#apparently this man just likes talking about himself

[daryldove]

Shameless (Let Me Come In)

daryl x fem!reader

nsfw, alexandria era, age gap, daddy kink (it's mentioned like once), cunnilingus

summary: the older man next door is tempting, so you tease him until you get what you want.

Rick's group arriving in Alexandria brought some much needed excitement to the mundane routine of life within the small community. They immediately stir trouble, much to your amusement. What really caught your attention, though, was the ruggedly gorgeous man who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Oh how you love a lone wolf cliche.

Your first interaction with Daryl consists of him staring you down with wary eyes as you welcome Rick and Michonne into their new home. You are indifferent about them moving next to you—until learning Daryl is apparently their permanent third wheel.

Immediately, you head over with the excuse of ofically welcoming them all. Daryl is perched on the porch like a guard dog as you climb the few steps, his unwavering gaze locked on you. His expression doesn't change, not even when you give him a small, shy wave. He does, however, finally join you inside after a few minutes. He hovers by the entrance—hesitant yet undeniably curious. You sense his presence immediately, sneaking subtle glances at him as Rick and Michonne do all the talking. It's then that you decide you'll do anything to get your older neighbour to notice you.

“Daryl, hey!” You greet, tone cheerful with surprise. It's a pleasant coincidence that the archer also chooses to skip the neighbourhood welcome party to have dinner with Aaron and his husband. He looks just as surprised to see you, his brows furrowing slightly as he nervously glances your way. It's frankly adorable.

You shoot him a polite smile as you sit across from him, internally praising your decision to dress up, despite Aaron's insistence that it's casual. As dinner progresses, you swear you catch Daryl stealing glances in your direction, though he’s maddeningly subtle. His eyes drag over your curves, the rich purple dress you're wearing hugs you in all the right places, ending high on your thighs and dipping low on your chest. The locket hanging around your neck only makes it more difficult for him not to admire your accentuated cleavage.

He's careful, not wanting you to catch him in the act. This is so unlike him, not that you nor the couple would know. His unease has him chugging whine, only serving to accentuate the pink tint on his cheeks that you spend all night questioning the existence of. You're so hyper aware of him it has you feeling on edge. It's addictive.

Aaron takes him to the garage after the somewhat awkward dinner comes to an end, finally allowing you to breathe. His presence is suffocating in a way that has your mind spinning around very inappropriate thoughts. You wait until he's also ready to leave to put the first stage of your plan into action. As he steps onto the porch, you purposely bump into him.

“Oops, sorry,” your tone is innocent and light. Daryl automatically moves away as if your touch burns. Something in your gut curls at how shy he is. His voice is gruff but quiet, “s okay.” There’s something almost childlike about how lost he seems, and it only urges you to keep pushing.

"Well, gonna walk me home?” You tease, leaning forward just enough to make the question feel playful. The new angle reveals more of your cleavage, drawing his eyes down for a brief moment before he catches himself. A flicker of confusion crosses his face once your words register, as if he's trying to decipher your hidden intentions. Even so, you catch a faint blush creeping up his cheeks again, barely visible under the dim porch light. You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from smirking, he's do unintentionally cute.

The walk back to your street is quiet. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you consider the next stage in your plan; get him inside. Maybe you could offer him a drink.

Only once you reach your front door do you turn to him, not wanting to risk dealing with potential rejection on the walk home. He was so hard to read, you can never completely tell what he was thinking. “Wanna come inside, I've got beer?” He looks surprised by your offer, glancing at the empty, dark street like it's a trap before shrugging. “Why not.”

He gets through two cans before you ask him to help unzip your dress, feigning discomfort. His eyes dart around the room at the sudden request, his expression is a mixture of awkwardness and hesitation. Eventually, he nods and rises to help. A large hand rests on your shoulder, warm and firm, as the other reaches for the zipper. Your breath hitches as more of your bare skin is revealed to him, a sudden nervousness overcomes you, despite how long you've fantasised about this.

Even once he zips your dress all the way down, neither of you move. He reaches out without realising, splaying his hand across your spine, too enraptured by how smooth your skin looks to realise. You look at him over your shoulder, but his gaze remains on your exposed back until you turn to face him fully.

“Daryl.” All the built up desperation is practically oozing from you. Here you both were, alone in your house, and you aren't sure just how much restraint you have to not throw yourself at him. But just as quickly as the moment built, he yanks his hand away, mumbling out a low apology. Your face falls. You were so close, but he just mutters out an unintelligible excuse and steps back.

Perhaps it should dissuade you. But the insecurity in his expression only makes your heart soften more. “Hey…” You step towards him and gently cup his chin. “Look at me,” you whisper, and how can he resist that? He peers at you under his lashes, hesitant, like a stray animal.

Eventually, he lets himself look at you fully. Your wide, trusting eyes send shivers over his whole body. Something about that look is finally enough for him to snap out of it. He pulls you into a kiss before he can second guess himself. A noise of surprise leaves you before your lips slot perfectly into his, just like you knew they would.

For how shy and reluctant Daryl seemed to your flirting at first, he's a whole different beast in bef. His large, thick hands mould you, tease you until you're nothing but a pathetic mess made for his pleasure. The combination of his rough skin and rough touches has you utterly ruined, only escalated by the fact he eats you out like you're the last meal on earth. It took him a while to finally open himself up, and you waited, even if your fantasies were growing hard to ignore.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, your awareness of trying not to tug too hard keeps slipping as his tongue teases your clit. It's impressive how quickly he can make you crumble. A string of curses fall from your lips as you feel your first orgasm creep up, your back arching with overwhelming pleasure.

Unable to resist, you grind your hips against his mouth, legs twitching as you chase the building pressure of your climax. “Please… please, daddy. S-shit, please,” your whines make his grip on your waist tighten, you're too far gone to notice the way his gaze keeps flicking up to your face, drinking up your reactions.

Finally, your leg twitches and eyes flutter with your release, high pitched gasps filling the room as Daryl continues until the sensitivity has you swatting him away. He chuckles, his face shining with the remnants of your pleasure. “Good girl,” his voice is so husky it sends an unexpected throb of desire to your abused clit. You ignore it in favour of watching him press kisses up your navel.

A strand of hair falls over his eyes as he reaches your chest, and you tuck it away with a content sigh. “I love you.”

Even now, soft affection makes him shy. You feel him smiling against your warm skin while he moves to rest against you for the night, his head still resting on your chest as you play with his hair. “Love ya too, girl.”

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Dallas' head snaps back, and he stumbles with the force of an unexpected hand on his shoulder. For the briefest moment, he goes entirely limp, lets his fist hang in the air and doesn't try to scramble back to the boy on the steady retreat in front of him.

Darry's got him. And if he'd thought it through for even a second longer that would have scared the shit out of him. But then the fingers are tearin' into his jacket and forcin' him backward and he finally whips his head around and realizes the reality: two very pissed cops have got him.

