#but like when he takes off the glasses and turns at a particular angle...

[lonelywhalien22]

wait but the teacher tho...😎

[a-killer-obsession]

Rage [Killer x Reader]

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

You lose control when your bestie almost falls victim to a creep.

CW: attempted rape via date rape drugs, graphic violence, gore, fluff, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f recieving), p in v sex, afab reader

WC: 5371

Masterlist || A03

Going out to the clubs was actually a rarity for you and the other female residents of the Victoria Punk . The Kid Pirates loved to party, of course, but the captain and commanders preferred pubs, and you usually had to go where they went. Kid didn't like his crew getting separated at night on unfamiliar islands, especially not his girls, he wanted them where he could see, and protect them. But every now and then, after the collective force of every girl on the ship whining and batting their eyelashes, he would give in and let the crew go to a dance club instead. 

On this particular evening you found yourself grinding on the dancefloor with Quincy, your bestie on the crew, and the two of you had no issues touching each other and dancing provocatively to attract someone to spend the evening with, though truth be told the most ideal outcome would be if a certain first mate took notice and decided to take you home. It was unlikely though, Killer had never returned any of your flirtations, and whenever your eyes turned his way, you never caught him watching. No matter, plenty of other attractive men were out on the floor tonight, and plenty were watching your clear display with Quincy. The plan was in full force and you had no doubt you'd both be getting laid tonight. 

The tempo of the song changed and you and your bestie decided it would be a good time for a quick rest and drink break. You'd both been on the floor for a fair while now, and you could really do with something to wet your lips. Quincy offered to grab drinks while you headed back to the table where the commanders sat, perching on the edge of the booth seat next to Heat so you could take off your heels and rub your sore feet for a moment. You didn't really need to rub them, sore feet from heels was something you were more than used to every time you went clubbing, but you were sat across from Killer, and at this angle as you bent over slightly, he had a clear view down the front of your low cut dress. His mask tilted down so slightly that you would have missed it, if the view hadn't been entirely on purpose. A little butterfly wiggled in your stomach at the small win, Killer was definitely checking out your tits, even if you couldn't see his eyes. 

You looked back towards the bar to where Quincy was ordering drinks. The barkeeper had just placed two cocktails in front of her when a man slid up beside her and engaged in conversation. You smiled as you watched her laugh at something he said. He pointed to something behind her and she followed his finger, and as she looked away you watched his other hand move. It was subtle, but you saw it, there was no mistaking it. 

“Son of a bitch,” you growled, shoving your heel back on and standing. 

The commanders all looked at you expectantly as you began to march towards the bar. They all knew that walk, either you were about to shoot your shot with someone, or you were about to kick some ass. They all shot up and followed behind you, knowing full well that in this case, it was definitely the latter. 

Quincy raised a drink to her mouth just as you approached, and you slapped it out of her hand, the delicate martini glass hitting the floor and shattering. She was about to protest when you grabbed the man beside her by the collar and shoved him against the bar. Quincy wasn't one for fighting, and quickly backed away, sensing something was amiss here. You would never just attack a man for no reason in the middle of a night out, not when she knew you were on the prowl for a lay. And you would never come between her and getting laid unless you had a very good reason. 

“The fuck kind of piss ass slease needs to drug a girl to get with her, huh?” You spat at the man.

“No idea what you're talkin’ ‘bout, doll,” the man smiled, putting his hands up in mock defeat.

You reached into the pocket you'd seen him pull the drugs from and pulled out a bag of pills, waving it around for all to see. Nosey bystanders made a ‘ooooh’ sound and security began to close in. You looked at the closest guard, who had moved in to break up a fight, but seeing the baggy had now focused his attention on the man, a scolding fury written on his face. 

“No worries babe, we'll take care of this cunt,” you told the security guard. They gave a quick nod and began to clear a path to the door, wanting the mess outside as quickly as possible. Heat and Wire quickly flanked the man, and you let go of his collar so they could drag him outside, but not before giving him a hard kick in the dick. He groaned in pain as they pulled him through the club doors, and you followed them out, anger bubbling and fists clenching in preparation. Quincy tried to follow, but you gave her one stern look and she knew better, retreating back to the safety of the other Kid Pirate women. 

The commanders dragged the man to the alley down the side of the bar, and threw him hard against the wall. Killer moved to hit him, but you placed a firm hand against his chest. This was your fight, you wanted to do this. You needed to take your anger out on this man or it would fester, and fuck were you angry . Killer's mask tilted to look down at your hand, ready to argue with you, before Kid spoke up from behind. 

“Let her have it Kil, this is her find,” Kid commanded. Killer took one look at Kid and gave an obedient nod, before stepping back to give you space. The men spread out around you and the stranger, ensuring he had nowhere to run. 

Like a fool, he tried to run anyway, and you quickly made it clear he was going nowhere with a swift kick to the head. You may have been only a medium height, but you were agile, and strong, kicking his head was easy for you, even if he was taller than you. He went down quickly, clutching his head, and you followed with a hard kick to his stomach. He gagged, one hand moving from his head to his gut as he curled up in a protective ball. 

You turned to your captain, your eyes flicking between his and the dagger strapped to his chest, asking silent permission. He handed it to you without a word, curious as to what you'd do with it. You had killed plenty of times, but you usually prefered a quick kill with a gun, you weren't keen on torture. He got the feeling though that this was different, it felt personal. You'd never insisted on killing someone yourself before, and he could see the way your eyes were dark with rage, your head twitching every so slightly whenever you looked at the man. He still wasn't entirely sure what you were mad about, but he couldn't care less, he was happy to lean against the wall and watch one of his girls kill. 

You leant down next to the man, twisting your fingers through his hair and pulling hard, yanking his head up to force him to look at you. At the same time you pressed the tip of the dagger to his throat, just enough to pierce it a tiny amount, the threat of death made very real as a thin line of red ran down the man's front. 

“What were your plans with my girl, huh?” You spat, “feed her your drugs, drag her away, maybe to this very spot, and rape her? Leave her broken and dying in this alleyway? Did you think she was all alone?” 

The man whimpered as you pressed a foot against his groin, pressing the sharp heel of your shoe right against his dick. The men around you silently grimaced as you began to press harder, the stranger starting to cry out in pain as your shoe began to dig into his delicate parts. 

“Pathetic little tiny dicked man,” you growled, pressing harder yet, “the only thing you're good for is dying” 

You slid the dagger down his chest, cutting a long strip down his front, then you brought your foot up and kicked him back. His head slammed against the concrete wall with an audible crack as you stalked towards him. He tried to stand, groaning in pain, and you charged forward, jamming the dagger right into his stomach. Pinning him to the wall, he screamed and clawed at you as you twisted the blade, before pulling it out along with a small segment of his intestines. He grappled at his gut, and you dug the blade back in, higher this time, leaving it in his gut as you grabbed his wrists and pressed them against the wall behind him. 

“Kid, pin this bug for me would you?” You asked sweetly. Kid compiled with a small chuckle, sending sharps of scrap metal from the alleyway straight through the man's hands, effectively nailing him to the wall. He screamed out, his hands beginning to bleed and tear as his legs started to give way underneath him, and his guts continued to spill out. You grabbed the blade that was still wedged in his gut, twisting it again for good measure before pulling it loose. 

The man was writhing and screaming, on the edge of passing out from either blood loss or shock, whichever happened first, and you saw red as you realised you didn't have much longer to make him pay. Who knew how many girls he had hurt, how many Quincys hadn't had the good fortune of a friend looking at just the right moment, how many girls whose lives he had destroyed for the sake of an easy lay. Quincy was your best friend, you imagined finding her in the alleyway, unconscious and unclothed and beaten and used. You wanted to scream, cry, vomit, but most of all you wanted to kill.

“RAPIST CUNT! DIE!” you shrieked, charging back at him and stabbing over and over. You didn't bother to focus on where you were forcing your blade, sheathing it in any piece of his flesh that you could. His chest, his arms, his groin, even his face wasn't untouched. You blacked out, unleashing every ounce of fury you had pent up inside you on this man. 

He was growing cold, long dead, and you continued to stab, his blood splattering all over the large amounts of skin you had exposed in your little black clubbing dress, your shoes starting to get slippery from the blood pooling inside them. You almost fell because of it, and two strong arms caught you, looping under your armpits and dragging you backwards as you fought against them, blade still in hand. 

“Kid, she's out of control,” Killer spoke up from behind you, struggling to keep you steady as you slipped out of your heels and attempted to fight your way out of his grasp, still intent on burying your knife in the unrecognisable red mess of the stranger. Kid knew that bloodlust well, he had seen it in the mirror, but never on one of his girls. It startled him, and until Killer had spoken, he'd been in a haze, pride turning to concern as he watched you continue to work away at the corpse till you couldn't stand. Finally, snapped out of it, he used his devil fruit to pull the blade from your hand, receiving an almost inhuman growl from you in return. It sent a shiver down the spine of all four commanders, and drove home just how out of control you really were. 

“Take her back to the ship, clean her up,” he told Killer, “Heat, stay with the girls, Wire help me get rid of this mess” 

Killer swept you off your feet, in a way that would have been quite sexy if not for the fact that you were growling and hitting him, still trying to get at the dead man, and he began a quick march towards the ship. You saw Heat hurry back inside as Kid began to drag the body to the nearest dumpster, Wire holding the lid open for him as he threw the bloodied mess in, before Killer pulled around a corner and they were all out of sight. 

The short walk back to the ship was a blur, and it wasn't until Killer placed you in the shower and turned the cold water on that you finally stopped fighting him, suddenly snapped out of your rage by the icy water pouring over your bare skin. You took in a sharp breath as the water prickled you, pressing your back against the wall of the shower in instinctual self defence and almost slipping in the process. Killer pinned you against the wall to keep you upright, his feet still outside the tub and his clothes getting drenched. 

“Are you going to stop fighting me now?” He near growled.

You looked at where his eyes would be, coming back to reality far too quickly and realising all of a sudden what you had done. You had never been so violent in your life, you didn't know what had come over you. You grabbed the strong forearms that were either side of you as you felt your legs threaten to give out. 

“I- I-” you stuttered, starting to hyperventilate. 

“It's okay, I've got you,” he said, softer now. He guided your body down, letting you slide safely down the wall till you were sitting in the bathtub, and he switched the water to warm as you began to shiver. “I'm right here, I've got you” he cooed, almost a whisper, running a hand through your blood soaked hair so gently that anyone watching the exchange would mistake him for a lover. 

“I don't know what happened,” you shivered. 

“You were protecting Quincy,” he told you, “he was going to hurt her, you were right to be angry, I would have fucked him up just as bad. Hell, I was planning on bringing him back here, taking my time with him”

You stared at Killer's blank mask as you realised that, while extremely violent by your standards, he was right. You probably did the man a mercy by killing him so quickly, had Killer brought him back to the ship he would have tortured him for days. Maybe that would have been better, given what he'd done, what he was planning to do to Quincy. Maybe you did a bad thing, by stopping Killer. Selfish. 

Killer saw the way your thoughts were beginning to spiral and curled a gentle finger under your chin, tilting your face back up. “Hey, don't let your mind play games with you, you did good, Kid was impressed, Quincy will be thankful, and who knows how many girls you've saved from a similar fate” 

You sniffed a little as Killer leaned away, giving you space to compose yourself. Both of you were still fully clothed, drenched by the shower, and you were absolutely covered in blood. There were even bits of organs and skin stuck in your hair, you wanted to gag at the thought. 

“This is disgusting,” you sighed as you pulled a piece of some unknown flesh out of your hair and flicked it towards the drain, “and my dress is fucking ruined” you pouted. 

“It looked good while you had it, at least,” Killer remarked. You lit up, your eyes practically glittering at the compliment. It was the first time he'd ever said something nice about your appearance. 

“Yeah? You liked it?” You pressed. 

“Made your legs look real good,” he smirked behind the mask, knowing the little ego boost would help you out of your mood, “and I appreciated the view earlier” he would have winked if not for the mask. He stood and pulled his wet shirt over his head, revealing the tight muscles and the blonde trail of hair that ran down from his belly button and disappeared under the light blue sash he wore around his waist. He tossed it in a laundry basket in the corner of the bathroom before grabbing a towel and dabbing at the exposed hair that had gotten wet. He watched the way you eyed him hungrily, biting your lip a little and tilting your head ever so slightly, so focused on his rarely seen bare chest that you didn't even notice the way he was showing off for you. It was an expertly planned distraction, you'd all but forgotten about your rage induced overkill as you watched a stray bead of water run down his front. You very nearly moaned watching it run over his muscles, and he stifled a laugh. 

He finished drying his hair and flung the towel over his shoulder, before grabbing another clean towel and hanging it on a hook next to the shower for you. “Get yourself cleaned up,” he said as he turned to leave. You'd almost forgotten you were still sitting fully clothed, covered in blood, under the running water. “I'll find you something to wear,” he said as he left, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

You let out a heavy sigh at his sudden exit before registering all of a sudden that you were in his bathroom. You'd never even been past the eave of his bedroom door before. You shot up, your eyes darting around the room as you took in every little detail. To be fair though, it was unbearably clean, barely anything to be nosey about. With a slight disappointed pout you began unzipping your dress, wringing it out slightly before throwing it to the laundry basket, along with your bra and underwear. You took the bobby pins out of your hair and left them along the side of the tub to retrieve later, along with your earrings, one of which was broken. You'd have to ask Kid very nicely to mend it for you later. 

You let the water run over you freely to remove most of the blood from your skin and hair before finally turning to Killer's array of products, neatly lined up along an inset shelf next to the tub. No wonder his hair was always so nice, you couldn't think of any other man you'd ever met who used hair masks, and Killer had several to choose from. You opened and sniffed each product on the shelf carefully out of curiosity, before finally starting to wash your hair and skin. You would have liked to have used a hair mask, but you'd already spent more than enough time fucking around in Killer's bathroom. 

Satisfied that your murderous rampage was entirely cleaned from your body, you turned off the shower and patted your hair with the towel, letting the rest of your body drip dry till you felt like your hair was dry enough. You wrapped the towel around yourself, drying off the last few rogue drips, before taking a deep breath and walking out to the bedroom. 

You weren't sure what to expect from Killer's room. You had seen glimpses of it from the hall, but never the whole room. It was tidy, not many personal belongings out on show save for a few books and a small metal elephant that Kid had clearly made him. Even less expected was Killer himself, who was lazing on the bed reading, in nothing but a pair of navy sweatpants. Let me repeat that, nothing but a pair of navy sweatpants. Your eyes flicked between him and his mask, which sat neatly on his side table, as he turned to the next page of his book. You stood frozen in the doorframe, steam slowly escaping the bathroom behind you as you stared at Killer, his icy blue eyes moving side to side as he read. 

“There's clothes for you on the dresser,” he said without looking up, like he wasn't casually unmasked for the first time in front of you, “my briefs are probably too big for you but it's better than nothing” 

You took a quick look around the room, finding the dresser right beside you, an old band tee and boxer briefs sitting on top of the wooden drawers. ‘Fuck that’ you thought to yourself, marching confidently to the side of the bed. Killer finally looked up just in time to watch you drop your towel, a sly smirk spreading on his face. His lips, to your surprise, were painted purple. Now that you were closer you could see how sharp his features were, and the unseen portion of his scruffy goatee that was usually half hidden by his mask. 

“I wondered how long it'd take you to finally cave,” he said coyly, returning to his book. You grabbed it and threw it across the room, climbing on to the bed and straddling him. 

“Your mask isn't on,” you said plainly. You weren't sure if it was a question or a statement. 

“Fuck, really?” He toyed, “I hadn't noticed” 

Your playfulness suddenly wavered as you realised the gravity of the situation, sitting down on his thighs and looking at him more intensely. 

“Your mask isn't on,” you said, softer. This time it was definitely a statement. His hands found your waist and his thumbs made small circles against your bare skin, leaving goosebumps and making you shiver. 

“I know,” he replied, his voice gentle and quiet. 

“Kil..” you almost whispered. Your hands came up and cupped his face, thumbs running over his cheeks as you held his face carefully like it was the most fragile thing on earth. “.. why?”

“I'm not sure myself, to be honest,” he replied, his eyes searching your face anxiously for any hint of rejection, but finding nothing but adoration, “it just felt like the right thing to do. Plus, this is my room,” he finished with a more playful tone and a small smile. Your heart skipped a beat, seeing his smile for the first time. Your eyes flicked between his eyes and his mouth, and his smile waived as he misread your expression as disliking his smile. He began to turn away, but you held his face steady, before finally closing the distance and pressing your mouth against his. 

It was a soft kiss, experimental, you may have been entirely naked in his lap but you somehow felt insecure about whether he actually wanted you. The insecurities were quickly lost though when he returned the kiss, one of his hands travelling up your back to find your hair, holding you steady as he pressed back against you. You made a small moan in response, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth, running his wet muscle against your own. 

You raised yourself on your knees, hovering over him, to give yourself better purchase as his head tilted and your tongues fought against each other. The raised position opened you up to him, and he wasted no time sliding his other hand from your waist to your lower stomach, tracing down to your mound with an index finger. You moaned into his mouth as his hand ghosted across your slit, before finally sliding between your folds. He groaned as he found you already wet, and his fingers played with your silk before finally settling over your clit, circling it with his thumb. Your hips bucked as you tried to get more from him, and he took the hint, slipping a finger inside you and beginning a gentle movement. 

