#cw disease joking

[discord-emote-customs]

snow leopard emojis ? :3

hi sorry friend i am infected with animal jam disease and i cant hear snow leopard or arctic wolf without having flashbacks

on a serious note , heres a sleepin snow leopard & a happy snow leopard w/ a speech bubble w/ & w/o the laughing animal jam emoji ^^

[gratuiciel]

kisaki but he's got hanaga

hanag

hanahaki disease

+ clover meanings in flower language according to the hanakotoba website:

[pyreshe]

this obvi isn’t about anyone i follow but like. some people were never taught to see addicts as people and it very clearly shows in how they write them / about them & discuss them 🙃

[ghcstcd]

I wish my medicine didn't make me so TIRED

[cinnamostar]

skz random texts !

cw : cursing, jokes abt mental illness/female anatomy/diseases, gender neutral except for first ss

these are based off ss ive seen online or my own conversations w friends ! lmk if you guys like these!

note: i currently am not taking requests :’) this was just for fun!!!

[diejager]

Nooo but there is something about the monster au where there is a casual mention from her that she won't live as long as them (I assume monsters/hybrids are longer lived plus she is a lot more likely to die on mission), like she probably just jokes about it offhandedly and it sends all of them feral because... no? Absolutely not? Insulting. Ridiculous. Not happening.

Cue ultimate clinginess, all rushing to be more intimate because the thought of her not being around is abhorrent. Soap maybe losing it a bit going off on a line of thought about how he could mate her right? Would it be awful if there was a way for her to be a wolf shifter?

I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND

Change cw: mention of turning, mention of death, joking about death, tell me if I missed any.

All options are on the table at this point, death had always been something that loomed over them like a shadow, the veil and sickle of death following you wherever you went. You’ve had more than one reminder of your short life, your vulnerability as a human, weak and tender skin, short lives and a delicate body. There were so many things in the world that could pose a possible danger to you and they hated that.

You lived shorter lives than most monsters or hybrids, you grew sick and frail whereas hybrids could fight any viral infections or diseases, you didn’t have thicker skin despite all the extra layers of protective gear and you were a target of many for your choice of career. They were reminded of you mortality whenever you get hurt, blood painting your skin with a strong, metallic odour.

And it didn’t help that you’d often joke about it, throwing offhanded comments that made their hackles raise, body tense and mind brewing with what ifs scenario that has them tearing their hair from the root. While some monsters were more solitary than others, all of them were possessive of what they deemed their family —pack.

Ghost and König stuck closer during training, a tall, imposing figure behind you that acted as a guard dog to ward away anyone they deemed a danger. Soap and Horangi hung around you in the rec room, either laying on you or clinging to you, putting a show of ownership over you. Rudy and Alejandro, the ever active couple, were always finding you around the base, striking up a conversation and wrapping their arms around you. Gaz would was the cuddliest of the group, finding time outside of his busy to snuggle up against you and cover you with his wings, pulling you to sleep on his shoulder. Price, the man with the most authority in the TF made sure that you were always with someone on every Op, having someone to back you up in the most dire situation.

Every visit to the medic made them wild, it brought them closer to desperate measures. Would it be so bad to turn you in one? Would it be so bad to let Soap bite you during the full moon, his bite infecting you with his power: thicker skin, sturdier build, longer lifespan and better sense? The only draw backs were the higher wildness, near feral during full moons and a competitive mindset over the possessiveness and brattiness of a young werewolf.

Would it be so bad to make you return as a wraith? While Ghost learned to control his powers alone, the pain and emotions building up in his body without any way of letting it out, you had him, you wouldn’t be alone with the resurrection. He didn’t want you to feel the terror and agony by yourself —he didn’t want you to know how it felt to die and come back.

Would it be so bad to have a vampire turn you into one without becoming a thrall? You couldn’t walk in the sun, something you told them you enjoyed, you’d be restrained to specific activities and you wouldn’t like that, being limited by the sun. Granted, there were solutions to that, but none very comfortable.

They knew you were aware of your mortality, made fun of it and laughed as it this was your last day, but you didn’t fear death, you only feared leaving them. You were open to their thoughts, listening to their ideas and options with a neutral expression, but you didn’t reject the idea of turning you. That was a good thing, a step forward in their mind.

Now all that needed to do was to let you decide which path you wanted to walk.

tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[jaylaxies]

KINKTOBER DAY 21 — BREEDING KINK

PAIRING: sub!jungwon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, unprotected sex, jealous won, crying, usage of nicknames, breeding.

WC: 1.3k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, angels! here i have sub wonie as requested by my beloved @hwhjsthetic! i hope you like it :3 all likes, comments, reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated! iloveyou all <33

✎ kinktober masterlist

“Aw, is my babyboy jealous?” 

Jungwon was usually calm and collected, always ready to help others, no matter the situation. However, he was just as disheveled and messy behind the doors, locked up in a room with you, the sight only you could see, making the poor boy beg on his knees, big tear drops lined up on his thick lashes. 

Oh so beautiful. 

He doesn’t know what pushed him to this extent, maybe it was how carefree you looked while talking to this guy he had never met or seen before, your fingers resting on his shoulders as you tried to stand straight while laughing on a possible joke he cracked. 

Jungwon didn’t know what was so special about this man, nor could he cope up with the bubbling feeling in his chest. Only, this time it wasn’t because of how beautiful you looked, it was because you looked beautiful, while laughing with another man. 

Jealousy was a nasty disease, and Jungwon couldn’t deny he was jealous. He didn’t take it well, bottom lip jutted out as he tried not to cry at the simple sight of you talking to someone else. 

That would be pathetic, right? 

Was it bad to want you to the point he couldn’t bear the thought of you interacting with others? He didn’t know. All he wanted was for you to pay your undivided attention to him, hold him close to your body while stroking his needy, leaking cock, cooing gently and praising him for being your good boy. Your only boy. 

He couldn’t handle it anymore, he couldn’t handle anything when it came to you, which is why he found himself walking across the room, holding on to your arm gently with the saddest expression he could muster, which was enough to garner your attention as he pulled you with him. You quickly excused the other guy, wondering what was wrong with your pretty boy. 

“I wanna go home,” he says, eyes watering. 

You cup his face, “what’s wrong, pup?” You ask gently, dragging him to an empty room to get away from the music blasting at the party. 

“I—you—” he struggled to tell you, red adorning his face at the thought of him telling you how jealous he was, to the point he wanted to breed you, have you all to himself. 

“Say it, pretty baby,” you urged, hand slipping under his shirt to run your cold fingertips on his nipples, a soft whimper leaving his lips. 

“I—I was jealous,” he cried out, hiding his face in your neck as you touched him more. 

The confession was something you hadn’t expected, yet it was so adorable, his distress over nothing, it was adorable. 

“Aw, baby,” you caress his nape, “you don’t like when I talk to pretty boys?” 

You said it on purpose and it worked wonders as you heard another broken sob from him as he shook his head with all his power, his soft hair tickling your neck, “no! No, please—I’m your pretty boy, no one else, please,” he sobbed. You pulled back with a chuckle, observing how his lip was trembling, absolutely hating the situation. 

He belonged to you, shouldn’t it also mean that you should be his girl and his only? 

“Please,” he mumbled out brokenhearted, and you only pulled him closer, kissing him deeply. You could taste his tears with how much he had cried. 

The sight was beautiful, however your heart couldn’t see your pretty boy crying, overthinking that he might lose you. Your lips fit into his perfectly, slotting together as he gasped, mind numbing and heart racing for whole another reason—your touch. 

“You’re my pretty boy, hm?” You whisper softly, as he watches you, eyes bigger and sparkly now that it was filled with a few unshed tears. 

“Only me?” He asked, gulping down as he looked at you, expectantly. 

“Only you,” you confirmed, “show me how beautiful and needy you are for me, baby,” you say, settling down on the stranger’s bed. 

He was quick to comply, fumbling with his belt as he tried to get rid of his clothes, and you sat, admiring his broad shoulders once they came into view, wondering how he’s so big yet so small and submissive to your disposal at all times. 

His shyness was adorable, especially when he stood naked in front of you and you were fully clothed, “wanna show you how much I want you,” he mumbled, embarrassed at how amused you seemed at his newfound determination to act bold, which didn’t seem to work with how gentle his touch was as he parted your legs. 

He was hard, his cock twitching at the sight of your panties, and he forgot to breathe for a solid minute, “go ahead, pup. You look so beautiful on your knees,” you caressed his cheek before tugging on his roots as he took off your panties and buried himself between your legs. 

His experimental kitten licks at your clit felt like heaven, even more so when he was the one who kept moaning as if he was being pleasured. Oh, he loved every second of it, “that’s it, baby—fuck, you’re doing so well, Wonie,” you praised and he continued his ministrations. 

He was and always had been your pillow princess, seeing him become a service top was endearing. Jealousy does that to you, but Won found himself enjoying it more than anticipated, maybe it was driven by jealousy, which gave him the courage to speak his heart out. 

“Wanna fuck you, please? I’ll be a good boy, will make you feel good, I promise!” He leaned back, lips coated with your juices as you pulled him up for another kiss. 

He was so enthusiastic that you allowed him in one go. He had been a good boy after all, “of course, baby,” you chuckled, and you swore you saw his eyes lightening up with excitement, no coherent sentences coming to your mind as he got on top of you, chest heaving up and down as he lined up his cock, prodding at your entrance. 

You grabbed his dick, helping him push his thickness inside you. The feeling was overwhelming for the poor boy, the sweetest whimpers falling off his lips as he thrusts into you weakly, adjusting to the feeling of your walls clenching around him. He couldn’t help but tear up again, and you only kissed his tears away. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he kept on mumbling, drunk in the essence of you, your lips on his as you continued to tell him how you’ll only ever be his, yet you knew he had something else on his mind with how desperately he was thrusting into you. 