And he immediately starts fightin' again. He writhes in their grip and the kid he'd been whalin' on is suddenly skitterin' back with renewed fear. Dallas bares his teeth once and figures he's made his point.

The next ten minutes are a blur.

His heart is poundin' in his ears and he can feel his pulse as it rattles under the cuffs the cops slapped on him the second they could get his wrists within a foot of each other and his head is achin' and he realizes for the first time he tastes blood but he can't focus on anythin' because all he can think is Fuck, Darry is never gonna forgive me for this.

He says it all the time. When he rolls in an hour late and thinks Darry's gonna kick my ass. Or when he lets Pony have just a little too much of his beer and the kid's gigglin' fit to wake the dead when Dallas 'n him sneak back in. Or when he hauls off and picks stupid fuckin' fights for no reason.

But this time he means it.

He groans and drops his head to his hands in the little holdin' cell they have him waitin' in until they process him. Last night's argument flashes vaguely in stills through his mind. He wasn't comfortable with people... carin'. He just didn't know what to do with it.

You can't tell me what to do, Darrel. Dallas flew up from the kitchen table and paced wildly away from Darry. Pony watched him with wary eyes. Soda bit his lip and looked at Dallas like he was tryin' to tell him a hundred things Dally didn't know how to understand.

Yes, I can. I won't have you actin' a fool and gettin' yourself hurt. Darry frowned and he's got these lines in his forehead Two jokes he never had before Dallas moved in. Dallas can't stand to see them.

You're not my brother. And you're not my dad. I ain't never had no one tellin' me what to do in my whole life and I'm not about to let you start. He'd slammed the screen door and gone straight to Tim's, started a fight, wound up at Buck's 'n drank til he vomited, woke up this mornin', and started another.

Darry was goin' to throw him to the fuckin' curb and never talk to him again. And Dallas deserved it. He wasn't one of the Curtis boys. No matter how hard he wanted to be.

"Name?" A cop had reappeared in his cell and he kicked himself for missin' it.

"Curtis." Dallas opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. "Fuck. No, sorry." Since when the fuck did he apologize to cops! "It's Winston. Dallas Winston."

The man just stared at him, Curtis already written across the top of the paper in big, bold letters. "Are you sober, kid?"

"Yes, I'm fuckin' sober! My name's not Curtis. How the fuck do you not know me?" To his horror, he feels hot tears in the back of his throat. He's just some no-good juvenile delinquent every bastard officer in this town knows by name except this one apparently because all he is is trouble. And Darry hated him.

"Sure, kid." The man shuffles his papers together. "Officer Matthews has already called your- big brother is it? He's on his way."

"He's not my brother!" And now he's actually cryin' which is bullshit! Who cares! Who cares that Darry is gonna look at him just like his father did. Like he was a burden he'd do anythin' to get rid of. Like the worst thing Dallas ever did was simply show up in his life one day. Dallas is used to this. He's not someone who stays. He was meant to be left. He's a violent dog. He only knows how to bite.

"Dallas?" Darry's voice makes him jump. He doesn't pull his hands away from where they're pressed so hard into his eyes that he sees stars. He can't bear to look up and see what he already knows he will—not hatred, but cold, cold indifference.

"Out." Darry isn't talkin' to him, Dallas can tell he's turned around by the way his voice bounces back to him off the cement walls. He flinches anyway. "Please." He adds like an afterthought and Dallas hears the door open and close.

"I'm goin' to touch you, ok?" Dallas doesn't say anythin', just makes a low noise in the back of his throat. He feels Darry gently tip his head back, eyes still squeezed shut. He feels him softly check the area on his jaw he knows will bruise tomorrow and run experimental fingers along his ribs for breaks. Dally hisses once and Darry immediately pulls back.

"Oh, Dallas." And suddenly Dallas is fuckin' cryin' again. Darry sounds so tired and worn down and old. Did Dallas do that? Did Dallas make him like that? And the sob that catches in his throat makes him choke.

But then he's pressed against Darry's chest and his hands are strong on Dalla's back and in his hair and Dallas doesn't even fight it. Just lets himself be held and doesn't even mind he feels as small as Ponyboy.

"Come on, Dallas Curtis. Let's go home."

[that-hazbin]

Happy New Year's, have an AU

AU where Alastor wasn't doing the horrible things that would land him in hell, and God panicked and realized that their Grand Plan of Redemption was falling apart from this single divergence. After all the hassle and headache of getting Charlie Morningstar into existence (TEN FUCKING MILLENNIA, LUCIFER, IT TOOK YOU THAT LONG TO SHAPESHIFT A DICK???), the Grand Plan can NOT be ruined because this one soul refused to go down and play their part.

Apparently, divine omniscience isn't good enough because it can't predict a Mama's Boy. Alastor promised his mama that he'd see her at the pearly gates, and he's damn well going to keep that promise. He's channeling all of his homicidal tendencies by airing out the dirty laundry of immoral scum on his not-so-legal radio broadcast. And anonymously sending the evidence to the news. And hey, you know what? Ruining people's lives seems to be a fate worse than death, because they're forced to live in misery! Mama was right, resisting temptation DOES grant reward!

(The temptation being homicide, and the reward being a fate worse than death, if he wasn't being clear.)

God is, of course, losing it, because one of the big pawns in getting The Grand Fucking Plan to work is not doing what they are supposed to, and seems to be on the track towards heaven. Which, what the fuck? HOW. That should not be POSSIBLE with a soul like this!

(Mama Alastor is just THAT good of a parent.)

So. God has to do something drastic here, obviously. They are NOT going to wait another ten thousand years for redemption to become possible, they've already waited long enough for shit like the EXTERMINATIONS to happen, and it'll just get worse in the future if they don't hurry this along.

God decides to do as their darling son Lucifer does, and makes a deal. With Alastor.

Alastor rejects the deal. Sorry, sir, his mama's waiting for him in heaven and he refuses to disappoint her.

God: Are you serious right now. Are you serious. I'm God.

Alastor: Yes, and?

God: I could literally grant you anything??

Alastor: I want to go to heaven and spend the rest of my afterlife with my mother. YOU want me to go to hell. Literally.

God: Well, yes, BUT. Once The Plan is finished, you can totally go to heaven afterwards?

Alastor: Uh huh. And how long do you anticipate this plan to take?

God, knowing full well that Charlie is mentally a teenager right now and is in no position to be making her dreams a reality for at least another century: UM.

Alastor: No deal, I'm not leaving my mama waiting.

To think, The Creator of All is DESPERATELY trying to get the cooperation of a mere mortal. Alastor is completely unmoved, and has made it clear that he only cares about his mother and her happiness. Which brings an idea to mind...

God: I could... make your mother a powerful figure in heaven?

Alastor: What? What use is power in heaven, isn't it already a paradise?

God: Uh. No, actually, otherwise heaven wouldn't be committing yearly genocide. Not all angels are virtuous, despite my best efforts.