You had to break from the kiss for air as he added a second, your hands running down his chest and your face pressing into the crook of his neck as he began curling his fingers and pumping you, his other hand holding to you steady against him as you whined. You made the occasional kiss and nip on his neck, hearing him grunt as you made little marks across his skin, and you whimpered as he added a third finger, stretching you out and targeting your g-spot. You fluttered around him as you climax rapidly built, moaning against his shoulder and leaving his skin damp from your hot breath as you panted. 

“Let go [y/n], I can feel how close you are,” Killer purred, pumping you harder. Your legs shook and you were grateful for his support as you came hard, your release coating his fingers as he kissed and sucked on your neck, cooing praises. He guided you to sit back as he removed his fingers, keeping you upright with a strong arm around your waist as you sat against his thighs. Your pussy left wet patches against his sweatpants and you watched through half lidded eyes as he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked your release off his fingers, an almost inaudible moan escaping you at the lewd sight. 

“So sweet,” he purred, “such a good girl for me” 

You whimpered at his praises and he helped you lay on your back beside him, rolling on top of you to settle between your legs, keeping his weight off you with an arm either side of your torso. “You're so beautiful underneath me like this,” he whispered, his face dipping down to run his nose over your clavicle, taking in your scent before running a tongue up your neck to your ear, where he nipped and tugged at the lobe. “I want to taste more of you,” he whispered, “can I have you?” 

You could barely tilt your head to look at him, but you managed to catch his ocean eyes for a moment before capturing his lips again, pulling gently at his hair as he kissed back with equal feverish need. You pulled away, gasping for air. “Take whatever you want from me Kil,” you panted, “I'm yours” 

A small lustful growl of appreciation was his reply, overly eager at your submissive response. It fueled his ego and he began making quick kisses down your body, trailing down your centre. He stopped for a short while to admire your breasts, and the way your chest was heaving from arousal, squeezing them and pressing his face between them. It was heaven on earth to be buried between them, but what he really wanted was to watch you writhe again, so he continued down till his face was between your legs. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding them open and making sure you weren't going anywhere, before running a fat stripe with his tongue between your folds. You whimpered and instinctively shied away, still sensitive from your previous orgasm, but he held fast, keeping his mouth firmly on you. You felt the vibrations of his groans as he alternated between focusing on your bud and plunging his tongue inside you, your moans now flowing freely from you as he quickly brought you to a second climax. 

He eagerly drank up your juices as you nearly crushed his head between your thighs, the lack of oxygen making him light headed but only adding to his arousal. When you finally released him he gave one last long stripe before sitting up, kneeling between your legs and running his hands up your body as he licked his lips.

“Fuck, Kil…” you panted, a forearm resting over your face as you came down from your second high. He gently took your arm and moved it away, hovering over you and looking at you intently. 

“You okay?” He asked softly. 

“Mmm,” you mumbled, a small smile on your face. You spread your legs in a not so subtle hint, giving him the greenlight to continue. 

“You sure?” He replied, his still clothed erection pressing against your centre. You moaned and rolled your hips against him, and his arms almost failed to hold his weight off you as he grunted. 

“Please Kil,” you mewled, grinding against him again, “I need you inside me” 

He moved faster than he would in battle to strip his pants and boxers, throwing them to the floor and settling back between your legs. The fat tip of his heavy cock rested against your pussy and you bit your bottom lip, looking down between your legs at his impressive size and wondering how you were going to fit all of him. 

“I'll be gentle,” he near whispered, like he could read your mind, “just tell me if you want to stop”

You nodded eagerly and held his forearms, holding yourself slightly up so you could watch as he sunk his tip inside you. You immediately wavered in your strength, falling back against the mattress and moaning as he filled and stretched you. He let out a groan as he finally reached the base, pausing to enjoy the way your walls held him so tight before slowly pulling back out again. He started a slow, gentle rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back inside you, groaning softly every time he bottomed out. 

Confident that he wouldn't hurt you, you rolled your hips to meet him, encouraging him to go faster. He happily obliged, increasing his pace bit by bit. Every time he settled in to a new speed, you would roll your hips and reach for him, beckoning him to move faster and harder till he was ruining you, fucking you hard in to the bed while you balled the sheets in your hands, screaming out in pleasure at every hard thrust.

He pulled your knees up, putting them over his shoulders and pulling your ass towards him, putting you in a mating press and somehow fucking you even deeper. You reached for him and your nails sunk into the muscles that covered his arms, leaving crescent shaped indents as you writhed underneath him. His rhythm became erratic and his panting in your ear grew heavy as he bent over you, his groans only spurring you on more as you hit your third orgasm quite suddenly, screaming his name and drawing blood as your nails finally broke skin. He swore and gave two final hard thrusts before stilling and throwing his head back, letting out a primal groan as he emptied himself inside you. 

He slumped forward, releasing your legs from his shoulders and resting against your chest, both of you panting heavy and struggling for air. You ran your fingers through his hair, your eyes closed in pure bliss as you enjoyed his weight on top of you, his face against your shoulder and his cock still buried deep in you. Finally he rolled off of you, making you whine as he left you empty, but he pulled you with him, holding you close against his side so he could enjoy you without worrying about crushing you. 

“You know,” you forced out between heavy breaths as you traced his muscles with a index finger and his thumb rubbed small circles on the small of your back, “if I'd known all it would take to get your attention was going ape shit on some creep, I would have gone on a violent rampage much sooner”

Killer huffed a silent laugh, his eyes shut as he laid on his back and enjoyed the feeling of your warm body pressed against his, “actually, it was the dancing that did it”

“No fucking way,” you smacked his bare chest playfully, “Emma didn't think it would work, HA!”

“It was very… provocative,” Killer hummed. 

“That was the point,” you mused, raising yourself up to rest on your elbow so you could look at him, “you're very handsome, you know. The mask is sexy but this is a face carved by angels”

A clear blush spread across Killer's face before he quickly silenced you with kisses. 

[animasolaoriginal]

A B A N D O N E D 🥀 1/3

A new-in-town urban explorer stumbles upon a (not so) well hidden secret in an abandoned building, turning his life upside down when he takes more than pictures and leaves more than footprints.

Normal dude meets broken girl turned sex toy

WARNINGS: Urban exploration. Implied past rape. Implied past caning. Wounds and injuries. Objectification. Submissive character. Strangers to lovers. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Fluff. Eventual smut*. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 7.6k

A/N: This is a spin-off to my original story INFATUATED, set in the same universe. There's no need to have read INFATUATED, just know that there's a man we refer to as Sir who took in (kidnapped) a girl we refer to as Darling to make her his personal little plaything (but then proceeds to develop “feelings” for her), and this is the story of one of the unfortunate girls before her. A "study" on what a normal dude may think about an abandoned sub. Remember: this is fiction! A product of my own sick little mind, a fantasy. Our guy here may have some opinions later that may or may not stem from my own view on things (just some rants about certain kinks, and if those insult you, please forgive me, I don't mean any kink shaming. Everyone is valid around here – except Sir who might not get the best reviews in this story). By the way, the protagonist may have a name here, but it's only mentioned a few times, so you can still imagine any character here if you want to!

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

Glass crunches beneath his boots as he makes his way through the abandoned building. It's eerily quiet, just the wind howling through the broken windows and holes in the walls. The occasional rustle when debris or dry leaves move under the breeze. Nature's completely reclaimed this old house that used to be an apartment building with a bunch of tiny shops on the ground floor. Too off the beaten path, the shops became obsolete when a large mall opened only a few blocks away.

He's also in a very bad neighborhood, and nobody seemed to care about this particular building for a long time. Overgrown and broken, glass panes a good target practice for your usual teenage delinquent or bored child, doors ripped off their hinges by age and decay and maybe some random angry dude who needed a place to vent. Furniture long gone, either taken along or stolen later, things that couldn't be moved too easily (like sinks or toilet bowls) smashed into tiny pieces.

Normally he prefers places stuck in time, where tragedy struck and nobody's been back in decades, with faded photos on the walls or on dusty shelves, the smell of slowly rotting armchairs and a hint of mold in the air. Those make the best pictures. Little time capsules, evidence of older times, in the midst of a blooming bustling city. This building, however, looked more promising from the outside.

He raises his camera and takes a shot of a broken window where thick vines of ivy crawl around the frame and up the wall, the light of the setting sun giving the scene a soft glow. He changes the angle a few times, then moves on, up the stairs, looks through open doors into old apartments, mostly empty, walls vandalized with crude, unreadable graffiti, carpets full of dirt and a (not so) healthy layer of mold.

What strikes him as a little unusual is that the hallways look as if used fairly often, leaves and dust bunnies line the sides, but there's a path between the debris, leading further up the building. Not too unusual, these kinds of buildings usually attract a lot of shady people or bored teenagers, some to meet for illegal business deals, other to party hard in a place Mom and Dad cannot find them.

Maybe it's used for all kinds of things as he notices a growing abundance of empty soda cans, broken alcohol bottles and other garbage lying around (the most striking sight was a trail of discarded condoms and empty lube bottles). His destination is the roof, maybe he can at least snap some pictures of the sunset and the city around him from this place, for all he got now are shots of broken windows, nature reclaiming the urban space and your typical down-the-hallway shot. He even found the one-single-chair-in-the-middle-of-an-empty-room motif.

Of course he's not the first urbexer to walk through here, it's been abandoned for a long time, probably old news for the locals, but this is his first time here, in the city too, and he wanted to see as many abandoned things as possible. He heard from others that this house had good bones, meaning stable stairs and floors, no risk of breaking through and landing in the moldy basement with a pipe through your torso. He is looking for adventure, the thrill of being alone in a lost place, inhaling the intoxicating scent of debris and decay, he is not looking to pay a horrendous hospital bill because he's been too careless.

He takes the last section of the winding staircase, stepping onto the upper most floor, the roof access visible at the end of the corridor. There he hesitates. Unlike the floors below him, there's something different here. It's not as dirty, and the most prominent thing: all the doors are intact and closed. It almost looks like an actual floor of a still lived-in apartment building where you would find the same amount of dust and grime on the floors and walls.

Raising his camera, he takes a few shots, cursing when he realizes it's too dark to get it lined up best. The only light source is a badly boarded-up window at the end of the hallway, a tiny skylight above him and the glow creeping up over the staircase from the lower levels. Why is this window boarded up? What's happening up here that nobody wants to have witnesses for? There are other buildings around this one, still functional, mostly, probably for seedy reasons as well, but there's still the chance of people noticing what's going on here.

The closed doors irritate him. Everything else about this building was ripped out and broken and vandalized, nothing left in its former state. He came in through a bent-out-of-shape shutter gate, most of the former shops have so many holes it's fairly easy to get access to the rest of the house. And nobody seems to care about people walking about. There's an old No Trespassing sign near the boarded-up front door, but that's about it.

Though it doesn't surprise him in this kind of neighborhood. He might be new in this city, but he knows a crime haven when he sees one. Everything looks old and run down, shops are only fronts for other businesses, grim looking people stand around, gangs linger in groups in neglected parks or on the curb corners. He also saw some prostitutes walking the streets, looking as worn and shabby as the clothes they were wearing. Most normal people would avoid going deeper into the belly of the beast, but he likes the more dangerous places, and frankly, he fits right in.

Tall and bulky, he could pass as one of those bouncers standing in front of shady clubs, but he looks also young enough to be confused with a fresh gang member or mafia initiate or whatever. At least he thinks so because he's gotten no curious stares as he entered the neighborhood. Though he was glad nobody talked to him, his accent would have given him away for sure.

He feels his heart beating faster when he approaches one of the closed doors, the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation. It's a thrill to find something unusual in a place you've already pushed aside and declared boring. His hand grabs the door handle, twists it... and nothing happens. Locked. A locked door in an abandoned building. How curious. He tries the other ones, the same thing occurs. When he reaches the last door, he almost jumps back when the knob turns and the door opens with a click and then a creepy squeak.

One open room on a floor full of locked doors. His breath quickens, but he forces himself to remain calm. He doesn't even know what he's expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. The room is almost bare (but not as empty as the rooms he's seen before), aged wallpaper peels from the walls, the windows are covered by thick curtains, old and rugged looking, there's a couch in one corner, covered in blankets that have seen better days too. But the most unnerving sight is the bed in the middle of the room.

It's literally in the middle of the room, a sturdy looking metal frame he could walk around if he wanted to. But for now he only stares. There are handcuffs chained to the headboard, ropes tied to the low bed posts. And then there are the stains on the old mattress, lighter and darker ones, some are definitely blood. Old and dried, though one looks a little fresher, on the lower part of the bed. He's mesmerized, disgusted but mesmerized, almost forgets the weight around his neck before a shiver crashes through him.

It's an automated gesture to raise his camera and take pictures of what he sees. Pics or it didn't happen. It's a strange sight, but he isn't sure he wants to share this scene on his official page. He's known for showing off decaying architecture and nature reclaiming its place in the world full of stone and people. To share a potential sex dungeon might not be the way to go. But he still has his side blog. He has to share this, work through the experience, hoping somebody knows something about this.

Though he hasn't even seen everything. Slowly he takes a step into the room. There's a table behind the door, a longer one, fit for a person to lie on, and the leather belts attached to it suggest the same. Fuck. Is this really one of those freaky sex rooms?

He doesn't want to imagine what goes on in here, but he can't completely ignore that he has seen similar settings in various porn clips. Echoes of crying girls crash through his mind, creepily leering men in ski masks standing around the bed, the table, the couch, cocks in hand, others holding paddles, canes, vibrators, ready to torment whoever is unfortunate enough to be strapped to the structures.

He wants to believe there's consent involved, a scene being played out, discussed beforehand, those girls willingly trapped with a bunch of horny men, but sometimes it's hard to imagine that anyone would want to go through that on their own free will. He swallows, only now noticing the stench of the room. Sweat and sex, various bodily fluids all around, with a metallic undertone. Blood.

Shivering he can't help himself, he takes more pictures, walks around the room as if treading on thin ice, careful not to disturb the scene. He's also hyper aware of the noises around him now, the low buzz of the city beyond, voices passing by the building, birds landing on the roof above him, pigeons cooing, crows cawing, seagulls screaming. He tells himself he'd hear if somebody came back to clean up the scene he's witnessing right now. He could flee to the roof, hide it out, maybe find a way down from there.

Goosebumps attack his bare forearms when he rounds the bed and notices a pile of blankets on the floor. But it's the hair poking out of it that makes his heart stop. No. He freezes on the spot, staring down, camera heavy in his hand. He's heard stories of other urban explorers encountering unsettling things, the more harmless one coming into contact with a squatter, either awake or passed out in some corner, and the most disturbing one... stepping onto a crime scene, finding blood, bones... or dead bodies.

Yet instead of panicking, with the urge to run as quickly as he can, he finds himself staring with an obscene fascination. His eyes trail the blanket, noticing how it's wrapped around whatever is curled up inside it, and he bends down a little, crouching beside it, the smell overwhelmingly strong down here. His stomach protests, but his curiosity is too obnoxious to ignore. Shifting his camera into his other hand, he reaches out, carefully, knowing he should probably wear gloves, but he also doesn't care. He has to know.

His fingers grip the edge of the blanket, and he pulls, gently, his eyes widening as the scene unfolds in front of him – together with the body of a girl unfurling from its curled-up position. He will never share his first impression with anyone, because it's primal, an instinct, the thought of a man whose cock has a mind of its own: she's pretty.

Also naked, covered in grime and other substances, pale skin adorned with angry red welts and purple bruises, something pink caked between her thighs. She's on her side, legs scissored open, arms bound behind her back. Her thick dark hair is braided into two pigtails, and one of them seems to be cut off as the hair frays out and lies around her head like a dark halo. Tears and sweat allowed a thick layer of dust and dirt to cake to her face. Eyes closed, long dark lashes clumped, full lips swollen and raw looking, slightly parted.

Before he continues taking in every detail of her, he has the urge to bring his finger to her nose, and the relief when he feels the slightest bit of air movement against his skin lets him exhale loudly as well. She is not dead. And there's the problem. She looks like she should be, like it would be the better fate. The sight scares him as much as it fuels his morbid fascination, which may explain why he's still frozen on the spot, staring at her instead of calling the police or an ambulance or doing anything to help her. He can't take his eyes off her.

Her slender neck is covered in dark bruises as if someone has tried to strangle her, probably thought they succeeded too. Why else would she lie on the floor here? Left behind after whoever assaulted her was done? And assaulted she was. Sexually, physically. The welts on her body look horrible, thin red lines all over her small breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs, on her ass as well from what he can tell. She was caned, the poor thing. He hates watching those kinds of porn videos. He can see the appeal of spanking, the hand on ass contact, but hitting someone with a rigid cane doesn't seem very pleasurable, it's only about inflicting pain and having evidence of it days later.

A sadistic move, and sadists were definitely at work here. There are more bruises on her thighs, probably from strong hands holding her down and open while various cocks forced themselves into her holes. He feels his cheeks warming up when he takes a closer look at her pussy. Apart from layers upon layers of what he assumes to be cum and other fluids, there are welts and bruises on there too, on the soft skin of her inner thighs, on her puffy outer lips (that look stretched as if held back and open by clamps or whatever these bastards used), but most are on the strangely swollen clit. Ugh. Genital torture, a genre he really hates. Spanking a woman's clit is just downright sick and barbaric.

