#file under: body: bruno | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pwilzfan73 · 3 years ago

Text

True story behind The Conjuring 3 – inside Arne Cheyenne Johnson’s “the devil made me do it” court case

The latest instalment in The Conjuring franchise once again has its roots in a real-life case.

By Patrick Cremona, Radio Times. UK.

Published: Friday, 21st May 2021 at 2:56 pm

The Conjuring 3 takes its title from a real-life court case that dates back to the 1980s. The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It takes a look at the case and the Warrens’ involvement in the case that originated the phrase “the devil made me do it”.

Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga return as paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren for the next instalment in The Conjuring horror franchise, with the new movie heading to UK cinemas on 28th May 2021.

As with the previous movies in the franchise, The Conjuring 3 is taken from a real case file with reported connections to the supernatural. Previously we’ve seen spin-off movies focused on the Annabelle doll, also inspired by the Warrens who keep it in their occult museum.

Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson as Lorraine and Ed Warren. Warner Bros Pictures.

The case in question this time around is the trial of Arne Cheyenne Johnson, a man who was convicted of manslaughter in Connecticut in 1981 – becoming the first person to have claimed a defence of demonic possession during a murder trial.

The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It true story

The Conjuring 3 is inspired by the trial of 19-year-old Arne Cheyenne Johnson, who was charged with murdering his landlord Alan Bono in February 1981. During the trial, the defendant gained infamy for becoming the first person to claim a defence of demonic possession in a United States court – although perhaps unsurprisingly this version of events was not accepted by the judge.

His defence rested on testimony given by the family of his fiancée, Debbie Glatzel. Debbie’s 11-year-old brother had reportedly been the subject of demonic possession in the months prior to the murder, with his parents having grown increasingly worried by a number of unexplained and ominous events.

The story really starts in July 1980, when the 11-year-old David Glatzel was helping Johnson clean up a Connecticut rental property he was prepping to move so he could move in.

While there David claimed to have come across a “burnt and black-looking” old man who he claims pushed him into a waterbed saying he would bring them harm if they moved into the house.

When David returned home he continued to see the old man. He described him as having a white beard, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. David claimed the man’s skin was charred as if he’d been burnt too. The young boy experienced night terrors and woke up with bruises and scratches on his body. He’d wake screaming and tell his parents he’d seen the sunken features of the old man “like an animal”, with horns, pointy hears and jagged teeth (via People). (The Conjuring 3 demon appears to have gone a different route, with early photos showing a white masked man wearing a striped red long coat.)

The family said they also had heard unexplained noises coming from their attic.

In trying to get to the bottom of the issue they had called in Ed and Lorraine Warren – who by this point were already well-known paranormal experts – to diagnose and cure their son.

Ed Warren said he heard banging and growling sounds coming from their basement, and that he also say a rocking chair move on its own. Speaking to paranormal researcher Tony Spera, Ed claimed David’s toy dinosaur also walked on its own towards the family. He also said a deep voice spoke to them saying: “Beware, you’re all going to die.”

Lorraine also claimed she saw a black mist appear next to David while her husband interviewed him. “While Ed interviewed the boy, I saw a black, misty form next to him, which told me we were dealing with something of a negative nature. Soon the child was complaining that invisible hands were choking him—and there were red marks on him. He said that he had the feeling of being hit,” she told People magazine.

David’s mother Judy had previously claimed it was a ghost, but the Warrens rejected this idea saying it was an indicator of a demon.

Lorraine also claimed she saw David being choked by invisible hands and he told her “he had the feeling he was being hit”. She told People that she could see red marks afterwards and she heard him growl and hiss. Lorraine also claimed he spoke in unrecognisable voices, that he recited passages of the Bible as well as Paradise Lost. Debbie Glatzel also claimed he spit, bit, kicked and swore at her and he flopped around “head to toe like a ragdoll”.

She also told the Chippewa Herald Telegram that “he manifested. Just a face on the wall. High cheekbones. A narrow chin. A thin nose. Big black eyes hidden in dark holes. He showed his teeth.”

Ed Warren also told The Washington Post: “Right away, I knew there was something to this. I felt like a good fisherman when he knows there’s something on the line.” He added that he thought there were 43 demons inside the boy, and David named them all.

David Glatzel’s exorcism

In the movie, Father Gordon (Steve Coulter) blesses the home. The priest’s name was changed for the movie, but a Roman Catholic priest did visit the home to bless it.

After continued efforts from the Warrens, the Glatzels, and multiple priests (including Rev Francis E.Virgulak) a formal exorcism took place, with witnesses claiming that a demon fled the child’s body.

Ed Warren claimed Arne, who was present at the exorcism, shouted: “Take me on, leave my little buddy alone!”

Apparently, David showed signs of improving, but Arne started to deteriorate. TV series A Haunting covered the case in the episode Where Demons Dwell, claiming that the demon took control of Johnson’s car forcing it into a tree. While he was uninjured, he was shaken by the experience. The series also blamed a demon when Johnson fell from a tree while working.

Judy told The Washington Post she paid $75 an hour for a session with a local psychiatrist too, but it was up to church officials to set up and pay for further psychological testing (via Newsweek). David’s parents were told he was “normal” but had a “minimal learning disability”.

Alan Bono’s murder

Clearly not content with its newfound freedom, though, the story goes that the spirit then immediately took control of Johnson and it was under his control that the murder of the landlord took place several months later.

Johnson and Debbie Glatzel decided against renting the original home, and instead rented a small house near Debbie’s work. Debbie was working a dog groomer for the landlord, Alan Bono, 40, who was also the kennel manager.

Bono, who has been renamed in the movie as Bruno Sauls, lived in an apartment above the kennels.

On the day of the murder, Johnson had taken the day off work and spent the day with Debbie, 26, at the kennel. Along with some other companions, Debbie, Johnson and Bono had lunch at a local restaurant and enjoyed a few drinks, becoming drunk in the process, and when they later returned to the kennel a heated fight broke out with Bono becoming increasingly agitated.

During this argument, Bono seized Debbie’s nine-year-old cousin Mary, who had also been present, and refused to let her go – which then led Johnson to confront him and eventually stab him repeatedly with a five-inch pocket knife, all while growling like an animal. Bono suffered “four or five tremendous wounds” mainly to his chest area.

Bono died several hours later and Johnson was later arrested roughly two miles away from the murder. The murder is believed to be the first murder in Brookfield, Connecticut’s 193-year history, and the first in the 30 years since the town had police records.

The next day, Lorraine Warren immediately claimed that it was a case of demonic possession, which naturally led to much media coverage around the world.

Ed and Lorraine Warren

Ed and Lorraine Warren arrive at Danbury Superior Court - Getty

Arne Johnson’s Trial

Johnson’s trial began on 28th October 1981 at Connecticut’s Superior Court in Danbury.

Johnson’s lawyer Martin Minnella attempted to enter a plea of “not guilty” due to demonic possession stating Johnson “was possessed by a demon, and it was a demon who actually manipulated his body.” It was the first known court case in US history that had attempted this defence.

Minnella, speaking about the case and the fame that followed, said: “The courts have dealt with the existence of God. Now they’re going to have to deal with the existence of the Devil.” (via the New York Times).

However, the plea of not guilty due to demonic possession was immediately thrown out by presiding judge Robert Callahan who said that it would be “irrelative and unscientific” to allow testimony on these grounds, and so despite the ensuing media attention the jury was not legally allowed to consider demonic possession.

Johnson’s defence claimed that he hadn’t been the same after Glatzel’s exorcism, and witnesses were called upon saying they saw a demon transfer from Glatzel to Johnson. Debbie Glatzel also testified that Johnson behaved similarly to Glatzel. Ed Warren claimed Johnson had made a “fatal mistake” by taunting the alleged demon.

Debbie claimed Johnson had come to Bono’s apartment to repair a stereo for him, but that Bono had been drinking red wine and the pair got into an argument about payment for the repair. She also said Johnson was in a trance when he stabbed Bono.

According to reports, in the three months Debbie and Johnson had lived next to Bono they had been friends. The police believed that Bono and Debbie’s relationship was more than boss and employee, but Debbie denied this despite the police claiming the argument was over her rather than the stereo. The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It does take this angle into the story, exploring the ‘jealous lover’ plot, which was also shown in the 1983 movie The Demon Murder Case (starring Kevin Bacon).

L-R Patrick Wilson (Ed Warren), Sarah Catherine Hook (Debbie Glatzel) and Vera Farmiga (Lorraine Warren) in New Line Cinema’s ‘The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It.

After the jury deliberated for more than three days, Johnson was convicted of first-degree manslaughter on 24th November 1981 and was sentenced to between 10 and 20 years in prison. He was released in 1986 having only served five years of his sentence.

Even though demonic possession was not actually allowed as a legitimate defence in the trial, the case became colloquially known as “the Devil made me do it case” – hence the subtitle of this film.

Where are the Glatzels and Johnson now?

Johnson married Debbie Glatzel while he was in prison. He also got his high school diploma while inside. The pair went on to have two children.

Lorraine Warren went on to write the book The Devil in Connecticut with Gerald Brittle detailing the case, and they shared the profits from the sales with the Glatzel family. David’s brother Carl Glatzel did speak out against the book when it was republished in 2006 saying it was a “complete lie” and that “the Warrens concocted a phoney story about demons in an attempt to get rich and famous at our expense.”

Carl claimed the Warrens told the family they’d be millionaires – it was later confirmed they were paid $2,000. Carl also says David was suffering with his mental health at the time, but he recovered. In 2007, David and Carl filed a lawsuit against Brittle and the Warrens for unspecified financial damages. They sued the authors and publishers for violating their privacy, libel and “intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

Brittle claims his book is based on fact and he interviewed the Glatzel family for more than 100 hours, which he has video of. Lorraine Warren also said the six priests who performed exorcisms on Glatzel agreed that he was possessed.

Debbie Glatzel and Arne Johnson have always backed the account of the possession, but David’s father denies his son was possessed.

How the movie tackles such a complicated case and how closely they stick to the real life events remains to be seen.

The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It is released in cinemas on 4th June, 2021 on HBO Max and 28th May in the UK.

#radio times #arne johnson true story #the conjuring the devil made me do it #patrick wilson #patrickwilson #actor #pwilzfan73 #movies #edwarren #verafarmiga #lorrainewarren #vera farmiga #sarah catherine hook #arne johnson

151 notes · View notes

river-bottom-nightmare · 3 years ago

Text

Nightwing 83 Review

guess who isn't weeks late this time. my opinion of the series is going up a little bit. it's still not great, but i'm not actively put off by it anymore the way i was after 81. not going to tag as spoilers, but be warned that they are under the cut

i’m sure you all are well aware of this but now, but dear god i love bruno redondo’s art. like, an unhealthy amount. the pink and blue is getting to be a theme with either him or just this run, but i am definitely enjoying it. the movement in this cover is clearly obvious, but well done. you recoznize right off the bat that the cover was drawn to drag your eyes down the page until you get to the bottom, but you enjoy the whole ride there.

also, redondo’s way of drawing a character in stages of action so we can see just how much they’re doing in a split second of movement is quickly becoming something i like to see drawn with dick, and any other character that has that sort of ease of movement and body sense, like cass or sin or maybe a super.

and he’s in action the entire time! there’s shot drawn just to show off a shirtless comic book character, the way nightwing is so often subjected to. he’s shirtless because he’s changing his clothes, and that’s all we see, no more and no less. very practical, very well done. i like it.

he looks so cute right here oh my god. the little squint, the hair curls. it’s adorable.

but also like. unless melinda has specifically outfitted the door spyhole so that the person on the other side can’t see dick looking through it (and in all honesty she might have) then everyone on the other side can see dick looking through that door.

bringing your attention back to the “i can’t see melinda’s fbi file oh no!! it’s redacted!! whatever can we do!!” stupidity. redacted files are child’s play for oracle, and definitely doable for both dick and bruce. so that’s bullshit.

now, melinda apparently grew up with the maroni family, then took down part of the family from the inside. the maroni family is a large and notable presence in gotham, one that bruce pays a respectable amount of attention to. he definitely would have grown suspicious when two members of the maroni family were taken down, and with some investigation, he would have discovered melinda’s plan. and it should go without saying that the majority of things you see batman doing? dick can do it too.

it’s not so much that i don’t like how clever the villains/antiheroes are getting. i don’t like how dc heroes are increasingly written as less intelligent. they seem to be relying on pure fighting skills or luck, which may be the case for a couple heroes, but has never been the case for most of dc’s big name heroes, the bat family included. it’s irritating to me to see this sort of stuff pop up as a major plot point when i know that, if dick or bruce had been written with the amount of skill and power that they canonically possess, this entire mess would have been sorted out years ago.

unrelated but dick and melinda have the same hair

this may just be me, but i was always under the impression that dick doesn’t really have a “double life???”

yes, he’s talented enough to create enough differences between robin/nightwing and dick grayson’s mannerisms, way of movement, voices, and speech patterns so that it’s very difficult to put the two together.

but nightwing has never been separate from dick grayson, not the way bruce and batman is. he’s always leaned more towards clark in that aspect: his hero persona is an exaggerated, stately, larger-than-life version of who he really is. there’s no second persona, no real “dick grayson identity” and “nightwing identity.” they’re the same person with the same goals, ideas, and skills. one just pretends to abide by the law, and one gives up pretense of that.

oh good thank god. if he’d trusted her right off the bat (hehe. bat.) i would have slapped him upside the head. at least he’s still got instincts.

