' he had handed her an old oversized button up shirt, one very similar to ones he wears on a daily basis, as well as a pair of shorts with very worn elastic around its waist. “Well, goodnight Mr- Michael” she clung the clothes Michael had given her tightly to her chest. Michael smiled “good night”

He left the room as quickly as he could, before he could convince himself to do anything he would regret. But she stopped him, grabbing his arm preventing him from leaving.

“Michael…”

“Y/N”

Her face flared with heat before she could even say what she was intending to say.

“I'm going to say something very inappropriate, something that may cause you to fire me” she paused, attempting to build up enough courage.

“Im… interested-” but he stopped her… with his mouth. His temptation had boiled over making him lose his sensibility.

But she pulled away almost as soon as it happened. “Mr. Bluth! Wh-what are you doing!?” she staggered. “I'm so sorry! I miss read this situation entirely, have a good night, i'll drive you home in the morning” he released his grip on her shoulders and rushed to the door.

“No, no! Quite the opposite, you just… didnt let me finish” she looked away.

“Oh” he said in a hushed voice.

“You may continue, I mean, if you'd like”

Michael walked towards her, and placed his hands either side of her face and slowly started to lean in to connect his lips with hers once again. y/n slowly started to reciprocate, etching her hands down from his shoulders onto his chest.

Michael walked her over to his bed, keeping their lips connected. He laid her down and slowly climbed on top of her, his right hand gliding down to her hip, his other placed above her head in order to prop him up. His right hand slowly started to lift up her shirt, bringing it over her head until he got to her shoulders, he disconnected their lips in order to take her shirt off all the way.

“Is this okay?” he asked as he reached for the back of her bra to confirm that she was enjoying this as much as he was.

“Yes” she quickly nodded as she saw her bra being thrown to some corner of the room.

“Is it okay if I try something” and again you nodded.

Michael grabbed her hips and brought her to the edge of the bed where he had knelt down, his face mere inches away from her crotch. This caused him to shut her legs out of instinct.

He quickly shot his head up “I don't have to”

“No, no it's ok, it's just, I guess I'm just a little nervy, ha…ha” she laughed nervously. He said no more, simply bringing his hands to her hips to unzip her skirt, tugging it down her legs alongside her underwear, leaving her naked.

“But before you do… that. Could you, take your shirt off or something, it feels slightly unfair that you're fully clothed and im… well, not” she said while holding his shoulders away from where her thighs meet. “oh yes, of course” he said as he began to unbutton his shirt and pull it off his shoulders.

“There, now, where was I?” it was a rhetorical question because he had already lent in and laid a long lick right along her slit. This caused y/n to release a loud whimper, that Michael loved to hear but, due to his child sleeping peacefully sleeping in the other room, would have to hear less of it.

“Shhh, baby, remember George Michael is in the other room, we can’t wake him” He whispered while holding his hand to her mouth. “Oh, oh, yeah” nodded once he had removed his hand.

Michael returned to your dripping pussy, but this time he added something. You could feel the heat of his palms sliding up your bare thigh, bringing his fingers directly to her hole. This made her whimper again, but not as loud, George Michael wouldn't have heard. He pushed his index and middle finger inside, moving them against her smooth walls.

His pace started to quicken and her thighs started to close in around his head as she started to get closer.

“Oh, oh! Michael!” she moaned, her walls squeezing in around his two fingers.

“Wow” she sighed as he removed his fingers from her.

“Yeah” he replied.

Michael then proceeded to stand up and begin to fiddle with his belt, loosening it and removing it as well as his pants, then his underwear followed.

He was big…

He climbs on top of her again. “Are you ready?” He pushed her hair out of her face. “Uh huh” she replied, cheeks still burning. “Okay”

He slowly pushed inside her, making sure not to go too fast, he was aware of his size, its hur other girls in the past.

He groaned as he bottomed out, and then slowly started to move his hips. “Does this feel good baby?”. He whispered into her ear. This admittedly turned her on even more. “mHM!!” her pitch was affected by an especially hard thrust that caused her voice to break a little, Michael thought it was cute.

Michael was getting close embarrassingly quick, he was out of practice. So to ensure that he didn't leave you in need, he reached his hand down to play with your clit. He seemed to enjoy this, it was given away by the embarrassing moan you let out.

“Michael… Im getting close” y/n whimpered while gripping onto his broad shoulders, nails making indents in his skin.

“So am I” he huffed, making his circles on her clit faster and the movement of his hips quicker. “Oh my god y/n”

And before either of them knew it, they were both cumming. His dick releasing warm liquid deep in her stomach and her walls squeezing him for dear life.

Michael rolled over onto his back, riddled with grief but somehow at the same time relief. He looked over at her, she was fast asleep, and at that moment, michael knew it was okay for him to move on. He pulled the blankets over himself and her, pulled her to his side and kissed her on the forehead.

“Goodnight y/n”.