The more he looks at her, the worse he feels. Not just for what she had to go through, but knowing he can't really help her. How should he? Call the police and wait for other horny men to find her? He never trusted the cops, and in a neighborhood like this he is certain there won't be a good guy among them. Calling an ambulance may be an option, if he does it anonymously and flees the scene quickly, but that leaves him wondering if anyone ever found her. And again, in an area like this, the people who did this may still be around watching the place, stopping help before it can get anywhere, maybe even finishing the job, killing her.

And if he stays and wait, he will be in danger of those people seeing him, and as he now knows too much, even took pictures of the evidence, what's stopping them from killing him too? And even if they don't find him, he fears the damn hospital bill might be his end. Yes, strange priorities, but his brain is buzzing and he feels sick and nauseous the longer he stays in this horrible room, staring down at the poor girl.

She looks younger than him, maybe a few years, maybe a lot, the pigtails give the illusion she might still be a teenager, but her body looks too developed for that. A thin face with high cheekbones, no baby fat, soft albeit small breasts, a narrow waist, plump hips, thighs just rounded enough to create that amazing thigh gap he likes so much. The initial thought is still there, and his cock agrees, she is beautiful, despite the state she is in.

And maybe that's why he forms an idea in his head: why not take her with him? Away from this place, into safety, then assess what help he can get her. She can't stay here, that's for sure. A better man would face the danger of being discovered by her abusers, to make sure she'll get the care she needs, no matter how expensive and uncomfortable it may get. A better man wouldn't crouch beside her limp body and stare and drool.

But he's not. He's a runaway, dropped out of college to party, then got too old and paranoid to return. Too distracted by the world around him. Traveling on a budget, with just enough money to feed himself once a day, couch surfing, loitering, pissing his life away one day at a time. It's only been during the last years that he's gotten a bit more stable, making a name for himself as a photographer, selling prints and doing commissions, and by coming into this city he's hoped to make it even bigger.

Renting an old loft he hopes to transform into a photo studio one day, he's trying to settle down. He still has barely any money, lives off those stupid strangers willing to pay for his pictures even though they're not even that special. He always hopes for the occasional exceptional find, something he could sell to newspapers, but even those prefer to steal their pictures off other people's Instagram instead of paying for a more professional shot. Tough times.

As he crouches next to the unconscious girl, the hand holding his camera twitches. It's an instinct to raise it, bring it in front of his eyes, look through the finder and press his thumb down to take a picture of her. He feels sick for it, but also... not. She's part of this little sex dungeon, the main attraction, actually, and it's an inborn need to burn her image into a bunch of pixels. Pics or it didn't happen. He considers sharing her story with whatever newspaper may want it, but then his name would be attached to the evidence, he could be linked to this scene, and what's stopping any corrupt cop to call him guilty for this? Or the bad guys to come and erase any kind of evidence? Him and her included?

She can't stay here. He can't keep staring at her. Something has to happen.

Before he puts his camera into his backpack, he can't help but take a few more pictures of her, of her wounds and injuries, of the evidence caked to her skin, the blood trailing down her inner thigh. Maybe justice will come one day, but he'll need pictures of the crime scene to make it happen. He also snaps a few shots of her face, peaceful in slumber, of her soft curves, those tiny feet with the ankles covered in rope burn. Those he does in several angles, maybe he has a future in selling feet pics. And it's not his fault the market exists.

The world is a sick place, and he's just trudging along.

Eventually he stores his camera in his backpack, then moves the blanket back around the girl. His hand finds her cheek, and it's warm to the touch, she's certainly still alive, and probably in pain, so he doesn't want to disturb the few quiet moments this cruel world has given her. He wraps her up and scoops her into his arms, a barely there weight, poor thing looks and feels malnourished on top of being treated so horribly.

Lifting her up, he realizes the light has turned from the soft sunset glow into the harsher, darker tones of the street lamps coming to life. Time to go. Maybe her abusers will return soon. He carries her out of the room, she's warm and soft in his arms, head resting against his shoulder, hair and one half of her face peeking out of the blanket cocoon. She's tiny, in comparison and in general, and knowing her fate he feels even worse for her.

His heart clenches by the time he's descended all those stairs, and when he reaches his point of entry, he hesitates. It's one thing to slip into a building during the day, nobody cares about a man with a camera creeping around old houses much, at least not in this kind of area, but knowing this place is frequently used for terrible little sex adventures, he feels uneasy now. The night is fast approaching, and he knows these kinds of things probably happen when the shadows fall.

Looking around, he decides to find another exit, preferably one leading around the back, and luck is on his side when he finds a broken window looking into a backyard filled with black trash bags. With the girl still in his arms, he climbs through, but slips on something at the last second. Curling his back, trying not to harm her further, he feels his backpack scraping over the rough wall, hoping it didn't damage his camera. It's one of his few prized possessions, but thinking about it, maybe he should reconsider his priorities.

He's carrying a life in his arms, a life he intends to save, so a broken camera, a replaceable thing, really isn't that big of a deal. He can always salvage the SD card inside anyway. No harm done. Rolling his shoulders, he shifts her against his chest, then continues through the dark alley. He's parked the hunk of metal he calls his car a few blocks away, at the edge of the neighborhood, hoping he'll still have all tires when he returns.

And indeed they are all there, as full and dirty as he's left them. The old truck was the last thing he could afford after renting out the loft, so even if he's bound to this city, relying on random strangers to finance his life, he has a means to get away if he has to. For now, he's pulling the passenger door open and carefully puts down the bundle of limbs and hair and blankets, and when he does, she suddenly stirs.

He freezes, staring at her as her eyelids flutter open. A soft groan escapes her, but when her wide eyes, beautiful dark irises, glazed and a little dull, but beautiful nonetheless, meet his, she stiffens too, lips parted, and he expects a scream, a distress call, anything, but she doesn't issue a single peep, just looks at him, almost calm, probably just glad she's still alive or thinking she died and woke up in a weird realm between the worlds where it's normal to wake up in unfamiliar places, facing unfamiliar people.

He still feels the need to calm her. “Hey, it's alright. No need to be afraid, I'm not here to harm you. I want to help you, okay? Do you understand?”

She blinks, her lips trembling, but then she utters a barely audible “Yes, sir”, and he feels his heart jumping a little. To his own shame, his cock does the same. He clears his throat, nods to her, then closes the door with a thud and rounds the car, putting his backpack into the covered truck bed. Her eyes are following him when he slips behind the wheel, despite her slouched position on the seat. She's eerily quiet, not at all concerned about a strange man packing her into his car.

He watches her as he pulls the seat belt over her small frame, then buckles himself in. “You'll be alright,” he says softly, giving her the hint of a smile, and she continues staring at him. She must be in shock, no other way to explain this behavior, probably fighting the pain coursing through her, the soreness and burning, the stickiness between her thighs, the memory of the whole ordeal. He can't blame her. It must have been absolute hell.

He starts the car, glad it does so on the first try, and maneuvers it back into the nightly city traffic until they reach the old warehouse at the edge of it. It's the cheapest he could find, between two concerning neighborhoods, but those are still better than the one he found her in. At least he has running water and electricity, and a bed. Hmm. One bed. He'll give it to her for now, trying to squeeze his big body onto the small couch. It'll work.

She's still only staring at him when he unbuckles her and picks her up, though her breaths are a bit more labored. Maybe the shock is fading, letting through the pain more and more. He hums soothingly to her, tells her it'll be alright, knowing the more he'll repeat that, the more she'll believe it. It's his life motto too, fake it till you make it. She's that pliant body in his arms as he carries her to the old elevator, hoping it'll last another day.

When he reaches his apartment door, he shifts her in his hold, and she winces, a horribly pathetic little sound he hopes never to hear again. “Sorry,” he mutters as he fumbles for his key and unlocks the door. “You'll feel better soon, I promise.”

Her warm breath hits his neck as she presses her face closer against him, a strangely submissive gesture, a naive hope to trust a stranger. He takes her straight to the bathroom, where he sets her on the closed toilet lid and slowly unravels the blanket from around her. She's sitting perfectly still, the only movement coming from her almost curious eyes as she watches his every move. She winces when he brushes against the welts on her skin, chest rising and falling a little faster, but that's about all the motion he gets from her.

When the blanket falls away, she's that naked thing covered in sweat and cum and blood, and it occurs to him what a strange situation this is. For him to just take her away, without informing anyone, authority or not, and for her to just accept it like this. She's awake, maybe a little dazed, but conscious enough that a normal girl would stir more, talk more, fuss and strain against his touches, maybe even try to flee or do anything to ensure her own safety.

But she is just sitting there, arms folded behind her back, watching him. She doesn't seem real. Like a robot. A brainless toy... And it occurs to him, that might just be what she is, what she has been. A body to use, handed around between vulgar men, an object to utilize in their sick fantasies turned reality. Of course he's no stranger to the news, especially the darker ones, those about trafficking and forced sex work, even if those stories barely make it past the usual political drama. It's another one of those morbid fascinations he can't seem to break.

He might just be as sick as those actually partaking in these illegal little sex gatherings, he's watched those videos, even though he's handled them like any other porn he's come across. As fake, a scene played out, a fantasy made as real as movie magic can make it, but to find this girl in this room, discarded and abandoned like a broken doll, left behind after everyone else was done and satisfied in their twisted, primal needs, shows him that those were not scenes, not fake, but brutal reality. It makes him angry.

“Can you stand?” he asks her quietly, tilting his head as he towers over her, and she nods, looking up at him, before straining her bruised body when she tries to move. His hands find her elbows, and she flinches, but lets him pull her onto her feet. “Oh fuck, your arms, I forgot,” he presses out, and quickly leans back to grab a pair of scissors off the counter behind him, then carefully moves around her to cut through the ropes holding her wrists and forearms together. When he's done, he lets her go, and she sways, arms flailing a little, her hands twitching as if she wants to hold onto him. He guides her into the shower, then steps back. She turns around immediately, eyes wide. “Do you need help?”

She bites her swollen lip. “Please,” she croaks, and the hoarse sound of her voice breaks his heart (but also thickens his cock). He nods, swallows hard, trying to fight the strange warmth pooling in his stomach, before he toes off his boots, strips off his hoodie and jeans, then steps behind her in just his boxers. He wants to show her he's not a predator, but he also doesn't want to get his only good pair of jeans wet and dirty. One day he'll be able to afford another one.

He grabs the shower head and turns the knobs on the wall, waiting for the water to heat up. She's shivering, her frail little body so tiny in front of him, one hand rubbing up and down the other arm, a mindless gesture, trying to ease her nerves probably. Her eyes, however, stay on him and his every move, very attentive, almost eager. It should feel a little bit more bizarre to share a shower with a girl he's just met (or rather found), but it's as if he's running on instincts, feeling the need to help her, make her feel better, ease her pain.

The steam fills his nostrils, and when he puts the water jet to her shoulder, she winces, flinches away, lets out a little whine, but ultimately returns under the spray and lets him clean the grime and sweat and other substances off her skin. He's careful not to put too much pressure on her bruises and the welts, and is glad they didn't break her skin, even though they look horrible, shining in a bright red as if the blood is pulsing just beneath her pale skin.

When he lowers the shower head to point it between her thighs, he hesitates, looks at her, but all she does is take a little side step and spreads her legs a bit more to allow him to do so. So fucking obedient, it's almost scary. The grime on her inner thighs is so persistent that he has to move his hand over her skin before he realizes he should probably use a wash cloth. Stepping back, he leans around the open door and grabs a small towel, wets it and then proceeds to rub the dirt (and cum and other things he doesn't want to think more about) off her thighs. She whines quietly when he moves the soft cloth over her folds, and he holds his breath, trying to be as gentle as he can be.

When he touches her clit though, she shudders and gasps, legs trembling, and her hand is on his arm then, holding on tightly, with a strength he wouldn't have expected from her. He watches how her eyes roll back, how her lips part and a little moan escapes her, and he just freezes, wash cloth pressed to her sensitive nub, unintentionally drawing a strange little orgasm out of her. Was she trained to be this sensitive, so responsive? To come on touch alone? He didn't even rub that hard.

He takes the cloth away slowly, and she calms down a little, breathing just a bit harder, but when her eyes meet his, she furrows her brows, bites her lip, mumbles a croaked “Sorry” as she lowers her head. He frowns at that, tilting his head.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says quietly. “I... uh, didn't mean to do that either...”

Is she one of those poor girls who was bound to their master's (or whatever the man called himself who had her) will, to only do as he told her, to come on command, and to feel bad if she does so without permission? What a horrible fate... He would never ask her to hold her orgasm, he would want to see that reaction over and over again, allowing her all the pleasure she can get. Not that he'll ever want to do anything to her, but... in theory, of course.

He keeps cleaning her then, lets the warm water soak her bruised skin, and she just stands there, chin tilted up, eyes closed, wet hair cascading down her back, hanging over her shoulders, one side shorter than the other (how cruel to take away something from her, even as benign as part of her braid, but it's definitely crueler to treat her like a soulless body, and he's glad she's not missing any fingers or limbs instead).

Considering, her state could be worse. She's standing on her own, breathing just fine, she's probably very sore and aching, but the pain will fade and she could have a normal life after this, more or less, not counting the psychological trauma that seems to still hold her hostage. Well, it's not ideal, and maybe death would have been a relief after the torment, but she's young, she can work through this, it's possible. And maybe he can help her cope...

Looking at her petite frame, he feels his stomach tensing. It's wrong to feel like this, he knows it, he shouldn't even allow the smallest little thought into that direction, but he is just a man after all, standing with a naked young woman in his shower, and it's blatantly obvious what his cock thinks about this whole situation. He hopes she doesn't notice the tent in his boxers.

But he shouldn't worry, she doesn't seem to notice much, standing still under the spray of the water, and when he turns it off eventually, deeming her clean enough, she inhales deeply and opens her eyes, blinking away stray water drops. She remains immobile, and while he turns to grab a towel, she doesn't move an inch. When he starts drying her off, rougher than he intends, but his hands feel like they are shaking from the tension growing inside him, she winces a couple of times, but then presses her lips together and endures.

He's watching her like a hawk, apologizes for accidentally hurting her, tries to be as gentle as possible, and her eyes are glued to his face, not completely focused yet, still glazed and hazy, pupils blown for some reason, her gaze almost curious. What a strange little creature. He'd expected a victim of whatever type of rape she's experienced to be more... hysterical?

When he finally wraps the towel around her small body and another one around her damp hair, she seems to relax even more. Then she opens her mouth.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispers, looking up at him before bowing her head.

He stares at her, blinking in confusion. “Uh, you're welcome,” he says. “But, uh, you can call me Sam, okay? I'm Sam. No need for... honorifics or whatever, you know?”

There's a frown on her face when she looks back up, her lips moving as if she's repeating his name in her mind.

“What's your name?” he then asks, leaning against the sink as he watches her.

The frown deepens, her eyes moving away from him, flickering here and there as if she tries to find the answer somewhere in his bathroom. “I...” she starts, eyebrows furrowed before she exhales deeply, her shoulders sagging. “It doesn't matter,” she then replies.

“Huh?” he makes, staring at her. “What do you mean it doesn't matter? I'm sure you have a name. Did you forget?” He kicks himself mentally for assuming as much and for his harsh tone, but it's ridiculous.

She shakes her head, not to say no, but to clear her mind maybe? It's a frantic gesture. “It doesn't matter. I don't matter. I am... I am yours to... to use,” she mutters under her breath, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“What now?” He gapes at her.

And then she is suddenly on her knees in front of him, the towel falling away, her small body folded with her hands lying neatly on her lap, her chin tilted up, looking at him with big eyes. “Please use me,” she says quietly.

He takes a step back, bumping into the cupboard next to the sink, staring down at the girl. Is she serious? He shakes his head, then walks back and grabs her elbows. “Come on, get up, no need to kneel before me, okay? Get up!”

His harsher, also slightly agitated tone makes her wince, but she's on her feet immediately, letting him pull her up, then stands stock-still before him, head lowered, a soft little whine escaping her. “I'm sorry...”

“Stop apologizing!” He lets go of her and runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I mean, ugh, wow. I'm sorry, too. You must be... well, you've been through so much, I don't mean to scare you or anything, I just...”

“Please,” she mumbles, breathing a little harder. She's shivering without the towel, the one on her head coming undone as well the more she shimmies on the spot. He stares at her, she has her hands clasped in front of her sex and squeezes her thighs together, small breasts squished, nipples erect, a deep blush almost hiding the red welts on her skin. “Please use me,” she then says again.

“No!” he blurts out, and she flinches, another sob escaping her. He groans. “I mean, come on! I will not just use you, I just met you, I found you! In that freaky sex room after you've been...” He stops when he suddenly meets her gaze. Her pupils are fully dilated, her already dark eyes shining entirely black. “You're in no condition to do anything but relax now, okay? Take it easy. Come on, I'll show you the bed.”

He's about to grab her hand when she turns her shoulder, avoiding his touch. He freezes, frowns. “In... no condition? Am I... not good... anymore?” Her voice is that feeble little hum, a desperate song sending shivers down his spine.

“What? No! You are good, you are perfect, you are so beautiful!” he croaks out, unable to stop the words. She tilts her head, blinking. “I mean, yeah, uh, you are, but that's not what I mean. You are... Look, whoever treated you like this, whoever hurt you, just left you there. And I couldn't not take you, you know? I want to help you, do you understand that? I want you to feel good again after –”

“Then use me,” she whispers, breathing harder, hands falling away from the obedient pose as she rubs them up and down her thighs, still squirming on the spot. “Please, it hurts...”