gosh the colouring on this is cool. the red has enough purple and pink tones to it that it doesn’t abruptly ruin the tone of the artwork. but it’s definitely glaring enough to take the reader outside of this personal moment they had slipped into between dick and melinda, to put them back in the present where they’re reminded that oh yea there are people hunting dick down.

the next panel keeps this up too, in a less severe way. melinda’s bodyguard shows up (i forgot her name sorry :[ ) and subtly places us in the middle of an action scene rather than a private, personal scene.

laughing so fucking hard have our little vigilantes grown so accustomed to breaking into places that it doesn’t even register as a crime anymore??? tim coming in through the fire escape to pick bernard up for their date and being very much confused as to why bernard is freaking out.

i really like melinda’s shirt and now despite all the work i have to do and the fucking conference i have to host on monday i want to spend hours scrolling through clothing shops online trying to find this shirt. the mock neck/neckline is so cool i want it

so roland just assumes that a very dangerous vigilante who is highly talented in combat and a very dangerous bodyguard who is also highly talented in combat had a fight that ended with this very dangerous bodyguard being tied up and she looks completely fine? roland just assumes that her having no visible wounds or bruises means that they got into a fight and she lost that easily? uh. aight then

dick what are you doing. legitimately what the fuck are you doing. why are you posing oh my god. you are injured and tired and in absolutely no position to go hand to hand with one of main enemies. jesus christ run away or head to lower ground or something. don’t just stand around letting the floodlights show exactly where you are.

i don’t understand what he’s trying to do here??? blockbuster fully bought the story that dick fought them both, won, tried to get info out of them and failed, then hightailed it out of there. he didn’t have to draw roland out for a fight.

but it does look cool. the way the light just highlights his silhouette and the blue parts of his costume does look badass. he does get style points in my book for this.

w h a t d i d i f u c k i n g t e l l y o u , d i c k ?

very classic superhero line and it does sound like something dick would say in a fit of righteous rage but also it makes me laugh so hard because all vigilantes think they’re so powerful that the law doesn’t apply to them. dick vigilantism is illegal. you’re acting above the law and pretending it doesn’t apply to you. hypocritical much?

it happens so often in superhero movies, tv shows, comics, whatever and it makes me giggle every damn time.

pretty decent comeback but before i start seeing people writing blockbuster as a thug i’m going to remind you that he made a deal with a demon for genius level intellect. if this turns into another bane situation i’m going to be a little miffed. he’s a smart man, which makes him a dangerous and infinitely more interesting enemy for nightwing.

this is so horribly in character i want to scream. (or. at least. it lines up with one of the versions of nightwing i have in my head.) he’s running right towards the bullets, miraculously doesn’t get shot, while making a sort-of pun. i hate this so much. i love him.

this is cool. this art is really really cool.

he leaped from a building right towards a helicopter that’s actively shooting at him, but none of the bullets are touching him. none of the corruption of the city can touch him no matter how hard it tries, because he’s too good to be corrupted. Comic Book Logic Can Be Good Sometimes Actually.

batman’s belt what??? swiss army knife who?? sorry, i only know nightwing’s bright blue escrima.

this is one of my favourite things about heroes with exceptional abilities, even more so if the hero is human. the things they can do are so far beyond the realm of normal human abilities that it’s equal parts terrifying and awe-inspiring every time they act.

he just used modified grappling wires to hook to the door of a moving helicopter, swung around the helicopter safely without hitting the blades, gained exactly the right momentum to swing upward again right through the opening of helicopter, then fought and tied up the men before they had any idea what was happening. that’s near impossible to do.

it’s stuff like this where i just sort of sigh in contentment. no matter how many times they leave out dick’s detective skills or conveniently forget that he’s actually a master planner and team leader and make him out to be this forgetful dude who makes everything up on the fly because of his “circus roots,” at least they won’t ever take away dick’s sheer physical ability honed to perfection.

the art, too! in a few panels, dick’s drawn a little lightened or blurred. he’s moving so quickly and fighting so efficiently that he can barely be seen by the enemy. he’s got perfect form all the way through.

and THIS!

there was a helicopter that had five men shooting at him with what looks like machine guns. most people would be dead. some would run away, and be nimble enough to survive without fatal hits. there are very few people, even in fucking comic books, who can look at that hopeless situation and turn it around so quickly and thoroughly that he benefits from it instead.

i just. love nightwing.

it was funny the first time as a comic reader aware of the meme. it’s really not anymore. why the hell would you, in universe, be wearing a shirt that has a picture of your boyfriend being hit in the face by his father.

okay that was funny.

look at lil bitewing, so concerned for her human!!! love her sm.

also a question as to the timeline of things. is nightwing happening before or after urban legends?

i was so distracted by dick wearing a robe and briefs and nothing else that i didn’t register the second part until later. he slept for two days?? babs, baby, he recently had a very traumatic brain injury. why do you sound so nonchalant?

@TIM X COFFEE SHIPPERS GET FUCCCCKKKKEEDDDDD

ngl i totally forgot about that dude oops

this comic is giving so many reaction pictures. you know how you always use the worst possible picture of your friend for your friend’s contact picture? i’m just getting so many of these.

leslie!!! the titans!!! lucius!!! dick going to go see old friends!!!! the titans!!! this part made me so irrationally happy it really did. gar being the one to just. offer dick solutions with open arms. this was the best

i wish i could just copy and paste this entire scene, but that would take up way too much space, so i’m just going to talk about it instead.

you gave me my name, nightwing, and you gave me some of the best advice i’ve received in my life: beautiful little throwback to nightwing’s origin. you’d be surprised at the amount of people who don’t know where the name came from, or who don’t know how much clark means to dick. and the fact that dick still looks up to clark as a hero, recognizes that clark isn’t always perfect and yet continues to hold him in such high esteem, and still looks back on advice that clark gave him fondly just warmed my heart so much.

for a man who has fearlessly stood up to darkseid, bruce will do a lot to avoid a conversation: “grrr. i’m the BATMAN. i’m so DARK and MYSTERIOUS. nobody knows the true me. no one ever will. i will be LONELY for the rest of my CURSED LIFE. such is the price of a hero. ignore my farmer himbo husband in the background”

but i don’t think there’s anything heroic about being a billionaire: another nod to how much dick follows clark’s example rather than bruce. yes, this was a very poignant and important criticism, and i think it’s wonderful that this was published in a pretty popular comic book. but the thing is, there is a way to be a heroic billionaire, but only in fictional universes. the way bruce, ollie, t’challa only ever use their wealth to help people. they donate massive amounts of money to charities that they themselves create so they know exactly how the money is being used. they hire people who aren’t likely to get jobs anywhere else and pay them much more than what a base living wage is. they use their power to help push progressive laws and social change. they are helping.

dick doesn’t fully see it that way. he spent more than half his childhood the son of a billionaire, but still believes that one could be more heroic when one doesn’t have obscene amounts of wealth. whose example do you think he followed to come to that conclusion?

superman looked up to alfred pennyworth?: i mean yea alfred may have been a wildly irresponsible guardian and one hell of an enabler but goddamn if he didn’t love his kid.

you don’t need my input. you’ve thought it all through: ooooooh this line made me grin. for so long, dick’s treated clark as a mentor and a guiding figure. he’s still seen as a kid, an up and coming, snot-nosed titan with dreams of a better world. clark still thinks of him as a kid, despite watching him grow up. but this little line was something i think dick needed sorely to hear. he doesn’t need anyone’s guiding hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t need to ask for permission. he doesn’t need clark to support him the way he did when he was a teenager. he’s all grown up now, and he doesn’t need clark’s help. i imagine it was a bit of a surprise for dick to hear that.

honestly, i couldn’t think of a better role model: ohhh but it doesn’t stop there. clark just straight up turns the tables on dick. imagine you’re dick, and you’ve looked up to this one hero your entire life, and then one day he turns to you and says that he thinks you’re so kind and smart and worthy of a person that he wants you to mentor his son!? goes to show just how much clark trusts dick.

i swear to god dick probably cries every time he hears clark compliment him because bruce is so rare and sparing with his praise that clark giving him the slightest hint of approval is just a dopamine rush.

also, now deathstroke and superman have both asked nightwing to mentor their kids. the juxtaposition is fuckin hysterical. imagine either of their reactions when they realize what kind of company they’re with

lets talk colours for a second, because i absolutely adore how classic colour tropes have been subverted in this comic, and in this general run really.

warm tones have usually (usually, not always) been associated with light and comfort and friendship and,,,,,well,,,warmth. whereas cool tones are usually used to unsettle, or make a scene seem colder and put the reader on edge. this varies if a comic only uses cool tones, or only uses warm tones, but if a comic uses both, this is generally well-used.

that isn’t the case in this run.

dark red, orange, and other warm tones have been used to symbolize danger, action, attacks. hot pink isn’t usually included in this colour group, but it’s definitely part of it in this case. in contrast, scenes that have cool colours give us the impression of slipping into a comfortable, calm scene with babs, tim, the titans, and other allies. even the beginning scene with superman has this blue, but then it transitions into something more golden coloured. dawn broke over dick, as his new idea came to light, and that was reflected in the art (and the sunrise setting.)

have there ever been times when dick’s longed for the comfort of his mask because he didn’t feel confident as dick grayson? i can’t think of any. i may be wrong, but this struck me as pretty ooc.

am i just??? gay and reading this all wrong??

cause i was under the impression that when someone says they are grateful for your friendship you don’t immediately kiss them.

or is this like. normal straight mating rituals.

i mean he’s smiling afterward but still babs aren’t you supposed to at least make sure it’s okay first? you guys broke up a while back after you said something along the lines of “i want to be coworkers with you and nothing more because i don’t trust you or feel comfortable around you as a civilian anymore.” like lmao after you say something like that to someone i would assume that you don’t have the permission to just kiss them whenever you want.

show of hands who else got real sad when they realized dick was talking about himself in this.

sure, he could be referencing the things he’s seen blockbuster pull, and the children on the streets. but “i’ve seen money used for enforcement,” sounds a little too close to dick’s entire life being destroyed by one man threatening the circus to pay protection money for me to completely ignore. and “i’ve seen the poorest and most vulnerable blamed and punished rather than assisted” becomes a lot worse when you remember dick was thrown in juvie for a couple months until bruce was able to obtain legal guardianship, and in there, not a authority figure believed him when he told them his parents were murdered.

he’s lived this before.

a. mother. fucking. typo.

fucking why

i mean i’ve stated my distaste for the batfamily groupchat before but like. this is reaching new levels of ridiculousness. jason sounds like he was written by a fanfic writer. tim sounds like he was written by a fanfic writer. steph sounds like she was written by someone who doesn’t know the first thing about steph and wanted to include her for “family points!!!!!” damian’s supposed to be completely off the grid, and everyone’s searching for him. i do love the way cass texts tho.

well god fuck now i’m crying

dick got a phone call, a sorry, and a thank you out of bruce. i feel so much secondhand happiness for him, if that’s a thing. we’ll just ignore the way bruce looks ugly af and focus on the good parts okay?

and again with the colour symbolism here!

i’m either going to love this or hate this. who knows, we’ll see.

something something hearts something something pink is an evil colour something something. i need to know more about this guy but there’s definitely symbolism there.

is it just me or does this dude look like the backstabbing traitorous absolutely motherfucking piece of shit villain that killed tadashi hamada in big hero 6?

taggggg list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @bikoncon @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption @capricorn-stark @batshit-birds @comics-observer @buticaaba

#river thinks too hard #nightwing #dick grayson #nightwing 83 #dc #nightwing review #nightwing meta #dick grayson review #dick grayson meta #nightwing 83 review #nightwing 83 meta #dc review #dc meta

46 notes · View notes

wri0thesley · 4 years ago

Text

Paperwork - Bruno x Fem! Reader (Kinktober Day #1: Toys Under Clothing)

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. Public play, slurs (slut), toys, cunnilingus. 4k.

You’re usually willing to indulge Bruno in whatever he wants. But with so much work to get done and a meeting with the Don to get through, can you really let yourself indulge him in this? (Spoiler: the answer is yes).

You are always far too eager to be a help to Bruno. It had, you hope, been endearing when you were a wide-eyed underling to him who just wanted to assist in his ideals of making the city a better place even if you were working for the Mafia. Too, you hope he’d been endeared by - when he’d finally pushed past his code of ethics and kissed you despite being your superior - how eager you were to kiss him and touch him and go on dates with him. Sure, you were a little green and naïve and sure Bruno was the first person you’d ever loved so fiercely and given every part of yourself over to, but you hoped he’d thought that sweet instead of desperate.

As time had marched on, some of your bright-eyed and bushy-tailed nature had gone awry. There were only so many drug deals you could bust and files you could give to Don Giovanna of men you knew he was going to have killed before some of the hope in you began to die. But Bruno remained a cheerful constant - cooking breakfast in the morning, picking you up for dates, kissing you sweetly when you two went your separate ways for a workday. Sure, he wasn’t good at cooking and he was worse at driving, but the romantic was always there.

It had taken you a little while to see some of the stranger and more intense parts of Bruno’s personality, but even those hadn’t been much of a deterrent. You’d laughed at some of his more macabre jokes, and when he’d suggested bringing some . . . slightly less vanilla elements into your bedroom, you’d found that you rather enjoyed being helpless and at his mercy when he unzipped your hands and left them on the table as he edged you with his mouth. You weren’t a prude!

But this was too much. Your face is burning.

“It’s very simple,” Bruno is saying, a smirk playing on his full lips, his dark blue eyes glittering with mischief. “You wear this all day, and I take this, and I get to watch you come apart at your desk.”