Alastor: EXCUSE ME?!

Getting a deal was a lot easier after that.

Alastor kills a man (ONLY ONE, he can't disappoint his mama any further than that...) and then gets himself sent to hell. Fortunately, his deal grants him quite a lot of power to protect himself with! Unfortunately, he has a direct line of communication with God via sound waves. He hears God in his head. All. The. Time.

He has REGRETS.

All God seems to talk about is their favorite child, Lucifer, and The Plan. It is distracting and EXTREMELY annoying. Alastor knows more about Lucifer than any mortal in the universe, and he HATES IT.

[dilfartist]

Comfort

Pairing; Yandere Leon Kennedy x Therapist Reader

Synopsis; After persuasion from a coworker, Leon begrudgingly signs up for therapy which leads to an unhealthy obsession with his therapist.

Word count; 1300

TW; Yandere behavior, Unhealthy thoughts, OOC Leon Kennedy, I don't know a lot about therapists, Yandere themes, dark actions.

Notes; {Sorry for not posting a lot guys. I recently just got out of the mental hospital so. Anyways, enjoy this mediocre fanfic I came up with.}

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!

Profread/Not Profread

Reader's description; Female/Gn

Leon wasn’t one to go to others to solve his problems. Yet, he was in your therapy office looking out the windows at the grey skies as rain drizzled.

He only came to see you. Not the therapy. If anything, being with you was the therapy.

At first, Leon did attend therapy for its purpose. Not really by choice. Apparently, his problems (alcoholism and mental issues) were getting in the way of a couple of jobs, and a coworker suggested him therapy. Well, suggested isn’t really the word- More like bugged. Otherwise, Leon wouldn’t have come.

After Ada, Leon never thought he’d fall for anyone else. Sure, Leon would flirt from time to time with a lady at a bar if he was tipsy enough or with Hunnigan during the aftermath of a successful mission. But it never went any further. Leon had no intentions of anything further. Hell, Leon was bitter about developing a crush on you in the first place.

Leon couldn’t help himself. You were just so sweet and willing to help. Something Leon hadn’t had much of since Raccoon City. Nowadays, Leon is surrounded by the greedy, selfish, ugly parts of society. The parts he despised. Being around you was like a rehab of sorts. A reminder that there was still good in the cruel world that had swallowed him whole.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” you graced Leon with that sweet smile he grew to adore. You sat in your thick leather rolling chair, laptop in your lap as you powered it on. “I haven’t seen you since four months ago.”

“Work got in the way,” Leon says on the couch across you. “Long business trip,” he added.

Leon had given a specious answer when you had questioned his occupation. Instead of a U.S. agent who protected the world from biohazard monsters or a man who had saved the president's daughter, you had known him to be a hardworking office worker who frequently went on business trips.

“Where to?” “Spain.” “That sounds fun.” you smiled.

Leon shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay: Could have been better. I didn’t get to explore the country much.”

“So, how have you been? Anything new?” you put your laptop to the side, giving Leon your full attention. Leon liked that.

Leon shifted in his seat, “I saw an old friend recently during my work trip. I haven’t seen her since…” Leon trailed off. He hadn’t told you about Raccoon City despite the heavy effect it had on him. One of the main reasons he was in your office in the first place. When Leon pushed himself to talk about it, the words always died on his tongue. How could you understand? You’d see him as crazy. The world wasn’t informed about Raccoon City, so Leon wouldn’t attempt to see if you knew of the incident. “Six years ago.”

“How’d it go?”

Leon grew quiet for a moment. Being vulnerable wasn’t his thing. Funny enough. “…Strange. Felt like a dream. Never thought I’d see her again.” Leon could feel your gaze. For once, Leon didn’t like it. And with the lump that formed in his throat, he felt uncomfortable. “I thought she had died. For years, I was sure she had died and It was my fault. Then she just shows up,” he trailed off “…it felt surreal.”

You nod. “This must have been upsetting in some way. Did you get upset?” you pulled your laptop back into your lap.

“Not really. I mean, for a moment I was. When we were saying goodbye.”

“And did you visit the bar at all after?”

Ah, yes. One of the main problems you’ve been guiding to get rid of was his alcoholism. Leon never realized the extent of his intemperance until you pointed it out. Listing going to bars as one of his few hobbies did seem concerning to him nowadays.

Leon shook his head, a surge of pride blooming when he saw your eyes light up. “What did you do instead?” you asked. “I caught up on some TV shows after work and had takeout.” You happily typed something into your computer. “Good job, Leon! I knew you could do it.”

There was warmness growing on his cheeks. Leon could barely contain the small smile incoming. Instead, he rested his lips on his knuckles with his arm resting on the armrest.

He loved that. The way you treated him. Your words were genuine, and you barely knew him. Leon had known his colleagues for years, doing above and beyond on missions for them, only to get a pat on the back in return or a simple ‘Well done, Agent Kennedy.’ as they focused on their notes or computer.

The session went on for another 30 minutes. You talked about Leon’s mental health and how his coping skills were helping him turn away from drinking. Leon didn’t listen to your words, opting to memorize your voice. You’d recap the session anyway, so there was no need to tune in. Perusual.

The once soft blue city scene from the outside altered as the minutes passed into darkness due to the winter month.

“It seems our time is up,” you noted, taking a glimpse at your watch. “It was nice seeing you again, Leon. I hope to see you more often.”

“Right,” Leon said awkwardly in response. However, he felt flattered.

You stood from your chair to approach Leon, who followed your lead by standing up. Then, you escorted him to the door. “Remember, if you feel like visiting a bar or having a drink, use your coping skills: go for a walk, play a video game, or watch TV. Convert those negative feelings into positive ones!”

The trip to the parking garage is quiet, leaving Leon to his thoughts: Thoughts he'd rather not have.

Leon thought of himself as morally correct compared to his coworkers. Instead of joining the agency to fulfill greed or status, Leon joined for a selfless reason: to keep others safe. Leon didn't need money, he didn't need power, nor did he need reassurance of his character, and he felt prideful in that.

Yet, meeting you had changed his perspective of himself. All the negative traits he often critiqued rose to the surface and filled his head.

Would it be wrong to keep you to himself? Leon knew he wouldn't stay in the place he currently inhabited, work would force him to move sometime soon, which meant leaving your side. He couldn't have that. What if he took you from your home? That wouldn't be so bad. He could offer you so much more than the lousy job you had.

Leon couldn't lose you. Nothing gave him pleasure in life. The only thing that lessened his dismay was the booze he'd drown in during the late hours and dawns. Seeing you naturally put a smile on his face, and that wasn't an easy task.

Leon needed you. He deserved happiness after all the bullshit he went through on the regular. It was only fair-

"Watch it asshole!"