“Of course it hurts, they hit you with a fucking cane! They raped you!” he shouts, a little too loud, his emotions getting the better of him.

She flinches back, gasping with her lips parting, her eyes wide. “No... no, they were... they had to punish me because I... I was bad... I deserved it... and they... they used me like they should use me...”

Her words are mumbled, but he can still hear them, even though he wishes he couldn't. What a sick way of seeing things. What a fucked-up world where a pretty girl like her has these thoughts planted into her head.

Anger makes him clench his hands into fists. “They shouldn't have done that. You are a human being, a young woman, a beautiful girl, not a doll to play with, not a toy to use!”

She stares at him, eyelids fluttering, chest rising and falling faster, small breasts bouncing. Really not the time to notice that, mate!

“But,” she whispers, wincing slightly as she starts chewing on her lips. “But that... that's my purpose... I am... I am yours to use,” she repeats these last five words like something she had to learn without knowing the meaning behind it.

He approaches her slowly, carefully, his big hands find her small shoulders, and the touch makes her look up at him. “You are your own person. You have a name, even if you can't remember it right now, you had a mother and a father, maybe even siblings. You went to school, you had a job, maybe. You had dreams, everyone has dreams, for the future, things you wanted to have, places you wanted to see. You are not just a body for strange men to use. Not like that. Not without consent! You were not made to be punished, to be hurt because some random sicko gets off on it. Your body is so much more than just... holes to fill... and a canvas to soil with bruises and welts and... cum...”

His voice has become calmer, like a mantra, new thoughts to plant into her muddled brain, so he hopes, and she listens with her lips parted, eyes directly looking at him. Sometimes she frowns, sometimes she blinks, and when he finishes she licks her lips.

“But I want this,” she says quietly. “I want to be used...”

He sighs deeply and lowers his head, then shakes it in frustration. “No, somebody told you you should think like that! Nobody in their right mind wants to be raped and mutilated like that!”

A single sob makes him look up, and he lets go of her, straightening up. Her lips are trembling and her eyes watering before tears stream down her face. He lets out a groan.

“I'm sorry,” he grunts. “I didn't mean it like that! You are valid, whatever you want, of course, but... but you gotta agree it's a little strange?” She only cries harder, her small frame shaking. “Okay, look, no kink shaming or whatever, I just... I assumed, the way you were lying in that room, the state you were in, I thought you needed help! You looked horrible! I was about to call the police!”

She freezes at that, staring up at him. “No,” she gasps. “Don't do that! Please! I... I don't want any trouble... I... I'll do anything, but... please... not the police!”

He raises an eyebrow at that. This reaction surprises him. “Why not?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. She averts her eyes, breathing harder. He isn't very fond of them either, but why wouldn't she? Why would she prefer being gang raped and beaten and strangled over calling for help?

She presses her lips together, doesn't say a thing. For a moment they are both silent, standing in the bathroom, the naked girl and the guy with his tented boxers. Even now his cock doesn't agree with him. But he doesn't care about it anymore. This is a mystery he wants to unravel.

“Tell me,” he says, tone harsher, pointedly. She seems to reply better to commands.

And it seems to work. “He said he'd kill me if I talked to them,” comes her quiet answer, spoken to the tiled floor.

“He? He who?” he asks, his arms falling to his sides.

“Sir,” she replies, her shoulders shaking.

“Sir? Who calls himself Sir? Who is that? The man who did this to you?”

She shakes her head. “No. He... he found me, he took me in, and then... he... he sent me away because I was... a bad girl and he... he... they...” A series of sobs escapes her before her hands fly up to cover her face. Her cries pierce his heart. “Why did he send me away? What did I do?” she wails softly, muffled from behind her hands. “I was a good girl... always a good girl... did everything he said...”

He can't watch it anymore. While his rage for this unknown man grips his insides, he steps forward and pulls her against him, arms wrapped around her shuddering form, but she keeps crying, lets it all out, desperate and heartbreaking. He scoops her up and carries her to the bedroom, her tears hot on his skin, her whines loud in his ears.

Putting her down carefully, he pulls the blanket over her naked body and tucks her in, gently rubbing her side as she curls in on herself, continuing to cry miserably.

“Please stop crying,” he whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hand still on her hip. “I'm sorry he treated you like that. But he let you go, you said so, so why don't you use that as a chance to move on, look ahead, find a new Sir? Or live your life without any man for a while? I'm sure that's nice too...”

She stares at him from under her clumped lashes, momentarily paused in her sobbing, only to cry out again when he suggests moving on. He sighs, letting her wail and whine until hiccups shake her form. She's not calming down, but she gets quieter, and he stands up then, walking down the stairs into the kitchen to get some water and a snack. When he returns, she's lying on her side, staring blankly ahead, eyes reddened, face flushed and wet, but she's stopped crying for the moment.

He sits back down on the edge and holds the water glass to her face. “Come on, drink something. Please.” She doesn't even look at him. He exhales loudly and puts the glass on the bedside table. “Fine. Well, it's there if you want it. I also brought some crackers, maybe you're hungry. I can get more later. Or just sleep, you definitely need that. Rest, get better, and tomorrow we'll figure something out, okay?”

She doesn't give a reply, and he shakes his head and leaves again, settling on the lumpy couch under the stairs, his eyes drifting back up to the loft area every now and then. He falls asleep thinking it was probably a bad idea taking this girl with him. For his sake. What if she is so sick in the head she'll stand over him with a knife in the middle of the night? Great thought to slumber over, really.

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

End notes: *And this was the plot part of our story, stay tuned for the sex frenzy to begin in the next chapter!

There will be three chapters in total, I'll upload every Wednesday.

Thank you for joining me on another little original story I needed to get out of my system.

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[themalhambird]

Aaaaaand now, for a little post-bar-late-night-chit-chat between the boys....

It should be bliss. The bed is soft, the flat is warm, and for the first time in what feels like a decade or three Charles Whiteman can go to sleep with the absolute certainty that he’s not going to wake up bombed to pieces. But he can’t sleep, because he keeps straining for the tell-tale hum of the sodding luftwaffe. He’s still bracing for the sirens to start blaring, and the streetlights fading softly through the curtains are making his chest tighten, convincing him that right now, this street is thrusting its arm up in the air yelling pick me- actively volunteering to be Hitler’s prime target. He stares up at the ceiling for another ten minutes then gives up, rolling out of bed and making for the sitting room. This television thing is smashing- stuffed to the brim with rubbish that has no right to be so mindlessly entertaining and of course, a whole lot of good looking women in short skirts. Some really short skirts. Whiteman wonders-

The thought drops dead when he takes one step through the sitting room door, going for the lightswitch before he clocks Hillinghead. The man’s sitting in the armchair nearest the window, curtains open (that damned street light) but otherwise  in complete darkness. Reading. “No wonder you need glasses,” Whiteman says. 

“Whiteman. Can you not sleep either?” 

Whiteman drops his hand from the lightswitch without flicking it on. “Too quiet,” he says. Hillinghead does that hum-snort-scoff thing of his that Whiteman figures is amusement. 

“Too loud,” he counters, turning the page. 

“Mind if I get the lamp?” It’s not escaped Whiteman’s notice that the other man finds electric lights uncomfortable, even more than they make him feel. It makes sense, Whiteman guesses. They’re bright by his standards- he doesn’t know if Hillinghead even has electric lights in his home. 

“By all means.”  

Whiteman crosses to the right hand corner of the room and grabs the metal stem of the standing lamp. It comes on with touch. Fascinating. He throws himself on to the sofa and stretches out, angling himself so that he’s looking at Hillinghead. “Do you sleep in your suits?” he says. The man is, no kidding, wearing a tie at four o’clock in the morning. 

“No, I just- get dressed if I’m leaving the bedroom.” Hilinghead closes his book and stands. For a second Whiteman thinks he’s chased the guy off, but he just says

“Tea? Coffee?”

Whiteman hides a smirk. Electric lights might get on his nerves, but electric kettles, Hillinghead really seems to like. And the abundance of tea and coffee is something that they both appreciate: for Whiteman, a combination of rationing and supply problems can make tea in particular tricky to get hold of; for Hillinghead, coffee in particular was a rarely-consumed  luxury. And, Whiteman was convinced, the man just really likes using the kettle. A bit of a weird quirk, but everything about this situation is weird. “Sure,” he says, “Whatever you’re having.” 

Hillinghead nods and leaves the room. Whiteman gets up to pilfer his book and throws himself back down, studying the cover. Lady Audley’s Secret, the front cover declares- flipping to the title page, Whiteman sees that it was first published in 1862. When Hillinghead comes back five minutes later with two mugs of steaming black tea, Whiteman waves it at him “Reminds you of home?” he asked. 

“My wife- before we were married, we were…fifteen , I believe. Her mother said she wasn’t old enough to read it so she asked me to buy her a copy and to read it to her while she sat with my mother on a Tuesday afternoon.”

“Your mum didn’t mind?”

“My mother was ill, by that time, she would be asleep on the sofa twenty minutes after Charlotte arrived, more often than not,” he pauses. “She died before we could finish the book. We both did finish it, but separately - I read it myself and then I took off the cover and rebound it with-” he breaks off abruptly, and takes a long sip of his tea, avoiding Whiteman’s eye.

“What,” Whiteman prods. “What did you do? Cut a novel sized hole in the Bible and shove it in?”

“No.”  Hillinghead takes another long sip of tea and then confesses, sounding a little embarrassed: “...it was a collection of Hymns, Psalms, and other Spiritual Poetry.” Whiteman starts to laugh. “When my father found out he whipped me so hard I still had the bruises a month later,” Hillinghead adds. “It was his book, I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Still,” Whiteman says. “Neat trick.” There’s genuine fondness in Hillinghead’s voice when he speaks about Mrs Hillinghead. Whiteman wants to ask more about this “Arthur” Hillinghead mentioned in the pub that afternoon, but without that 21st century daylight, and without Hasan’s and Maplewood’ casual acceptance, it feels like a topic too dangerous to be broached. Whiteman doesn’t care, per say- he’s always been one to turn a blind eye, or even shoot off a quiet  warning to the odd blokes not quite being discreet enough with the eyes they’re  making at each other. But it’s not something you openly talk about, not for him and certainly not for Hillinghead. So instead he sips his own tea and says,

“When I was a nipper, my dad caught me eating the biscuits my mum had made to take to this meeting, her and her friends got together once a week and they took turns bringing the cake or whatnot.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“He helped me finish them off, then we figured out how to make more.” Whiteman grins. Hillinghead actually laughs. “We got away with it, too,” Whiteman says. “Mum said she couldn’t figure out what she’d done differently that time to make them taste so good,” Hillinghead’s laughter grows. “If I can get the stuff together, I should make them for Esther when I get back.” His good mood dims a little. “If I get back. If she’s alright when I get back. I gave her a couple of people to go to, if - if I went out one night and didn’t come back. The bombings…y’know. Rabbi Goldstein. Inspector Calloway. Either of them would look out for her- but only if she goes. It’s been hard enough convincing her to do what I say when I am around.”

“I am sorry,” Hillinghead says quietly. “If nothing else, from what you’ve said the child sounds like she has a knack for survival.”

Whiteman snorts. “She does that.” 

They both turn their attention to their tea, each  sinking into their own thoughts. But it’s a companionable kind of silence, the knowledge that the other man knows at least a little something of how he’s feeling is a comfort to each. Whiteman hasn’t told Inspector Hillinghead that his daughter’s name’s a household one in his time, that Vera Lynn, Charlie Chaplin, and Polly Hillinghead keep Britain marching on, and he wonders if he should. He wants so badly to know about Esther. But Maplewood has said they need to limit their knowledge of the future as much as possible, or their knowledge of the immediate future of their own times, at any rate, and Hasan had agreed - citing the authority of “science fiction” in general and “Doctor Who” in particular. So mum’s the word- he hasn’t even told Maplewood or Hasan. And much as he wants to, he isn’t going to attempt to try and  trace Esther. Right now, he can just about convince himself that she’s out there somewhere, an absolute rogue of an old lady with an army of  grandchildren, like his mum had always wanted to have. He’ll take Esther to meet his mum, when this is over. If he presents a sort-of grandkid, she might stop nagging him about a daughter in law. Well, a man can dream, can’t he?

…but he doesn’t, not for the rest of that night: the first he knows about falling asleep is Maplewood yanking the blanket off him. “Oi!” he complains, and then: “...where did that even come from?”

“Budge up, I want to eat my cereal and you’re hogging all the sofa space. You didn’t grab the blanket?”

“Nope.” They both look over to the armchair. Hillinghead has nodded off, a blanket of his own and his still open book held limply on his lap. “Soft touch.” Whitehead mutters affectionately. 

“Don’t wake him up!” Maplewood whisper-hisses. 

“Hey- you woke me up, yelling about your bleeding cereal,” Whiteman counters, but he makes room for her on the sofa as he says it. “So,” he says. “What’s the plan, for today?”

[radioactive-dazey]

My orange side dreams (I've had 4)

A description of my multiple orange side dreams and some of my commentary on them.

The first one

I had this dream back in 2022. Logan was sitting in a closet looking into a mirror. But his reflection wasnt himself, it was Thomas with a scraggly beard, dirty grey hoodie, messy hair, etc. Logan was talking to him about backing off, the reflection was mocking him, and all of a sudden the reflection reaches out and pulls Logan into the mirror. He starts laughing evilly and takes on Logan's appearance, walking out of the mirror and out of the closet. The dream changes to me scrolling through the comment sections of youtube trying to look for theories about this video, when i find in the description for the video theres a single name: Julius.

What I find super funny about this dream was that, the original appearance is super similar to an old dark side OC I had before Remus was introduced. He represented procrastination.

The name Julius is also funny because I'm fairly certain my subconscious took it from the drink "orange Julius"

Also lmao me predicting Thomas having facial hair is wild, God damn 2022 Dazey.

The second one

Previously posted elsewhere on my tumblr, I'm basically copying and pasting the post here.

I had a dream that Thomas posted a sander sides video featuring Janus, Remus, and the orange side. The orange side had no defined appearance, he was constantly switching between looking like Patton, Virgil, and Logan.

Janus and Remus didn't like him. The orange side did things in the video that actually made REMUS feel disgusted. I wont describe how (info in the replies of the original post), but he was able to completely shut down other sides. He picked them off one by one and made them faint, disappear, etc...

You could tell by the end of the episode Janus was majorly unhappy but before he could do anything, the orange side rendered him unconscious and Thomas was left alone with him. The episode ended with the orange side laughing as the screen faded to black. The endcard featured Thomas announcing the next episode would come out in 2 years :) (ouch, the accuracy still hurts a bit)

The third one (short and sweet)

Orange side had this ability to influence other sides, like a temporary possession. He wore glasses, which let me tell you, I don't see many orange sides interpretations with glasses so this was just wild.

Despite the fact I know he wore glasses, he also didn't have a set appearance, like he was invisible. Similar to dream 2, he was constantly changing how he looked through this possession concept I brought up.

He was influencing Logan to lash out a lot. Weird huh *gestures vaguely to my complicated feelings to the wrath theory*

Different dream again, the final one

The orange side adopted the appearance and actions of my personal theory for what the orange side should be. Those who have read my orange side theories will already know what im about to say: He represented ignorance, his dark side animal was a bird (some sort of falcon or hawk), his name was Icarus. The entire dream (read: episode) was more or less about how the others fucking suck when it comes to addressing their issues. It felt like they were going in circles. Why did they have to constantly fight?

I've seen the arguments against my particular ignorance theory, saying it's basically just lying to yourself and we can't have two Deceits. But ignorance is more than just 'turning a blind eye.' It's purposefully ignoring new nformation to stay in a comfortable and familiar idea space. Most of the dream works from the angle of Logan not being listened to. The other sides ignorance is what makes Logan angry.

This means nothing but I feel like sharing. In this dream I got to meet Thomas and I asked him "so, Is the orange sides name icarus?" And he looked personally so offended that I guessed it.