“I can’t,” you try and say. “I . . . we have that meeting with the Don today, and I have lots of paperwork--”

“Exactly,” Bruno presses himself a little closer to you in the cramped space of your bathroom. He breathes lightly into your ear. “We’ll be together all day, doing boring admin tasks. It’s a perfect opportunity for me to see just how good you can be.”

Heat floods your face. You always become a little useless when Bruno says you’re a good girl, or you’re doing well, or ‘don’t you look pretty like that, bella, with my cock in your mouth?’. Maybe it’s a praise kink, or a corruption kink - whatever it is, Bruno is perfectly aware of it and clearly not afraid to use it to his own ends.

“I can’t . . .” You say, weakly, but Bruno is smiling that dangerous smile where one side of his lip curls up and you both know that you have lost this battle entirely. “Show me how it works.”

“Alright,” Bruno hums, and he reaches into the pocket of his suit to show you the toy. It’s a dark black egg shape with a long handle that you know is designed to curve around and press against your clit, and you know from looking at it that it will drive you over the edge and then some. Bruno does not skimp on anything. Your wine is decades old, his clothes are custom made, the cabinets he had installed in your villa last week are antique - and from the way he’s cradling the sex toy, he probably paid a fair whack for it. “I feel like I don’t really need to explain it to you, principessa. Your face is as pink as a sunset.”

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you breathe, but Bruno is still smirking. You bite your lip as he steps closer to you, and your breath catches as he sinks onto his knees and one of his hands travels up your stocking clad leg.

“You’re going to look so beautiful, though, bambina,” he breathes. “When you bite your lip because it’s all too much, your fingers digging into your palms, your pretty lips pressed tight together as you try not to let yourself come in front of everyone . . .”

“Why does that sound so hot?” You ask him, and he laughs, the sound like sparkling.

“You like the idea really, hmm?” His fingers play along the top of your stockings, stroking bare skin. When he slides his fingers over the gusset of your expensive satin underwear (bought for you by him, naturally), he hums to find it already slick with your neediness. “Ah. You really like the idea.”

“I . . . I just like being at your mercy,” you confess, squeezing your eyes shut tight. Bruno laughs again, and you feel the cool press of the toy against you as he manoeuvres it into place. The egg, it turns out, is shaped just so to gently press inside of you - as you feel it breach your entrance, one of your hands clings tight to Bruno’s shoulder and he makes soft, soothing noises as he settles it just right. You’re slick enough from the talk and the flirt and the promise of what is to come tonight that getting it inside you is no issue - but the sensation is still strange and different, and it takes you a few moments as he pulls away to get used to it.

“You were dripping,” Bruno murmurs, stepping close enough to you that he can cup your chin in his hand and pull you into a kiss. He mouths hungrily at you, the kiss warm with the promise of all of the things he’s going to do to you later and all of the things you’re going to wish he was doing to you whilst he teased you at work. “You really do like the idea, hmm? Slut.”

“You’re one to talk,” you breathe. “When it was your idea--”

He laughs.

“I’m not denying being a slut,” he tells you, as he kisses your forehead. You don’t see that one of his hands is in his pocket and he’s pressed one of the buttons until the toy buzzes to life and you bite back a whimper.

“N-neither am I,” you say, and Bruno grins.

The car ride to the office is torture, though part of that came from Bruno’s driving ‘skill’ - perhaps, if you’d been allowed to drive, the potholes and speed bumps wouldn’t have been quite so much of a rush. But Bruno had decided that turning off the toy was no fun, and so you’d sat in the passenger seat and bit your tongue every time Bruno had turned too sharp a corner to stop yourself from giving away just how much it was getting to you.

Bruno comes around to the passenger door to open it, a hand proffered, and you’re grateful for the stability as it takes your legs a few moments to remember how to stand straight without shaking. Bruno is grinning as he looks down at you, and he’s grinning even more as the two of you walk through the door and immediately he’s rushed at by Narancia, who looks harried off his feet. You don’t catch all of the details through Narancia’s explanations, but Bruno keeps an indulgent smile as he follows the younger man. He throws a look over his shoulder that’s all helpless amusement.

“I’ll catch up to you later for some of the paperwork,” Bruno calls to you, even as he disappears from view and you’re left alone. You stand where you are for a few moments, taking a deep breath - and you’re just about to go to your desk and begin working on the paperwork when you feel the buzzing between your thighs increase.

The bastard has turned it up.

You struggle through some of the paperwork. Whatever Bruno is doing, he’s toying with the remote control every so often, and you find yourself shifting and sighing and pressing your thighs together through the blurring words and the sheets of white. Although Bruno didn’t say in so many words that you weren’t allowed to touch yourself, you’d rather gotten the impression - and you don’t want to ruin his fun.

Besides. You have horrible visions of Sticky Fingers unzipping your hands and Bruno casually walking away, your hands in his pockets. When a fellow underling of Don Giovanna asks why he’s carrying his girlfriend’s hands around so brazenly, you imagine him raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

“Well,” the Bruno in your mind says, “she just couldn’t keep her hands off herself.”

You know Bruno well enough to know that’s not beyond the realms of possibility, and though the scenario makes blood rush to your cheeks, you think it’s one of those scenarios that are better in your head than played out in real life. You don’t think you could ever live that one down - better to not give him the ammunition in the first place.

Every time you think he might be easing up, he surprises you by making the buzzing harder and faster. You suppose you should be grateful he spent the money on one that doesn’t make any noise - but the fact is, when Bruno comes in after helping Narancia, you’re bent double over your own desk and panting helplessly.

Bruno stands in the doorway for a minute, blue eyes crawling over every inch of your body to take in the pathetic scene you’re making. You wonder if there are rivulets of your slick running down your inner thighs - certainly, you feel wet and needy enough that it might be the case. Your face is hot and flushed red, your lipstick all but bitten off, your pupils blown and wide. And Bruno stands there, drinking it in - and then has the nerve to laugh, low and dangerous.

“I’m glad it was me walking in on you like this,” he says, lightly. The remote is pressed and the vibrating turns up a notch, your thighs squeezing reflexively together, useless little moan falling from bitten lips. “Lucky for you. Imagine if poor Don Giovanna had found you like this, helplessly splayed out on a desk like you were just waiting for someone to walk in on you and see you . . .”

The click of expensive leather shoes across the office. Bruno comes closer and closer to you, and your body reacts to the presence of your lover. Your channel squeezes around the toy, and you can’t deadfall the moan that breaks unbidden from your throat. Bruno chuckles again.

“Mm, well, bella . . . you do make quite the sight like this, don’t you? Maybe I should feel like the lucky one. If anyone else had seen you in this state . . . why, how could they resist just letting you lie there whilst they fucked you? You’re tempting me something fierce right now, you know.”

“D-do it then,” you whimper. The idea of Bruno fucking you - even if it is in his office, even if anyone could walk in on him pounding into you and pulling your hair - is a welcome relief to the aching pound of your core. You know that the buzzing isn’t high enough to make you come (you’ve learnt your own tolerance very well, with Bruno as a teacher) but it’s still enough to have your nerve endings buzzing and your body wishing you were coming.

“I’d love to,” Bruno murmurs, stepping behind you. His crotch presses into the soft curve of your ass, and you can feel the hard outline of his cock. He spends a moment there, grinding the hardness against you, teasing you - and then, sighing regretfully, steps away.

“But we have a meeting to go to and intelligence to relay and the responsibility of keeping Naples clean at our feet, tesoro,” he says. You get the impression he’s fighting back a grin. “So you’ll simply have to live with it a bit longer, hmm?”

You lie there, gasping, for a few more moments, feeling betrayed that something with the power to stoke the fires within you was so tantalisingly close and yet still taken away from you.

“You’re terrible,” you tell him, pulling yourself up delicately, trying to ignore your shaking thighs and the fact you can’t seem to stand straight. “You’re a horrible tease.”

“I’m the one teasing you?” He raises his eyebrows. He smirks, and your insides twist in awful need. “You’re not the one who had to look at you. You’re not the one who had to feel you pressing against my cock . . .”

You bite your lip. His eyes lazily trace your form, zeroing in on your mouth. You wonder if he’s imagining your lips wrapped around his aching shaft - and meanly, you hope the thought haunts him throughout the whole meeting.

“Oh,” he says, casually, “that reminds me. You’ll need to reapply your lipstick before we go. And . . . well. Perhaps you should wipe down your thighs, principessa. You got the front of my trousers all damp.”

Bruno holds the door open for you as you walk into Don Giovanna’s office, and as you pass him you hear a soft click and the device currently snug inside you begins to move in a way you didn’t anticipate - instead of buzzing, it lightly begins to thrust, rocking against you like a smaller version of your boyfriend’s cock--

And it’s all you can do to keep upright as you press your lips together and give your golden-haired boss a smile that you desperately hope doesn’t give away that there’s anything wrong. He tips his head to the side, his bright eyes questioning, but he doesn’t say anything as his office door swings close and Bruno pulls out your chair for you. His hand lingers on your shoulder for a minute as he sits, but it’s nothing more intimate than how he usually treats you at work.

Everyone knows that you and Bruno are a couple, and perhaps a few people have seen you guiltily steal a kiss as you pass in hallways or have heard you discuss date night plans when you should really have been working, but you both agreed to not let it interfere with what you do in standard business hours. This line of work does creep into your home life, of course - but at least at Don Giovanna’s offices and expensive villas and anywhere with a desk and a filing cabinet, the two of you are professional as much as you can be.

Still. You doubt people would look at you so fondly and whisper about how sweet you are together if they knew exactly what Bruno was doing to you now. It takes much of your grace to not rock into the thrusts of the toy, the egg rubbing your g-spot in a way that has your strangled response to Don Giovanna catching in your throat. He looks at you, concerned.

“Are you feeling quite alright?” He asks you, and you nod, forcing a smile. Bruno’s concerned hand lands on your back, and his voice is dripping with worry as he murmurs your name.

“Do you need to call it a day?” He asks, the double meaning very clear. You straighten yourself out as well as you can and ignore the persistent buzzing, the aching low in your stomach, the fact that you have to keep digging your nails into your palms to stop the edges of orgasm blurring your vision.

“I’ll be fine,” you breathe. “Just a late night, that’s all.”

Don Giovanna gives your boyfriend a look over his desk and Bruno has the decency to look a little abashed. Good. If people can’t know the real truth, they should at least know that Bruno is responsible for the predicament you’ve found yourself in.

The meeting goes on as well as can be expected. Your hands shake when you pass Don Giovanna paperwork, your voice breaks a few times and you have to restart, and at one point you give up entirely.

You do not mean to give up, of course. You had made a pact in your mind with yourself that you were not going to let Bruno win this little game. You were going to keep your cool - you were going to be very stern and professional and absolutely nothing was going to be obvious to anyone else who might see you today. Nobody was going to know about the little surprise that Bruno had nestled between your legs that morning. You’d convinced yourself that Bruno wanted someone to find out - that the thrill of your humiliation was going to get him off, or that he wanted to have an excuse to punish you. And though you certainly wouldn’t mind being punished in some of the creative ways Bruno had previously come up with, just this once you wanted to win at his own game.

So you had done your best to stay firm and calm and together. And until that one moment, you’d been doing as well as you could possibly manage.

In that one moment, you hand your boss a piece of paper and Bruno must turn something up because suddenly it’s buzzing fast and violently enough you fear you’ll be pushed over the edge right there - and, unsure of what to do, you wrap your arm around your stomach and whimper, rocking forward to try and escape the thrust of the egg.

“Are you alright?” Don Giovanna is asking, immediately, standing up and rushing around to your side of the desk. He repeats your name. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Just a stomach pain,” you say, softly, your face red. You know that Bruno must be looking at you and you wonder if he’s hiding the gloating on his face. “I-I’ll be okay, in a minute--”

“You should go home,” Don Giovanna says, earnestly. “Bruno, you should take her home--”

“We have so much to do,” Bruno is saying, but an arm is gently pulling at you, lifting you from the chair. You cling to Bruno’s familiar warmth, the weight of him good against you. “I’ll take her back to our office and make sure she has some painkillers, though--”

(He turns it up again, the bastard, and you moan aloud this time, unable to even attempt to hide it. You hope it reads to Don Giovanna as a moan of pain as opposed to one of pleasure, but thankfully your back has been turned to him and you don’t have to worry about it.)

You’re taken through a maze of corridors, face pressed against Bruno’s arm, panting and red and shaking. People shoot you worried looks, and you do not at all escape attention - but Bruno murmurs soothing words to you and you hear him occasionally whisper something about how you’re not feeling well, and you think that you’ve gotten away with it.

When you reach the office, you’re let go of, and Bruno says, voice stern;

“Sit on my desk, bambina.”

Helplessly, you follow his orders. There’s a click of a lock and a noise that you think is him drawing a curtain over the small window in the door, something he usually only does when he has an important visitor to his office that cannot be disturbed - now, though, as he approaches you (slack and useless on his desk, fingers digging into the edges, thighs apart in the hopes it will make the buzzing stop being so noticeable), it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be disturbed for a different reason.

He looks at you for a few moments, before that damnable smirk curls his lip and he shakes his head.

“Oh, bambina,” he says, again. “You couldn’t last the whole day?”

“Bruno,” you pant out. “I tried my best, Bruno, please . . .”

“Hmm.” He reaches into his pocket, very deliberately, and pulls out the remote. You stare at it in his hand for a few seconds, as he seems to weigh up his options. “Well . . . I could turn this up even higher, and watch you come apart on my desk.”