Leon stood in the middle of the garage, clutching his keys harshly as he stared into the blaring lights of the truck in front of him. The honking had brought him back into reality. "Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to make yourself useful and move out of the way?" The owner of the car barked, peeking his head from the rolled window. Not answering, Leon simply walked ahead, approaching his car slowly. The man retreats into his truck and speeds off.

Leon was just as bad as the others wasn't he?

It was a harsh reality Leon didn't want to acknowledge. Then again, realizing there was a problem was healthier than ignoring it.

"I need a drink" Leon whispered, staring blankly at his steering wheel. Despite the need to chug down the remedy for his confusing emotions, Leon knew he wouldn't. If his sobriety meant your happiness, then he'd never look at another bottle.

For now, he'd live right for you.

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost laughs in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true low laugh tumbles out of Ghost then. A low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, lef your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time you sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your plump cheeks, wiping the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[aishangotome]

Azel Radwan: Dramatic Ending Ch. 22

Dramatic Ending Ch. 21 His Side Story

Thank you @passthechloroform for providing the video for this chapter!

♡———♡

The "last mercy" that the god bestowed upon the people of the Land of Illusions triggered chaos and panic.

The fact that the leader of the force advocating for a "world without God" was the God himself seemed to be an unbelievable nightmare for the people who had lived peacefully under the moon's protection. Even the soldiers patrolling the city couldn't hide their unrest.

With my back to the city filled with a cacophony of voices, I stand before the gate of the sanctuary, which is usually managed by the apostle.

The sanctuary is an isolated space surrounded by high walls.

Standing in front of the gate, the only entrance, is a large man with a sand-repelling cloak fastened with a unicorn clasp.

(It seems like there's only one person guarding the gate.)

The reason the soldiers haven't stormed the place, despite the lax security, seems to be related to the special nature of the sanctuary.

(But I don't have time to worry about that now.)

The figure of Azel, who boldly entered the territory marked with the flag of the red moon, is getting smaller and smaller.

I try to follow him, and as expected, I'm stopped by the gatekeeper.

???: It's Prince Azel's order.

Emma: I just want to talk to him for a bit.

???: He said that Lady Emma would ask to see him, so I should refuse.

(He's one step ahead... he doesn't want to see me that much, huh?)

(It can't be helped. If that's how he's going to be, I won't hesitate to use any means necessary.)

Emma: Ugh... that's mean, Prince Azel... Waaaaah!

I raise my voice as loud as I can so that those inside can hear, but before I know it, I've caught the attention of the people near Azel.

Gradually, shame washes over me, and my voice grows smaller.

(No, I can't overcome my embarrassment... I can picture Azel's mocking face.)

Even though security is light, as a mere book merchant, I can't force my way in...

Clenching my fists, all I could do was curse the God in my mind.

-

Emma: I thought about it calmly.

Emma: I thought, if I piled up a mountain of gold coins in front of the gate, he might come out.

Silvio: You're ain't calm at all. Go get some fresh air.

Having gained nothing, I return to the castle and explain everything that has happened to the owner in the guest room.

Just like the commotion in the city, Tanzanite Castle is also in a state of confusion.

Perhaps we, the foreigners, are the only ones who remain calm.

Akatsuki: ...I understand.

Akatsuki: I was suspicious during my journey.

Akatsuki: Tanzanite is the Land of God. Their faith is unwavering.

Akatsuki: The people live their lives according to the destiny determined by divination from a young age.

Akatsuki: But the villages in the outskirts were different.

Emma: They didn't have faith?

Akatsuki: That's not quite right.

Akatsuki: They didn't have "diviners."

(No... diviners?)

Silvio showed his surprise before I did.

Silvio: That's impossible. I've been to the countryside several times for business, and there were always diviners.

Silvio: Their decision-making always involved divination.

Akatsuki: Yes. From what I heard, they had faith in God.

Akatsuki: But they accepted the situation of "not having diviners" and lived their lives.

Akatsuki: Apparently, even in the countryside, diviners have been making a lot of mistakes in their divinations for the past few years.

Akatsuki: That's why they chose a path that doesn't rely on diviners.

(Naturally, Azel must be involved in the divinations being inaccurate.)

(It's like an experiment––...)

Emma: ...Ah!

Silvio: What's with the "ah?"

Emma: Do you have a map of Tanzanite?

Akatsuki: I have one.

The owner spread a map on the floor, and I superimposed the scene I had seen in that dreamlike space.

Although it was vague, I marked several locations based on my memory.

Emma: Are the villages that Owner was talking about earlier among these?

Akatsuki: Yes.

Emma: ...Just as I thought...

Silvio: What are these marks?

Emma: There was a secret room deep inside the temple where Prince Azel lives.

Emma: There was a map in there with several marks on it...

Emma: I marked them down as far as I could remember.

Silvio: Ha, I see. That bastard seems to have been quite thorough in his investigation.

Emma: I think so too.

Emma: I think he was test-running a "world without God" in places with few people.

Emma: Tanzanite's history is intertwined with God. Whether people can live even if that God is gone.

Emma: He may have started this "performance" in the city after collecting various data and determining that it was possible.

Emma: To overturn the foundation of divination and the Land of Illusions.

(If it's a plan this carefully crafted, surely Azel must have nothing but winning strategies in mind...)

I suppress the urge to scream, "No!"

Akatsuki: It's not an impossible story.

Akatsuki: God has been interested in stories from other countries for a while now.

Akatsuki: So much so that I suspected his purpose in calling me was to hear about my travels rather than to get books.

Silvio: Come to think of it, he was with me too. He was more interested in hearin' about the outside world than in talkin' about business.

Silvio: I thought it was just a longing stemmin' from his restrictive position as a God...

(Maybe there's some longing too. But...)

(Azel wanted to know. He wanted to know the best path for the people of Tanzanite from an international perspective.)

This "God's Gift" may be something the current people of Tanzanite cannot understand.

But for us outsiders, we can say with certainty that it is undoubtedly a gift.

If the people who have stopped walking on their own, trapped by divination, learn to think for themselves, their national power will naturally increase, and Tanzanite, which has been built solely by the power of God, will be able to develop further.

Silvio: I understand the gist of this spectacle, but...

Silvio: What the woman said about "God trying to die himself" still doesn't sit right with me.

Silvio: Even if that greedy bastard physically dies, the faith won't disappear, will it?

Silvio: I hear that the Living God is reincarnated and descends to Tanzanite in a certain cycle.

Silvio: In other words, there are times when there is no Living God.

Silvio: Azel happens to be here now, but when he ain't, the people worship an idol God.

Silvio: Even if the Living God dies, "God" won't die.

(Now that you mention it, that's true...)

Akatsuki: The basic premise is that the concept of death doesn't apply to God.

The owner walks over to the window and looks up at the moon.

The moon, which looks bigger than it does in Rhodolite, is divine, and it will soon be full.

Akatsuki: The moon is eternal.

Akatsuki: As long as the moon rises in the sky again and again, people will find God there.