[justalittleficsideblog]

𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝔹𝕝𝕦𝕖

In which you find Gojo's six eyes are more than just his techniques. warnings: none aside from spoilers ifykyk word count: 1.2k

MAJOR manga spoilers from most recent chap 245

You had never known that light could reflect the cerulean that embodied a soul the way his did. The way the azure dips into navy when he’s irritated while the color darts lighter when he’s fairly content with whatever is in front of him. You tended to see the lighter colors reflected at you. Oceans of seafoam with the ever-stubborn piece of onyx in the middle of it. waves of color crashing back towards his dilated pupils whenever he was near you, spotted you in a crowd of people, even thinking about you. “What’re you starin’ at?” his pointed eyebrows raised in question, sliding off the bench to angle his torso facing you. “Nothing much,” you mused, taking a bite out of your sandwich that you both had bought at a nearby deli. “Just thinking about how there are so many shades of blue.” Stunned, he leaned back onto the bench, his back arching slightly. You noticed he took particular interest in the pot next to him on the bench, conveniently turned away from you. Throughout your friendship and gentle flirtations, you began to see more distinct varieties of blue. You understood the notable changes and the flecks of near silver that seemed to dance off of his eyes as he lowered his sunglasses, allowing you a vision partially overwhelming. You stuck your tongue out at him, kicking your feet up onto his desk amidst the empty classroom. “It’s getting pretty dark out,” he drawled, drawing his hair back with his hands. You scoffed, angling you head to glance outside at the ever-setting sun. “Your eyes should be enough to light your way home, Satoru.” “Their blinding in their beauty, I’m well aware” he chuckled, a breathy almost baritone sound that escaped his chest, Distracted, you tried your best to catch a view of the setting sun as it dipped across the horizons edge. “I’m not so sure about blinding…” you trailed off. “More like difficult to look at for too long, like how you see everything the light touches but the source of the light itself tends to make you uncomfortable when you peer at it too long.” He shifted his chair, shoulders now touching yours. These rare moments of seriousness were far and few between, but he could sense a moment when he needed to. “But,” you continued on, looking directly into his eyes. “When that sun is about to leave, when it makes its descent, and you can really get a good look at it; you realize how truly beautiful it was all along.” “Is this meant to be a metaphor about my six eyes?” he joked, tilting his chin down in an attempt to catch you off guard, to break that sentimentalism that had caused your thoughts to drift to places that challenged his identity and façade. Suddenly uncomfortable with your eye contact and how you searched his face, he quickly slid his glasses back up onto his nose. “I think it’s a metaphor about people in general, Satoru.” With the sun now completely gone, darkness filled the room, and you stood up to leave. “Wait,” he jumped up as you did. “I’ll walk you home. My eyes can light the way.” He slipped off his sunglasses again, eyes going comically wide. You had a theory that while he covered up his eyes for the comfort of his audience, he likely did it because of how easily his emotions could be read with a single shift. They were expressive, unhinged, raw and feeling. The strength of those emotions was enough to make anyone look away first. But you were drawn into the unfettering and unwavering colors that were his tells. “Has anyone ever told you that your eyes change colors when your frustrated?” “What—” his brows furrowed together as he registered what you just said. “They most certainly do not. Clearly you need to get your eyes checked.” He shoved your shoulder so that you walked ahead of him, leading him to the shopping center.

You had made it a game over the years, trying to gauge what color would be reflected back when he gazed at you, when you both made eye contact and there seemed to be an ease in his shoulders and his pupils took away some of that brilliant color that you enjoyed so much. There had been many twinges of this and that. You’d seen sorrow and pain; God how you hated those colors the most. Anytime you had seen it you wanted to smother it so it never got to be reflected into his eyes again. Because that’s what it was. His eyes were a window into his soul, his identity, his entire being was wrapped up in his eyes. You rubbed your fingers through his tresses, admiring the pure white that danced across your fingers as you tried to braid small plaits into his hair. A worthy endeavor, you thought. You wished you had kept that memory tighter, memorized the texture, what the breeze felt like as it hit your face. As the soft snores of Satoru were the only things you had heard as your ran your hands through his hair, undoing an hour of your hard work. Because once he had returned from that prison realm, those colors had changed again. They were no longer fluid, smoothly moving between his emotions. No, this time… they were guarded. Striking and sharp, all hard lines and ridges even when his gaze met yours. Oh, it softened, those lighter colors barely reaching the surface as he turned his attention fully to you. But there was a quiet pride there, he no longer had his juvenile charm that he had carried into adulthood. Instead, his colors reflected steel, the colors of stormy seas that crashed against lighthouses, determined to hit and wear down anything it clashed with. He said nothing as he approached you, awaiting what you knew would be his final battle, one that would remake or break the world as you knew it. Instead, he grazed his fingers along your cheek, eager to touch your skin and feel you melt back into his palm as he gazed into your eyes, searching for the same thing you looked for in his. He nodded and turned back, continuing his descent. For as long as you’d known him, you thought you had seen everything about him. Steel, pride, sorrow, content, and even affection. But you were wrong. Seeing his gaze unwavering towards the sky, his body felled and torn in two; you realized how dim the light seemed to be. How those beautiful and emotional irises seemed to be muted. You looked away to choke back a sob, refusing to reach out and disturb him in this state he was in. you didn’t want to remember him like this, no you didn’t want your last memory of him to be like this…. But your gut tugged you forward, forcing you to bear witness to what you knew to be the end of your guessing games and you looked deeply into his six eyes. And you noticed a new color, something brand new. But what was it?

[somethingsomethingwords]

Ok, so a few words. Thanks to anyone who read the first part and liked it, it means a lot. Special thanks to @no00000000, your comment made the dolphin in my brain swim all day. Enjoy the second part💜

A few hours later, Fernando lightly shook Lance. He was happy to see his teammate so relaxed in his sleep, but sleeping on the couch couldn't be comfortable. So he waited until the other made a sleepy murmur, then started.

"Ehi, Lancito, let's get you to bed"

As Lance started to steer, Nando couldn't help but smile. He could do this, be there and stay there and not ruin whatever was going on between them.

They stood up, and slowly went towards the bedroom. After Nando deposited his precious cargo on the spacious bed, he started moving towards the door, but a hand quickly caught his wrist.

"Please don't go away, don't leave me, Nano"

It was the first time Lance called him with that particular nickname, and a lovely warmth spread all over his body.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just getting some water, then we sleep"

Reassured, Lance seemed to fall asleep in a matter of seconds.

Nando returned to the other room, picked up their glasses and refilled them. In his mind images of Lance were flashing, righteous anger and boiling frustration and tired discomfort.

When the younger man told him about his impromptu nap in the tub, Nando felt his heart stop and suddenly restart twice as fast. He couldn't bear the idea of Lance so lonely and so tired and so hurt.

When he opened the door, puffy red eyes and wobbly knees, that was the moment Nando decided that, whatever his feelings towards the Canadian were, he would always be there to support and help him, in any capacity Lance allowed him to.

As he made his way to the bedroom, a sentence Lance said started bothering him. What had Lance meant when he said he was a danger to others? Nando hadn't heard about any accidents, even if the race conditions were almost inhuman.

It was the reason why he went to Lance in the first place.

He was just hopping off the car and pulling off the helmet and the balaclava, when he heard two engineers talking about how Lance passed out on track and how he had to go to the medical centre for further treatment.

So, after attending to his media duty and taking a quick cold shower, he basically ran to make sure Lance was ok.

If he paid attention for 2 more minutes, he would have heard them talking about the alleged push, but he was much too preoccupied, so he was left to find out about it when, returning to the bed, he decided to glance at his social media to see the news.

The terrible angle and the people in front of the lens of the camera covered the scene, but with whatever really happened up to speculation, it wasn't much longer that everyone on the bird app and their mothers were pointing at Lance as a menace, a disgrace, a spoiled rude brat and a worthless driver.

Fernando could feel the anger boiling in his veins. He was sure whatever happened was an accident, tainted by anger and frustration. And don't let him get started about the interview. What else could Lance have said, other than "I don't know"s and "I'll try my best"s? The journalistic side of the circus really wanted monkeys rather than real people with real emotions. Fernando could now understand his reactions better. He himself would have had trouble containing his anger.

Disgusted by all the hate Lance was receiving, he turned off his phone before he threw it against the nearest wall. Fuck other people and what they thought, they didn't know shit.

He turned to his left, frown still evident on his face, but it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a soft smile at one of the best scene he'd ever seen: Lance was on his back, limbs spread wide and face relaxed, not a single hint of his troubled emotions. Amor sleeping and Psique adoring.

Now, Fernando was even more determined to be there for him.

It's not in a friendly way you want to be there, whispered a voice in his mind. He unwillingly had to agree, his feelings were rapidly growing more intense and veering from platonic to ... something else. But this wasn't the right moment. This was about Lance and supporting him.

With that last thought in his mind, and the image of Lance's long eyelashes resting on his cheeks behind his eyelids, Fernando fell asleep.

[witchersmistress]

the down fall of Eros

Hello my darlings!! worked on this beauty while i was on the beach today.

Trigger Warning: Swearing, Violence, alcohol, soft Sy

Word count: 2.4K

Sys pov

Dragging my feet back inside, I couldn't face the thought of being in my office not where her scent lingered. So I went to the bar and ordered a whiskey neat from Theo.

He gave me a look as I downed the whiskey and he filled the glass up again. " Boy, if you have something to say, say it. I am not in the mood for games" I drawled. He swung the rag he was wiping the bar down over his shoulder and picked up his drink and tipped it in my direction. "May I be frank with you Mr. Stone" I grunted at him and he continued. " You are a goddamn idiot" the pateron to the left of me choked on his drink as I glared daggers at Theo.   He began to wipe down the bar as he watched me " what did you say to me boy?" I sharply asked, I heard him the first time but I wanted to see if he had the balls to repeat himself. 

"With all due respect sir, you are my boss, but you are a goddamned idiot. Even a blind man could see how much you care for Rory, why else spend 100 thousand dollars on her to keep her out of the hands of that Irish prick O'Malley? She was clearly on cloud 9 when she left but you just put her in your car without a second glance, that's cold even for you boss." Draining my whiskey again he pours me another " is she really worth losing over, something she can't handle, cause let me tell you, that girl is one tough cookie, nothing could stop her or slow her down” he tossed the dirty rag in with the dirty dishes and took off with them to the back.

Looking at the bottom of the glass as if the amber liquid would hold all my answers “He’s right you know, Syverson” a dark and sinful voice purred in my ear, i turned to find Liliana standing next to me, her long dark hair cascading down her back, her warm caramel colored skin, glowing under these lights and her dark eyes looked like obsidian from this angle. I downed what was left of my whiskey, turning in my seat to face her. She was in a long white dress, a stark contrast to her naturally dark vibe she gives and as per usual, she had Bambi wrapped around her arm, with her head resting on her chest just above the swell of her left breast. Why she insists on carrying that damn snake everywhere she goes, i'm not sure but it gives her an edge that most men wouldn't dare cross and has most women bowing at her feet.

She beckoned me to follow “Come Logan, take a walk with me” I threw a 50 down on the bar for Theo, he may be a smart ass kid but he is always a wise one for his age. Catching up to Lil with ease, we walked through the club, to the seething underbelly, located downstairs. Down here, people could be who they wanted to be, from voyeurism to reverse harems, to public sex, there  was something for everyone down here. With a lot of trust, safe words and limits, the world is yours for the taking down here. I followed Lil to her dark corner of the room, she walked with such pose and grace as she sat down in her throne, with a particular young man attached to the wall by a long chain and collar.

 It wa s Mikey, my nephew, i sat across from Lil while she got comfortable in her chair with a heavy sigh i pointed at Mikey ``I'm not going to ask but be gentle he is a kid” she clucked her tongue at me “Please Logan you worry to much, besides i'm holding on to him as a debt from you beloved brother, once he pays up he can have his son back” Mikey went to protest but she pulled on his chain “ Shh my pet, the adults are talking” he quickly shut up and looked back at the floor. “He is an odd one that is for sure” she just gave me a knowing smile while stroking his hair “So why did you kick that poor girl out like she we was yesterdays trash, the poor thing was in tears as they pulled out” wide eyed i studied her “How in the actual fuck did you know i did that?” she winked at me and gestured around the room with her hands, “I have eyes and ears everywhere doll and don't you forget it” she was our silent partner in the business so she could come and go as she pleased. She was not my cup of tea but she was a fascinating woman.

“ Liliana, I have to protect her, she is my best friend's daughter and the stuff that Walter, August and I are involved in could get her hurt or worse even killed.” she scoffed and rolled her eyes, “Bullshit excuse, you and i both know that you would move heaven and earth to protect that girl, hell look at what August has done to keep Addie safe” she had a valid point, “This is Rory we are talking about'' i countered “She isn't like Adeline or Amelia'' Liliana snorted at that remark. “That is true, Amelia’s father is a damned fool if he thinks he can hide her from Walter, that man will find her and there will be hell to pay when he does' ' Mikey snorted but didn't say anything else. Leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees.

“What can I do? I might have pushed her away for good, how can I fix  that?” she tsk tsk me like a child. “Seriously Sy? You really are a goddamn idiot, you get on your knees and worship her the way you should have, honestly boy you should have grabbed her at 18 and never let go, so you may lose your best friend but if he truly wants his daughter to be happy, he’ll come round” whatever weight that was holding me down suddenly lifted and spark of clarity came in “Thank you Lil, i don't know how to thank you” she waved me off “Anytime sugar, now go get your girl, your bike is still in the garage if you need it” bolting up the stairs and to the elevator. My phone pinged.. It was fucking Walter 

Walter: Now hold on, where is Rory and where is the damn fire cousin??

Not responding to him, I don't want to play his games. 

August: “Now now brother i'm fairly certain, he scared her off”

Sy: 🖕🖕🖕

Rushing off the elevator, I changed from my monkey suit, into jeans and a t- shirt with my leather jacket and bolted down the stairs, racing over to my bike, I started it and bolted out of the parking garage. Speeding in and out of the LA traffic, desperate to reach Rory in time. I drove into the parking garage of the hotel and made my way inside, passing the front desk. The  lady behind the desk stopped me "Mr. Syverson sir?" I turned to look at her " Yes ma'am what can I do for you?" Striding towards the desk. A slight flush appeared on her cheeks. Clearing her throat, she continued " we are giving you a partial refund for your stay, since your second guest checked out a little while and went. Poor thing she was distraught, but she had a lovely young man with her" she continued to rattle off but I stopped listening. She was gone, she had left. With another man… I had officially lost her.

Thanking the woman, I made my way to the elevators and up to the 14th floor. Trudging back to my room, I opened the door and a folded piece of paper was under my door, picking it up, I'd recognize Rory's handwriting anywhere, she loved to leave me notes as a little girl.

Sy, I'm leaving. I'll be back Monday morning to fly home but not a moment beforehand. I'm safe and that's what matters. Don't bother trying to find me, I don't want to be found especially by you. We will fly home Monday but I never want to see you again Logan Syverson. Rory

Sitting on the bed I read that note over and over again. She's gone, and I've lost her forever. Standing up, I paced, my blood boiling at the thought of her off with another man, him touching what's mine. I pick up the lamp on the bedside table and throw it across the room with a roar, punching my fist into the wall. Reaching into the mini fridge and grabbing my bottle of Jack Daniel's I chugged sip, after sip, until all I saw was a black drunken rage.

Rorys’ POV

I climbed out of the car at the hotel and made my way inside. I can't believe that I was so stupid to think that Sy would actually have feelings for me the same way I did him. He is an excellent faker. He told me all the right things, did all the right things, he played me like a cheap piano.

Making my way to my room, i grabbed my suitcase and started throwing my stuff in there, i couldn't stay in the next room to that man, my cell phone chimed and i grabbed, it was Jesse

Jesse: Hey bonita, heard you were in LA, would you be interested in getting dinner?

Rory: Loved to, i'll text you the address for the hotel im staying at.

Jesse: see ya soon 😘

I smiled and finished packing up my things, i left Sy a note a slipped it under his door not that he even deserve that much, i told the lovely woman behind the counter that i was leaving as Jesse walked in, he was 6’2, shaved head, dark eyes, plump lips that are just damn near kissable. He was in a dark button down shirt with the first few buttons undone. Black dress pants that made his ass look phenomenal, black shoes that shined, I expected nothing else from a navy man. He gave me a warm genuine smile, kissing me on my cheek as he took my bag and placed it in the trunk of his Tesla. Opening my car door for me, my heart broke a little, he is always such a gentleman. Getting in the driver's seat, he pulled away as I looked out the window as he drove, he had one hand on the steering wheel, the other one gripping my left thigh in his large hand “Bonita, talk to me” his voice was soft and gentle. I told him about what happened at Lux. he pulled into his apartment complex, he gripped the steering wheel as I finished my story. He got out of the car, grabbed my bag and he opened my door for me. “Come let's order in and watch a movie” he placed an arm around my back and made our way upstairs. Opening his apartment, I followed him inside. “ I’ll put your bag on my bed, go get comfy while I order food, your usual?” he asked over his shoulder, i followed him into his guest room, which was plain, a bed, nightstand, a mirror, and a desk. He was very simple, he believed that bedrooms were for sleeping and sex.

Valid reasons, I always thought, walking into the ensuite bathroom, I turned on the shower as hot as I could handle and went back to my bag to get my bathroom stuff. Jesse had laid out on the bed for me one of his oversized t-shirts and my black booty shorts. “This isn't a booty call Mr.” i teased as i grabbed my shower stuff, leaning against the door frame “I know sweet girl, there is time for that later” winking at me as he left the room, walking back into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and to the hot water to commune with my demons, tried like hell to wash Sy from my skin but it was no use i could feel him everywhere. I pounded my fist on the black tile wall till my knuckles ached. A full body sob racked my chest as I slid to the floor and cried. I felt so many things, but I couldn't process my thoughts.

I felt strong arms wrap around me and pull me closer into their chest, clinging to the  shirt clinging to their chest, whoever they were, they reeked of whiskey and bergamot, jasmine and cedar. I'd recognize that cologne anywhere, looking up, I saw into the blood shot eyes that belong to one Logan Syverson. At this moment I wanted to do so many things, hit him, punch him, rip him a new one but the look in his eyes told me more than the big burly man had ever spoken to me. My anger replaced my sorrow and I got out of the shower wrapping myself in a towel and went to go find Jesse to yell at.

I was barely out the door when a strong arm grabbed me around my waist, hauling my back and slamming the door. I struggled against his hold, he let me go and I just spun around and pounded on his chest, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. “ I hate you Logan Syverson, I cursed the day I realized you meant so much to me” I continued to beat him and he just stood there and let me, my punches became slower and slower till they finally stopped. He grabbed my arms wrapping them around his neck as he picked me up and carried me over to the bed, sitting me on the edge. He pulled a t- shirt over my head and the towel before he undid the towel and dropped it to the floor. He stripped off his wet clothes and put on a pair of black boxer briefs as he pulled back the covers, scooping me up he climbed under the covers and pulled them up. Tucking me into his chest, he rubbed my back as he kissed my head. He murmured the bedtime story that he used to tell me as a little girl, as my eyes grew heavier by the minute. That last thing I heard before the world faded around me was something I never thought I heard. “ I've loved you since I can't remember when, and I'm going to love you until I can't forget how.”