“Bruno,” your voice is a petulant whine. You know you shouldn’t, but you bat your eyelashes at him and pout, and softly whisper in a way that has always led to him wrecking you in the past; “But I tried so hard . . . I just want to be good for you--”

His breath catches. His eyes darken. He steps closer to you, settling into the space made by your spread thighs.

“You were a very good girl for me, bambina,” he says. “I suppose . . . you did do your best . . . .”

When he leans into you and kisses you hard, you know that you’ve won - and you feel even luckier when he puts the remote control on the side, pressing the red power button, and the toy powers down inside you. And when he sinks onto his knees, fingers prising the slick-soaked toy from your sex, your soaking wet underwear tossed to one side - well. Then you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Bruno presses kisses to your inner thighs that make the muscles jump, teeth grazing you ever so slightly for a shock of danger before he kisses again. His fingers dig into plush skin, almost as if he wants to pull you against him and never have you let go, your thighs pillowing his head.

His breath ghosts along the hot, needy valley between your thighs and you shiver. Your fingers go to tangle in his hair instead of cling to the hardwood of his antique desk, and Bruno groans when you tug a little bit. Kisses are pressed along the slit, butterfly soft.

“Please,” you urge, in soft little pants, twitching your hips towards his mouth. The curve of his lips fits against your sex.

“Patience, principessa,” he murmurs - but as his tongue darts out to taste you, swiping your slickness up, you’re reminded that when it comes to you Bruno has none of that.

He uses the flat of his tongue to tease you into whimpers and sighs, the point occasionally going to toy with the swollen nub of your clit, but never long enough to have you too close to the edge. You’ve been hovering on a slippery slope all day, though, and even the slightest touch of Bruno’s lips and tongue has you seeing stars.

You’re soaking wet from today’s foreplay, and the noise of Bruno’s mouth and tongue is lascivious in how sloppy it is in the office, but you can’t bring yourself to think about that as Bruno’s tongue thrusts inside of you, circling the ring of sensitive muscles around your entrance that the egg has been teasing all day. You whimper out his name again, pulling on his hair so he’ll eat you out more hungrily - and Bruno, lovely Bruno, giving Bruno, horny, needy, insatiable Bruno . . . he makes good on it.

His tongue swipes over your clit, faster than you realised it could go, pushing you to the very top of the mountain until you feel like you’re about to fall off a great peak - and then, with the slightest suck of your clit, you tumble down into the pillowy snowbanks. You pull so hard on his hair that he groans in pain, thighs tightening about his head reflexively as your orgasm tears you into pieces and puts you back together wrong.

It takes a few moments, cool aftershocks ricocheting through your body, until your thighs drop from your boyfriend’s shoulders and you look down at him, feeling dazed but satisfied.

He’s on his knees on the floor, a satisfied smirk on his unfairly handsome face.

“Now,” he murmurs, “wasn’t that worth waiting for?”

Three days later, you get into the office to find a letter on your desk. You recognise the golden wax seal, a rose engraved in it - this is from Don Giovanna himself. You open it, wondering what your boss could possibly want with you. As you scan the words enclosed, though, your face begins to burn.

I have sent Bruno a fee for the dry cleaning of my office guest chair. You left a wet patch.

Kind regards,

Giorno Giovanna.

#writing #not sfw #afab reader #bruno buccellati #Bruno Bucciarati #fem pronouns #toys #slurs #public play #kinktober collection

354 notes · View notes

shyvioletcat · 4 years ago

Note

I’d like to place a request for Aelin singing Uptown Funk by Bruno Mars and Rowan overhearing it (you decide if it’s intentional or her singing in the shower or drunk karaoke hehe) in Striking Matches of course 😉 since that hasn’t happened yet

cont: Oops wait I always forget it’s technically by Mark Ronson ft Bruno Mars ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ my bad it’s a collab

I went with something different, but let’s be real... Aelin would just about sing this song every chance she gets.

So Timeline wise, this so just after they get together. It’s probably been a month and a half since he busted her door.

Striking Matches Masterlist

~~~~~

The fire alarm ringing through the school gym had the kids in a panic, it even took a few moments for Aelin to get her own feelings under control. But when her kids had flocked to her, their scared faces wide-eyed, she pulled herself together. When she had volunteered to chaperone the Halloween dance this is not what she expected.

Her and the other teachers ushered the kids outside, not even a trace of smoke to be found but still they got all the kids out to the car park. It was soon apparent that some cheeky troublemaker, probably urged on by their peers, had pulled the alarm and there was no real threat of fire. But they had to follow protocol and that meant the greater portion of the student body from grades 4-6 were huddled in the car park —all in their costumes— waiting for the firefighters to turn up to give the official all clear. The poor things were getting cold in the brisk October air and still nervous after all the drama. Aelin wasn’t feeling particularly warm herself in her Alice in Wonderland costume, the striped tights at least were offering her some protection from the cold.

So Aelin did the first thing she could think of.

Turning her phone full volume she led a dance party in the empty spaces of the parking lot. She was dancing to hype the kids up, most likely looking like a dork as she did the sprinkler for the umpteenth just as the fire engine pulled up. The team unloaded from the vehicle very quickly, Lorcan barely gave the excited children a second glance, but Aelin’s students were thrilled to see Rowan again and he gave them a wide smile and a wave. Fenrys directed a thumbs up to her in approval of her dance moves before he waved to the kids as well, giving them some finger guns to top it off.

Another song played through and the whining of the alarm stopped and everyone cheered. Lorcan appeared again and went to clear things with the principal then the others started filing out. Out of nowhere an idea struck Aelin, a song that seemed too perfect to pass up in the moment. So she unlocked her phone, scrolling through until she found the song she wanted.

The poppy vocalising at the intro of the song started and she made sure to keep at least one eye of Rowan as everyone started dancing. She saw the twins share a look and then they were laughing. Gavriel was just shaking his head.

This hit, that ice cold

Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold

This one for them hood girls

Them good girls straight masterpieces

Aelin sang along and somewhere she heard Lysandra cackling.

Stylin', wilin', livin' it up in the city

Got Chucks on with Saint Laurent

Gotta kiss myself, I'm so pretty

I'm too hot –– hot damn

Aelin pointed at Rowan who was trying his damndest not to smile. He was failing.

Called a police and a fireman

I'm too hot –– hot damn

Make a dragon wanna retire man

I'm too hot –– hot damn

Say my name you know who I am

I'm too hot –– hot damn

And my band 'bout that money, break it down

Aelin wiggling her shoulders ridiculously at him had him breaking and he laughed. By then Rowan had reached and took her by the hand, spinning her a few times –– her apron and skirts fanning out. The kids, meanwhile, were going insane.

When Rowan stopped the spinning Aelin’s hands landed on his shoulders.

“Don’t you think this song is a little inappropriate for the little ones?” He said.

“I suppose.” Aelin sighed and changed the song, a chorus of disappointed protests sounding. “But I just couldn’t resist.”

A terse Whitethorn came from the direction of the fire engine, making both Aelin and Rowan look over. The rest of the team was loaded back up ready to head back to the station. Aelin linked her arm with Rowan and handed her phone off to Lysandra so she could keep the party going while the executives decided what to do next.

“Will you come by for breakfast tomorrow? I bought a fresh box of toaster waffles,” Aelin asked, leaning close to leech his warmth.

“Those things taste like cardboard,” Rowan complained.

Aelin just she rolled her eyes. “Fine, come for the company then.”

“I think I’d rather eat the cardboard,” Rowan replied, the corners of his mouth betraying him as they quirked upwards.

“Remind me again why I agreed to make us a thing?” Aelin said as she let go him and Rowan put one foot on the step of the turck then leaned in closer to her.

“How about I remind you tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice little more than a purr. “And I’ll pick something up from a bakery on the way home.”

Rowan pulled himself up into the cab before Aelin could reply, but she was smiling as he rolled down the window. Then she stepped up onto the step as Rowan leaned out the window.

“I like that sound of that.”

They were both smiling when their lips met but they managed. They broke apart when Fenrys’ wolf whistle startled them both, Aelin managed to refrain from flipping him of for the sake of the students and the reprimands it would get her if any of her superiors saw.

“See you in the morning,” Rowan said, Aelin’s reply was a two fingers salute as the truck drove away.

Aelin watched it go until it had turned and she couldn’t see Rowan anymore. When she went to go back to the impromptu dance party she noticed one of her students, Benjamin, standing on the outskirts watching her, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

“You okay there, Benjamin?” Aelin asked.

It took him a moment to answer and he looked past her to where the fire engine had been parked, then he beckoned her closer. Aelin rested her hands on her knees so she was just about level with him.

“Miss G, did you just kiss Fireman Whitethorn?” He whispered.

Aelin nodded. “I did.”

“But…” Benjamin’s brow furrowed. “You’re only supposed to kiss people who are you boyfriend or girlfriend. Is Mr Whitethorn your boyfriend?”

The boy was so excited and perplexed he’d completely forgotten about the fireman bit.

“He is,” she said simply.

Aelin couldn’t wait to tell Rowan about the look of sheer delight that spread over Benjamin’s face when she told him. He spun around, no doubt to spread this new revelation amongst his classmates, she could practically see the ripple of excitement move through the crowd. Aelin just laughed and kept dancing until the parents started to arrive to pick up their kids.

~~~~~

I say it every time but... I miss these two.

Tags:

@tangledraysofsunshine // @nalgenewhore // @highqueenofelfhame // @galyxsy // @fucking-winchester-trash // @literary-licorice // @http-itsrebecca // @highladyofthesith // @aelinfire-bringer // @soup-that-is-too-hawt // @sleep-and-books // @3am-reading // @but-she-was-aelin-galathynius // @rowaelinforeverworld // @alifletcher2012 // @westofmoon // @tswaney17 // @mydarlingfireheart // @rowansfirebringer // @chocolate-eating-bitch-queen // @vanilla28 // @fireheart-of-your-dreams // @enquires-state-building // @im-not-rare-im-rarr // @your-high-lady // @mariamuses // @ttakeitbacknoww // @vi0let-femmes // @kindofawalkingpoem // @sleeping-and-books // @armixers-unite // @velarian-trash // @queenofxhearts // @princess-galathynius // @heroesofterrasen // @highladyofstoriesandmusic // @unassumingsodalovesherbooks // @empire-of-wildfire // @brittneym15 // @camerooonchiu // @worldoffae // @mybbyfeyre // @crackedship // @lowhangingtreebranches // @over300books // @yourwhisperingshadows // @thesirenwashere // @pilesofriles // @chemicha // @keshavomit // @sarahbringsoutmygay13 // @wifeofchrishemsworth // @impossiblescissorspeachpaper // @cat5313 // @judelovescardan // @illyrian-velaris // @flowerspringsea // @whitethorn15 // @whiskeybusiness1776 // @notaddictedtoanything // @thereaderandfangirl // @mynewdreamwasyou // @tintinnabulary // @the-regal-warrior // @searchingforbellarke // @queen-of-wings-and-fire // @court-of-fuck-me-daddy // @officialasianbitch // @burningbookz // @viajandosinalas // @chaoticskyy // @fanfictrash3000 // @blueeyes425 // @starseternalnighttriumphant // @bamchickawowow // @thehuntressofmoon // @giorgia-the-trashpanda // @flora-and-fae // @thereaderandfangirl // @illyrian-bookworm // @meltalgel-ig // @gay-book-nerd // @that-odd-puzzle-piece // @i-love-all-books // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @girl-who-reads-the-books // @hizqueen4life // @the-third-me // @queen-of-glass // @belamoonbeam // @bestmelle // @cursebreaker29 // @b00kworm // @superspiritfestival // @aesthetics-11 // @maastrash // @mynewdreamwasyou // @the-last-apprentice // @charincharge // @aelin-queen-of-terrasen // @scarznstars // @absolute-dissapointment // @thesurielships // @df3ndyr // @trinitybailey2003 // @littleboxofthunder // @ladywitchling // @booknerdproblems // @rowaelin-cressworth // @acourtofbookworms // @rolltide7 // @scandinavianromantic // @tillyrubes10 // @starwarsslytherin // @minaidss // @paytin77 // @jesstargaryenqueen // @anntheintrovert // @starborn-faerie-queen // @loudphantomdragon // @alyx801 // @amandaswallowtail // @louiseleblancdiggory // @abookishfreak

223 notes · View notes

fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

Text

To Discard and Discover | Trish Una x F!Reader

She smells of roses and lemongrass - of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

100 Follower Giveaway 1st Place Piece

Content Warnings: P-TSD & Math Class

“Have you ever thought about going back? You know, to finish your degree?”

Fugo lifts the saucer of tea to his lips, careful to blow on the scalding steam before taking a sip. He raises an eyebrow as he looks to Trish, who sits across from him at the dining table, awaiting his response. Sighing, he speaks: “Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt any reputable university would take me in after what I did.”

Trish murmurs to herself. She chases a sliced cherry tomato with her fork. Il Pranzo has become a shared pastime between her and the strawberry-blonde boy. “I’m sure Giorno could pull some strings,” she insists. “You could probably go anywhere you wanted.”

“It’s not honest that way. Besides, I don’t have a reason to go back. There’s no degree requirement to work for the Don of Passione . . . But, what about you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

He sets his tea down. “The new schoolyear starts in a month. Haven’t you thought about returning?”

Trish stiffens. “Do you think I should?” she asks.

“That’s not for me to say,” Fugo tells her. “Bruno will encourage you to, and the schools near where you live are good. Well, as good as any school in Napoli can be. Above all else, it might be a decent distraction – a chance to gain back a little normalcy in your life.”