Akatsuki: As long as God is the incarnation of the moon.

(Am I getting too caught up in the words "God Killer Plan?")

(But Azel said that the prophecy of the end would surely come.)

Emma: "On the day of the end, Tanzanite will lose its God."

Emma: "The moon will disappear, and the people will awaken from a long dream."

Emma: "With the death of the eternal God."

Silvio: Is that the prophecy of the end?

Emma: Yes. It clearly prophesies that "the moon will disappear."

Silvio: It must be some kind of metaphor. The moon can't physically disappear.

Emma: ...You're right.

(I don't really understand where this commotion is headed.)

Akatsuki: ......

Akatsuki: ...I see...

Emma: Owner?

Akatsuki: No...

The owner shook his head and suddenly glanced at the door.

A few seconds later, there was a knock.

(Who could that be?)

Silvio, who was closest to the door, opened it––

A swift intruder, with their hood pulled low, slipped into the room.

Akatsuki: ...Your Majesty?

(Eh...?)

Enis: Indeed. I apologize for startling you.

Removing his hood, Enis's face was illuminated by the candlelight.

More than the fact that the king had suddenly visited the guest room, I was surprised by his poor complexion.

Silvio: Are ya being targeted by assassins or somethin'?

Enis: Well, it might be something similar.

Emma: Isn't this a serious matter?

Enis: Yes, that's why the time has come for me to put myself on the line.

Enis looked at me without hesitation and bowed his head pleadingly.

Enis: Lady Emma, I apologize for the rudeness, but could you leave the castle immediately?

(...!)

Akatsuki: Is this an order from God?

Enis: It's my own decision. I don't even have time to explain the details.

Enis: I've called a familiar caravan near the castle. Give them my name.

Enis: They should take you safely to the port.

Enis: I've told the two maids to go to the port first. I know those two are "white."

Enis: You can leave the ship arrangements to them. They should be able to get you a ship to Rhodolite right away.

(Enis seems to be afraid of something.)

(...There's only one person the king would fear.)

Emma: Is the apostle looking for me?

The moment I said his name, Enis visibly shuddered.

Enis: In this castle, it's hard to tell who's on my side and who's on the apostle's side.

Enis: If possible, please try not to be seen by anyone. I'll cause a small commotion.

Enis: This is not as the king...

Enis: This is a request from his "older brother."

(...)

*flashback*

Azel: Right in front of me, my brothers had their nails ripped off, were whipped, and were hung in a cold cell for three days and nights.

Azel: Since then, Enis has been unable to defy our father and no longer sees me as his brother.

*flashback over*

(The king is only pretending to be obedient to the apostle, but in reality...)

(In reality, he still hasn't forgotten that the Living God is his younger brother.)

Enis, after saying his piece, quickly leaves the room.

Perhaps the apostle, having taken over the sanctuary, has come to the castle.

It seemed like there was no time to think.

Akatsuki: He'll use the maiden close to God as a hostage for negotiations.

Silvio: That's probably it. That unpleasant geezer wouldn't hesitate to do it, even if it causes a rift in diplomatic relations.

Silvio: He'd say it's all for the sake of God.

(Even if they take me hostage, Azel isn't really devoted to me, so...)

*flashback*

Emma: You said 'being liked is troublesome,' but your sense of distance is strange...

Emma: You do a lot of things that people normally wouldn't do, so I'm surprised.

Azel: –––It's just that you looked cold, so I did it for you.

-

Emma: I've decided. I'll sleep in the kitchen from today.

Azel: Why would you think that? That's not right!

Emma: ...Could it be that the Living God carried me to bed?

Azel: ...No.

-

Emma: It was windy on the way here.

Emma: It hurts... I can't stop crying.

Azel: How would I know, damn it?

Emma: It's Prince Azel who made the wrong assumptions––

Azel: It's your fault for being misleading.

Azel: And don't rub your eyes. If there's sand in them, you'll scratch your eyeballs. Are you an idiot who doesn't even understand that?

*flashback over*

(Azel is...)

(...He might try to help me even if it hinders his plan.)

He may seem like a greedy, ill-natured God, but at his core, he's a very merciful God.

Even if his devotion isn't real, the God I know is unlikely to abandon me.

(If...)

(If I become the apostle's hostage, will God's plan fail, and will Azel-sama not choose death?)

(...)

(...No, that's cowardly of me.)

(Knowing Azel's past trauma... that would be too cruel.)

Akatsuki: Emma, pack your things.

The owner's decision was faster than mine.

Akatsuki: It's too late once something happens.

Silvio: If that geezer catches ya, there's no tellin' what he'll do.

(If I don't escape, I might end up hurting Azel.)

(...But leaving Tanzanite now means...)

(That I might never see Azel again.)

-

My hesitation, my conflict, all of it was packed into my luggage as I was dragged out of the castle by the owner.

He seemed to have no intention of giving me a chance to choose, as he made a beeline for the caravan.

Akatsuki: ...Is that it?

Spotting a figure in the alley, we cautiously approach.

The caravan seemed to notice us too––and for some reason, shook their head with a frightened expression.

(It's as if they're telling us not to come any closer...)

(...!)

Apostle: Good evening. Don't you think it's a beautiful moonlit night?

The owner quickly hides me behind his back.

Accompanied by ominous footsteps, it was the apostle, his benevolent smile unwavering even in the dim light.

(He anticipated our movements.)

Several men who appeared with the apostle surround us.

Their attitude was anything but friendly, and our escape route was blocked.

Emma: Why are you here...?

Apostle: I can understand Enis's thoughts even without using divination.

Apostle: I also have a general idea of what he told you...

Apostle: But I want to assure you, I have no intention of harming you, Lady Emma.

Apostle: Rather, I would like to ask for your cooperation.

Emma: ...Cooperation?

(This doesn't seem like the right atmosphere for that, though.)

The owner is already reaching for his sword.

If the owner, who hails from the war-torn country of Ruby, draws his sword, a tragedy will undoubtedly occur.

The apostle must have sensed this, but his smile doesn't falter.

Apostle: I surmise that the Living God intends to reenact the prophecy of the end with his own hands.

Apostle: I, a mere mortal, cannot understand why he has come to such a conclusion.

Apostle: But how can we stand by and watch his death in silence?

Apostle: No matter how noble his compassion, there's no way that the life of God should be the price to pay.

HApostle: Lady Emma, don't you feel the same way?

(It's frustrating, but... I can't deny it.)

(But I also don't have the option of helping the apostle, who has tormented Azel.)

I still haven't completely resolved my conflict, but––

Thinking of Azel, I couldn't take the hand that was offered to me.

Emma: ...I understand your feelings all too well, apostle.

Apostle: Then––

Emma: But does Prince Azel want "the prophecy to be stopped?"

Emma: For us to force our own ideas through cowardly means and unilaterally break the God's will...

Emma: I don't see how that's any different from violence.