[missmungoe]

Shanks x Makino & RHP, because I had to after that last SBS.

“An incorrigible flirt? Ben?”

Her bemusement was met with a shrug, and lifting his drink to his lips, “I keep saying we can’t take him anywhere,” Shanks said. “Yasopp suggested putting him on a leash after that last incident.”

“This being the incident with the princess?” Makino asked, picking up another glass to polish, a glance offered to the subject of their conversation, busy reading the paper further down the counter, his grin jutting around his toothpick, a substitute for his usual cigarette, courtesy of the bump protruding under her apron.

Shanks opened his mouth, before he paused, and, “Wait, did we not tell you about the Vice-Admiral?”

Her brows lifted adorably. “A Vice-Admiral?”

They were all looking at his first mate now, but Ben didn’t look up from his newspaper, only said, “She was amenable.”

“She also threatened to arrest us all the next morning,” Shanks said. “We even offered her breakfast! And to drop her off at the nearest navy base if she needed a lift.”

“Can’t imagine why she’d turn that down,” Makino mused, placing the polished glass back on the shelf, before turning towards him, her hands spread on the counter. “But here I thought you were the resident flirt, Captain. Or at least so I’ve been led to believe. Specifically by you.”

“I use my skills responsibly,” Shanks said, with a grin that cheerfully contradicted that statement, and even twelve years since the first time he’d used it here, was delighted to see that her reaction hadn’t changed, seeing the smile that split her cheeks.

The way her eyes danced said enough about what she believed, but, “I imagine there are a lot of barmaids who’d beg to differ,” Makino said, her arms crossed as she leaned over the counter. “Should I be worried?”

Before he could even open his mouth, a voice called out across her bar, “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Makino!”

“Yeah, Boss doesn’t give ‘em the time of day!”

“Doesn’t stop them from trying, but we’ve got your back!!”

Shanks sighed, but their protectiveness of her honour was, while unnecessary, regrettably endearing. “If my fidelity was ever in question,” he mused.

Her delight lifted her cheeks, but her look was gentle, and there was no teasing in her eyes now as Makino said, “I’ve never doubted it.”

A tender beat passed, their gazes holding over the bar top, a gentler desire than he was often subjected to in the ports they stopped, but while he might have thrived off that kind of attention in his youth, nothing could compare to being desired by a heart like that, wholly and completely.

“They’re not wrong, though,” Shanks said, leaning closer, his thumb brushing the soft underside of her wrist, and heard the soft hitch in her breath, his eyes hooding as he pitched his voice lower, “In terms of flirting, there’s only one girl whose skirts I want to get under.”

Despite her efforts at maintaining a straight face, her demure composure faltered, and, “Charmer,” Makino laughed, her eyes averting from his grin, the particular filthy width she usually saw from a very different angle, usually cradled between her thighs.

He was so close their noses were brushing, but flicking her eyes up to his, “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to get into these skirts,” Makino quipped, and patting his cheek, withdrew before he could pull her back into a kiss.

His rougher laughter chased her, and he was about to make good on the challenge when, “You two do remember that you’re married, right?” Yasopp asked, having appeared by the counter for a refill.

“No excuse to let my skills get rusty,” Shanks said, as Makino took the tankard to tap it. “Now do you mind? I’m trying to seduce my wife here.”

Pushing the refilled tankard over the counter, “If you need help, maybe you should ask your first mate for advice,” Makino said, and before Shanks could choke out a response, had breezed past them both, a demure look cast over her shoulder that made him wonder just who was seducing who.

Yasopp’s grin said he had a good idea of who had the upper hand, but, “She’s got a point,” he said, with a nod to Ben, still reading the paper. “Don’t know what he tells them, but it always does the trick. Was sure that marine was going to have him arrested for trying. Or just shoot him.”

“I wish I knew what it was,” Lucky sighed. “I might try it next time.”

“Maybe it’s nothing specific,” Limejuice said. “He might just have mad game.”

“But a marine?”

Stopping by the counter where his first mate was sitting, picking up a new glass to polish, “You took my advice, then?” Makino asked.

Flicking the corner of the paper down, Ben smiled. “You were right,” he said. “It works every time.”

The conversation in her bar stopped so abruptly, you could have heard a pin drop.

“Um,” Shanks said, after a stunned beat where they all just stared at her, primly polishing her little glass.

“What?”

[khazadspoon]

Fuck it if I’m doing this I might as well share it.

Flirtatiously drunk Tuco and Blondie featuring Blondie’s ridiculously long legs.

———

Somewhere between towns, tucked away from the dusty road behind rocks that tower up into the sky, Tuco questions his sanity. He isn’t the most sane of men as it is, he knows that, but there is a clear difference between making bad choices as a criminal and a man.

Bad choices as a criminal mean higher bounties to be proud of, maybe even a new scar to show off to the ladies in town. Bad choices as a man… they can get you killed.

Currently, he thinks the only witness to this particular bad choice is the moon. Clouds are covering most of the stars, so there are far fewer eyes watching than there could have been. They’ve been drinking a bottle of strong clear liquor that Tuco forgets the name of, passing it back and forth between them. It’s mostly empty now and Tuco knows he’s drunk because when he turns, throwing a lopsided grin to his companion, his vision doesn’t quite catch up with his head. Blondie, and he still hasn’t asked the man’s actual name, doesn’t think he ever will, has a lazy smile on his face. He’s leaning against a boulder at an angle to Tuco with his coat draped over his torso like a blanket.

This is the bad choice: drinking with a man who could kill him in the blink of an eye, putting trust in this cold, dry-witted, charming killer. But he’s making the choice anyway, and damn the consequences.

His drunken mind decides it will be fun to pull Blondie’s legs into his lap, his spurs jingling and joining Tuco’s laughter. Blondie just tips his head back, the length of his neck broken only by the strip of black fabric around it. That slash of black is eye catching against the tanned column of skin. Everything about Blondie is long and tempting, drawing you in before putting a bullet in you.

“You’re too tall, Blondie,” he slurs into the firelight, “how’d you ever manage to sleep in a bed? Your feet probably hang off the end, eh?” His hands, steady but uncoordinated, run up and down the long denim-covered shins over his knees. Blondie just shrugs and stares at him with those enigmatic green eyes. He doesn’t move to take his legs back, doesn’t lean forward to push Tuco’s hands away, doesn’t do anything but smile and watch him. “If I were you I’d pay for a second bed, push them together for a little extra room.”

He glances up, the world spinning a little, as Blondie makes a little sound that could almost be called a laugh.

“Too expensive. I make do with a chair at the end of the bed most times.”

The image is ridiculous: Blondie laying in a bed, tucked up to his chin in blankets, his feet in socks full of holes resting on a rickety chair. He laughs again, the sound coming from deep in his belly and he sees Blondie’s smile widen.

“What’s so funny?”

Tuco shakes his head and wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a long drink from the bottle and passes it over to his sort-of-enemy-sort-of-partner-sort-of-friend. He finds himself watching far too intently as Blondie raises the bottle to his lips, tongue peeking out to press against the glass rim before tilting it back to let the liquid flow.

His laughter fades as he stares. Blondie stares back, lips still curved in a slow smile as he drinks, and Tuco wonders how many bad choices he can make in one evening.

More than one, it turns out.

He reaches out, pushes the coat out of the way and rests one hand on Blondie’s thigh, further above the knee than a friend and definitely further than a business partner would ever touch. Blondie watches him curiously, head tilted to one side as he lowers the bottle to rest between those thighs, close to Tuco’s hand. Blondie’s thighs is warm under his palm.

“What’re you doing, Tuco?” Blondie asks, his voice as soft and calm as it always is, no hint of anything in those words.

Tuco shrugs one shoulder and moves his thumb across well-worn denim. “Maybe something,” he presses his thumb down and catches the way Blondie’s throat bobs as he swallows, “maybe nothing.”

The seconds drift by. Blondie shifts, pushes his thigh up into Tuco’s hand, settles a little lower against the boulder.

“You want me to make the decision for you?” The man whose name Tuco will never know nearly whispers. “I’m a patient man, Tuco, but not that patient.”

Tuco grins. He plucks the bottle from between Blondie’s spread thighs and tucks it safely out of the way.

“That makes two of us.”

[heyidkyay]

I guess I'll take this pain, instead of your name |

Part Twelve

A/n: This is a lot shorter than the last few but I had to leave it here so I'm sorry about that, hope you like it though! Already working on the next part!!<3

Summary: In life, things changed. The boys you'd once grown up with were men now, and famous ones at that. The type that toured the world and had millions of adoring fans.

The five of you shared a shit ton of history. But you also shared a lot of mixed emotions for one of them in particular, a certain drummer.

Warnings: Lots of angst, pls dont hate me x

Masterlist

--

My eyes met his straight on. There was no worming our way out of this.

“The night you finished with me. I want to know what really happened.”

...

George just laughed me off. “You know what happened. Why do you want to rehash things now?”

He was acting like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t care that he’d gone and broke my heart. That I’d never felt so lost whilst looking at him.

“Because I need to.” I told him honestly. 

I tried to catch his eye then but he was already moving again, standing from his seat and walking straight past me. I watched him open the window, watched him fiddle with a cigarette he’d pulled from the packet he kept there on the side, watched his hand tremble ever so slightly when he lit it.

“I need to know, George. Please. It’s been eating me up inside.”

He inhaled deeply and his eyes fell shut on instinct. I sat there in the silence. Wallowing. Hoping. Thinking over everything I could possibly say to him.

I was shaky when I climbed to my feet, using the edge of the coffee table for assistance. I tried to stay level-headed, keeping the stilted distance even as I rounded on him, using the window to divide us. Him on one end, me on the other.

“Why?” I repeated.

Why won’t you answer me? Why won’t you tell me what went wrong? Why won’t you just look at me?

That word always seemed to be on repeat. The instrumental to my life, I supposed.

George simply shook his head, tapping some ash out onto the window ledge outside. It was dark. The moon was high in the sky, the streetlights had been on for a couple hours, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.

I decided to play a different angle.

“Never pictured you in a place like this.” I breathed, eyes drawn to the quiet street below. To it’s perfectly paved pavement. “In a big empty house.”

I was being spiteful. I knew that but I couldn’t quite seem to help it. To stop myself. I knew what wounds to poke at. Where to hit where it hurt. I knew how to get him to bite back. 

“Figured it’d remind you too much of home.” I shrugged, feigning my obliviousness to the way every muscle in his neck was now tensing. “You always hated it when they were away. When you were left on your own. This feels similar.”

“Yeah, well things change. People change.” George snipped back, I could just make out the faint reflection of his face in the glass, his expression hard and unblinking. He took another long drag.

“I know that much. Suppose you did, didn’t you? Right in front of my eyes, without me even realising.” I replied, voice barely above a whisper. “How is your mum, by the way? Did you tell her about me?”

“She’s fine.” He answered the first, but not the second. “Just drop it, would you?”

But I couldn’t. Not when I was finally getting somewhere with him.

“How did she take the news?” I prodded further, fingers toying with the floral netting he had hung. “Was she as surprised as I was?”

“I said leave it.” George snapped, tossing the cigarette he'd almost finished out of the open window before he turned to me. “You never know when to just stop.”

“I want answers.” I told him with a jerky shrug, chest rising and falling at a new found rate when he stepped closer. “I’ll get them one way or another.”

“The fuck you will.”

He was angry now.

Stood before me, so close I only needed to let go of the curtains I was clinging to to touch him. His nostrils were flared and his eyes were just as glossy as mine felt when I watched him rake his gaze over my pitiful expression. I stood my ground even though he towered above me.

“Or what?” I snarked right back, my whole body heaving. The feeling you’d only ever get when toeing so close to the very edge. Never knowing how far you'll fall. “You wanna scare me? Make out you don’t care so you can push me away, is that it?”

His jaw locked and his hands clenched by his sides, but I didn’t dare move an inch. George was a thousand things, but violent was not one of them. I could see beneath the stoney expression he’d long perfected, he was just as hurt as I was. He had to be. Because he had to have a reason for keeping me at arms length. For keeping me away for so long. For lying to me again and again.

“Come on, George!” I shouted at him, arms thrown out wide in my irritated exasperation as I waited for an answer. An in. “Is that all you’ve got to say to me? Or-” I scoffed, unable to help my painful chuckle as I stared up at him, “Haven’t got to say, I ‘spose would be a better fit. ‘Cause that’s all you given me since the day you left! Isn’t it? You’ve given me nothing, nothing but lies. When all I’ve ever asked from you is the truth.”

George took a giant step away from me, hand pinching at his nose whilst he squeezed his eyes tightly closed. He laughed defeatedly to himself when his arm finally fell away, releasing a heavy harsh breath along with it. 

He was shaking his head next, at me or himself, I wasn’t sure. But his gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. “Why can’t you just leave this the fuck alone?”

“Because it’s been keeping me up at night!” I all but screamed at him, hoping he’d somehow hear the plea behind my words. “It’s made me question everything I am, everything you’ve ever taught me! You were my best mate before anything. I always thought that meant something to you at least.”

“You’re talking shit now.” George bit back, an attempt at belittling me. He rolled his eyes. “Fucking grow up.”

“You know what? You’re a joke.” I scoffed. I was flat out crying now. I could feel the tears as they stained my face, catching on the bow of my lips and falling aimlessly down my cheeks. I wondered whether or not he actually cared. If it hurt him to see me like this, in the same way it tore me apart having to watch him act like this, to me of all people. He’d never felt so far out of reach. 

“What’s that meant to mean?” His eyes were on me now, narrowed and flitting back and forth between my own. I just wanted him to hear me. To stop and see how much he was hurting the both of us. 

“You, George!” I shot back, “You! You’re a paradox! You want to be happy but you only ever focus on the things that make you sad. You say you don’t care, when really you care so much it hurts. Love is something you crave but whenever things get too real, or when stuff starts to change, you reject it and push it away. Push me away! You’re a walking contradiction, and a fucking complicated one at that. If you cant figure yourself out, George, how the hell am I meant to?”

I was crumbling, falling apart under his cold stare. He hadn't moved an inch.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it?” I questioned with a tilt of my head. But he was already on the defence.

“And I never once asked you to work me out either.” George added mostly for the sake of it, his voice so harsh and unfamiliar. We were toe to toe now, only the coffee table there to separate us. “So, who cares if you do or if you don’t? Who the fuck cares if I’m everything you say I am? We’re not together anymore! You’re not mine. I’m not yours. Why can’t you get that through your head?”

He was right. 

I slumped at his words. At the very thought. All the fight I’d been building up practically slipped away from me in that moment. I felt it untangle in my chest, drifting through my veins, up my arms and then down my legs until it was just gone.

But even at my lowest, I still couldn't turn away from him.

I had one more thing to ask. For my own peace of mind. 

“Then what have the last few days been for?”

He stared back at me. Mute. Gone was the sheen in his eyes, the tick of his jaw. All I was met with was a blank gaze. It was like he wasn’t even there at all. 

I closed my eyes for a moment, dipping my head once. Well and truly done. I didn’t say another word to him as I made my way out of the room, or down the stairs. Even when my mind silently begged and pleaded for him to follow.

I put my shoes on one by one, I grabbed my coat. And then I waited a second. Then two.

For something.

Anything.

I realised after the third second that followed I would have to open the door, that he was just going to let me leave.

I wondered if he saw the irony in it all. In me being the one who was giving it all up. Who was walking out on us.

And as the door closed quietly behind me, I felt the rattle of it shake the hinges, shake my bones. It echoed in my ears and danced out into the empty night. My fingers trailed across its wood as I dragged my hand away. Realising then that it appeared to be raining now too.

I guess somewhere during the time we’d spent arguing, the skies had opened up. I found myself wishing I’d worn a thicker coat, or at least had the forethought to grab a hoodie on my way out that morning. 

I kept my head down as I made my way down the garden path and back through the iron gate, arms crossed firmly over my chest in hopes that they would somehow hold me together. I wouldn’t let myself look up to that upstairs window where I hoped he might be. I wouldn’t do it to myself. I couldn’t. So I continued on, head down sheltering my face from the on pour, putting one foot in front of the other.

The rain was really coming down now. Lashing as the evening wind howled around me. I figured I’d catch a cab at the end of the street, or order an Uber a bit away. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be tempted to turn back. To try with him once more.

I dropped down off the curb, water cascading down the slope of the road and under my boots. My feet splashed against its current, splattering the hem of my trousers. I found I didn’t much care, my mind focused on just getting home.

It was in that next moment I heard his voice call out for me. My head shot up at the sound, hope rising in my chest, and I meant to turn back towards the house, towards him. I really had. But then there were lights. They were so bright they stunned me. Froze me in place. I put my hands up to cover my face, confused. And then I couldn’t see a thing.

Only hear the heavy fall of rain, then a screech I couldn’t quite make out, and George’s voice calling my name.