It is a difficult subject, and one that weighs on her like a vice. She has struggled to acclimate to the new normal after everything that transpired in the early spring of this year. Returning to school had simply not been a possibility for her, though not for a lack of trying.

She has found trauma to be a tantalizing friend indeed – and one that never quite seems to leave her side.

The sound of your laced shoes slapping against the waxed floors is lost to the rush of bodies that swarm the corridor. The faces of your peers are unnamed to you, because in your sixteen years of life, you never cared to commit them to memory. Your first session of the day is classe di matematica. It is a grueling subject to most, but you find it easy enough.

An unfamiliar pink-haired girl stands before your teacher at his desk. You cannot help but to notice her rigid posture; she stands as though she has been frozen in place by the scrutiny of his eyes as he takes in her appearance. It is obvious that she is a transfer student, and a nervous one at that. To you, she is nothing more than another face with a name, and you will not care to remember it.

Filing past clusters of your fellow classmates, you make your way to the back of the room and secure your territory. While the table creaks under the weight of your bookbag and leud pencil carvings mar its surface, you find solace in its position beneath the window overlooking the courtyard.

Students continue to file through the door. You look to the clock: class will not begin for another five minutes. Impatient, you sigh and turn your attention to a flock of pigeons gathering on the cobblestone pathway of the courtyard. Watching the scuffle of five birds, all for a discarded heel of bread, is far more enticing than pretending not to eavesdrop on any of the conversations filling the space of the room.

The clocktower chimes and the pigeons scatter, no doubt startled by the deep vibrato of the prerecorded bell-sound echoing throughout campus. You open your notebook and click your used pen. Your classmates take their seats, all the while avoiding the second chair at your table. You do not mind it, for you know it is not repulsion that keeps your peers at bay. The truth is much simpler: every student has at least one friend within the class whom they would much rather sit with than yourself.

Head hung low, you wait for the selection process to end whilst avoiding wandering gazes. When you hear the tapping of a pencil against the table, you are shocked to see the pink-haired girl standing before you.

“Can I sit here?”

Your mouth turns dry, as if you have swallowed the very same stale bread the pigeons quarreled for. You do not mean to, but your eyes trace the delicate lines of her face, from her piercing green eyes framed by thick lashes to the soft pout of her pink, glossy lips. You wring your hands together. She’s pretty, you think to yourself. She’s unfairly pretty.

“Hello?”

You clear your throat. “O-Oh, uh . . .” You stumble over your words, suddenly conscious of the light red hue dusting across her cheekbones. “Yeah, go ahead.”

You wait for her to laugh, to wallow in your self-inflicted humiliation. Instead, she smiles, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth, and sits beside you. She smells of roses and lemongrass – of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

“I like your hair, by the way.” Unconsciously, you bring a finger to your hair and touch it, as if in disbelief that she would compliment your appearance, let alone your hair. “Sorry, that probably came across as creepy, didn’t it?”

“N-No, it’s okay,” you insist. Heat rushes to your face. Her flattery burns you, and yet, you gladly kneel before its flames. “Uh . . . Thank you.”

She hums and turns to face your chattering teacher. You clutch your pen. It hovers over the blank page of your notebook. The hour flies by; class draws to an end, and you have retained nothing. How could you, when the smell of her perfume alone has bequeathed to you the insatiable desire to be wherever it is that roses and lemongrass might coexist – perhaps in the garden of a cottage overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

You notice how she has begun backing her bag. It is your cue to gather your own belongings. The bell rings. You hurry to stand, eager to be away from the girl who garners your attention.

“I’m Trish, by the way,” she tells you. You are still. “Thanks for letting me sit here. It was nice meeting you.”

Trish. Just like the model from America; it suits her, plenty. The corners of your mouth turn upwards into a grin. Her kindness is infectious, and it leaves you longing, gasping for more. As you watch her leave, her form engulfed by the sea of taller students, you are left with nothing more than a contemplation: perhaps there is one name you will remember.

“I don’t understand – what does any of this have to do with math?” Trish sighs, dropping her pencil in frustration. A manicured finger hooks into a pink curl and twirls it with such vigor; you fear she will tear out her own hair. “None of this makes sense.”

“Well, it has more to do with logic than math,” you try to explain. You offer your workbook to her. “It’s actually quite fun, once you get the hang of it.”

She rolls her brilliant green eyes. “Maybe for someone like you. Not everyone can be as smart as you, you know.”

“I-I’m really not that smart,” you deflect. You tap the unfished equation scribbled in her notes. “Let’s just go back to the beginning . . . Un cavaliere always tells the truth, so they can never lie. But un fante always lies, so they can never tell the truth. You meet Persona A and Persona B . . .”

You guide her through the problem. The sound of shuffling papers signifies that everyone else in the class has finished their work; your teacher waits for Trish, and Trish alone, who grips her pencil tightly. You know she feels it – the unspoken ridicule from your peers. To them, she is the incompetent new student from Calabria who cannot comprehend un cavalieri e furfanti puzzle.

“Dannazione, sono un idiota,” she hisses. “Nothing makes sense.”

You frown. “You’re not an idiot just because a silly math problem stumped you.” The insistence falls from your lips. Her silence sends a frigid chill down your spine. “Please, don’t say that about yourself. Let me help you work through it. We assume Persona A is un fante.”

Your teacher clears his throat. He peers over the rim of his half-moon glasses, observing the way you coax Trish to complete the problem. He sets aside the book that had been clasped in his hand, and he stands to approach her, to offer his aid at the behest of a struggling student with such unique circumstances. At the sight of the pencil falling from her fingers and the smile upon her face, he stops.

“I’ve got it. Persona B is un cavaliere, which means both Persona A and Persona B are.” She pauses for a moment to contemplate her words. “That’s a contradiction! Our assumption was wrong, so if Persona A is un cavaliere, he’s telling the truth, so Persona B must be un fante.”

Your confirmation is something sacred to her, not unlike the Rosary given to her on the day of her mother’s funeral. Even when shakily spoken Hail Marys fall from her lips and her fingers tremble over the amber counting beads, there is little room in Trish’s mind for meditation when her thoughts, as of late, are always of you.

She blushes as you meet her gaze. “I meant what I said,” she begins. “You are smart.”

You bite your lip and look away, though her eyes follow. “That’s not true,” you say. “You don’t have to butter me up so much.”

She clasps your hand gently beneath the table. Her palm is soft, and you want to turn your wrist to enlace your fingers with hers. You stop yourself. “If I’m not allowed to call myself an idiot, then you’re not allowed to say you’re not intelligent.” You open your mouth to rebuke her words, but she cuts you off. “Despite what I said, I know I’m smart; just not at all things, like math.”

Her thumb brushes against the back of your knuckles as she pulls away. An incidental touch, you ponder. She turns her attention to your teacher, who stands before the chalkboard writing out the correct steps of the puzzle. You feel hot – unbearably so. A sudden bulge in your throat makes it hard to breathe. You ask to be excused to the bathroom. You did not need to hear the rest of the lesson, anyways.

It has been nearly two months since that day in classe di matematica. Indeed, the air outside has turned crisp and rain showers frequent the weather patterns: the season nears wintertime. Trish’s acclimation to life in Napoli has been far easier than her guardian Bruno had anticipated – dinnertime conversations about daydreams and schooldays have made him grateful for your involvement in the pink-haired girl’s life. Weekends spent with you, consisting of coffees, shopping trips, and stops at gelato parlors, remind her that she is safe.

Because of you, she can be a teenager again.

As you enter the classroom, you find her seat empty. Class carries on, but you cannot focus, for you are reminded of the loneliness that came before meeting Trish. You decide a sip of cool water might help to clear the haze unsettling you so.

You bring the uncapped water bottle to your lips, only to cry out in shock as the metal flask contorts in your grip like puddy. Its contents billow over the mouth of the bottle and saturate your skirt. The bottle does not make a sound as it fumbles to the vinyl floor; you are too bothered by the sloshing of your clothes to notice the way in which the metal frame slowly bends back into its shape – or the laughter of your fellow classmates.

Your teacher ushers you to the bathroom. Your wet loafers squeal as you hurry down the hallway. Prayer cards and posters promoting abstinence adorn the walls. The door latches behind you. Hiccups and choked sobs echo throughout the tight chamber of the communal space. It smells of roses and lemongrass – it smells of her.

You reach for the paper towel dispenser and blot at your skirt. It does little good to salvage the pleated fabric and it leaves an incriminating stain. Though you hesitate, you rapt your hand against the closed stall door and call out to her: “Trish? Are you okay?”

Her wails diminish. Her shadow peaks out from the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the door. She sniffles before revealing herself. The hue upon her cheeks is unlike the bashful blush of infatuation that frequents her skin. Her distress pains you.

"I missed you in class,” you say, unsure of what to do for the girl you have come to endear. You chide yourself immediately, wanting nothing more than to cast yourself out of her presence for your insensitive comment. Spoken words are never quite simple.

Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes well with tears again. You fear you have upset her. And yet, her arms extend towards your body. Suddenly, you are embracing; she holds you in a grip akin to a vice. Your fingers trace shapes against her clothed back. It is something you might have done to soothe a weeping infant. In the privacy of the bathroom, you pretend she is your lover – that every sojourn for velveteen dresses and freshly churned gelato on Sabato pomeriggio meant something more to her.

But she is not your lover – and you are not hers.

Reluctantly, you pull away. Her breath fans your face, and it is only now that you notice the dainty freckles of her cheeks for the first time. You step backwards until your thighs hit the sink. For a moment, you think she had frowned upon your separation. It is another of many illusions that your mind has weaved as of late, no doubt.

“Thank you,” Trish says, rubbing the back of her hand against her eyes. Smudges of black mascara coat her skin.

You fiddle with the hem of your damp skirt. You realize, as you glance over the girl’s uniform, that her skirt is wet as well – from her own tears or the second-hand spillage from your water bottle, you know not. “I didn’t really do anything,” you insist.

"You’re here. That means everything to me.”

Paying no heed to the nagging sensation within you that wants to pry into the cause of her anguish, you offer her a clean paper towel. She accepts it with a faint smile. You settle for ignorance, because you know she will confess to you someday – beyond her passing comments of a deceased mother and a toxic, absent father.

Prepared to return to class, she laces her arm with yours and takes a deep breath. You decide that you will wait as long as she needs.

The brown paper-bag filled with paint bottles feels heavy in your grasp. It weighs on your shoulder, slipping down with every step taken towards the direction of your home. The figurines of your mother’s nativity set have begun to peel and crack, and you have promised to aid her in restoring the heirlooms. It is only right; religious preferences aside, the ivory statuettes will one day be your inheritance. And it will make a fond memory for you of your mother.

Shielded by the umbrella of a patio table, Trish sits before that which you recognize as a café you have frequented several times together: Caffè Anami. You long to be one of the glossed pages of the magazine she thumbs through – to feel her touch and to be adored the same way you adore her. Outside of her usual school uniform, she wears a floral-patterned dress. You do not question its monetary value; she comes from strange wealth, and her choice in civilian attire is only one of many indicators.

You begin to approach her, a practiced greeting wrought of cordiality ready on your tongue. But kindness turns to bitterness as the front door to the café opens and a boy with messily-styled black hair and wild violet eyes pushes past new customers and struggles to balance two to-go cups of coffee and a bag of pastries.

"They didn’t even offer me a cupholder,” you hear him grumble aloud. You stop. “How am I supposed to carry all this? Does it look like a have a third arm?”

Trish rises and reaches for the bag of pastries. “There,” she tells the boy. “Crisis averted.”

Free of burden, they both take their seats at the table. As Trish divides the baked goods amongst two napkins, the boy watches her careful movements with what you describe as pure reverence, for she is the personification of grace and beauty, and he knows this. They converse with each other, and you cannot help but to observe how Trish has made a habit of touching the boy’s arm nearly every time she speaks to him.

Your stomach churns at the unpleasantry before you. In all your time pining after the pink-haired girl, you had never considered that she may have had a partner of her own. But you see it now: how could you have been so blind? She had not mentioned the scraggily haired boy before. Talks of saccharine kisses, gentle touches, and of course a boyfriend never came from her rosy-colored lips. She hid this from you. Perhaps, this whole time, she truly knew of your affections. At the risk of losing a friend (for you assume you were nothing more to her), she forbade herself to speak of the boy, lest she drive you away – there could be no other explanation.

It hurts, so much in fact that a knife to your heart would be preferable to the pain swallowing you whole. Gauging his appearance, you decide he does not deserve someone as elegant as she . . . Though, considering your tattered jeans and hand-me-down blouse, neither do you. You swipe at the tears threatening to spill and you choke down the lump in your throat. Readjusting the shopping bag over the perch of your shoulder, you leave, broken and unwell.

Behind you, Trish’s melodious laughter – a wicked song indeed – resonates. You could not block out her sweet chorus even if, deep down, you truly wanted to.

Your knees sink into the plush mass of the faux-fur rug beneath you. Your saucer of hot tea rests atop the coffee table, untouched; the steam rises and coils into the air. Trish’s guardian – Bruno, she called him – sets a tray filled with biscotti before you. You might have found him intimidating if not for the warmth laced within his sapphire-blue eyes. He closes the double-doors to the study, leaving you and the pink-haired girl alone.

The silence in the room is cut by the scratching of pencils to paper and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, tucked between a lounger and a houseplant. You scan over your completed portion of the study guide. Earlier that day, your insegnante di matematica had formally announced an exam slotted to be proctored at the end of the week. After he distributed the studyguides, Trish turned to you with an unassuming smile and asked if you would like to come to her house and study together. If not for the existence of her boyfriend, you would have looked for a deeper implication. Instead, you agreed with a curt nod, and accompanied her home at the end of the day.