(...For me to threaten the God who couldn't feel freedom, to the point of calling himself a slave...)

(Even if I strongly wish for him not to die, there's a line I mustn't cross.)

*flashback*

Azel: You, a foreign maiden, don't be swayed by this country.

Azel: Don't be deceived by the words of others, think for yourself, and decide your own actions.

Azel: This country can so easily capture and corrupt people with illusions.

*flashback over*

My vision blurs with a sense of despair, as if my last hope has been extinguished.

Even so, I grit my teeth and shake off the apostle's "sweet illusion."

Apostle: It's not violence. This is also unavoidable if we consider the happiness of the Living God.

Apostle: If you love him, shouldn't you stop him by any means necessary?

Emma: It's up to Prince Azel to decide what happiness is.

Emma: I...

Emma: I don't want to betray Prince Azel.

(...Because I promised him that.)

The owner places his hand on my trembling shoulder.

It felt like he was encouraging me, telling me that I wasn't wrong.

???: Is that...

???: What you call "true love?"

.

.

.

Dramatic End Ch. 23

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[ariadne-karloff]

Random headcanons

Food.

Creed doesn't have a lot of control when eating: he eats like it's the first time in ages, and could be the last. He basically inhales the food, actually enjoying it only after he's eaten enough and or feels safe. He could keep eating indefinitely if you put food in front of him, no restraints, no shame, just a void to be filled. His healing factor helps him battling the nausea and the too full part. If he's by himself, he then nap the hell out of all that food. The presence of food, even still alive, gets him sidetracked and he needs to refocus on the task at hand.

Sleep.

He sleeps curled up, or half curled, with his head on his arms. If he's sleeping with someone, the someone becomes a teddy bear. He secretly loves being the small spoon but it's very difficult to find someone big enough. But with his past lovers they found a way: he stays face down and they sleep literally on him. Apparently it was Mystique the first to think of it, but Victor remembers someone else, heavier than her, and with the scent of clear waters and snow and forests. He runs hot, but if he can, he sleeps hidden in blankets, still trying to banish the cold he felt when he was in the cellar and during the first winter he was alone outside.

Mental Health.

The Canon: He never left that house, as he said himself. There's the mini "Spider-Man. Punisher. Sabretooth: Designer Genes" where he basically says he has PTSD. In another one, "It comes with the claws" (it's a Daredevil issue if I remember well) it seems he's not completely grounded, and he doesn't know what to do with people (and specifically women. He takes one and he's very gentle and careful but doesn't know what to do with her).

The headcanon: his mental health is highly challenged because of his upbringing. When he was prisoner in the cellar, he lost a great part of his ability to understand people and the notions he had, leaving him extremely late in what a person should know or feel. He basically lost roughly 3 years (old 90s canon). The solitary confinement is torture and he's been closed there for ages, plus the father hurting him and withholding food. So, yeah, he's weird and has a LOT of problems. Since he tried to get help but people said he didn't deserve it, he chose to be not conforming and accept that "normals" will never accept him for what he is, but he push it in their faces.

He def has ADHD and he's not in tune with emotions. As a defensive mechanism he shares false facts about his misdeeds to create a different picture of himself, and this is the same reason behind some of his taunts.

His Mother

As you may have read on my stories, his mother tried to protect him. She couldn't help him because of the abusive husband, and also cultural setting, but she loved him dearly, and tried to do all that she can. She gave him all the food she can hide from her husband and also blankets or things to keep him warm, and she talked to him. She also cleaned him and his small place, trying to keep it as clean as possible. One of his most treasured memories it's her using warm water and a soft cloth to clean him, and then letting him sleep a bit on her. Her arms were the safest place on earth for a long, long time. So yeah, I'm following the canon in which he spared her, after killing his father. She kept him safe even knowing he was completely deranged and out of his mind. She would have kept him with her, but Victor was restless and needed to get away from everything and go deep in the woods.

Queer.

He def isn't straight and he also is "age blind". For the "not straight part" it's the comics fault. He's queer coded to the bone. In some issue he's pictured like one of those "bisexual evil characters", but nothing is clearly stated (as it's pretty common).

Clean.

He can't stand being dirty. He washes as soon as possible, and he does that even when running free in the Canadian forests. He wouldn't have a strong scent because it's dangerous and helps finding you. Many people think he stinks because he doesn't smell of chemical products, and also after battle who would smell like flowers?! No one.

He's an asshole.

Absolutely an asshole. He's snarky, pushy, talks too much about the wrong things, tries to boast himself and he's too loud. He also tends to vanish up north without saying anything to anyone to recharge his batteries. But kids weirdly feel safe with him, so probably he's not so bad. Even if he sometimes says he eats them for fun (like the cats, he doesn't eat them, there's not enough to eat, not even as snacks)

[lulublack90]

Prompt 2 - First Break Up

@wolfstarmicrofic January 2, word count 258

“So that’s it then? You don’t even want to talk about it, we’re just over?!” Remus screamed-sobbed at the man he thought was his forever. Sure, they’d been going through a bit of a rough patch lately, but he hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“Yes,” Sirius said plainly, his voice devoid of emotion. Remus’s heart broke. He could feel it shattering in his chest. He couldn’t see a hint of the warmth that had been on Sirius’s face for the past five years they’d been together. It had been replaced by impenetrable ice and Remus couldn’t look at it any longer. Without a word, he strode past Sirius and walked into their bedroom.

His body moved, knowing what it needed to do while his mind went thankfully numb. Soon he had a bag filled with all his clothes and the few books he couldn’t leave behind and that was it, his entire life in one bag. 

He took a deep breath and left their bedroom. Sirius’s bedroom and, flinging his key at Sirius’s feet, walked out without looking back. 

It wasn’t until he was three streets away that the tears came. They dripped down his face in thick rivulets as he tried to figure out where he went from here. He needed to get away. Get away from everything that reminded him of Sirius.

He rubbed his sleeve roughly across his face, wiping away the tears and apparated to the tooth and claw pack’s camp, resigning himself to living like an actual werewolf for the foreseeable future.

[middle-ans]

Can you post the Blind date at a dance class please 👀

Sure, thank you for asking! Ah, this one even took longer to write somehow, hope you’ll enjoy it (1915 words)

It's so stupid, he can't even chase the doom away from his face, standing in front of who should be their coach-coordinator for the day, since no one here has come to dance really. A tall man with hair generously styled with gel claps his hands, drawing all the attention in the room to himself, quickly adjusting the headset on his head.

“Now, you will all be divided into pairs at first, completely random, it doesn't matter if you don't like the first partner, you will switch them every few minutes on my command,” his smile is wide and charged with an enthusiasm that George doesn't remember having in himself for a long time. How does it feel to actually be excited about something, after numerical failed dates with guys from dating apps and zero interest in wasting his time on this nonsense any further.