“Am I making you feel good? Please tell me I’m making you feel good,” he whimpered, breathing ragged and you could feel that he was close, your own orgasm approaching as you moaned, making the boy even more shy and proud. 

He was making you feel good. 

“S—so close,” he let out, “too sensitive, want to mark you,” he breathed out, words coming out broken as you wrapped your legs around his slim waist, knowing exactly what he was aiming for and you’d let him go his way today, simply because he looks so cute begging to fill you up, to mark your neck, nibbling on it gently. 

With a few more thrust, he found himself sobbing on your neck as you traced your fingers on his back, helping him and yourself ride out your high, feeling the warmth of your liquid mixing with his inside your cunt as he stuffed it inside you the best he could. 

“You’re mine, right?” he asked for the last time, hair disheveled, lips swollen and skin blotchy red with how much he had cried. 

And you kissed him, knowing you’d never want to miss this sight. 

“All yours, babyboy.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 2 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: kidnapping - 3.9k words

𝐈𝐈. 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.  

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.  

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him. 

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

Next chapter ⇨

[luveline]

Would you be willing to write a little blurb of Steve comforting reader who is in recovery from self harm? I know this is a very no no subject for some writers so I understand if this is a no!

fem!reader !! cw self harm (mention of the self injury, no active graphic imagery, but some details that could be evocative)

You’ve taken to curling up in whatever space he leaves. In bed, you sidle close to his side with your ear to his stomach. On the couch, you’re laying on his lap, every breath a press of ribs against his thighs. If Steve’s on a sun lounger in the backyard, you’re sitting on the ground next to him with an arm hooked over his leg and your cheek bitten by metal.  

It’s sort of odd to see your arms without red cuts and welts. Curled again, you and Steve are sitting on the porch watching the sun dropping lazily to the horizon, the sky a funny shade of blue. You’re actually turned away from the sun and toward the house, Steve to the sun, like inverted commas interlinked. Your hand is on his leg, and your arm is bare and starkly uninjured. 

That’s too generous, maybe. Evidence of a bad habit long to kick tracks the length of you, white and purple and red scars criss-crossed through your skin. 

He’s seen them thick with dried blood and sore to the touch. Your skin aflame. Not because you’ve ever showed him of your own volition, you wouldn’t. You’ve always likened your self-injury to a contagion. “I don’t wanna put thoughts in your head,” you whispered. 

It was a nice concern for you to have, but Steve isn’t at any risk of hurting himself (purposefully, at least). He has no urges. He didn’t even know people did stuff like that until he met you. Maybe that’s why it breaks his heart so much. You hurt so much. You feel terrible and you take it out on yourself and Steve just doesn’t get it, ‘cos you’re aces. 

He never shied away from it, even if he didn’t like that you were doing it. He still remembers the first time he realised what you were doing, his confusion, the immediate internal recoil. How could you do that to yourself? Why would you? You’ve always been prone to that awful persisting sadness under the skin, but Steve knows a lot of sad people. He knows what it’s like to wish vehemently that you were a better version of yourself, or somebody else, or just gone. 

But you’re doing better now. He resists the urge to kiss your hands whenever he sees you and you act like you aren’t doing a brave thing. 

Steve’s stupid but he’s not stupid. (Or, at least he feels that way.) He knows you’re finding it hard to stop, like an addict. It’s a habit. A behaviour that takes conscious effort to break until it doesn’t. The worst bit is that you never even asked for help. 

Your hand twitches on his leg. 

Steve curls a hand behind your neck, kissing you softly, the silky press of your lips to his. You inhale and cut the quiet buzz of cicadas, your breath surprised but not tight. 

“Sorry,” he says, “was that okay? I was just thinking about you.” 

“It’s fine.” You laugh against his lips and take a kiss, evening the score. “It’s always okay. Kiss me whenever you want.” 

“You looked mopey,” he says. Foot in mouth disease forever. 

“I’m not mopey, just distracted.” 

“I know, it’s offensive. You come over here to hang out and spend the last hour in deep thought.” He makes it clear he’s joking through his light tone and his smile, your eyes met, his hand sliding down your shoulder and your arm. He’s especially careful as his fingers run down your forearm. You watch the path of his hand as it falls, twining your fingers weakly with his. “You can tell me anything.” 

“I do tell you anything.” 

“Well, just telling you again.” He kisses your cheek, then, less gentle, your lips. 

You have this aversion to saying the worst part out loud. There’s always a metaphor or an omission. You can’t say cut, it’s too much, but you’ve said hurt. You’ll admit to self injury but not the action. “It’s fine,” you say now. 

“I think you’re doing a good job.” 

You laugh softly through your nose. “Thank you.” 

“I’m not kidding.” He blows a breath up his face. “Look, can I just be honest with you?” 

Your smile turns uneasy at his bluntness. “Um. Are you breaking up with me?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Never,” he says, pushing your sleeve up your arm slowly, and then faster when you don’t resist. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you without them.” He doesn’t say cuts either, mostly for your sake. 

“Sorry.” 

He shakes his head again. “For what? I’m just saying. You’ve had them this whole time and I’ve never– they’ve never stopped me from wanting to kiss your face off.” He probably shouldn’t make jokes. He backtracks. “I mean, they don’t make a difference to me, I like you even if you can’t, uh… Even if the impulse is too much. But I’m thrilled you’re, you know, not doing it.” 

“I know,” you murmur. 

“I love you.” 

“I know.” Your voice is nearly inaudible, “That’s why it’s easier now.” 

His heart swells with pride and love and an unfightable want to hug you. He slides his arms around you from under your armpits, forcing you to hug his neck, stealing a kiss to the cheek as he squeezes you forward. “I just want you to know that I get it. Like, how hard you’re working to not do it.”

“Steve,” you admonish quietly. 

“Sorry, I’ll stop talking about it if you want.” 

“I mean… It's kinda nice to talk about it. It’s not in my head.” 

“It’s not in your head.” 

“But it feels weird ‘cos it’s like, something I should be doing anyways. It’s like getting praise for washing your hands.” 

Steve thinks there’s a pretty big difference between wanting to hurt yourself but resisting it and washing your hands, but he knows what you’re saying. Doesn’t agree, but doesn’t want to invalidate you either. However you need to think about it to get through it is up to you. “I can praise you for washing your hands. I want to.” 

Steve encourages you to turn into the sunshine. You lay your cheek against his shoulder. “Love you,” you say, your hand on his leg. 

He stares right at the sun and blinks hurriedly. “I love you too.” 

[acaciusbride]

Beastly: Raider Era Joel Miller x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: you live in a small commune protected by a strong force of raiders. Every season, your people pay tribute for their protection. After lapsing in payment, your abusive father offers you as a human sacrifice. What you don't expect is for the leader of the gang, Joel, to not be as much of a beastly man as first thought.

A Raider Era Joel fic, loosely inspired by Beauty & The Beast.

CWs: references to abuse (physical), implied fear of SA, canon typical violence, implied age gap, sexual references, coarse language, smut for later chapters. (List will update with chapters)

Chapter Word Count: 3k

Thanks to @gab-thelamb-onthemoon & @joelsgirl for being beta readers & allowing me to infodump about this idea, ILY

Index: Part 2

It’s amazing, how long it took society to peak, in comparison to how easily it fell apart. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it sure burned in one. In a short fifteen years, since Cordyceps first spread globally, society has all but collapsed. 

Oh, sure, there are the QZs, where FEDRA rules with an iron fist. There are smaller settlements where people try to strive for a semblance of ‘normality’. 

But mostly? The world outside the military strict QZs has become lawless. It’s kill or be killed, serve or rule, protect or intimidate. 

Whereas some people have banded together for the greater good of humanity, for the continued survival of the species? Others have taken advantage of the new order of things, are only out for themselves and those they hold dear. 

Joel Miller falls into the latter category. 

Maybe once, before the outbreak, he had been a good man. Had had a strong moral compass, a good ethic. He’d been a family man, loved his daughter and his brother more than anything or anyone in the world. 

Then the world had gone to hell, taken his daughter from him, and something inside him had broken. It was as though a light had gone out inside him, turning his humanity off. 

Gone was the man who had made jokes and smiled easily. In his place was a man scarred and traumatised, who was capable of enormous acts of violence and brutality, who would survive at any and all cost, not for his sake, not really, but for his brother. The only family he had left. 

Joel had always been a natural leader, if somewhat reluctant. It had come easily to him, before the outbreak. He was always the damn union rep on site. Always the one people came to for advice, looked to for leadership. Not just Tommy, or colleagues he’d known for years either. He always ended up with an apprentice following him round like a chained puppy, asking questions, looking for guidance. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise at all that he had ended up the leader of this band of people, either. Some were misfits, those who were too anxious to try and venture to the nearest QZ and survive under FEDRA. Some were miscreants who preferred the more lawless lifestyle, who needed a leader so they didn’t venture into abject cruelty. Then there were those like him, who just wanted to survive. Keep going for whatever or whoever they had left. 

Joel didn’t necessarily want to live, but he was fucking good at it. 

Without his humanity, it made him a damn good leader. His group protected several small settlements, in exchange for supplies. Weapons. Whatever the fuck they wanted. 

It was a good deal… for his people. The infected didn’t venture this far out anymore, but the good people in those settlements didn’t need to know that, did they? Their living in fear was his bonus. It kept them in line, and it kept his people alive. 