“[Y/N]?” You look up from your work to meet Trish’s gaze. “Are you upset at me about something? You’ve been acting like you want nothing to do with me lately.”

You hesitate to respond. It would be better to lie, to hide your feelings and come up with an excuse: it’s not you, I’m just stressed about school, that’s all. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” you ask instead, blunter than you probably should have been. Her brows furrow, as if she misunderstood you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Doesn’t that mean we should be honest with each other?”

“Boyfriend? Who told you I had a boyfriend?”

“No one. I saw you two together. I-I wasn’t stalking you, honest – I was walking home from the store the other day and I saw you at Caffè Anami with him . . . I can’t understand why you’d hide something like that from me. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

The corners of her lips turn into a grin and she shakes her head. “His name’s Narancia,” she tells you. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s practically a brother to me.”

You are not sure whether to feel relief or mortification – relief, for your chances with the girl have not been thwarted; mortification, for your accusation has backfired, leaving you utterly and completely embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry,” you spit out. “I just – I didn’t think – I –”

She places her hand over yours, just like the day when you had helped her through the cavalieri e furfanti puzzle. “It’s all good. Besides, he’s not exactly my type.”

She takes her hand away and scribbles something down in her study guide. Her top row of teeth juts out to graze her bottom lip, and it is only then you notice something different about her appearance: she is wearing a darker shade of lipstick. Trish catches you staring.

“What’re you looking at?” She is luring you, and you have already fallen into her snare.

“Uh, I like your lipstick,” you confess. “That’s all.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You set your pencil aside. You feel as though you might burst, that it might kill you if you do not tell her how you feel. But words do not come to mind – nothing more than silly quips or dull compliments; and so, you settle for the former.

“Can I try it?”

Trish pauses. You fear you have overstepped unspoken boundaries. After all, only moments ago, you had accused her of keeping secrets. Yet, you too have kept one secret to yourself: that you love her, as much as one sixteen-year-old girl might love another. To your delight, she nods and smiles, casting her schoolwork aside to meet you halfway over the coffee table separating your bodies.

She tastes of the biscotti – almond, you think – and earl grey tea. She blossoms at your touch, as if you are the sun and she a posy in a garden somewhere. You forget the ticking of the grandfather clock, for the shared beating of your hearts is deafening. You think to pull away, but she chases your lips and captures them again. She cups your face, caging you in place – not that you mind.

You separate only when you have both grown desperate for air. The sight of her flushed face leaves you in awe. Your belly flutters. She raises a finger to her smudged lips and beams. You long to ask her if she too dreams of roses and lemongrass, of a cottage overlooking the sea in the countryside far away from the bustle of Napoli. But you know better than to overwhelm yourselves with adolescent thoughts of the future – her, especially.

As for Trish, she reminds herself to thank Fugo for convincing her to return to school. Though her past haunts her still, she is indebted to her new life. For, without suffering first, she never would have the girl from classe di matematica who stole her heart on the very first day.

She turns to her schoolwork. “We should get back to it,” she insists. You cock your eyebrow and giggle, bashful and appeased.

“You’re right: we should.”

| 3964 Words |

* Please note that the woman in the photograph is meant to resemble Trish - this is not an assumption of the reader’s appearance.

#trish una x reader #trish una #trish x reader #jjba x reader #jjba reader insert

97 notes · View notes

yoongiverse · 4 years ago

Text

hireath

(noun) a homesickness to a home which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

summary: when home no longer feels like “home”

pairing: yoongi x female!reader

genre: angst and lots of it

rating: sfw

word count: 1.8k

warnings: foul language, very sad yoongi

index: bolded marks the date and time, bolded and italicized marks a flashback with the date and time, (e/c) means “eye color,” (y/n) means “your name,”

song: when i was your man by bruno mars

author’s note: this was originally a levi ackerman fic but because i stopped writing for the attack on titans fandom, i’ve since then decided to change the character to be yoongi! the prompt of this came from ! please enjoy… unless you’ve read it already

december fifteenth, two thousand twenty

eleven forty-eight p.m

after what seems to be millions of years, yoongi comes home from work. being an idol at bighit entertainment was not an easy job. he’s either dancing his ass off with the rest of the members in the dance practice room, having photo shoots for god knows what, producing more songs than he can count on his hands, for fucks sake he’s just over worked with whatever the hell the company throws his way.

walking into his decently sized condo, yoongi slides off his heavy winter jacket and places it into the shoe/jacket cabinet that was ever so placed in probably the best spot ever, right next to the front door. following his jacket, he slides off his work shoes and places them on their designated spot.

now free from the constricting clothes, he walks into his study to place his bag down, which was full of the songs lyrics he didn’t manage to finish because he was way too damn busy doing some other shit that bang pd made him do. weirdly enough, yoongi doesn’t immediately launch into the comfort of his bed; instead, he walks out of his study and into his living room, which lies a very comfy white couch.

instead of sitting down on the couch like a normal person, his gaze lingers on the very prominent dent on one of the couch seats, and right next to it is another dent,

before, the couch was a safe haven, meant for two bodies cuddling closer in the harsh winter temperatures, but now, the white couch is barren holding onto the memories of him and his significant other.

december fifteenth, two thousand eighteen

ten twenty-five p.m

very prominent spells of laughter echo through the living room of yoongi’s condo. here he was laying down on the white couch with his girlfriend (y/n).

“yoongi, stop!” yells his dear girlfriend of two years as he places small, fleeting butterfly kisses down the side of her neck. to (y/n) and even yoongi himself, as something as simple as placing small kisses down her neck, it was a big surprise to both of them since yoongi never acted so openly loving.

never did it cross yoongi’s mind that he would ever have a girlfriend, yet here he is. for someone as busy and straightforward as him, he always thought that people would never love him, much less like him, but somehow, fate always seems to surprise. for some reason, that thought always seemed to cross his mind ever so often and it just so happened to make yoongi have such an urge to kiss her that he did.

“babe,” yoongi begins, ceasing his kisses to his and her dismay. calming down, she looks down at him, curiosity gleaming throughout her beautiful (e/c) eyes. ever so quietly yoongi says “i love you,” and proceeds to hold onto her tighter while stuffing his red kissed cheeks into her shoulder.

with her heart so full, she responds back with “i love you too yoongi, so much,” and hugs him back with all her might.

present

breaking away from his trance, he scoffs at nothing in particular and walks past the couch to the kitchen. within a few steps from the couch, he makes it into his semi-used kitchen.

he really never had the time to use the kitchen since he was always coming home late and eating mediocre takeout food. but over the past few years, the kitchen seemed to be a place to wind down.

looking around the counter tops, he notices the little details floating around. he noticed the small container of sugar next to his coffee maker. the sugar definitely did not belong to him, he fucking hated sugar in his coffee and was an avid black coffee drinker. he also noticed the coffee mugs with stupid sayings like “a.m juice” and “dwight you ignorant slut” placed around the counter tops of his kitchen, and for sure those mugs did not belong to him.

he then notices the very lonely ring placed on the counter top placed on top of a pink sticky note. a single “i’m sorry yoongi” is all that is written.

moving slowly and with a blank mind, he takes the ring and simply admires where it came from.

august fifth, two thousand nineteen

four thirty-two a.m

“(y/n),” is all he says as he stops walking. behind him, tree leaves are blowing softly through the wind, chirping birds creating a song that he’ll never understand. people clear of the surrounding area, it truly was just him and her.

“yoongi?” she questions, turning around in what seems to be the most beautiful manner yoongi has ever seen. her hair lightly billowing behind her, her dress ruffling from the wind, and her eyes so clear, brightly gleaming towards his.

it was clear to her that yoongi was extremely nervous, something quite shocking to her as yoongi was somehow a professional at hiding his emotions. so to ease his nervousness, she places a soft hand on his bicep. this causes his downcast eyes to meet hers as yoongi brings his dark chocolate eyes up.

with a sigh, he composes himself and manages out “(y/n), i’m not the best when it comes to giving what you want. i don’t give you the hugs or kisses that you want. i don’t always give you the words you want. honestly, i don’t give you anything that you want. but you stayed with me. you stayed with me even through the tour even when i wasn’t there with you. even through it all, you’re still with me. and even if i don’t show it, you mean so much to me. you are the very reason why i am here today, you’re my rock, you’re my home. and i know i don’t say this enough, but i love you so much. i love you so much that i want to stay with you forever.”

he pauses as he goes on to take the black, velvet box out of his jacket pocket and kneels on one knee.

“will you marry me?”

present

he swallows back the pain and walks away heading to his bedroom. he opens the door to his bedroom and continues to walk to his closet. he debates on what to wear, ultimately deciding to wear a black t-shirt with matching sweats to shield himself from the winter’s cold.

with his newly acquired clothes, he walks into the bathroom dismissing the clear doubles of everything. the blatant fact that there are two toothbrushes, two cups, and nearly two of everything, leaves his thoughts quicker than they came in.

without paying too much mind he quickly changes into said clothes and walks out padding over to the bed, finally hoping he can relieve the stresses of the day.

walking over to the right side of the bed, he takes the covers and lifts them up giving him the opportunity to slip under. gazing to the other side, he notices the emptiness of it clearly remembering the times that the space next to him wasn’t empty.

without him wanting to, his steel eyes take in the lack of a body that no longer lays with him, memories flowing back up to his conscience.

january nineteenth, twenty seventeen

ten forty-three p.m

“you ready to go to bed yoongi?” (y/n) asks from the door frame of his study. pointing his gaze up to his girlfriend and admires her choice of clothing. all she wears is a shirt way too big that is definitely his and shorts that are way too short, but he doesn’t care.

“hm, i’m coming, head off to bed first. i’ll be there shortly.” he returns back without bringing his gaze towards her. he hears her pad off to the bedroom.

yoongi then begins finishing up his last piece of his song, as he starts organizing his studio desk, putting his headphones back where they belong on his stand, pushing his mic back into its own little corner, and most importantly saving the file before closing the browser.

once he deems the papers to be organized enough, he turns off the light as he walks out of his study and into the bedroom. let me just say, the view that he sees when he walks in should be painted because damn she was cute.

she was cutely holding onto his side of the bed, it was as if she was trying to catch his scent. her legs were tangled between the comforter and tucked up to her chest, hair splayed out behind her, hands placed so gently by her face grasping yoongi’s pillow.

snapping out of his thoughts, he walks over to his side of the bed. carefully, he lifts (y/n) up and wraps her legs around his torso. now, in the comfort of his wonderful bed and his significant other, he feels all of the stress and tension leave his body.

with a sigh, he takes a quick glance at the girl hugging his chest and places a quick kiss on her forehead. “goodnight (y/n),” he whispers.

“i love you,” he finally says.

present

quickly, he turns over, no longer facing the empty side of the bed, not wanting to deal with the fact that the love of his life is absent from their bed.

“she’s gone.”

“she never loved me.”

“where did i go wrong?”

“i wasn’t a good enough fiance.”

“i wasn’t good enough.”

he kept chanting over and over again in his head. spiraling through his mind were all the things that he’s done wrong as a boyfriend and the things he should’ve done. everything and anything bad floated through his mind, making him feel like such a shitty person for how he treated you.

now, yoongi was a man of action, never was he able to clearly speak out his emotions and the thoughts floating through his mind. it seemed to him and others that his actions were very simple, never really portraying his love for her.

(y/n) always seemed to understand. she never cared, every action yoongi did no matter how small they were, she understood the weight of them. she simply understood him, unlike everybody else he’s come into contact with.

but, he’s lost her. she’s no longer his. she’s no longer here.

she’s gone.

to yoongi, the weight of those words brings him down further than he’s ever been. it brings him down so far, a lone tear escapes his eye.

more and more escape his eyes and he doesn’t even notice it, too caught up in his thoughts to even notice. soon enough, he’s sobbing quietly in the expanse of his lonely room.

time passes and he’s on the brink of falling asleep with tears still damp on his cheek. right before he falls into slumber, he whispers out:

“i’m sorry (y/n)”

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fan fiction #bts x reader #bangtan x reader #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #agust d x reader #min yoongi x reader #myg x reader #yoongi angst #suga angst #agust d angst #bts angst #myg angst #agustd x reader

78 notes · View notes

abbacchiosbelt · 5 years ago

Text

asked by @lunatic-charm - using a text post for the read more feature.

here’s the post for reference! 💜

18+ under the cut!

Risotto is a hard man to crack. His composure and self-restraint are second to none. In fact, Risotto likes to have you sucking his cock or riding him whilst he’s conducting business. The thrill of the act and making you work to remain quiet is the fun part for him, besides your tight walls or hot mouth working him over.

Risotto’s grip on your head tightens when you hollow your mouth around his thick cock and suck – when you look up at him through dark lashes, the sharp of his teeth are digging into his bottom lip as he listens to the man on the other line speak. He’s not easy to distract, but you’d resolved yourself to challenge him.

His hips buck and his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag around him before he pulls back. He looks down at you with a smirk (he did it on purpose, the bastard) and thrusts again. Your eyes water but you take him in stride, keeping his gaze while you run your tongue around his shaft, hand pumping at his generous length that doesn’t fit into your mouth.

The phone call ends a moment later – Risotto takes the opportunity to drag you off of his cock slowly, admiring the saliva dripping from your mouth, the string connecting to his member. He hums in disapproval and clicks his tongue at you.

“You weren’t behaving nicely, were you, tesoro? I think you need a lesson.”