His friends apparently thought otherwise. Alex was persistent, Logan soft but determined, Oscar played along with the general hilarity, and it eventually led George to that particular moment - standing in front of a stranger with his arms spread out in invitation until George himself decided to finally move. Blind dates are a bygone age if it's just a certain number of people hooking up at a table with each other on the whistle like players on a soccer field. But if you take away the tables, gather those hopeless couple-seekers in a dance hall with mirrors, a coach and salsa motifs, Alex said, at least it's more fun. Hardly, as George tries to smile plausibly and accepts the invitation of another man's hand, settling one palm on the man's shoulder, the other in his arm. He wasn't a confident enough dancer to dare lead.

“So, I'm Isaac,” the man tells him, smiling a little too broadly, almost maniacally. “I'm thirty-two, the proud father of two kids, if we regard cats as such.”

Isaac laughs to smooth the edges, but George is already flinching in his confidence to be in this room and can barely keep smiling so studiously. He swallows, nodding detachedly and peering over the man's shoulder to see who will be his party for the next three minutes. God help him make it through two more.

“I'm a lawyer in my father's firm,” the next one, Jack, John, Jake, whatever, grabs his waist the way he'd grab a judge in court by the collar, probably, George shudders, letting his breath pass over Jack's shoulder. No, he has to be Jake after all. “Dating isn't my thing, but I need a serious partner. You don't really play games when you're 28, one has to look forward to a future with a family now.”

George is 26 and is more than happy to play games, if only a decent second player could be found. He's so eager to play games that he even lasted three whole months with a strange type named Aaron, who though caused too many question marks in his head, sometimes with bright red flashers, was muscle and face attractive enough to occasionally swallow it mixed with moaning in bed with him. Hugely interested in sports, too little percentage of his brain separated for anything other than that, he barely talked to George anymore except for the times they went to the gym or for a run together, most of it still spent muttering about calcium and protein and cardio.

“Ed,” he's greeted by short hair, deep-set eyes, and a husky voice with an accent pronounced enough that it slips even into his quick retorts. “Wow, you're tall. Ever considered a modeling career?”

George sighs frustratedly, this is going nowhere. He lets go of his partner's number six or seven, knocking the whole round of pairs out of rhythm and backing away, pressing a palm to his forehead and digging his fingers into his hair. The door is right there, a few steps away, so George exhales his frustration and moves confidently toward the exit until his arm is trapped in someone else's grip and he's abruptly turned back around, caught in the soft press of his ribcage. He blinks in surprise, grabbing his partner's shoulder more out of reflex to stay on his feet, but the view revealed besides those shoulders mesmerizes him enough to stiffen and claw at the exposed skin almost to the mark in the shape of his fingernails.

“You're not going to deny me a partner, are you?” the man grins, chuckling as he makes him move just a little, pulling back a few inches so George can breathe. And he takes the opportunity with the full force of his lungs.

“Sorry, I-” he shakes his head, suddenly ashamed of his almost successful escape. “People here are so-”

“Not the most interesting conversationalists, I'll agree,” the stranger nods, settling an arm around his waist and casting glances at the coach to check how they should move. “But here we are. And I'm Lewis, by the way. Unless you're planning on running away from me too.”

Letting out a nervous chuckle, George shakes his head, smoothing out the marks he's managed to leave on the skin of Lewis's shoulder.

“I'm George. And no, I think I'm going to stay a while.”

“Really? I'll take that as an honor, George,” he winks at him, pulling him a little closer to tear George off the floorboard and spin him around in the air, definitely not something the coach has been showing them all this hour. “Not a big fan of dancing?”

“Not really.”

“Why the dance blind date then?” Lewis smiles, bowing his head as if this interest in him is actually genuine and natural. George can't find any flaw in that face though he's been looking at it for a second minute.

“It's my friends, probably too tired from my unsuccessful rounds of dating apps.”

“Oh,” Lewis drawls understandingly, nodding. His voice, George can't figure out its mystery, leaning closer to catch where the velvetiness pours from, wrapped in huskiness and softness, so mesmerizing and warm. Like the strength of his hands on George's body, be it elbow, then wrist and palm, waist, middle of his back, one bold slide to his hips when Lewis should give him a spin and catch him back. “I can see that. Can't say I'm sorry those attempts failed, but.”

George grins amazedly, raising his eyebrows.

“Subtle,” he mutters, submitting to his lead easily. He could actually negotiate George's body in its minor maneuvers on his form, all on the thin edge of propriety.

“And, we're switching!” the coach announces loudly, clapping his hands.

It's unfortunate, George questions their hiccup, but Lewis slides his hand farther down his waist, entwining them more instead of letting go.

“Stay,” he murmurs above a flushed ear, and George drops his eyelashes to flutter across his cheeks, nodding coyly.

The coach casts an odd glance at them but says nothing, and one pair has to go around them to move on to the next partners. When George dares to look up, Lewis has that killer smile that dazzles in the sunlight bouncing off the mirrors around him, satisfied and confident, leads them further around the circle.

“You have a lot of tattoos,” George exhales into the golden grid of pre-sunset light between them, examining the intricate designs scattered in no doubt deep meaning across the dark smooth skin.

“Do you like them?” Lewis reached his hand on his shoulder, taking it in a cautious direction and lowering to the beginnings of the ink on his neck, just below his earlobe. George is certain his cheeks are already giving him away with gusto, but he tentatively tastes the proffered patch of skin for softness, warmth strikes his pads and he traces a neat ornate script of letters lower down the tendons of his neck. “I still have a few blank spots I plan to fill in.”

“It's beautiful,” George hums, all too melting in his hands as if they'd met not half an hour ago but years earlier.

As the music let them flow on with the smooth rhythm of their acquaintance, they ignored every next call to switch, sometimes the dance itself too, making it all just about touching and spinning here and there, Lewis holding him in the ring of his arms and looking straight through his eyes, too attentive and sincere for George to object.

“What do you do for a living?” the man asked, tucking a curl tickling George's cheek behind his ear.

“I work in PR. Boring as it sounds.”

“Oh, partnered with any restaurants ever?”

“A few. Why, do you own one?”

“Actually, yeah, in Soho. The Green Spoon, ever heard of it?”

George faltered, breaking out of a rhythm that was already going radically at odds with what the other couples were doing.

“That's yours? Really? I was there,” he tries to get the mumbling under control, licking his lips and slowing his speech. “The mushroom risotto is fantastic.”

Lewis spreads a smile even wider than the ones he's already given, his palm creeping higher up the spine with a gentle circling of his thumb over George's shirt.

“My signature recipe,” he shrugs his shoulder as if there's nothing to it. “And you seem to excel in the art of dancing.”

There must be something to do with a partner, George doesn't voice it, leaning shyly against Lewis's shoulder and letting go of the tension in his eyelids while a warm, husky laugh vibrating in the man's chest against his own after they've taken step after step closer together.

“You're good at that,” he states simply, feeling a breath sneaking across his skin higher as Lewis lifts his head.