Part thirteen>

[cosmicjoke]

Man, in a million years I would never have thought that Levi's current frustration, anger, and threat of breaking his legs was the frustration of not being able to persuade Erwin to stay just because he was risking his own life. And I think if there was such a thing, he could have said that he wanted Levi to stay behind for personal reasons in the interview with E L, where Isayama also added him thoughts on this scene but instead he said that saying he trusted Erwin's decision meant that he would take his responsibility if something happened. And then he took him anger out on Eren and Jean (Even though I thought the violence was unnecessary here)

Similar to those who say that Levi made a selfish choice by choosing Erwin's peace over humanity.

Unfortunately, even some popular accounts say so, and some people have a habit of relying on their popularity and believing what they're saying is true. In short, a flock of sheep.

When I saw your mutual analysis articles with that blog, I was surprised and triggered at first. Because years ago, I followed that blog and some of the big accounts it interacted with, read and liked some of its metas. After a while, I noticed that she reduced Levi to E at odd angles in some of her writings, and after a while I turned away from her and their analysis, and cold from Levi.

Then I realized it was because of their favorite ship. I noticed that they wrote biased articles without taking off their ship glasses under -neutral posts - to find materials and support for their ships. Most recently, I unfollowed her and the others when I saw her response to someone asking if Erwin was the focus in the final salute scene in the final episode. In her answer, she did a math calculation to prove that Erwin was ahead of the rest and Levi was more in focus than the others :/. not joke.

While I may seem like I've vilified her and their other colleagues here, it's not my intention, but.. this is what really happened. Because of meta and analysis writers like them, I had come to question the actions of my Comfort character, Levi, and my love and admiration had waned. And now, years later, when she threw a question at you, my first thought was that maybe years later she had changed her ideas and views and maybe offered a good analysis. but no. as I predicted. They're reducing him to Erwn again as usual.

Sorry if I'm out of context here. I know some of what I write seems delusional. but ım tired

Hi there,

No worries, I understand perfectly what you're saying. Yeah, this is what I'm always saying, is that when one is adamant on seeing their ship as canon, even when there's absolutely no evidence whatsoever of the ship existing in canon, they ultimately will filter everything that happens in the story through that lens, and it warps their perception of the story and their ability to have an objective read on the situation and the characters actions.

Things have definitely gotten out of hand in the online community. People allow others to influence their own opinions and even, sometimes, a lot of these people haven't even read AoT and form their opinions completely based on what others tell them. And your particular story is one of the most unfortunate results of this kind of thing, where people begin to think less of Levi as a character, because he's been cast in this sort of light, portrayed as someone who's only and main focus is Erwin, instead of what he's truly fighting for, which is humanity. There's a mountain of evidence supporting this fact. There's none supporting the idea that Levi "did it all for Erwin". But people twist it to the point of making Levi seem selfish or self-interested, or unable to think and act for himself, totally reliant and dependent on Erwin, and even beholden to Erwin, like some sort of slave. It's pretty awful and absolutely insane. In order to come to that conclusion, one would either have to completely ignore Levi's actions and words within the story, or twist them to the point of them being unrecognizable.

And lol, yeah, that whole thing you mentioned, with the final salute, how anyone could "interpret" that as Levi being solely focused or mainly focused on Erwin is beyond me. It reduces Levi's commitment and respect for his other comrades, which in turn, would reduce the respect one feels for Levi as a person. I don't know why anyone would want to claim that, or "prove" that Levi was focused on Erwin in that shot. The vow he made was for ALL of his comrades. And so, his final salute was for all of them. He fulfilled the vow, and he was showing his respect for everyone. He cared about all of them equally. He placed equal value on all of their lives, equal meaning. It's just sad and bizarre, besides, that anyone would want to deny that, all for the sake of trying to prove he was in some sort of romantic relationship with his commanding officer.

Levi chose to follow Erwin in the first place because Erwin sold him on this idea of saving humanity, of using his strength to save humanity. Levi trusted in Erwin's ability to lead and to tell him how best to use his strength to that end. He didn't follow Erwin because he was in love with him, or beholden to him, or obsessed with him. He chose to follow him because he respected Erwin's ability to do the right thing and make the right choices when it came to advancing humanities cause and fight. It's just so obvious, and it really is a head-scratcher why anyone would want to take Levi's heroic nature and altruistic motivations and reduce it to a love-sick obsession. That's not who Levi is. It never was, and it never will be. Levi cares about all people.

[cecexwrites]

Aleks x Cosette + Kinktober 6

Aleks was eight years old the first time he learned about the concept of torture. It had been late- probably one or two am and he was awoken from his bed by his father. He'd padded down, barefoot, through the family home to the basement- where he'd been told over and over, never go down there without permission. 

That night he learned why. 

He watched, wide eyed, through two way glass as his cousin Vasilisa tortured a man for two hours. 

To this day, Aleks had no idea why. He couldn't really process what was going on. His brain tried to protect him from the harsh reality. But nothing could protect him from the image of Vasilia taking a hammer to that man's fingers one at a time. 

Ten years later, Aleks was the one doing the torture. But his 'weapon' of choice wasn't a hammer. No. It was the little remote in his pocket. The one he idly played with, turning up, up, up, then back down. 

In a desk three rows up and one column to the left, Cosette Bellefleur shifted, her knees pressed together, a thin sheen of sweat just around her hairline. Aleks wasn't close enough, but he knew there was a very good chance that the people in the desks closest to her could hear the muffled buzz of the vibrator nestled snugly inside her cunt. 

"Who would like to pass out the graded tests?" Professor Loren asked. Aleks's hand went up first and the professor nodded for him to come do it. Aleks stood, one hand in his pocket to turn down the vibrator, walking up to the front and grabbing the pile of papers. He glanced just at the name, not the grade as he put the tests down on Mal's desk. Cassim's desk. Jay's desk. When he got to Cosette's name, he did take a peek at the grade. 

He gave her a genuine grin and put it down face up for her. 

"That's my good girl." He said to her, his voice low. He took note of the flash of pleasure in her eyes, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip at the compliment. He stood upright and continued to pass out the graded tests, sitting down and turn the vibrator back up. He wanted to see her cum. 

She let out a small squeak, people turning to look at her, but none of them knew her the way Aleks did. They didn't see the muscles in her legs tightening, the way she gripped the edge of the desk, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the wood. 

She was cumming and his only regret was that he couldn't see her face. He'd do it again later, he'd get to see the dreamy look she got when she came, but had to do it quietly. 

When class was over, Aleks waited, turning down the toy and watching her gather all of her stuff, putting everything into her bag. He stood, grabbing his own bag and took hers from her, to carry it to her next class. 

"You got an A on the history test." He noted, walking alongside her. People paused to watch them as they walked. People still weren't used to the two of them it seemed. King Ben dating a VK, somehow, made more sense than Aleks's connection with Cosette in most people's eyes. Cosette didn't seem bothered. Aleks got the impression she was used to having all eyes on her. Aleks found he also couldn't be bothered. He didn't care about what other people thought nearly enough for him to break off whatever this was with Cosette. 

Were they dating? Maybe. he wasn't fucking around with anyone else. But he hadn't asked the same of her. And he didn't know if she was or wasn't. It was a conversation they'd have eventually but today he had other things on his mind. They were about halfway to her next class when he reached over, gripping her arm and roughly pulling her into a nook. 

He knew every last inch of this school. part of his 'job' was to be able to protect the royals and that meant knowing any place that someone with ill intentions could be hiding. This particular little cove was one where they could see out at others, they could definitely hear everyone else- and they could be heard, but to see them and what they were doing, one had to be at the exact right angle. It wasn't impossible- but it wasn't likely either. 

"Yes?" Cosette asked with a knowing smirk. 

"You got an A on your history test." He repeated. "You did well, and good girls get rewarded." He knelt down at her feet on the concrete, Cosette wore a short pink skirt and he knew the tights were actually thigh highs, something he'd been thrilled to find when he spread her open earlier to fit the toy into her cunt. "How many times did you cum during class?" He asked. He knew the number, he'd watched carefully. He had definitely paid more attention to Cosette than he had to the teacher, but he was fine with that. He would get notes from someone later. 

"Three." she answered breathlessly as he lifted her leg, setting her foot, high heel and all, on his shoulder, her skirt bunching around her waist. 

She was soaked, her cum and arousal leaving a shining sticky mess on her inner thighs. He inhaled deeply and reached up, carefully pulling the toy out of her cunt. She released a soft whimper as he 'cleaned it up' a little, running it up and down over her clit. 

"Aleks." She groaned. 

He placed it in her hand, closing her fingers around it. 

"Suck it clean, Cosette." He ordered. His eyes glued to her face as she lifted the toy up to her lips. It wasn't that large, it had to be small enough that the others in class couldn't hear it unless they were close to her. She sucked it until it no longer tasted like her pussy and she handed it back, he slipped it into the back pocket of his pants and turned his attention to her cunt. 

"You said three orgasms?" he asked. She nodded and he reached into his bag, pulling out a marker. He uncapped it and made three hash marks. Cosette's gaze turned interested- turned hungry. "You took them so well, Cosette." He praised her, capping the marker. 

"I did?" She stared down, her eyes on the three marks on her inner thigh. 

"Yes, you did, you took it so fucking well." He moved her leg, letting it drape over his shoulder, bringing him in closer to her pussy. "And good girls get rewarded." He informed her. He pulled her in closer with one hand, that hand gripping her tight, he knew that it would leave bruises on her pale skin. Aleks never in his life thought he would like seeing a woman with a bruise in the shape of his hand, but as long as it was on her hips or her thighs, it turned him rock hard every single time he saw it. 

And he saw it often. 

Cosette was impossible to satisfy in the best way. It seems like she never got enough. But Aleks was willing to try and try and try. However much it took. 

He pulled her in close and he started to eat. Licking and sucking, nipping at her clit. She cried out, her hands shooting down to tangle into his hair. She didn't really care if anyone heard or saw them- if anything, it made it better. Cosette was made to be watched, to be admired, and if she could get someone to catch them, to watch them as She came- usually loudly- then she would be happy. 

She kept one hand tangled in Aleks's blonde hair, the other pressed up against the wall as her already sensitive pussy was used. But when two thick, slightly calloused fingers pushed deep inside of her- that was it. She came, crying out even louder. Her legs shaking as he pulled back, as much as he could without moving her leg off of his shoulder.

Aleks licked his lips and smirked, opening the marker to make a fourth mark on her inner thigh. 

"So fucking good." He groaned, taking the vibrator out of his pocket, he checked it, made sure it was clean, then slipped it inside of her, she was still so fucking wet that there was no resistance. "I can't wait to see how many tallies I have on you by the end of the day." He carefully moved her leg and stood up, grabbing their bags and hefting them over his shoulders. 

He held out a hand to her, which she took, her legs still shaking as he walked her out of the nook and to her next class. Halfway there, he hit the remote, grinning as her legs nearly gave out and she gripped his arm to stay upright. 

"Keep walking, Cosette." He half mocked, his arm moving around her waist to actually help her stay up. Oh yeah, he was going to get her to ten tallies by the end of the day, at least. He had no doubt in his mind about that one. 

Their next class was- interesting. It was remedial goodness. A class that he didn't technically take but he was the TA for. Did Fairy Godmother need a TA for a class with 5 students? No. But when Aleks found out about it, and more importantly that Cosette was in it, he pulled some strings to make sure he got that spot. He had that period open anyway, so there was no reason why he couldn't help her out. 

He turned off the vibrator as they walked into the classroom. He went to the front of the room where Fairy Godmother was erasing the board from the class before that. Not Remedial Goodness. This was the only class of its kind. It had five students and it would only ever have those five students. Unless of course, Ben followed through with his proclamation and actually brought over more of the kids of the Isle. 

The other students- Mal, Carlos, Evie and Jay filed in, taking their seats and getting settled in for another hour of explaining to them how to be good. 

It was kind of a silly class. Aleks was pretty sure it could be taught in a single seminar, but no one asked his opinion on it. 

"Alright, since we are all here let's get started-" The doors in the back of the room opened and a young woman came speed walking in. When everyone stopped to look back at her- she froze, her cheeks flaming red. 

"Um- There is- there is a problem in the office- you might want to come..." Jane, Fairy Godmother's daughter stammered. 

"What is it?" FG asked. 

"Someone fed a potion to one of the pumpkins- it's gone mad."

"It's alive?" FG's eyes widened. Jane nodded vigorously and FG turned to Aleks, handing him the pointer she used. "Aleks, the lesson is written in the book- just- TA." She got out before she hurried away after her daughter. 

"Aren't you like- the protector of Auradon or something?" Mal deadpanned, propping her feet up on the table. "Shouldn't you go handle that with her?"

"Divide and conquer, Mal." Aleks answered, trailing over to the book. Today was the dos and don'ts of party etiquette. Do bring a present, don't curse the infant. So on so forth. 

"So the lesson says don't be a dick at parties." He shrugged. "Any questions?" Evie raised her hand, he pointed at her with the stick. 

"What kind of parties?"

"Any parties. If you're invited somewhere, and you go, don't be a dick." 

"What if you don't get invited?" Mal drawled. 

"Then you don't go."

"Even if everyone else was invited?"

"Yeah. Maybe do some self reflection on why you were the only one left out." Cosette offered. Aleks smiled at her response.

"Anything else?" He asked. They shook their heads and he nodded. "Great. Class is over early. Miss Bellefleur? I need to speak with you after class." 

Mal and her friends wasted no time in gathering their stuff and rushing out to enjoy the free period. 

Cosette stood up after the doors had closed behind them and she trailed up to the front of the room, where Aleks was leaning against the desk. 

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" She emphasized the last work, a wicked grin on her lips. 

"I did."

"Am I in trouble?" She asked, widening her eyes innocently. 

"No, quite the opposite really. You've been doing- exceedingly well in your classes. Your answer in class today was inspired." He informed her, toying with the pointer. 

"Yeah?" She asked, the smile faltered a bit as she tried to determine if he was serious or if it was part of the bit. He straightened, closing the gap between them, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, squeezing the nape gently to bring her in close. 

"Yes. You're doing great, Cosette." He promised. "And you deserve a reward for that." He used his grip on her neck to turn her body around, bending her over the table. "There was an assignment for you all to do." He admitted. "But I think that instead of having you write out your answers, we'll do an oral exam instead. For every answer you get right, you get a reward, for every question you get wrong, you get a punishment. Understood?"

Cosette nodded, her head turned to the side, resting against the cool desktop. 

"Say it, Cosette." He ordered. "Understood?"

"Yes sir." 

"Good girl." He flipped up the back of her skirt, exposing her to the open air. He could smell how fucking horny she was and it just made him hard- his cock tenting up in his slacks. 

"Question number one." He picked up the quiz that FG had left for the VKs to do. He figured he would talk around the fact that he let them out without doing it. Claim they all were involved- and properly clothed- for the oral exam. "You've been invited to a party, which of the following is an inappropriate hostess gift? A) a bottle of sparking juice. B) a tray of fresh baked cookies. C) a poison apple?" He shook his head at the question. 

Cosette remained silent for a moment, debating between reward or punishment. Finally, she opened her mouth. 

"C) a poison apple." She answered. He grinned, resting his hand on her back, running it down over her bare ass. 

"Very good, Cosette." He lifted that hand and brought it down on her ass with a resounding 'smack'. He watched as the pale skin turned pink, Cosette gasping. 

"Next question." He continued. "The hostess appreciated your gift very much. She puts it out on the table of refreshments and tells you to help yourself. Which of the following should you do? A) poison the punch. B) fill a cup with punch and enjoy. C) touch all the sandwiches with your bare hands?"

Cosette didn't hesitate this time answering,

"A) Poison the punch." Aleks clicked his tongue and shook his head. 

"No, Cosette, you don't poison the punch. You touch all the sandwiches, because now they're yours." He teased, then turned on the vibrator still nestled inside of her, but turned down to the first level, enough to feel- but not enough to make her cum. 

"That's not fair." She whined. 

"Good girls get to cum. If you want to cum, then you're going to need to be My Good Girl." He warned. She huffed but nodded. "Say it Cosette." 

"Yes sir." She pouted. 

"Very good." He smirked and picked up the paper. 

Cosette got the next question right, and the one after that, each time she got a firm smack on the ass, the next question, he turned the vibrator up one level. She let out a whine as it still wasn't enough. She wanted more- she needed more. She was going to go out of her mind with the slow pace of the toy. 

Aleks was very much aware of this fact, However, he made no move to fix the problem for her. Instead he went through the rest of the test. The next question she got wrong and he dropped it back down, she let out a dramatic sob but he didn't relent. Instead, it either went up or she got a smack on the ass for each correct answer she got after that. 

When the got to the last question, he turned the vibrator up to a 5, half of it's highest possible strength. 

"After you've been to a party at someone else's home, the correct follow up is A) Break into their house and steal their stereo. B) send a thank you note. C) plot to throw an even better party to upstage them?"

"B, it's fucking B- please, Aleks." Cosette gasped, 

"Please what?" He asked innocently, running the tip of the pointer over her ass. 

"Please- I need more." her voice cracked and he put down the pointer, swiftly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, with one hand he slipped the vibrator out of her and with the other he pulled his cock out- rock fucking hard from all the teasing and he pushed right into her pussy. She cried out at the change from the vibrator to his cock- which was much thicker. 

He bent over her, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

"I told you, good girls get rewards. You got an A on the test." It wasn't technically a test- at least he didn't think so but whatever. He gripped her hips tight with his free hand, pounding into her hard and fast. Part of him was aware- again, that someone could come in at any time and find them. But he found that just spurred him to go harder and faster, to make her scream louder. The threat of getting caught turned him on almost as much as it did for her. 