Formaggio loves the idea of it but fails to contain his moans of pleasure every time. He’s had members hang up on him more than once, but the idea of it intrigues him so much every time that he just keeps doing it.

Formaggio’s hand is snug on your hip whilst the other is holding his cell phone tightly, pressed into his ear while he nods and hums at the right times. His eyes are trained on you, though – bouncing on his cock, chest slick with sweat and head thrown back in pleasure.

“Ah—Prosciutto, are you about done?” He says, gritting his teeth when he feels you tighten around him. A noise of disgust sounds from the other line and Formaggio chuckles. “Sorry man, I was in the middle of somethin’! You’d get angrier if I didn’t answer.”

The phone goes silent and Formaggio tosses it to the side, bringing his other hand to sink into the skin on your hip. His face is flushed when you tip your head forward to look at him, his eyes roaming approvingly over your body. He catches your gaze and grins, throwing a wink in your direction.

“All my attention is on you now, babe. Put on a show for me?”

Illuso is a private sort of person. Sure, he may be a nosy gossip, but his own privacy is important to him. Still, the idea of having to control himself while you’re riding on him or sucking his cock is too good for him to pass up. He’s good at containing his noises – unless you start biting at his neck. He loses it at that point.

Your face is buried into Illuso’s neck while he pumps himself into you slowly, idly holding his phone in one hand while he gives a mission report to Risotto. He’s doing a good job keeping his voice even, but the familiar smell of your lover makes you tighten around his cock.

You can’t help but to place a gentle kiss on his neck – and then another, licking a stripe up his sensitive skin. Illuso coughs and glares at you, but you just give him a demure smile. He continues his spiel and you focus on the way his hips roll gently, giving you just enough friction to have you holding in a moan.

He’s taking too long though, so with a wicked grin, you start kissing at his neck again – and when he coughs again you bite down and Illuso whines into the phone, face turning bright red. He quickly hangs up.

“Amore,” he hisses. He stills his thrusts and wraps you in a vice grip. “If you want to orgasm, you better make it up to me.”

Pesci would never even think of attempting it. He’s way too shy! He barely likes answering the phone anyways and having you on his cock would be way too much for this poor assassin to handle. Sorry, Pesci.

Prosciutto loves nothing more than to have you blowing him under his desk while he conducts business over the phone. (Or later in time, via Skype.) Much like Risotto, he’s hard to crack – even if you’re giving him a sloppy blowjob, he still keeps it together. Although, you did surprise him one time…

Prosciutto jumps when he feels the familiar weight of his lover’s hand over his crotch. La Squadra is about to conduct a meeting, for god’s sake, how did you even get under the table? The rest of the members file in while you work Prosciutto through his pants. From the way his legs are twitching, you can tell he’s trying to keep himself from getting hard. He grumbles something incoherent when you pull his half-hard cock out and place a kiss on the tip.

Prosciutto’s foot presses down on your knee and you give him the lightest hint of your teeth as a warning. From above, the vein in his head that pulses when he’s frustrated is clear as day to the rest of the men. You lick and kiss until Prosciutto’s cock is hard and heavy in your mouth – and when you hum quietly around him, his legs shake.

You start to gingerly work his cock, tongue swirling around the tip and hollowing your mouth where you know he likes pressure, when Risotto starts the meeting. Prosciutto is doing his best to remain composed – until you pump him with your hand and have him coming, ropes of hot cum shooting into your throat while his legs shake violently. He makes a groan from above and there’s a pregnant pause from Risotto.

Papers shuffle and Risotto’s deep voice sounds again, but Prosciutto’s face is bright red. Later, when he’s mercifully alone, he’ll drag you out by your hair and give you a dark look.

“Begging for a punishment, hm, troia?”

Ghiaccio likes the idea of exhibitionism and public sex… so having you play with him or ride him while he’s on the phone seems like a good first step. He’s incredibly insecure about it, but he can’t ignore how rock hard his cock gets when he thinks about it. Still, he never expected you to indulge him in it.

Ghiaccio’s eyes go wide when you pick up his phone and answer it while he’s in the middle of pounding into you while you’re beneath him on all fours. You hand it to him with a smile and muffle your own moans when he pumps into you faster, grimace on his face as he rips out of your hand.

“Hello?!” He roughly growls into the phone, using one hand to squeeze the plump flesh of your ass in a painful grip. “N-no, I’m not busy.”

You stifle a giggle and Ghiaccio squeezes your ass again before he starts thrusting in even harder – when you turn your head your shoulder to look at him, he’s bright red with sweat beading on his forehead. How cute. Aiming to fluster him even more, you push back against him and earn a tiny gasp from the man.

Before you can even think, Ghiaccio has his hand on your back pushing your face into the bed with force, cock pounding in and out of you, the slick noises filling the otherwise quiet room.

“Fucking hell, do you want everyone to know what we’re doing, puttana? You do, don’t you.”

Sorbet & Gelato enthusiastically answer the phone while they’re in the midst of fucking each other or you. It’s a turn on for them – and they also just don’t give a fuck.

It’s hard enough to think with Sorbet’s cock stuffed down your throat, not to mention with how hard Gelato is pounding into your aching sex already dripping with cum. They’d already thoroughly used you, yet it was never enough for them. The sound of the phone ringing distantly registers in your mind – and you gag on Sorbet’s cock in surprise when you hear him answer with his familiar lazy drawl.

“Hello?” Gelato snickers from behind you at Sorbet’s lazy voice, his ministrations not halting in the slightest. “That noise? Hm, do you want a close-up?”

With wide eyes you watch Sorbet pass the phone to Gelato, who holds it closely to his member currently driving into you. Both of them are grinning wide enough to have their sharp teeth digging into their lips, and you can do nothing but whimper around the cock in your mouth and squeeze the one pumping into you.

“Ah, looks like they hung up, Sorbet!”

Bruno is a bit kinkier than people assume – he likes public sex, exhibitionism, and gets off on the chance of being caught. Stick Fingers helps, of course, but he loves to answer the phone while he’s fucking you.

“Be quiet for me, tesoro.” Bruno hums, stroking a soft hand down your back before he answers the call coming in. His hips are rolling into yours with a practiced motion, cock thrusting deep inside you and forcing you to bite your hand to muffle your moans.

You bring your hand away to take in a breath and let a moan escape – but before you can muffle the next one, you hear the noise of a zipper and the feel of the cool metal across your mouth. Bruno had used Sticky Fingers to silence you – you blinked up at the Stand in front of you as Bruno pushed himself into you even deeper than before.

Abbacchio has certainly asked you to suck him off while he’s on the phone a few times before – and has even been wicked enough to have you do in the midst of a meeting. His composure is steel – and he likes the filthiness of it all.

Abbacchio’s cock was thrusting into your mouth before the meeting even started. It was only Bruno and Mista, but still… being used by your boyfriend beneath the table whilst your friends remained clueless had the pit of arousal in your stomach twisting.

Abbacchio was perfectly composed, hands folded on the table instead of threading through your hair to fuck himself on your mouth. It was up to you to keep up the brutal pace and remain as quiet as possible.

Oh, you wouldn’t be surprised if Bruno knew… you’d had your share of counters between your Capo and Abbacchio. You can’t resist pushing your hand down into your own pants and working yourself as you suck Abbacchio’s cock.

So, when you hear Mista’s heavy footfalls exiting the room, you’re not surprised to be dragged out from under the table – eyes lidded and mouth swollen from use – to be presented to your Capo by Abbacchio.

“I think they needs a lesson in manners, Buccellati.”

Mista can’t stay quiet, no matter how hard he tries. The feel of your sweet mouth on his cock is just too much – let alone fucking you while he’s trying to talk on the phone. It’s a lost cause, with him. He won’t even try because he knows he can’t handle it. The two of you get yelled at all the time for being too loud. Oops.

#jjba headcanons #not sfw #risotto nero #risotto #formaggio #illuso #pesci #prosciutto #ghiaccio #bruno buccellati #leone abbacchio #guido mista #reader insert #la squadra #vento aureo #bruno's gang #sorbet #gelato #my writing

951 notes · View notes

knotfodder · 1 year ago

Text

0 notes

jjba-arni-reblog · 5 years ago

Text

Control

Alright, so this is inspired by a galaxy brain post of an amazing artist @metallicoxide

PLEASE let me know whatcha think. It was interesting to write for my favourite characters. ;-;

Summary: Pre-Vento Aureo events, Fugo just got his stand after Bruno saved him. However, learning about the newly acquired stand, Diavolo became interested in helping Fugo control it. Story follows chronological situations occurred within the unspecified period of time.

+ Diavolo’s POV as well as his thoughts about the new member and his internal struggle to choose which gang group Fugo should be sent to.

Some of the elements might be changed to fit the story. Also I wrote 'costume' instead of a 'suit' idk why, Russian logic/

Words: 2.7K

As the warm night surrounded Italy, a small light could be seen in a secluded mansion situated in the middle of nowhere.

Small lamp was the only source of light for the man currently organizing newly arrived documents and multiple reports. Everything needs to be read and checked over to ensure that everything is stable in the mafia word.

Diavolo eased his tie, sighing at stack of documents before him, his dark costume covering his tattooed body, exhausted after multiple hours of sitting and checking the reports. He let himself stretch a little, feeling his body suffer under the stress. But there was no time to waste. Diavolo grabbed another document, his eyes widening slightly.

‘New report from Bruno Buccellati’ the man thought to himself, looking at a lengthy document. He didn’t remember sending the man on a mission personally and as far as Diavolo knew, the business was calm and stable.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, Diavolo opened the document, noticing the usual gentle and tidy handwriting.

‘New member?’ his eyes widened a little. While in general there isn’t usually a necessity to introduce the new member directly, sometimes their newly gained powers require further investigating and analysis.

Stand user: Pannacotta Fugo

Stand name: Purple Haze.

Close-range stand. Contains a particularly deadly, flesh-eating virus in each of the three bulbs on each of its hands.

Anything that enters its range is infected, and an adult human being will melt into organic goo within 30 seconds

‘Interesting,’ Diavolo said to himself, continuing to read the file ‘this seems like one of the strongest stands I have ever read about, one could only imagine how powerful it is in action.’

Indiscriminately attacks friends and foes therefore making it almost uncontrollable in certain cases. The stand requires a lot of concentration and mental control.

‘This is new,’ Diavolo eyes scanned the words as if to confirm that he is reading it correctly. Checking the age of the new member, he couldn’t help but to feel just the tiniest tug in his heart.

‘Such stand…at a such young age. Stands should reflect one’s soul, personality’ anxious thoughts ran through his mind.

Diavolo felt the urge to meet the boy, to see his stand.

And maybe to help.

So, who are you, Pannacotta Fugo?

~~~

Diavolo became arranging the meeting the next morning, informing his most trusted man so those could deliver the precious information.

He wasn’t going to reveal himself, of course. Instead, it was decided that he would pretend to be a member of one of the other gangs, acting as a teacher who was going to analyse Fugo’s stand. No direct contact with the younger man.

Fugo was give the instructions to arrive to an abandoned building, yet he knew better than to trust it. Instead, after finding the right small opening, Pannacotta found himself in some sort of a secret base, training grounds if one might say so. It was a fully functioning hidden base with the variety of rooms.

Finding the right door, Pannacotta ended the big room, devoid of everything. Instead the only other noticeable thing in said room was a wide dark glass-window. No matter how hard Fugo tried to look past it, he saw no one, the glass completely sheltered whoever was there. If there was anyone, of course.

Fugo decided to be straight-forward, not finding the place pleasant, so he spoke out.

“Why am I being summoned here? Is this another mission that I am unaware of?” the young man spoke to no one yet hoping that someone was watching him, he needed answers.

“Pannacotta Fugo,” deep voice answered, filling the big room “it is not a mission,” the voice explained.

“Then why am I here?” Fugo asked, confused.

“To test the abilities of your stand” hearing the explanation made Fugo stiff a little. This was the last thing he wanted to do. To see his stand…

“Do not be afraid” Diavolo spoke as if feeling the worry in the younger man “think of me as your teacher today, your guide. My wish is to help you control your powers. Now, tell me about your stand,” he continued.

As the teenager stood in the empty room, Diavolo looked careful at Pannacotta. The boss sat just behind the large glass, sheltered from anyone’s eyes. His costume complimenting man’s muscular body, Diavolo help the document in his hand while the half-smoked cigarette was in another one. He sincerely hoped that Fugo would cooperate, it was a valuable stand after all.

“It is the manifestation of my worst side,” the teenager answered, a small annoyed growl leaving his lips.

“Even if so, it is your strongest side,” Diavolo argued, carefully eyeing Fugo through the window, noticing the growing anger in younger man’s features.

“It does more harm than good, I cannot even let out it normally,” Fugo continued “It’s uncontrollable and deadly to my possible gang members,” a note of sadness appeared in his snaky voice. Diavolo noticed it right away, noting that despite the man thinking of himself this low, the teenager was quite worried about the people around him.

“You will have to learn to control it,” the long-haired man stated, taking another drag of his cigarette, eyeing the document.

“I..I don’t think I can,” Fugo half-mumbled yet his statement could be perfectly heard in the quiet room “what if I will hurt someone… I wouldn’t bear the pain of hurting Buccellati.”

Oh, the one and only

Diavolo smirked a little. It wasn’t the first time he had heard such positive opinions regarding the mentioned man. Even though he wasn’t in the gang for too long, the dark-haired man quickly gained quite the popularity, known for his gentle and caring nature – as the report on Bruno Buccellati stated.

“You won’t,” Diavolo’s deep voice cut through the room, making the younger man’s eyes widen a little at the strong statement “you will learn to control it,” the voice continued “and I am here to help you.”

Seeing Pannacotta freeze for a moment, Diavolo thought that he perhaps said too much.

“Thank you,” Fugo’s soft voice answered, unsure of what to expect from the mysterious voice talking to him. He glanced at the dark glass, not trying to see the person behind it but to show that he was indeed, thankful.

“The pleasure is all mine” Diavolo answered, the tiniest of smiles present on his face. They were now almost looking at each other, if one might call it so.

Pannacotta Fugo is indeed, an interesting new member

He then continued.

“This man, Bruno Buccelatti, does he take good care of you?” Fugo was taken back by the unexpected question, yet quickly reassuring himself that the gang must be just checking on his leader.

“Yes”

“Good, we expect only the best from the people in the organization,” Diavolo concluded, his posture easing up just a little.

“Can I ask you something?” Fugo said, unsure if he would get an answer back.

“Try it” the hidden boss chuckled a little.

“Will you reveal yourself to me…sir?” Fugo asked, uncertain of how to refer to the person talking to him.

“Sir is just fine. Regarding my presence, I afraid not but I need you to trust me,” his serious voice carried through the room “It is not a trap of any sorts. No one else is here except for us, so there won’t be a possibility of anyone being hurt,” a small notion of reassurance was present in Diavolo’s voice. He needed to make Fugo feel comfortable around him.