Recently, one of the settlements fell to disease. Leaving just the one small community under his group’s thumb. The occupants aren’t particularly tough, or particularly smart, just ordinary people who have had the luck to survive behind moderately well constructed walls, the wits to bow to those stronger than them for protection. 

Only, their resources are running out, spread thin with the approaching winter…

Which is where you come in. 

--

You’re old enough to remember the world before. Maybe you hadn’t been an adult, so you hadn’t had to deal with things the older folks in your community grumble on occasion about missing - work, taxes (mostly something called a tax return), good liquor, supermarkets… 

But you do remember. 

You remember the world changing overnight. Remember years of struggling, clawing for survival, until this commune had finally put its walls up and hoped for the best. 

Then the infected had come, and you’d lost half your numbers. The raiders had taken advantage of the weakness in your people, taken out the infected… for a price. 

Now each quarter, your people paid ‘tribute’ to the group of men and women who kept the infected at bay. Really, it was a bribe to keep them from taking over your settlement. Every three months the same half dozen men would show up, fill their truck with supplies and weapons your people had gathered, desperately needed, and promise another three months protection for it. 

Nobody’s been attacked since the deal was struck. You guess that’s a good thing. Or there’s something they aren’t telling you. 

Your father is the closest thing to a mayor your community has. There aren’t enough of you to need a proper governing body beyond a handful of people, but somehow the task of leadership has fallen to him. Perhaps because nobody else wants to be labeled as the one who bows to the raiders. Or maybe it’s because the last mayor your town had was beaten to death by said raiders for non-compliance, and your father was the only one brave (stupid) enough to volunteer for the job after.

You aren’t stupid. You know a bribe for what it is. Only this quarter, you aren’t sure what the plan is. 

The crop yield has been relatively scarce this season. With winter approaching, the settlement doesn’t have much to offer. You’re not stupid, but you know it won’t be enough. 

Usually, you stay home when the raiders come for their tribute. Stay inside with the few children of the commune. 

This time is different. Your father is lacing his boots, throwing on his threadbare coat, when he springs it on you. 

“You’re coming too, this time. We need to show our numbers.” 

It doesn’t occur to you until you’re halfway to what passes as the town square that that’s the precise opposite of what your father usually says. That a show of strength is what got his predecessor killed. But you know better than to question him; he won’t shout at you, he’ll just be condescending, or more likely, won’t answer you at all.

You suppose your curiosity will have to wait, and hope he doesn’t get you all killed.

--

Joel usually sends half a dozen of his people to collect the tribute from the settlement they ‘protect’. It’s a thinly veiled intimidation, closer to extortion than anything else, but it keeps his people fed and lets them bully others, which some of his people need. 

But the last two seasons, their offerings have been slim at best, pissing the most restless of his people off. Joel has no issue with violence. No issue with killing people, or intimidation. But he also knows that starting a bloodbath in their supply settlement is a stupid idea, even if some of his men don’t. 

Which has led him to here. Two men sit in the truck, shoulder to shoulder. One sits in the tray, gripping the roof bar with one hand, a rifle dangling lazily from the other. 

Two others ride beside him, a little behind, in an arrow formation. It didn’t bother Owen to stay behind with the rest of the group. There’s better things he could be doing. If anyone was surprised at Joel deciding to go with them on this run? He hasn’t heard a word of it. 

If anything, they probably think it means he’s planning some sort of punishment for their friends in the settlement. Hell, if they don’t pay up? He’s not against it. 

It never ceases to amaze him just how pathetic these people are. He hasn’t visited the settlement personally in a year or so, but the occupants are still just as miserable. Just as downtrodden and fearful, hiding behind their shitty tin walls and the hope that his folks will protect them. It’s that fear that keeps his people fed, keeps these townspeople in line.

They don’t need to know that there are so few infected out here now, that Joel and his group are probably the biggest - if not only – threat remaining to them. Fear keeps them in line, and if they step out of line? Well, he and his gang aren’t above beating a reminder into them. It’s happened before.

The truck rolls to a stop behind him as they make their way to the centre of the settlement. He dismounts his horse, steps forward to greet the leader of the place. He’s met this man once before, the season after he took out the old mayor for trying to defy him. Beating a man to death isn’t pleasant to witness, but Joel had no problem with committing the act.

His replacement is a small, round man who always wears the same threadbare overcoat, the same twitchy air of nervousness around him, the same oily obedience.

How a man like that became what passes for mayor, Joel has no idea. He’s just as spineless as the rest, just as cowardly, eager to snivel and beg for protection, offering up whatever it takes to save his own skin. It’s a way to live, Joel supposes, but he would never stoop so low.

“Morris.” Joel greets the other man with a cold nod of his head, reaches out a gloved hand for him to shake. All formality. All pleasantries. As if the six men he’s brought with him aren’t capable of gunning down this entire settlement, if he so chooses. Hell, he could probably do it by himself. 

“I’m surprised to see you.” Morris admits as he steps forward from the small group of townsfolk. Joel’s gaze sweeps over them all; a few new faces, his eyes boring into each unfamiliar one. One bears a resemblance to the mayor. Interesting.

His gaze leaves the crowd, returns to the man in front of him.

“We need to have a little chat.”

--

“You don’t say a word. Nobody will benefit from your attempts at being a diplomat.” Your father cautions you as you reach the centre of town. It’s not a long walk. The settlement is barely big enough to call a commune, but still.

You don’t dignify him with an answer, just nod. There’s no point in trying to argue with him, try and prove that you’re an asset. He’s too set in his ways, too firm in the belief that women – especially young ones- should be seen and not heard.

So instead you keep your mouth shut, take your place. Watch the convoy come in. It’s different, being out on the street rather than peeking out a window when they roll in.

The usual truck, two men in the cab, one in the tray, slapping the roof to signal to stop. You’re not familiar enough with their faces, but you assume they’re the same men who come every quarter. Two men on horses, flanking a third.

It’s the third man who interests you, only slightly. Mostly because of the way your father tenses, the way some of the others shift nervously. You vaguely recognise this man; the leader of the group of raiders. The one who had no problem with violence, with getting rid of the old mayor when he didn’t want to play ball.

He’s older, maybe late forties, broad shouldered and has a sort of deadened glint to his dark eyes. Vaguely, you catch yourself wondering what he did, or what happened to him, to put that look in his gaze.

Those cold dark eyes take stock of the place, sweep across each member of your community. His gaze pauses on you, very briefly, flickers to your father then back, recognition. Then he looks away, back to your father.

“We need to have a little chat,” the unknown man says, “your quota has been low, Morris.”

Even in the cold, you can see your father start to sweat. He’s no great hero; his leadership perches precariously on his willingness to bow to whatever this gang of raiders wants. There’s no way of fighting them, and quite frankly? There are worse things out there.

“We’ve had a hard few seasons… Maybe we can make it up in spring?” Your father suggests, trying to sound complacent, apologetic. Mostly, it just sounds desperate.

You wonder if the leader of the gang thinks so, too.

“Now, Morris, you’re already short. Have been for the last two seasons. Maybe if we’d had this little chat earlier, I’d be more inclined to accept the request, but, well… winter’s on its way. It’s hard out there, and these walls you have are so flimsy… anything could happen.”

Your father’s face blanches, clearly aware he’s stepping on toes that shouldn’t be stepped on.

“We have… some supplies in reserve. You can take from there.”

It shouldn’t even surprise you, that he offers up the town’s emergency stockpile to save his own skin, probably thinking of his predecessor. It bothers you, though, makes your skin crawl to see the men from the gang open the barn where the supplies are kept, start hauling them into the back of the truck. Those supplies are for emergencies. For the children, the elderly, the sick. Maybe that’s why you open your mouth.

“Those supplies are for our elderly. Our children.”

The look your father gives you is piercing, promising violence, a sharp retribution later, but you don’t care.

“Excuse my daughter, Joel. She doesn’t understand the way things work, likes to talk when the men are talking.”

You expect the gang leader – Joel – to agree, to ignore you. Instead, he turns that depthless gaze onto you.

“What would you have me do, hm? We have a deal, you know that.” It’s unspoken what he’s implying – he has people relying on him, too.

You’re smart enough to know that it’s a rhetorical question.

“Besides.” Joel turns his attention to the truck, shakes his head. “Even with your stockpile, you’re short. Considerably so. Maybe we should stick around. See why your productivity is so low.”

The threat is implicit. Maybe it’s the threat. Maybe it’s anger at you for speaking out. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that your father is a piece of shit. Still, you don’t expect what happens next.

--

Joel doesn’t want to stick around this small town, with its cowed population and snivelling misogynist of a mayor. He’d rather take what they are owed and go, but they’re up short once again. Not by much, but it’s the principle of the matter. Of making sure Morris knows his place, knows that he and Joel are in no way equals.

He projects the very image of an alpha male, broad and cocky, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. Casually threatening, and he knows Morris is thinking of the idiot before him. Maybe he should just shoot him, see whether someone smarter replaces him. Smarter and less irritating.

Maybe the other man can see how easily he’s contemplating his death.

“Wait. Wait. I have another offer.”

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“And what could you possibly have, Morris? As you’ve said, you’ve had a difficult harvest, you’ve had to break into your emergency supplies. What do you possibly have to trade to save your own skin?” He makes zero effort to hide his disgust.

“Her.” Morris jerks a shaky thumb to the younger woman beside him, the one who’s clearly his daughter, the one who spoke up.

Joel is so startled by the suggestion that he almost outright refuses.

“What?” It comes out blunter than he planned, as if he’s misheard. Because there’s no way that this idiot is offering up his own daughter as some sort of human sacrifice.

“Take her. I don’t care what you do with her, she’s a complete disappointment. Maybe you can teach her some manners, beat her into submission, God knows I’ve tried. Take her and give us immunity until next fall. Let us rebuild our crops.”