He held the vibrator in his other hand, wrapping around her body and pressing it to her clit. She cried out, slamming her hips back away from it but then towards it again, effectively fucking herself on his cock. 

"Fuck- Cosette, you feel so fucking good baby, You're so fucking wet and tight." He groaned, letting her move herself for a bit before ramming himself into her up to the hilt, pressing the toy tight against her clit until she was cumming, her legs giving out, but he held her up against his body until she'd ridden out the orgasm, then he bent her back over the desk, fucking her hard until he came, filling her up, every thrust forward shooting out another load of cum until he was spent. 

He left her against the desk, pulling out and using tissues from FG's desk to clean himself up. He gave her a moment to gather her bearings, digging through his bag and coming back, kicking her feet further apart and squatting down to add another tally to her leg. 

"That's five, Cosette." He noted, tugging her skirt down to hide the mess between her legs. "Let's get you to your dorm. You did such a good fucking job, baby, you deserve a rest." He grabbed her stuff and by this point, her legs had recovered. 

"We're not done yet right?" She asked, a note of horror in her voice. Aleks laughed and shook his head. 

"Not even close." He promised. "Not. Even. Close."

[sibillascribbles08]

44. “I’m going to need you to put on some clothes before you say anything else.”

This is going to feature a lot of Donnie staring wistfully but it's sfw, even if its a bit intimate asldjfk Also a shorter one because how long can I make this really.

Donatello lay on his stomach, waiting on the bed as Jase took the first shower. He personally didn't think he even needed one, but Jase insisted he did, and they both had a long day in the office so he might as well.

But after a few good morning kisses, his fiancé slipped to the bathroom before Donatello could manage to get up.

He tried not to doze as he waited, arms tucked under his head, but the mattress was so comfy. After months of Donatello refurbishing the building into the mutant apartment complex, and custom building a bed that his tall frame could comfortably lay on, it felt good to lounge around.

Despite the distance from his brothers, it started to feel like home.

It felt... strange. That he would often return to the lair to just spend time with his brothers or his dad, or to plan for missions, but these days coming back here and seeing Jase is what made his mind say, "I'm home." He couldn't place when his brain made the switch. It certainly wasn't when he first moved in.

But Jason being here helped.

The bathroom door connected to the master bedroom opened. Jase stepped out, towel around his waist while he used another to keep drying his hair. He didn't have his glasses on, making his eyes that much easier to see.

"Don't take too long." Jase took the towel off his head and hung it on the edge of the bed as he began to open drawers. "We have that big meeting at ten, and we need to..."

The words faded out fast as Donnie just continued to stare. At first he glanced over all the pale scars that dotted Jase's shoulders, a few trailing down his spine. One area in particular on his lower back had a much denser patch of freckles. He didn't have a lot of those, a few on his arms, one on his neck.

His gaze moved up to Jase's jaw, once again following the dots up to his ears. Then over to his eyes. They squinted as he filed through his ties, obviously struggling to see without his glasses. The skin between his eyebrows, at the top of his nose, held so many creases as he did. The eyebrows in question were thick, always messy after a shower, but they tended to straighten out throughout the day.

His hair was such a mess when wet, sometimes when it was dry as well, but the comb usually fixed that. And then Donnie would destroy all of the progress by nuzzling the top of his head.

He was struck with the temptation to do it now, but no doubt it wouldn't smell like Jase. Just that coconut shampoo.

Donatello stopped studying his fiancé's face, his gaze trailing down.

"Donnie."

The sharp sound of his name snapped him back to attention.

Jason turned around, arms crossed. "Are you listening to me?"

Yeah, no, Donatello's gaze got fixed on the small amount of dark hair on Jase's chest. "Um..."

Jason scoffed and stepped over, tapping him on the forehead. "Wake up."

"Sorry." Donatello blinked, considering the fact his fiancé looked good at this angle. "But I'm going to need you to put on some clothes before you say anything else."

Jason kept his glare. "Donnie you see me like this on a regular basis these days."

"Yeah." He smirked and finally pushed himself up. "And every time I'm reminded of just how beautiful you are."

Ah, there was the blush, running all the way from his nose to the tips of his ears. "Ugh, whatever. Go get in the shower. You still have to get clean before we leave and you're wasting time."

"Well, next time we should just share the shower." Donatello stuck out his tongue.

"Hilarious." Jase tried to shove him out of the bed. "I know you. That would make us even later."

Donatello wouldn't admit that Jase, as usual, was right. Instead he just stuck out his tongue again and shuffled into the bathroom.

At least he had a hot shower to look forward to.

"Don't you dare take too long." Jase said from beyond the door. "I know how to cut the hot water off."

Donatello sighed. "Are you my business partner or my secretary."

"This meeting is important, Donnie."

"Okay, okay, but you're making it up to me later."

"It's your business!"

"Yours too now." Donatello smirked and turned the water on. "Especially since you agreed to marry me."

"That's not how that works, Donnie."

"Huh? What?" He pretended to shout. "Sorry, can't hear you over the water."

"Donnie!"

Donatello snickered and grabbed his brush before stepping into the shower.

[thecollectionsof]

On the bakery AU for the hell of it...

Crystal loves the Wednesday special, and it's always something she looks forward to after a long day of lectures.

Gigi doesn't work Wednesdays that often, so she's caught off guard by Crystal seemingly being a regular that's got a particular order that gets started the moment the door chimes from her arrival. Crystal doesn't mind the waiting though, happy to tell Gigi of the genius modifications she's made to the special (it's chocolate syrup).

i got through one ask of yours where i didn't write a full fic and i count that as a win!!! we're back to normal though. so here's gigi and crystal meeting in the bakery au. what happens next?

The bell chimes at 4:40pm, and Gigi takes the time to brush the front of her apron off roughly with her hands before turning to look at the customer. 

She’s met by a girl wearing the busiest outfit she’s seen all day, but miraculously she’s able to make it work. A patterned pink shirt that’s obviously merch for something was tucked into a pair of pants with flower patches traveling up one leg and fringe sticking out at odd angles, and this girl has an actual, real, goddamned mullet. 

She also has one of the prettiest smiles that Gigi’s ever seen, but that's besides the point.

Gigi only realizes she’s taken too long to greet this colorful customer when she cocks her head, polite but questioning. 

“Hi, um, what do you want?” she starts, then cringes. “I mean—sorry that came out wrong, I’m just really scatterbrained today”—right now, because she can’t stop looking at this girl, but whatever—“hi, welcome to Jackie’s! What can I get for you today?”

The other girl laughs, and it’s small and polite but it’s also adorable and lights up her face. Gigi wants to make her laugh again.

“I haven’t seen you here before, you must be new! Hi, I’m Crystal, and it’s a Wednesday so gimme what you got.” Crystal heaves a painted messenger bag onto a chair at the bar and fixes Gigi with another smile. 

And she thought the only customer that made her feel butterflies was Nicky. Crystal seemed intent on proving that wrong, and her little innocent smile proves that she doesn’t even know what she’s doing.

“I don’t have anything waiting for a Crystal, should I just make you a Wednesday special?” The fact that they had never given it a name was always dumb to her, but according to Jackie there was a regular who thought it was funny. Gigi can see why she wouldn’t change it, if this was the person she was talking about.

“Yeah, and! Add some chocolate syrup to it, please.” She smiles again, and Gigi smiles back.

“Okay! One Wednesday special with chocolate syrup, anything else?” 

“Uhhh…” she trails off, looking down at the pastries. Her eyes eventually settle on a cookie that Gigi had set out not even 15 minutes ago, one that looks like a cat wearing glasses. (Jackie was allowing her more creative freedom with the cookies, and she thought it would be fun.) “Wait, this one is so cute!” 

Gigi can feel herself start to blush, so she ducks her head a bit, pretending to be very intently entering something on the screen in front of her. 

“Thanks, I, uh, I made that one. I thought he would be cute, and I’m glad you like him. It. I’m glad you like it. The cookie.”

Smooth, Gigi. At this point you should’ve just told her that you name them.

“He’s very cute! I’d like him too, please.”

Don’t say his name is Wilbur. Don’t say his name is Wilbur. Whatever you do, don’t say his name is—

“—Wilbur.”

Okay, sure. Fucking hell.

Crystal cocks her head to the side once again, letting out another little laugh. It’s tinged with confusion, and Gigi knows that her face has gone bright red. At this point, though, she’s more focused on trying to suppress the embarrassed tears that are threatening to gather. This is why she doesn’t talk to pretty girls. She only just got okay at talking to Nicky, and then of course another pretty girl has to walk in and ruin all of her progress. Ugh.

“My name’s Crystal?”

God fucking—

“No, that’s—Wilbur’s, um… I name the cookies. And that’s… Wilbur. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—it just slipped out. Yeah.”

“Oh!” Crystal’s smile grows wider. “Then I’ll have one Wilbur, please!”

And of course this girl was still so nice even after she messed up the conversation in fifty different ways. 

“Okay, uh, that’ll be $6.50, please.” Gigi watches her pay, and then watches her drop a few dollars in the tip jar. She didn’t know why she was tipping her after all of this, but she wouldn’t say no to a nice tip.

“Okay, perfect, I’ll get that for you in a sec.”

Crystal slides into the stool that previously held her bag, her eyes still resting on Gigi. “The Wednesday special is my favorite, I always come get it after classes,” she starts, and Gigi can hear the rhythmic thumping of her feet kicking against the wood of the bar. “It tastes so much better with chocolate syrup, though, and I’ve been trying to get Jackie to change it to have the chocolate syrup in it already for like, forever, but she keeps saying no.” Crystal pouts a little but, and Gigi suddenly feels like maybe she should talk to Jackie. And just ask. It’s the nice thing to do.

“Yeah?” she prompts, half focusing on making the drink in front of her. “It seems really sweet.”

“It is! But it’s really good!” Crystal says, before rummaging around in the bag again. She pulls out five dollars and slides it over the bar towards her. “I don’t know if you get free drinks, but here. Try it and tell me if you liked it next time, okay?” 

Gigi doesn’t take it. “You don’t have to—”

“Either I’m paying for you to try it so you don’t spend your own money, or I'm just paying you to try it, but either way this is for you. Take it!” She picks up the bill and wiggles it towards her enticingly. She takes it with a smile that feels too fond and familiar for just having met this girl, but she doesn't care to stifle it.

“Okay, okay, I will! I promise.” She reaches up and grabs the bill, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. “So, you come in every Wednesday?” she asks, sliding Wilbur across the bar on a little plate before returning her focus to getting the chocolate drizzle on top to look perfect.

Crystal breaks off one of Wilbur’s legs and pops it into her mouth. “Mhm!” she starts, then chews for a second and swallows. “Can’t stay away. I swear, Jackie has to beat me out of here with a stick for ‘distracting the customers’ sometimes, but. I’m a customer too, I’m allowed!” She has a shit-eating grin, and Gigi sighs in secondary exasperation, but she can’t fight the smile off her face. 

“Oh, so you’re a troublemaker?” Gigi quirks an eyebrow, and they make eye contact over the decorations Jackie had put in front of the various machines to make it feel more homey. 

“Only when I want to be,” she replies with a wink. She breaks off Wilbur’s head and pops it into her mouth, making a little happy noise as she does so.

Maybe Gigi should pick up more Wednesday shifts. 

They chat aimlessly for a while longer, but eventually both the mug and the plate are empty. Crystal packs up the sketchbook she had been doodling in when Gigi had to actually do her job, and as she slides off the stool she flashes Gigi one last bright grin over her shoulder.

“Try the coffee. You’ll like it, trust me, Gigi!”

And she walks out, just like that. Gigi tries to pretend like her heart doesn’t pick up at the sound of her name falling from Crystal’s lips for a moment, but she eventually gives in, letting herself feel giddy. It’s nice to have a little crush sometimes, something which she’s reminded of when she sees Nicky every morning.

Gigi hesitates for only a second before she grabs another cup, pushing away the little voice in her head that says that it was stupid. She looks down at it, then grabs the chocolate syrup. 

“What the fuck, why not?” she whispers to herself, then prepares a second Wednesday special, Crystal style.

She takes a moment when it’s finished to look around, as if someone would catch her and think it’s weird, but naturally, no one does. She takes a small sip, ready to see what Crystal was so proud of creating. 

Her nose scrunches up, and she puts the cup back down. It’s way too sweet.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Bottled a few years before Beth breathed into existence, the Chave Hermitage Blanc is a tiny ocean of golden hues, waves cresting and breaking time with each swirl of Lawrence’s glass. Barely a competition against the constellation of Manhattan at night, halogen lights twinkling through the panes of his own corporate monolith. A machine he only visits on occasion these, and tinkers with even less, letting the churn of worker bees buzz under Mary’s guidance and leaving him free for more interesting pursuits. It is, still, suitable enough for this specific parley.

“As I’m sure you are aware by now, many of those with power and affluence seek the obscene and the taboo to evoke any sense of excitement.” He takes note of the wine’s bouquet without tasting it. “I’m aware of one who spends a large chunk of his inheritance bribing women to allow him to be the one to ‘deflower’ her – his prosaic term, not mine. Not that I am suggesting you make his acquaintance, Beth. You need neither the money nor the tedium involved.”

Lawrence lounges upon an over-stuffed seat, one ankle to knee, the black of his suit only a handful of shades darker than the leather beneath. “I mention him because he puts great value on the concept of virginity. The motif of the value of virgin blood is hardly new, and yet, I am curious as to if there is any true merit to it. Some say virginity is a construct.” The flash of white teeth might be paired with a joke, if coming from any other man. “So, I come to the expert for the truth, before I start locking the young and innocent away to keep a ready supply on hand.”

~*~

A Will and a Way || -

She really wishes she could say his taste in wine is trash, but to do so would make a liar out of her, and he'd call her on the carpet for it. Her curiosity at his casual invitation unto his kingdom is enough for her to venture out once the sun has set much to the annoyance of her sibling for not telling him anything more than she's taking the car into the city and not to wait up for her. Now she's perched a hip against the edge of his desk, watching not his face but rather the motion of his wrist, the angle at which he holds the glass, and breathes in its aroma from her own glass. She has no fear that he will have any cause to poison her, not when all the things he wants most are so readily available to his reach in and with her. Even if he was feeling those particular oats, her body would filter out any potentially lethal toxicity from her blood, and she has a bezoar in her grove, along with enough amethyst to flood 5th Avenue. He'd be better off making good on his once-threat of throttling her, or expunging his innate rage by laying hands on her. He won't. Not when she can see the question burning in the coldfire of his gaze.

His preamble draws a look of sheer disgust from the delicacy of her features and she sets the glass down beside her, equally untouched. In the world he speaks of, many of her sisters and aunties, her countless mothers and daughters, even cousins ~both in the dream of shared Kinship and stranger alike~ find themselves in a place of no power. It was not always like this but the rise of Reason was also the turning away from equality; in a rush to fill the vacuum people like the one he tells her about rose from the mud and the dark and beat fists upon their chests. And then turned that violence on the life-givers, the wise-women. It makes her sick but she doesn't blame the women who must be so desperate to need the unknown stranger's money, attention, or whatever else he provides for their validation and continuing survival. She needs to know the man's name, though she can likely suss it out on her own with a little determination. A pack of her more militant female cousins would see it as a gesture of good will between Tribe and Tradition. She also makes absolutely certain that her face doesn't betray a single lick of dark humour.

She honestly cannot imagine Lawrence....deflowering any one. She inclines her head at his surprising gentility regarding what she may or may not need, and for once she lets it go without biting instinctively back, asking if he's got plans for what she may or may not have. Which she does, even now. Ah, and there it is. His gaze still burns, but his is the light of Diogenes. For the sake of clarity she sets aside her natural speech patterns, reaching rather for his or some reasonable facsimile. "Blood has always been a sacred thing, a liminal matter. It could empower or pollute, restore health or waste corporeal and spiritual existence. It was the Divine Mystery in the mortal creation. For a very long time, those of us who were Awakened, understood this bond and this responsibility. Even before my Tradition took it on as a formal responsibility, we traced the progeny of our forebearers, for in blood there was always power."

Her eyes see beyond him and beyond his glass, something deeply bitter that goes hand in hand with her magicksplaining. "A splinter group broke off and formed...the Hippocratic Circle and they were largely the ones who ruined it for the rest of us. Through them the world came to see that male blood and bleeding was a public experience, connected to heroism, lineage in familial relationships, and to sacrificial practices, while female bleeding is a private matter and that women's blood while connected with parturition and life, should be feared for its polluting qualities. "But that wasn't your question. Your question is specifically about virgins. And the only answer I have for you is...I don't know. Depends on what you or I or anyone else deeply believes. It isn't lip-service level, either. It comes down to what you know in your soul. I use my own blood in rituals, of course. And others, when the need arises. My Tradition knows and uses blood the most, be it animal or human. Some people believe virginity conveys purity, virtuousness. A sort of appeal to the Unseen forces in any mysticism. They might value it more highly than perhaps I would."

She pushes herself off the edge of the desk and pads barefoot toward him. She rakes him from head to toe with a particular sort of gaze; part feral and part threat, part oddly affectionate. Then, she smiles and only the darker aspects of her nature remain. "If you ever require virgin blood for any reason, just ask for it. A lot safer an’ easier for everyone really.” She then hunkers down into a vague sort of squat, until she can look up into his face. It is a look too keenly like her Cousins to be comfortable.  “Now, Larry, be a dear and tell me more about this...ah...friend....of yours.”