“The dance?”

“At... This,” George gulps thickly, gesturing with their intertwined fingers between their bodies. “Making people feel like they belong.”

“Maybe because you do.”

They talk, and laugh, and even manage to dance in the midst of it all, melting into chatter and giggles until the final call stops them, the coach having to clap his hands a few times to get their attention. Lewis returned his gaze once he was sure the class was indeed over, everyone heading to their belongings at the entrance.

“Would you mind if we continued this sometime after? Dinner, at my place?”

George laughed softly, shaking his head. He couldn't realistically find a reason to say no.

“I'd love to,” he murmurs, lowering his head until a finger taps under his chin, guiding him into the sight of other's gaze. Lewis digs through the pockets of his pants, pulling out a pen from there.

“I'd be flattered if you took one of the empty spots with your number,” he points to the scraps of skin not occupied by tattoos, and a blush blooms a deep carmine on George's cheeks as he picks a place on the man's forearm, tapping his fingers gently before writing his number. It's so silly, he bites his lip giggling until he finishes, handing the pen back to Lewis.

“I'll be looking forward to the call, I suppose?”

Lewis grins, leaning over his face and pressing a fond kiss to his flaming cheek. George shakily says goodbye to the air as the tip of his nose traces the wet imprint of lips and the facets of piercings teasing his patience.

“I don't think I'll last much longer than until tonight,” Lewis winks, retreating to the greatest distance that separated them today. “So check your phone, George.”

[vaggieslefteye]

HUSK, Hotel Bartender & Concierge | 1x04 - Masquerade

"Oh, I FORGOT — you're the wise-old bartender who's seen it all! Get the fuck over yourself and pour me a real drink."

[shigarakins]

i remember when the bodysnatching happened and how hardly anyone else in the fandom (or what i saw of the fandom) seemed to find it as horrifying as i did. then the same thing happened again with the mind invasion. and yes the fact that the mind invasion happened at all and not even the story gave much of a fuck about the fact that it did is still one of biggest gripes with the finale

[gxlden-angels]

Love when fundamentalist christians call other fundamentalist christians a cult like I can accept telling children they'll go to hell if they don't hug the parent that spanked them and smile, but I draw the line at suggesting barcodes contain the mark of the beast

[ladyloveandjustice]

Oh, are you talking about Caeneus? He didn't really get shapeshifting powers, he just got permanently turned into a man (or rather Poseidon changed his body permanently at his request, if you want a full on trans reading with is super easy to do). In one version, Caeneus simply said he did want to have a child after having sex with Poseidon (willingly? Not able to read the original so that's unclear) and asked to be transformed into a man. Apparently there are also versions where he doesn't really give an explanation for why he wants to be a man, but asking for it is a the thread that ties every version together.

In Ovid's version, the story was Poseidon (or rather, Neptune) raped him but for once in his life decided he felt guilty about it, so offered to grant a wish in response, and Caeneus wished to be a invincible superstrong man so nothing like that could happen again to him, then went on to become a great warrior. Ovid's versions do tend to be more misogynistic than the confirmed earlier myths though (see: Medusa).

I've seen claims there's a version where Caenus willingly offers himself to Poseidon in exchange for a wish, and then tricks Poseidon by wishing to be a man (making Poseidon one of the few Greek Gods to be confirmed straight I guess). That one is like, SUPER open to a trans reading.

Sources on this aren't as verifiable in the two minutes I looked, so grain of salt, but this post goes into it, but it says some other things I can't find sources for, but it DOES have a source that mentions there are myths where Caneus was willing.

Poseidon from Greek mythology

[merkerlerspeaks]

I am actively replaying mysme trying to get 7's route

But Zen is testing my patience.

[elysbrax]

"of course they will." elys spoke with a cool, smooth confidence, as though the reach's ships were of no more consequence than gnats gathering around a picnic. it was an issue that sounded as though it were in hand. if arron had dominon over the western waters in his sights, elys did not doubt his ability to get it. he spoke as though it were a given. perhaps it was. arron spoke favourably of being bold, but it took a certain type of man to turn boldness into legacy. in that, at least, the two of them had a common cause.

and perhaps it was that which encouraged him, which let his inherent boldness shine through. "what do i see a need for?" he repeated, a low, throaty chuckle escaping him. he leaned forward, as though he was sharing a secret that only arron could understand. "me."

in truth, there was little he could offer tyland lannister beyond that. the king had wealth, had power, had authority. in the face of it, it was a meagre offering - if elys had not presented it with the quite confidence of a man who knew his strengths, and knew what he could be. he believed there was none like him, not in the westerlands, not in the entire kingdom, with the unshakeable assurance of a man who had found himself tested before, and rose to the challenge, each and every time.

"the west does not lack for vision or strength, or even wisdom." he drawled. that was not what was in doubt. "but that alone does not hold a kingdom together. i have been listening to what our recent visitors have to say about these lands. they scorn us as much as they fear us, and that is not inherently bad thing - but we cannot give them any excuse. no sign of any weakness in the armour."

he leaned back in his seat then, hands folding and coming to rest on his stomach in a pose that would seem relaxed, if not for the way his spine remained rod-straight. "the lannisters are not shy about surrounding themselves with those who have value. lefford, serrett. and brax." the addition of his own house was pointed, saying without words that he believed himself a man of value. "you do not need me to tell you that you and the king don't lack for what it takes to steer the westerlands into something even greater than it already is. and i am precisely the sort of man who can support the both of you in that."

"They are an ever present irritation." Those ships should have been his, he wouldn't beat around the bush. He wouldn't forget. Robbed by a crippled knight who found himself lucky enough to call the king cousin. He clenched his jaw and then smiled as he looked at the other. "But even those issues will find themselves resolved." These seas were his and he would need to prove it. Just needed to put the pieces in the right place.

Arron agreed with the other, nodding his head as he listened to her words. Loss left a mark on all. Arron felt something...he couldn't put it into words it was more than mourning the wife. There has been so much to mourn that Arron didn't know if he was using the right word any longer.

The west thrived on more than the skills of Tyland Lannister, they survived on the backs of strong and wise men, men who knew where their loyalties should lie and he worried of the growing Serrett influence around them. "There's no crassness to be found in speaking truthfully, boldly." His father once told him that the Gods favored the bold and so did the Lannisters.

The Lord mentioned Fair Isle and he understand him, nodding his head. "Fair Isle is Fair Isle, Elys." And it was his domain, the Isle needed him. "Fair Isle turns boys into men and shows what we're made of, always. And court could do with those who see things the way men like us see them." He smiled, slightly, "what do you see a need for at court?"

[fightingdragonswithwho]

hate to be a hater on the main … but this season of ted lasso excels (once again) at team dynamic and the found family elements and i think the finale absolutely nailed that, i cried, i laughed, it was perfect on that. now as for the individual stories and relationships… yeah, let’s leave it at that