Joel looks past Morris to you, small and nondescript. Then again, everyone is small to him. You look like someone’s just pulled the ground out from under you. Shocked. Horrified. He knows then what you’re thinking, what you’re assuming will happen to you. But he also knows now what happens to you if he leaves you here.

Joel Miller may have lost his humanity, but he was a father once. And he can’t imagine ever, ever offering his own child up as a human sacrifice to save his own skin.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter about making a quota. What matters is getting you as far away from this place as possible. Away from sharp words and balled fists. Because somewhere, somewhere, buried deep down, a portion of the man he once was is stirring.

“The end of next fall. A year.” Joel agrees, tries not to watch the way Morris shoves you forward to what could well be your doom.

You’re shaking. Can’t even form a protest, for all the good it would do.

Sacrifice. Tribute. Offering. As if you’re no more than another object to be traded. Your father doesn’t even flinch as Joel seizes your wrist, pulls you towards his horse.

“Get on.” His voice is low, but not menacing. If anything he sounds almost sorry. It has to be some sort of trap; you’re certain that when you’re back at their base camp, he’ll have no problem with cruelty, with putting his hands on you. Forcing you, if the mood takes him. Maybe it’s better to just do as he demands.

Shakily, you climb up onto the horse, sit awkward and uncomfortable, tensing when he swings himself up behind you, broad arms keeping you in place as he seizes the reins, gives a nod to his men, who finish loading up and pile back into the truck, onto their own horses.

He throws a final derisive look to your father. The man who sold you.

“One year, Morris. Better get your shit together.” Then he nudges the horse, and rides you both out of the only home you’ve known for years.

[the-kr8tor]

TTN oneshot request :): reader who's been invited to one of the parties after Hobie's band gigs. Hobie,being his usual teasing self,tries to make r dance with him to one of the songs that come from the speakers but he can't dance at all,so reader ends up teaching him.

-🎸 anon

Ahhh 🎸 anon!! I love this prompt thank you for sending it 🫶 I changed some things around hope u don't mind ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (r is mentioned to wear makeup though) cw drinking, poop jokes lol, TTN! Hobie, TTN! Reader. FLUFF

Thread the Needle Masterlist

TTN oneshots

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You lean against a railing overlooking the spacious backyard. Watching Yuri dismiss the third man who tried his luck tonight is better than any cable tv, she scoffs, waving the disappointed man away with her long nails. Yuri notices you giggling by yourself, she beckons you over to the dance floor with a smile. You shake your head with a laugh, gesturing to your half empty cup. She sighs dramatically, miming a crying face. You blame the booze in her system on why she's so lively. It's a nice change though, you love seeing her prance around the dance floor, looking for a more worthy partner.

The bass booms, playing all the classic punk music in the speakers. The sky is dotted with twinkling stars, cool air blowing past the grassy backyard. Roaming your eyes around the venue, you spot James chatting up a familiar figure, his arm slung comfortably around her shoulders. She laughs at something he said, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. You smile softly, happy for them both.

You turn around to face the inside of the ridiculously huge house. The home is packed with bodies bouncing around, the glass shakes from the loud music blaring inside. You see Ned becoming an unwilling bartender, mixing drinks for everyone after he got a particularly nasty bloody mary from someone who's so drunk they shouldn't even be near the kitchen.

With all the people watching you're doing, there's one person you haven't seen in a while. You wonder what he's up to, hopefully not to sneak behind you to carry and throw you into the icy pool—

“You're not very good at sneaking up on me anymore, Hobs”

Hobie groans right behind you, looking over your shoulder, you smirk at him. “How?” He effortlessly lifts himself up on the railing, arms envelope around you, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. You help secure him with your hands around his elbows.

“I can sense you a mile away.” You whisper the next part. “I think I got your spidey senses from hanging around you too much”

“You make it sound like a disease!” The alcohol makes him all gooey inside, just for you. “Y’know I have the cure right here”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh? What is it then?” Turning around, you face him fully, his arms never leaving your waist whilst your hands never leave his skin.

Hobie points at his lips quickly before he falls on the ground (like you would even let him fall with your hands holding him steady)

“Here”

“Ah! Is your cure tried and tested? Peer reviewed by scientists?”

“Only one way to find out”

You giggle, meeting him halfway to kiss his lips. He tastes of beer and licorice he's been chewing on since you've arrived at his friend's' house. Your hand blindly slides to the back of his neck, fingers scratching lightly. Hobie smiles into the kiss, his hands tucked into the back pocket of your jeans.

Unfortunately, you need air to survive so you reluctantly pull away. He chases your lips making you peck him thrice to ease his suffering from apparent lack of kisses.

“I think I just overdosed on your cure” you hold him close even with the wooden railing between you.

Hobie chuckles, “You'll be fine” he swipes away the sheen left on your lips.

“So considerate. Where have you been, huh?” You lean close to his ear. “Did you go out and fight crime? Are you okay?”

There's goosebumps on his arms, not from the cold. “Nah, I was in the bathroom, taking a huge dump–”

You clasp your hand over his mouth, Laughing through it. “I literally just ate, babe”

“Just answerin’ your question, Gromit. ‘m being honest it was big,” he measures using his hands, “this big. Record size” Hobie loses his grip on the railing, falling flat on his ass.

“Huh, I see a bigger one right here” you look down, seeing him feign offense with his hand clutching his imaginary pearls.

“I should've thrown you in the pool when I had the chance and then we’ll have a floater” he nonchalantly rests on the grass by his elbows. Looking up at you with a smug grin.

You roll your eyes, walking down the steps to help him up before he gets grass stains all over his leather jacket. Hobie clearly doesn't need your help getting up but he would take any opportunity to hold your hand. Your hands are still slightly cool from the drink, a stark contrast to his warm ones, a welcome difference to the both of you.

Heaving him up, Hobie meets you in a tight embrace, smothering you in his hold; you love it though. Slowly he sways you to the beat of a punk song you recognize from back when you and Hobie were in highschool together. A reminiscent of your younger days with only homework and school to worry about and the deep longing you have for your best friend now turned partner.

If only your younger self could see you now, she’d think you did well for yourself. She'd be proud of all the things you've accomplished with the love of your life with you.

“D’you remember this song?” Hobie whispers in your ear, his piercing kisses the shell of your ear.

“How could I not remember?” You lift your head from the comfort of his chest, eyes staring fondly at Him.

He chuckles, you feel the happiness vibrate from him. “Yeah, but d’you know the backstory?” you shake your head.

“I requested this song to the bloke who was holding us hostage with his shitty songs.” You chortle, Hobie continues his story. “I had to bribe the wanker,” he sighs. “So I could ask you to dance with me.”

Your eyes soften, heat behind your sockets, your hold on him tightens.

“Then I realized I can't fuckin’ dance and I'll make a bloody fool of myself in front of you. So I let the music play and continued to talk to you throughout the party because that was enough for me.” He pauses, your eyes are glossy, glimmering under the porch lights. “Being with you was enough.”

You feel the tears fall so you hide your face on his chest once again, feeling sorry for soaking his shirt, you let your hug tell your feelings.

“Don't hide from me right after I poured my heart out to you.” He laughs, his fingers spread across your nape, rubbing softly, finding you endearing. “C’mon, I need to see my Gromit”

You look up with red eyes, mascara and eyeliner smudged. “Fuck you” you say with tears on your cheeks, trying to sniff it away. But your wide smile and grip on his shirt tells your true feelings. “You're such a little shit”

Hobie laughs loudly, fingertips cleaning away smudged makeup. “Yeah, yeah, but you love this little shit”

You lean up to kiss him, as gentle as he holds you, as affectionate as he loves you.

Sighing, you cup his face. “I do, so much.”

He presses your foreheads together, enough to make tears escape your eyes once again. Hobie's fingers catch them, wiping it away from your skin.

“If you let me teach you will you ask me to dance with you?” Whispering, you loop your arms around his neck, swaying with the beat.

“I might be a lost cause, love.”

“I'm patient, don't worry” you can't seem to keep your lips away from him as you kiss the corner of his lips.

Hobie suddenly pulls away, leading you towards the makeshift dance floor. “Alright then, no time to lose!”

You let him guide you, laughing all the way. He shimmies on the dance floor, long limbs flailing about, eyes staying on you.

You've got your work cut out for you.

[enmi-land]

#🌷 OT9 ENHA INCORRECT QUOTES ?!

OR . . . ot9 enha as random things me and my friends have said to each other (but only the tame/unproblematic edition bc i don’t want to get cancelled) cw. kms/kys jokes

jay, seeing jake on the floor: is he dead?

kiara, whispering: i hope he is

—

mila: i like the smell of new money

ni-ki: you sound like a gold digger

—

kiara: this is my grandma’s car, so if it smells like old lady in here, it’s bc there was one in here.

jake: yeah, you.

—

kiara: if you had to choose to save us (your members) or engenes from drowning, who would you save?

mila: i literally can’t swim

kiara: ok, but if you could swim.

mila: ummmm… both.

kiara: you have to choose—

mila: neither.

kiara: no you have to choose—

mila: suicide.

—

jay, showing up to the group lunch: hey—

sunghoon: fuck my life.

—

heeseung, to sunoo: no homo but i’d date you if you were a girl

sunoo: you have a girlfriend

—

mila: i’m not gay or anything but that girl is so hot, i would let her knock me out

jungwon: …that’s literally the gayest thing i’ve ever heard

—

mila: if you ever feel lonely, remember you have hundreds of white blood cells dying every day to protect you from infection and disease.

jake: i wish i was dying for you bro

jay: it’s not too late to start

—

jay: eyes are the windows to our souls

sunghoon: i see nothing in yours

[let-spretend]

hey ! sorry for the long wait. this is supposed tk be a fem presenting reader but i do not specify in any way. im trying to figure out how to write without starting with the word ‘you’. i’ll try on my next fic. open to requests!

cw internalized homophobia, self-loathing

kitana x reader !

Kitana laughs at some terrible joke Johnny lands. You admire her parted lips and subconsciously strain a smile. You realize how creepy you must look or sound and stare right back down at your food. It was an Outworld delicacy, as introduced by Queen Sindel. You pick at it a bit, not exactly in the mood for eating. Despite it, you try a bite. You look up to see Kitana waiting for your reaction. You thoroughly chew and give her a smile. Even a thumbs up with it. She lightly laughs through her nose and looks down. You sheepishly smile and swallow your food.

-

You sit on the castle stairs, staring at the pearly floors and walls. You could hear distant yelling in the background. Recognizing it as Queen Sindel and Mileena's voices. You were quite surprised by the topic they were discussing. Disease? Throne business? Honestly, you couldn't really give a shit. Some hurried clacking passes by, but you don't turn your head to see who it was. After a few minutes, slow footsteps could be heard approaching. You turn your head to see a blue figure sit next to you. "So, Earthrealmer, why is it that you were chosen as one of Earthrealm's protectors?" Kitana sits next to you, her right thigh touching your left thigh. She gazes at you with full curiosity. You laugh. You don't know whether you laughed because you were nervous or embarrassed about your upcoming answer. You look down and shake your head.

"I don't really know why. Before I was 'recruited' I was partaking in some street fights to earn some extra cash. I didn't have any proper training prior to going to Wu Shi Academy. All I did was flip burgers." You sigh from the memories. You take another look around you, the castle was gorgeous. She was gorgeous. But you can’t. You’re just a girl. She’s royalty.. and a girl.

“These burgers… May I ever be able to see you flip them?” You blankly stare at Kitana’s face before bursting into uncontrollable laughter. “What?! Was it a stupid question?”

“No! No! Just that, uh, it’s nothing special. Flipping burgers.” You let your statement sit for a few beats in comfortable silence. You stand up from the stairs and walk down to the bottom. You look up at Kitana and smile sheepishly. “Watch.” You pretend to shove your hair into a hat and tie around an apron around your waist. You take out a frozen patty and place it onto the make-believe grill. You create a sizzling sound and push the patty down into the grill with a spatula.

You look up to see Kitana actually interested in your stupid act. So you continue. You scoop the patty and flip it into the air and pretend to lean back to avoid the oil splatter. You push down the patty down again and pat it. You scoop it up and place it on top of a bottom bun. You place the tomato slice and lettuce gently and place three small pickles. Squirt some ketchup to top it off and place the top bun. You push it down a smidge and lift your perfect burger up to admire. You carefully bring it over to Kitana and place it onto her hands.

“Nothing special, right?” Kitana’s hands hold the invisible burger and she pretends to squish it three times. “I’ll make you a real one some time if you want.”

“That would make me very happy.” She smiles and pats the invisible burger into your lap. “Even with your, beautiful acting, I couldn’t really tell what it was that you were doing.” That statement alone made you not wanna ever act shit out again. You place your elbow onto your left thigh and rest your head onto your hand. “I’m sure Johnny can show you a plethora of movies or of himself acting out what I do.” You amuse yourself with the image of Johnny working at a fast food place. He could probably pull off the look. “I don’t want to see Johnny doing what you do.” Her left hand moves to your right thigh. You tense up. Kitana looks at you with wonder. But you just can't reciprocate it without doubt. You want to keep your mind off of that.

"What's got you so worked up, Princess?" Her mood changes slightly. She peers down the stairs, choosing her words carefully. "Just family matters." She shakes her head. "I don't really want to think or talk about those things. But, you, you intrigue me, Y/N." Your face gets hot. "I intrigue you? You sure, Princess?" You feel the back of your neck, trying to sooth yourself. "Oh, stop calling me Princess. You're making it weird." You snort. "Yeah, okay." Kitana shoves you lightly, letting out a stifle. She looks back into your eyes and puts her hand to your face. You swear you stopped moving, or thinking. Instinctively, your hand grabs her arm. You lightly move it away from your face and you quickly stand up.

"I'm sorry, Princess. I should go. Uh, good luck at the tournament tomorrow." You manage to cough that much out.

"Wait, how did you-" You leave her at the castle stairs alone. You speed walk back to your shared room with Kung Lao, Raiden, Kenshi and Johnny. You open the door rashly and head straight to the bathroom. You don't notice who was in the room. You quickly lock the door and just slide onto the floor. You place your hand onto where Kitana placed her hand and just cry. You felt gross. Not because of her touch, but because you enjoyed her company. You didn't even know if being in love with a girl was wrong for Outworld standards. Remembering how you would be viewed back at home, you just felt hollow. Even though you were away from that toxicity, the ideology they've instilled into you still runs deep. You don't even want to think this way anymore but it gnaws at you. It's not her, it's just you. You can't bring yourself to be comfortable with the way you were. You bring your legs to your chest, forming a fetal position. You let your head drop into your knees and shut your eyes tight.

Your head was pounding from all the crying. You wipe your eyes harshly and decide to take a shower. That would help with the headache, surely. The warm droplets hit your head, soon letting the water envelope you. You stare at the water, flowing down into the drain. Some loose hair gets stuck in between your toes.

Why can't you just let yourself have this?

You aggressively shampoo your hair and close your eyes as the bubbles start to trickle near them. As the soapy feeling fades, you rub your eyes. You weren't back home. You're in Outworld now. Filled with culture, different people and experiences. You are just going to let yourself be, for now. You take your soapy loofa and aggressively wash your body.

You finish up your whole routine and dry yourself off. You open the bathroom door to see the four, smile at your presence. You flop onto one of the four futons and smush your face into the pillow. "Sorry for taking so long. I know how long your skincare routine can be, Johnny." He laughs and pulls out his pouch full of expensive skincare products from his bag. He ruffles your hair and locks himself into the bathroom. You could hear Johnny humming some ABBA song through the walls. It's relaxing to hear. Raiden lies next to you, offering simple company. "Thanks, Raiden." You hug him like a stuffed animal and close your eyes. You could hear Kung Lao arguing over who gets what futon, but you remain still. Kenshi tells him to shut up and to let you sleep. You sigh, happy that your friends try to cheer you up in their own quiet ways.

-

It was officially Day Two of the tournament. It was a nice day, sun out and clear skies. The battle was taking place in the Hanging Gardens. It is a stunning venue. Lush trees and bushes, stone pathways with the grass poking out and a huge wisteria tree decorating the background. You stand behind three big chairs with Johnny, Kung Lao and Kenshi. Raiden was before Empress Sindel, with her slightly peering down at him from her fancy chair. Liu kang stood behind Raiden with his hands intertwined, wide stance.

"You continue to surprise, Raiden. Among others, you have defeated Kotal, Motaro, and Sheeva. Only two fights remain. Are you ready, Earthrealmer?"

"I am, Your Majesty." He says with great certainty. You shoot Raiden two thumbs up to cheer him on. He gives you a shy thumbs up back, but quickly hides it when the Empress starts to eye him down. She sighs. "Then next you face my daughter..." Heels clacking briskly could be heard from the side of the mini arena. Her mask was on and she had her signature fans. Blue emerged from the bushes instead of a dark pink. "Kitana." Liu Kang had surprise written all over his face. He slowly started to approach Empress Sindel to complain. "Your Majesty, this is unprecedented. Raiden's next opponent should be your heir." Kitana looks at Liu Kang with furrowed brows. "Mileena is unavailable. She's away on pressing imperial business."

Liu Kang tilts his head in mild frustration. "But I have not prepared him to battle Kitana." Raiden looks over to Kitana, slightly embarassed. Kitana reciprocated the look. "He's already demonstrated great skill. Can he not improvise?" Sindel pleads with a concerned look. Liu Kang's annoyed blink could be seen from miles away.

"Do not worry, I can do this." Raiden reassures him.

"Very well."

"I will be no easier to fight than my sister, Earthrealmer." Kitana reminds Raiden. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her body language was stiff. "I suffer under no such delusion, Your Highness." He holds his chest and slightly bows his head. "I will win this fight. For her, my Empress, and all of Outworld." They both get into ready stances. Raiden, with his left hand forward and right hand pulled back, but open. His stance greatly reflects him and his personality, at least, that's what you think. Kitana has her left hand held high with her bladed fan open. Her right hand with a closed fan in her fist, facing down. She immediately jumps up and kicks him, which makes him go flying. She kicks him again from behind, making him fall to the ground with great force. He quickly picks himself up and shoots a lightning-infused punch her way. Kitana blocks but yelps from the burn. He does the same again but with his whole arm, pushing her far. She gets up while sending her fan Raiden's way. It cuts his leg up good but he tries to pay no attention to it.

Kitana scans the audience and her eyes land on you. You tense up again. Raiden takes this chance and kicks her face in. Before she falls, she grabs Raiden's shirt. She throws him over herself and they both land to the ground with a great thud. Kitana tries to send her fans again but they go array once Raiden uses his amulet to deflect them. Before she could catch them in time, Raiden lands some blows onto Kitana's stomach. She stays standing but is clearly hurt and tired. With determination to win, she has a burst of energy. She punches Raiden's chest and slaps his face with a closed fan. She follows with a high kick to his face, her heel stabbing his cheek. “Gah!” He holds his cheek in pain and falls straight on his back. Kitana starts to run up to him to finish the match with a clean blow. But Raiden is quick to react, sending a lightning bolt her way. She blocks but it was futile. She yells in pain and falls to the floor, struggling to get back up. Raiden sees that he is safe to stop his fighting stance. He slowly approaches. "You fight well, Princess." She grimaces, but picks herself up. "As do you, Earthrealmer. Surprisingly so."

"I hope we meet again. Under different circumstances." Kitana returns her answer with a puzzled look on her face.

"It's time for the final match. It's testament to your abilities that you've made it thus far. But now you must face General Shao." He appears where Kitana emerged out of, standing menacingly. “Victor of Tevarian War. Conqueror of the Kuatan Plains. Defender of the Navala Coast. As has his family for generations, General Shao defends us.." And you zone out. Your head leads you to the right, following Kitana sitting in the far right chair. She catches your stare and a half actually mad half pout comes your way. Before you could make a face back, an axe being slammed into the marble floor makes great noise. Raiden barely dodged, a bit surprised at the General's intentions. You stare at the fight but don't pay too much attention like before. You just know Raiden was beating his ass. He rolls in the air, infused with his lightning, into General Shao's stomach. Copying Sonic much, Raiden? Shao groans and lays. Raiden stares at him with open eyes. "It's over. I have done it!" Sindel stands up with a hidden sour face. "Congratulations, Raiden. Earthrealm wins." She slowly exits and Kitana follows. She passes by you and lightly brushes your hand. She doesn't look back to see your reaction. Your gaze lingers on her.

"Well done. You have exceeded my greatest expectations." Liu Kang warmly smiles. Raiden could only smile. "Thank you, Lord Liu Kang." He modestly bows his head. "Because of you, the Outworlders who would disturb the peace will once again be held at bay." He adds a bit of space in between his words, sort of admiring Raiden. " Come. Let us bid our hosts farewell and return to Earthrealm." Liu Kang grabs Raiden's shoulder lightly and brings him closer to you and the rest of the three. You bow, really proud of how Raiden's come to be. He reciprocates and bows his head gently. When his head comes back up, his face was beaming. Kung Lao quickly came to his best friend's side and draws him closer. "That was fantastic, Raiden. You really showed those Outworlders how it's done."

-

You find yourself wandering the castle halls looking for Kitana before you go back to Earthrealm. God knows when you’ll have the chance to come back, or if you ever will.

A pair of arms grip your shoulders and you immediately whip your body around to face your assailant. “It’s me, Kitana.” She puts her hands up and you sigh in relief. “Sorry, I thought I got caught.” She chuckles. “You did. Luckily, it was me.” She takes your hand and drags your hand someplace. You stare at your intertwined fingers and shiver. In both happiness and wariness. She leads you through the halls, her movements memorized. Her open hand pushes a heavy door with ease, revealing a huge bedroom.

She closes the door and pushes you onto her bed, your feet hanging on the edge. The bed was so soft, all you could do was sink. She flops down next to you, also allowing herself to sink in. She places her hand onto yours and stares into your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” You look down at her lips. They were a pale pink. You close your eyes and bring your face into hers. She laughs into the kiss and cups your face. Your hand finds her shoulder and you squeeze it. She pulls apart and runs her thumb across your bottom lip.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” All you could do was stare at her. She was so pretty. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. I mean, leave you like that. You and me, I’ve never been told that, that was okay. But, you make it feel okay. That it’s okay to love.” She holds you in a tight embrace, despite laying down. You feel you sink even deeper into the bed. You wish the bed would just swallow you, to preserve this moment. You hug her tightly and shut your eyes.

“Don’t forget about my burger, okay?”

[justpinkazure]

Lighter | Elinor Walker

CW: it's just a sad character backstory with some violence closer to end

The girl with red curls looked at her mother in fear. I watched as she dropped to her knees and tried to contain her own fear, hugging her daughter to her. The woman called her father's name several times so that he would look at them just once and immediately leave the room. Elinor heard him swearing as he searched for his phone while her mother calmed both him and her. And she tried to calm herself down too. However, the girl did not feel anything. For her, this is an ordinary day, like any other. They gave her a bike, and she immediately rode it down the slope. Eli remembers the moment of the collision so clearly. Blurred vision, some discomfort in the hand and blood flowing to the fingers. Hot, it cooled down very quickly, causing unpleasant goosebumps to crawl across the skin. But the most unpleasant thing is how the parents argue at such moments. Like it's her fault. You wouldn't even call her clumsy.

Elinor has suffered from congenital analgesia since childhood. Her brain is unable to receive pain signals. She feels only slight discomfort, constraining her movements. Father's genetics played a cruel joke. His sister and great-grandfather had this disease. Maybe that's why he's so strict with his daughter?

Despite her illness, Eli grew up to be no ordinary child. Yes, in addition to constant health problems, the girl constantly brought a lot of problems with her difficult character. Stubborn and persistent. Eli was unable to make long-term friends. In rare moments of reconciliation with other children, sparks of hope flashed in the eyes of the family, disappearing after the next call from the director. Elinor missed junior school. Not even a month had passed before she was transferred to home schooling. With such a disease and disgusting behavior, the parents did not want to take any risks.

If the child’s brain cannot detect pain, then let him learn to avoid its occurrence and look for the prerequisites for possible injuries. Her older brother helped with this. The years passed, and while Wallace grew closer to his sister, parents moved further and further away from her. This upset her. It happened that she could deliberately crash into a table top or sofa, but no one else came to help. The father never tolerated this, and on top of everything else, he put pressure on the mother, trying to save her from endless empathy and regret. He loved this woman and could not watch her cry. He also hated his sister, Aunt Beatrice, who once took all the attention in the family with the same deviation. This explains why she comes to visit so rarely.

The family is quite exemplary. Father is a surgeon, mother is a lawyer. The eldest son is going to follow in his father's footsteps. At the same time, both parents are constantly on the road. When the nannies and caregivers were tired of fussing with the capricious Elinor, and it was too early to leave Wallace in charge, Aunt Beatrice came. She was that sweet auntie, so understanding and cheerful. The wrinkles only embellished this woman’s smile. She understood Elinor like no one else. During all those rare visits, the girl learned so many useful things for herself. She was so pleased by Beatrice and so unbearably angry by her father, who looked for every opportunity to avoid getting involved with her, and her aunt, who lived for years with his resentment, understood everything and tried not to interfere with her brother’s family. I can't believe they are of the same blood.

As for the brother, Wallace Walker, well… He's perfect. Exceptional in almost everything. Studies, appearance, character - he was always the center of attention wherever he found himself. Even at home. This didn't bother Elinor much. Considering how demanding his parents were, she even felt somehow sorry for him.. He is the pride of the family and must achieve everything that is expected of him. Having taught Wallace to be a nurse for Elinor, his father increasingly persuaded his son to become a doctor. In response, as he grew older, the guy began to increasingly curse his choice of life path. He liked helping the girl, but the stress from his parents was pressing more and more on his chest.

When he became an actor, Eleanor would become the director for all the films in which Wallace would star. They will be inseparable like DiCaprio and Tim Burton. Such a funny fantasy distracted her.

In such a family there is so much time for oneself. Too much. It was too early to wander through abandoned buildings, to smoke and to study for a license, but she was lucky to get acquainted with film distribution. Of all the genres, it was horror that reverberated with fervor in her chest. Feeling no pain, she jumped every time fake blood appeared on the screen or when she saw fake weapons stabbing into actors. A strange emotion struck her every time while watching it. It was impossible to take your eyes off the cruelty on screen. An emotion that is impossible to experience was shown in all colors on the faces of the actors. Is it true that the pain is so unpleasant? Is she really like that? Various questions flashed through her mind so often that they forced her to take more and more discs with interest and follow the release of new slasher films in cinemas. How far can directors go with their cruelty? How she wanted to see more. The thought that in the future she herself could participate in horror filming warmed her soul.

A strong interest in cinema prompted Eleanor to earn extra money. The girl accidentally started buying CDs with her favorite films, gradually collecting a unique collection. Not as expensive as her father's cabinet of designer folding knives, and not as unusual as her mother's constant migraines from working too much. Any job available to a teenager was hers. Pocket money from parents was still only enough for lunch. With her purchases, they would never let her buy it all, let alone spend money on it all. Blu-ray editions of her favorite films took pride of place on the shelves in her room. Informal clothes, with edgy jewelry and creepy chains, took up residence in the darkest corner of Elinor's closet. Mom bought all her clothes. Over time, the closet stopped being so pink, but wearing boring floral blouses and skirts became unbearable. The girl often asked her brother to share his belt or shirts. And this guy definitely had style and a good heart. It was he who, through swearing and quarrels, was able to get his sister her personal, small, pot-bellied television. A gift she had never been able to save up for. This was the only birthday when her parents gave her exactly what Elinor wanted, and not what they thought was necessary. Whatever the thought behind this act, it did not improve the relationship, only inclining the girl towards greater isolation.

At school.. Don’t really want to talk about this part of her life. Elinor tried to get into any sports club, but her parents and teachers categorically prevented this. Teamwork was not for her at all, and her father and mother simply did not want to deal with another set of injuries. Sport is dangerous for Elinor. She only managed to get into an elective in physical education, which was already considered a victory. Anything that prepared him for a zombie attack or an escape from some abandoned place made Eli a little happier and his life simpler. What did the opposite was relationships with peers. Attempts to make friends ended in quarrels and even fights. Her classmates avoided her for many reasons, most often absurd and far-fetched, which is why she had to constantly prove that they were wrong. This did not lead the girl to success, only to the director’s office. Every day it became more and more difficult to be in society, feeling every non-existent gaze on myself and hearing the condemning vile whisper of my own self. She had to become an outcast, smoking outside the school walls from the constant tension pressing on her chest.

Maybe she would have spent her entire school life like this, completely alone, if Samantha had not appeared.

Oh, Samantha, this is an individual case. She is gentle and playful in character, like a rose. She wasn’t popular, but she didn’t remain completely without views either. One day they crossed paths at a disc rental. The conversation started on its own; Elinor was extremely puzzled to see such a sweet girl in the horror section. Samantha turned out to be no less interested in such films. It's a pity that she liked ghosts much more than maniacs. Meeting after meeting brought them closer together until the two were sitting at the same table at lunch, discussing various nonsense. Eli considered her a gift from above and often asked if her friend was a hallucination, to which she only laughed and played along with her. Here she is, a person who finally understood her. Not literally, of course, but this girl was glad to spend time with her. A little communication on the way home - what more could you ask for?

That's how the days went by. Despite her distant parents, she has a wonderful older brother and an equally wonderful friend, as well as a collection of the best slasher films of the decade. Elinor believed that she didn’t need more; what else could she dream of? Life couldn't get any better.

Until she turned sixteen.

Wallace is graduating this year. Final and entrance exams will be the peak of parental pressure. And while it was gradually growing, as luck would have it, my brother fell ill. A purulent sore throat took the guy by surprise. It was partly his own fault, carelessly drinking ice-cold drinks at the beginning of autumn, but even the guy did not expect such a loud scandal. Elie listened quietly on the steps, clenching her hands into fists with anxiety. In a hoarse voice, Wallace tried to defend himself while the same things that were obvious to everyone were repeated to him. The father cursed louder than usual, saying how the guy was trying to retreat at the very last moment, how he wanted to disgrace himself and destroy his wonderful future… A lot of stupid things were said in his direction, but he still tried to fight back. When his brother finally left the kitchen and went to his room, he immediately noticed Elinor. He tiredly patted her on the head and walked past, knowing that she would follow him.

— Wallace? — I'll spend the night at Max's. He lives on the opposite side when looking from the school. Do you remember? — I remember. — Can you handle it? — Can I handle what? Them? Wallace, you'll be back, won't you? This question sounded unusually frightened. Wallace stopped and turned to his sister. — Of course, — he smiled, — I need a little peace and lie down. A little sleepover won't hurt anyone. His calm and tired appearance begged to be believed. Girl hugged him goodnight as tightly as she could. That night she did not sleep and perfectly heard her brother leaving.

How wrong he was.

Things only got worse. Elinor had no idea what a strong wall her brother was between her and her parents. All the anger and irritation of her family began to be dumped on her. And it wasn’t just a showdown in the kitchen with or without cause. The girl received the attention she dreamed of and was jealous of, but at what cost. The family constantly clung to clothes, to grades, to the lack of friends, to the girl’s hobbies. The habit of defending oneself with aggression played a role here too. No, she couldn't build arguments like Wallace did.

— Why were you rummaging through my room? — Young lady, you shouldn’t have secrets from your parents! — said her mother, while father flipped through the dirty notebook. It fell onto the kitchen table with a slam. — Amazing… Who told you that you would become a director? You can't even imagine how much it takes. — A little imagination and a camera? — Tell me, which of these do you have? Knowledge! Knowledge in various fields is necessary for any person, and even more so for a film director. I can count on one hand the number of school subjects you have no problems with, and even that number of fingers would be too many! — So how useful is damn drawing to you, dad? Are you making beautiful seams now? Or maybe you think that you have the right to call the patterned handles of fucking knives art?

The loud bang and swearing stopped. With a red cheek and rapid breathing, the girl looked at her mother.

— Don’t you dare swear in my house, ungrateful one. And don’t you dare contradict your father!

She didn't even listen. Ears began to ring due to fear. She staggered and immediately ran out of the house. Her legs themselves led her to a crossroads, where Elinor became exhausted, squatted down and began to cry.

The arguing in the house did not stop. Stress and pressure only grew, and Elinor herself once again hung the poster in her room, covering the dent from her fist. She was so easy to piss off. Unfortunately, Samantha also managed to fall under the hot hand. Both girls never talked about personal things, about life. Perhaps it was worth raising this topic at least sometimes. Samantha had always noticed her friend's impulsiveness and temper, but lately Elinor had started to get angry out of nowhere over little things. Any little things. It wasn't good. Every hit of the vending machine, clap, throw, and even a glance from her friend made the girl jump in place and automatically cover herself with her hands. She was so afraid of being next. One day she even dared to ask if Eli could have hurt her? To which the girl said in surprise, «No way! Samantha, why do you ask?» In response, she could only smile awkwardly and change the subject.

— Elinor, — Samantha whispered, standing in the main doors of the school.

She looked guiltily at the floor when Elinor turned to her, and then pressed one button on her mobile phone. The puzzled girl heard the notification and immediately read the incoming SMS. The way she looked at Samantha made her shrink and step back.

— Is this a joke? Samantha, are you joking? — Sorry. I really thought I could fix you, — the gentle voice quickly trembled, — but I can’t do that anymore. — I'm sorry. — Samantha, I would never… Please, just listen. — Don't come near me! Stop! Don't!

Elinor didn't even take a step in her direction. All in tears, the girl ran out of the school. Devouring the back of her ex-friend's head with her eyes, she simply couldn't believe it. Was she friends with her out of pity? Her insides twisted, how unbearably disgusting it was to realize all this. She had nowhere to put all that she was experiencing. The angry voices were so loud that the girl did not remember how she returned home. Collapsed on the bed, she wrote a message to her brother. Another one that he will answer very late. Wallace was at school, calling his parents, he definitely didn't run away, but she didn't really want to go after him in front of her friends. Even though he still had a cold, he looked more alive. Short conversations with him after class gave her hope for the best. He said he would be home by Halloween.

It's mid-October. Elinor's favorite holiday is getting closer every day. But she isolated herself. I stopped attending classes and could barely move around the house. Insomnia was disrupting her sleep patterns. Elinor wandered aimlessly through the forest at night, through abandoned buildings, and during the day she slept for a couple of hours in order to continue wasting time. There were questions about missed lessons, but she had no idea how her parents solved them. Never cared about it. Often, she would go into her brother’s room and sit on various forums at his computer. Users shared new movies, leaked posters, and shared stories, but in her current state, Elinor was flipping through completely different threads. Violent and dark discussions could last for hours. She believed that this was an alternative way to cope with her anger, to release aggression into the text, to pretend that you were writing a script for a new slasher film. And although the flame of hatred for everything and everyone gradually faded away, new lights flared up more and more often, illuminating the path to the darkest corners of Elinor’s consciousness.

Sometimes she wondered what would have happened if they had just run away? Beatrice would gladly accept them, just pack your things and quietly take a bus or taxi at night, or whatever. But parents must somehow react to the escape of their children. Her mother is a lawyer. This is just an iceberg on the way of their Titanic. It would be no problem for her to get her children back for the best benefit of the family, and that was why Elinor hated her so much. She is sure that she has figured out this plan exactly. The minor daughter, for whose custody Beatrice will be suing, is recognized as mentally ill. Someone from the hospital will believe her father's plaintive cry and testify against Elinor, with real papers and all that crap. Sick in the head child will go to a mental hospital, and a kind brother will do everything to ensure that she does not suffer. He will return and become what they wanted him to be. After all, the trial will not affect him, only Elinor, a minor. Such a development of events was not even considered. Wallace has suffered enough, she can't afford to cause him any more trouble.

The long-awaited Halloween has arrived. The day dragged on so unbearably long. Elinor constantly fell asleep for just a few minutes, only to look at the clock and close her eyes again. As the sun approached the treetops, she received a call. It was Wallace. Said he'd be back after Halloween. The girl no longer heard his worried questions about absences and well-being. My head was splitting at the seams. She was so angry about all this. She couldn't believe that he couldn't come back. I didn’t believe in another date change. He definitely ran away. No, it couldn't be that Wallace just ran away. There must be a reason why he can't be here, come home. But there was a reason. Wait, it was true. And it was so obvious and easily solved that I couldn’t even believe it.

Father slept like a rock, but mother always needed sleeping pills. At midnight, the girl gathered her things and went out into the corridor. Taking out her small folding knife from her jacket, the girl crept into her parents' bedroom. She leaned over her mother, looking at her calm face. For the last time, she assessed her actions, and then ran the blade across the woman’s throat. Her chest quickly began to twitch unevenly. Fortunately, the mother did not wake up. It was the most merciful death that her daughter could give her. The girl clutched the knife tighter as she walked around the bed. He’s so kind when he’s not frowning. Father seemed really good as long as people looked at him. It is important for him to be able to behave, he is a doctor after all. Raising the blade, the girl delivered a sharp blow to the man's neck when a heavy hand slammed into his face. She was pushed back by inertia, girl quickly straightened up to see the father rise from the bed, looking at his own child in anger. The heat went from the lip to the cheek. The taste of metal and a slight chill on the chin. He stabbed her with one of his collectible knives.

— Ungrateful monster! He walked toward her with wheezing sounds. Blood was soaking into the collar of his shirt. — How dare you!? The man swung his hand, and she was confused. Blood dripped into the eye from the eyebrow. — Your life is worthless! Do you think this was even worth anything?! Blood filled his mouth. Squeezing her throat with one hand, he wanted to hit Elinor again. The girl moved further and further, covering herself with her hands. — You ruined my family! Destroyed! YOU— She pressed herself against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut when her father raised his hand with a knife above her head. But instead of a blow the body fell face down on the floor. Elinor froze. Breathing heavily, she smiled. Laughter escaped her lips, growing stronger with each passing second as the girl slid to the floor.

Throwing on her jacket, she felt a pack of cigarettes in her pocket and exhaled. What a nice little thing, it’s definitely worth a smoke break after what happened. Before leaving, Elinor wanted to turn off the computer. She noticed a new message and curiosity took over.

[Hey. Do you want to take a walk through abandoned places now? I recognize the photos from your thread, it’s not far from me] [Sure]

The stairs almost killed her when her vision went dark. It had been a long time since Elinor had lost so much blood. Such simple and stupid thoughts were spinning in her head. Walking out the front door, She froze. Can't be.

— Elinor? Wallace stood on the porch with his duffel bag and backpack. All so sunny. He definitely planned to surprise his sister. — Sorry. Somehow I even… Are you real? — Are you serious now? Elinor did not dare to hug him, but when he came up and pressed her to him, she could not restrain herself. — What a grip! What, are you running off to celebrate? — Yes... Yes! Can you cover me? — No problem. The main thing is to be back before morning. Laughing, Wallace released his sister. As Elinor was leaving, he called out to her one last time.

—Happy Halloween, Elinor.

Elinor had no idea what a strong wall her brother was between her and her parents.

This was the only way to repay him for all his care.

Now they are free. Now he will find his happiness.

Afterword

The white light forced her to wake up. Her head was pounding terribly, and her lungs were tingling as she inhaled. Rising somewhere in the forest, the first thing Elinor did was light a cigarette. The black smoke left her body as she exhaled, her skull no longer squeezing her tiny brain in a vice. Last night felt so blurry and unclear. The thick fog around was confusing. Touching the back of her head, she noticed how the darkened hair crunched with dried blood, like a crust on a wound. Cool. It seems like there was a light snowfall last night.

All that remains is to finish smoking and decide where to go first.

[stephensmithuk]

The Sign of the Four: The Statement of the Case

CW for the end of this as it includes discussions of child murder and detailed discussions of capital punishment.

Turbans have never been particularly common in the United Kingdom; these days, they are most likely to be worn by West African women or those who are undergoing chemotherapy.

It was the norm for a married woman to be referred to as "Mrs. [husband's name]", especially on something like a dinner invite. Historically, in the English common law system the United States also uses, a woman's legal identity was subsumed by her husband on marriage, in something called coverture. In some cases, a woman who ran her own business could be treated as legally single (a femme sole) and so sue someone - or be sued. This practice was gradually abolished, but did fully end until the 1970s.

@myemuisemo has excellently covered the reasons why Mary would have been sent back to the UK.

As you were looking at a rather long trip to and from India, even with the Suez Canal open by 1878, long leave like this would have been commonplace.

The Andaman Islands are an archipelago SW of what is now Myanmar and was then called Burma. The indigenous Andamanese lived pretty much an isolated experience until the late 19th century when the British showed up. The locals were pretty hostile to outsiders; shipwrecked crews were often attacked and killed in the 1830s and 1840s, the place getting a reputation for cannibalism.

The British eventually managed to conquer the place and combine its administration with the Nicobar Islands. Most of the native population would be wiped out via outside disease and loss of territory; they now number around 500 people. The Indian government, who took over the area on independence, now legally protect the remaining tribespeople, restricting or banning access to much of the area.

Of particular note are the Sentinelese of North Sentinel Island, who have made abundantly clear that they do not want outside contact. This is probably due to the British in the late 1800s, who kidnapped some of them and took them to Port Blair. The adults died of disease and the children were returned with gifts... possibly of the deadly sort. Various attempts by the Indian government (who legally claimed the island in 1970 via dropping a marker off) and anthropologists to contact them have generally not gone well, with the islanders' response frequently being of the arrow-firing variety. Eventually, via this and NGO pressure, most people got the hint and the Indian government outright banned visits to the island.

In 2004, after the Asian tsunami that killed over 2,000 people in the archipelago, the Indian Coast Guard sent over a helicopter to check the inhabitants were OK. They made clear they were via - guess what - firing arrows at the helicopter. Most of the people killed were locals and tourists; the indigenous tribes knew "earthquake equals possible tsunami" and had headed for higher ground.

In 2006, an Indian crab harvesting boat drifted onto the island; both of the crew were killed and buried.

In 2018, an American evangelical missionary called John Allen Chau illegally went to the island, aiming to convert the locals to Christianity. He ended up as a Darwin Award winner and the Indians gave up attempts to recover his body.

The first British penal colony in the area was established in 1789 by the Bengalese but shut down in 1796 due to a high rate of disease and death. The second was set up in 1857 and remained in operation until 1947.

People poisoning children for the insurance money was a sadly rather common occurrence in the Victorian era to the point that people cracked jokes about it if a child was enrolled in a burial society i.e. where people paid in money to cover funeral expenses and to pay out on someone's death.

The most infamous of these was Mary Ann Cotton from Durham, who is believed to have murdered 21 people, including three of her four husbands and 11 of her 13 children so she could get the payouts. She was arrested in July 1872 and charged with the murder of her stepson, Charles Edward Cotton, who had been exhumed after his attending doctor kept bodily samples and found traces of arsenic. After a delay for her to give birth to her final child in prison and a row in London over the choice the Attorney General (legally responsible for the prosecution of poisoning cases) had made for the prosecuting counsel, she was convicted in March 1973 of the murder and sentenced to death, the jury coming back after just 90 minutes. The standard Victorian practice was for any further legal action to be dropped after a capital conviction, as hanging would come pretty quickly.

Cotton was hanged at Durham County Goal that same month. Instead of her neck being broken, she slowly strangled to death as the rope had been made too short, possibly deliberately.

Then again, the hangman was William Calcraft, who had started off flogging juvenille offenders at Newgate Prison. Calcraft hanged an estimated 450 people over a 45-year career and developed quite a reputation for incompetence or sadism (historians debate this) due to his use of short drops. On several occasions, he would have to go down into the pit and pull on the condemned person's legs to speed up their death. In a triple hanging in 1867 of three Fenian who had murdered a police officer, one died instantly but the other two didn't. Calcraft went down and finished one of them off to the horror of officiating priest Father Gadd, who refused to let him do the same to the third and held the man's hand for 45 minutes until it was over. There was also his very public 1856 botch that led to the pinioning of the condemned's legs to become standard practice.

Calcraft also engaged in the then-common and legal practice of selling off the rope and the condemned person's clothing to make extra money. The latter would got straight to Madame Tussaud's for the latest addition to the Chamber of Horrors. Eventually, he would be pensioned off in 1874 aged 73 after increasingly negative press comment.

The Martyrdom of Man was a secular "universal" history of the Western World, published in 1872.

[darkgodcomplex]

Pawns and Prostitutes

Mello X FemReader

CW: Prostitution, Violence, Talk of Death, Guns

AO3 Link

Enjoy:

The first thing you feel is the cold metal tip of the gun against your temple, pressing not hard or threatening, but rather playful.

"Care to play, princess?"

The cigarette in your mouth barely dips, let alone falls. Your sharp eyes turn to the man next to you.

"Get that damn thing away from me."

Mello smiles, lifting the gun away. You can still hear the blaring of music and smell the stench of weed and sweaty bodies from inside.

"I didn't think prostitutes took breaks." Mello jokes, tucking his gun into his waistband.

It's chilly out. As you breathe, you watch your breath and the cigarette smoke mix in the air. "And I wish smartass kids wouldn't take breaks."

"Kid?" Mello laughs, head tilting and hair falling to the side.

"How old are you, sweetheart?" You flick your cigarette at the ground, crushing it with your heel.

"Nineteen."

You turn towards him, pressing your palm to his cheek and running your thumb over it. His skin is smooth, he hasn't even lost all the baby fat in his cheeks. You feel an odd sort of tender softness for him. He hasn't snorted cocaine off a girl's body or beat a girl senseless just to get his rocks off.

But it is only a matter of time. That's always what happens when kids get mixed up in the mafia.

"See?" You give him a sad smile. "You're just a baby."

As you pull your hand away, he grabs your wrist, leaning forward.

"Is that why you won't sleep with me?" He looks at you with big eyes, eyebrows scrunched up in worry. He's never looked younger and it only makes your heart ache more.

"I told you, if you're looking for pleasure, fuck the other prostitutes."

"I don't want anyone else." As you tug your wrist, his grip loosens, letting you slide away. "I told you that you could just be my girl. You wouldn't have to worry about money or those other guys."

"Mello," you say gently.

"Please." He reaches out for you again, but stops himself. "I don't understand."

"I know." You tell him. A breeze sweeps through and you shiver, tugging your fur-skin coat tighter.

"Then explain to me." He pleads softly.

You shake your head, turning away. The pounding of the music inside matches your heartbeat as you stare off the rooftop.

"You're a nice kid, Mello." You lean on the ledge with your elbows, watching the alleyway below. Two men had gone outside to fistfight and a small crowd has gathered to watch. Meanwhile, a prostitute and a man make love on the other end of the alley. What's the difference, really? What is love other than violence?

Mello lets silence linger between you two. One of the men below gets a shot to the head in and it's lights out, the man buckles and falls to the ground, motionless. From above it's not clear if he's dead or just passed out. You hope he's dead. You wish everyone here was dead and you were too.

"I'm going to show you." Mello whispers. You turn to look at him and your stomach turns. There it is, that look in his eyes that makes you so fearful. It's ambition. What an infectious disease that is, not to mention an all-consuming one.

Still, Mello continues, "I'm going to show you what I can do." With that statement, he turns, striding back inside and leaving out here alone.

You turn to look back down below. The crowd has disappeared and the lone man still lays eerily still in the alley. The prostitute on the other side has since switched lovers, but still carries on with him the same as she did the other man.

You wish Mello was dead too.