~~~

‘What a fine work, a murder full of pain and anger’ Diavolo thought to himself, noting the precise, merciless actions of the teenager. Yet something was off. Something was unsaid. Not documented.

‘Pannacota Fugo doesn’t seem like a person to just lash out like that. He might have issues, but he is definitely not stupid, far from that’ the boss concluded, turning towards the table.

What was it about the teacher that set him off?

Diavolo looked over the neatly arranged documents that were delivered to him just a day ago. Those didn’t contain any general information, instead he made sure to dig up everything on the teacher and the incident. Something was wrong. Pannacotta Fugo wouldn’t have killed to man just for the sake of it nor would he snap this easily.

Great father. People’s opinions are always biased.

A long history of teaching. Yet he drove the younger man to a such state…what did he do?

Excellent research works. Nothing interesting.

Fascination with young boys.

Finally. A true reason for the merciless actions of Pannacota Fugo.

What a shame. Diavolo crumbled the paper, throwing it away, just where the trash belongs.

Another scum of the Earth

He should be thankful he met Fugo before the teenager acquired his stand

~~~

“Show me your stand, Pannacota Fugo,” Diavolo half-commanded yet without the anger in his voice.

“It’s dangerous and I might hurt you”

“I am not directly there, am I?” Diavolo argued a little

“I suppose so but…” Fugo fidgeted with his hands, anxiety filling his thoughts. What if…

Yet before he could continue, the voice cut him off

“I am not here to mock you,” came the reassuring tone “let your stand out. I will be here if something were to happen.”

And so Fugo did.

Purple Haze manifested, confused at its own appearance. It was rare that his stand user let him out. Almost never.

Fugo felt himself getting worried as the stand started to walk confused, mumble something to itself and growling. As if feeling the teenager getting anxious, Diavolo spoke out.

“Keep calm, there is no one here to be hurt,” the boss reminded Fugo “try concentrating on your stand and its position, abilities. Don’t let it control you, Pannacota Fugo” his voice spoke through the room.

Purple Haze started to lay punches on the wall, half-screaming half-whining confusedly.

“It’s uncontrollable” Fugo was eager to make his stand disappear. He wanted to turn away, to not see this monster. To not see himself.

“Don’t let him overwhelm you, control your breathing, Pannacota Fugo. Contrate on stopping him, make him think rationally, make him behave,” Diavolo stood up behind the dark window, eyeing the two figures. He let his voice carry Fugo through the experience, easing the teenager. His generous hints at how to maintain calm made Fugo visibly less stiff. He fially started to concentrate.

After some time, the stands pushes became slower, his breathing slowing down as Fugo tried his best to control Purple Haze.

Eventually, the stand stopped punching, instead it simple stood, eyeing the room, not quite sure what to do.

That is, until it saw its own drool falling on his hands, making Purple Haze anxious over the now dirty hands. It was

“What a spectacular stand,” Diavolo commented.

“No, I don’t believe it is,” Fugo sighed, looking annoyingly at his stand. Why did it have to show its other side to Fugo’ teacher? Having the stand worry over its hygiene was not what Fugo wanted to present to the man behind the glass

“Whatever you believe, it is still a reflect of your soul. And even if it is uncontrollable at the moment, you will learn to communicate with it. And I believe you have the ability to do so,” Diavolo explained.

Fugo smiled for the first time since gaining his stand.

~~~

Another day, another training.

Fugo felt himself getting angry. What if there won’t be any results? The stand still didn’t fully listen to him, often aggressively denied the commands of its stand user.

“When? When will I even achieve in controlling him? I don’t want to accidentally kill anyone. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe I am still as useless as…” he was cut off.

“Look back, Fugo” the voice ordered. What Fugo couldn’t see was the small smirk on his teacher’s face.

Fugo turned around.

Purple Haze stood, completely calm, devoid of the uncontrollable anger. Breathing even, movements calculated.

“You did it, congratulations,” the silky voice said.

“I…” Fugo was lost for words, looking back at the glass.

“I am proud of you, Pannacota Fugo.”

“I don’t know what to say” Fugo was looking at the ground, slightly flustered over the generous comment. People weren’t to eager to say nice words to him…

“There is nothing to say, lift your head high and move forward,” Diavolo answered, a small smile present on his face.

~~~

“Do you have any questions for me? In regards of your stand perhaps?” Diavolo asked one day, getting comfortable behind the large dark window. Fugo was sitting on the chair, now a little bit closer to the glass as the comfortable atmosphere filled the room. It was unusual for the two of them to not live in a constant state of anxiety

“Can I ask about my missions?” Fugo asked.

“Go ahead”

“What do I do after defeating the enemy?”

“Well, you don’t have to get rid of the body if your stand will do its work but if something, you will have contacts for the right people to call,” the boss explained “sometimes you will have to hide the body before anyone can see.”

Fugo simply noted, taking in the explanation. Diavolo then continued

“If controlled, your stand could be user for interrogation or even torture” he commented, seeing the younger man’s eyes widen slightly.

“Torture? What is there for me to do if my stand will do all the work?” Fugo raised his eyebrow. There won’t be anything left of an enemy if he was to truly unleash Purple Haze

“You decide for yourself. Laugh, mock the enemy, dance for all we know” Diavolo smirked a little as the teenager raised his eyebrow at the last part. He then continued in a more serious tone “you need to maintain control over your stand, that is your main priority.”

“I will” for once, Fugo’s voice was filled with certainty and Diavolo couldn’t help but to feel proud.

~~~

He is learning and improving with each our meeting. Fugo is becoming stronger…

Yet I don’t want to risk it

All this tremendous work we did can be wiped out if the wrong gang group would be chosen.

La Squadra

A rather infamous gang, usually dealing with the lowest tasks such as assassination, torture and obtaining information. Looking at the squad members...

La Squadra….it might fit him. Their stand variety is quite impressive. And together with newly manifested power of Pannacotta Fugo, multiple combination could be made to improve the work of the gang.

Illuso could trap a person withing his mirror world and will be left to do if for Fugo to let out his stand. It sounds almost too good,

Risotto is a compelling leader, so that anger could be controlled within the group. He is stoic and confident in his abilities. And the gang already has a person with anger issues…

Pesci could easily bring the enemy into Purple haze’s deadly area.

Prosciutto, painful yet quick death, old people are too easy to take out. A perfect trap.

Formaggio, make the enemy smaller, making the area of the virus appear even wider for the enemy.

All the ideas made Diavolo smile a little as he combined the stands’ abilities. Pannacotta Fugo could be useful. He could become stronger, more aware of his own stand. He could be so much more.

~~~

Yet a small voice told him that it won’t work. Pannacotta Fugo is a strong user, but he is definitely not merciless. He might follow the orders but deep inside he will have to fight himself in order to succeed. La Squadra isn’t the place for him. He still needs to grow, he needs someone…

Eyeing the same report that arrived to his mansion the first time he heard about the younger man, Diavolo glanced over the document once again…

Bruno Buccellati

‘He seemed to have taken a liking to Fugo. He was even considering taking the younger man into his gang…well, a first member to his gang’ Diavolo smirked a little, a new small gang. How cute.

Maybe I should give them a chance.

As Diavolo thought about his decision, he couldn’t help but to compare those two.

They seem alike, having to kill at a such young age…

‘Interesting pair to say the least’ the boss concluded, realizing that he already made the decision.

A deep sigh left his lift as Diavolo signed the document. A new gang will be formed. Consisting of two people at the moment.

Maybe for now, I’ll let you decide your own fate.

With a heavy heart, I’ll have to say goodbye.

Until we meet again.

Pannacotta Fugo

#jjba headcanons #jjba scenario #jojo scenarios #jojo headcanons #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #vento aureo #Diavolo #fugo #pannacotta fugo

37 notes · View notes

dinoyoongi · 5 years ago

Text

I’ll Play For You

SYNOPSIS: You’re a new artist who is given the opportunity to perform at the American Music Awards. When your piano player doesn’t show up, Min Yoongi steps up to save your performance.

PAIRING: Yoongi X You

GENRE: Romance, Fluff

WARNINGS: Language, Anti-Justin Bieber (I would stay away from this if you’re a big fan ...)

WORD COUNT: 4500

AUTHORS NOTE: There may or may not be a part two to this - it will depend on how much of a plot I can think of for these two going forward. But I did scrap some scenes from Yoongi’s perpsective that I might publish as an outtake so look out for that!

____________________________________

“Wait, where is my piano player right now?” you disbelievingly ask into your phone, heart twitching uncomfortably at the unspoken answer. Please be joking. Please be joking.

“I'm sorry, Y/N, he was arrested a few hours ago for driving under the influence. Apparently it's not his first offense.”

You're suddenly dizzy, your body swaying until you find the stiff comfort of a wall to hold you steady. Your grip on the device is so tight that it feels as if the screen will shatter under the strength of your fingers. “Can't you go bail him out? You can take the money out of my album earnings.”

Your manager sighs loudly. “He's trashed, Y/N. I talked to him on the phone and he's mumbling all kinds of nonsense. He's not fit to play piano for a practice performance let alone an AMA stage. I've already exhausted all of my resources and I'm afraid there's nothing else we can do at this point.”

“So that's it? Everything that I've worked so hard for these past few weeks … all for nothing? You said yourself that it's insanely rare and humbling for somebody as new as me to be asked to perform at the American Music Awards and now I have to give it up?”

You know it's not your manager's fault. If not for him, you wouldn't have been given this incredible opportunity to begin with. Rising to stardom from YouTube covers was something that was admired towards the end of the 2000's, when performers like Justin Bieber and Charlie Puth were plucked straight from the internet and onto the music charts. Rising to stardom from YouTube in 2020 when a vast majority of YouTube's content was contributed by people just like you attempting to make something of themselves? Almost impossible. But you somehow managed to defy the odds. You nabbed the attention of an agent who thought your voice was indistinguishable, one that the music industry hasn't heard before. A voice that can't be compared to anyone else, one that will easily make you a household name. You signed the contracts almost immediately.

“Ask around backstage. Maybe the staff have musicians that can fill in. I'll email you the sheet music just in case.”

With trembling limbs, you push yourself off of the wall and elbow through a crowd of excited, noisy bodies to the offstage entrance. You fumble through your clutch for your artist pass, flashing it at the intimidating security guard who studies it like an exam; probably trying to find any flaw on the laminated plastic that can deny you admittance. You don't blame him. You probably don't look so much like a performer right about now. Your eyes begin scouring the packed area for any sign of show staff the moment you take a step in. If the situation were different and you weren't terrified that your entire career was about to go up in flames, you would have marveled at the amount of celebrities that casually milled about. Taylor Swift is in the corner taking selfies with the Jonas Brothers' wives. Bruno Mars stands in a different corner while somebody attaches microphones to his clothing. BTS are squeezed onto a large sofa, a line of media outlets waiting for their turn to interview them. You should be starstruck. You should be nervous with excitement. You should be anxiously conjuring different ways to coolly ask for autographs and pictures in your head. But all you are is desperate.

Catching a glimpse of a man wearing a headset bustling past you, you touch his arm to grab his attention. “My name is Y/N. I'm scheduled to perform in the 9 o'clock hour. There's been … a mishap, with my piano player and he won't be able to attend. Is there anybody here that can play for me?”

You pray that the look of despair on your face is enough for him to at least ask around but he's shaking his head before you can even finish asking your question. “All artists are responsible for bringing their own band or backing track.”

You're knocked forward into the man when a body rams into your back. Sparing a quick glance over your shoulder, you see that the members of BTS have disbanded from the sofa and are now huddled in a group behind you. The tallest one bows in apology and opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off with a quick nod before turning back to the staff member in front of you.

“Can you please ask around for me? This performance is really important to me and I don't want there to be a gap in the schedule if I can't perform.”

His sigh of annoyance is loud and dramatic. “It's like I said, all artists must bring their own band or backing track. What about a backing track? Do you have anyone that can send it over?”

“No,” you mumble hopelessly, blinking away the moisture in your eyes. “I'm doing a tweaked cover of Sailing by Christopher Cross. It wasn't recorded so there isn't any backing track. It's just supposed to be me and the piano. All I have is sheet music.”

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly and you feel your heart drop to the ground. “That doesn't help anyone right now. I just have to say – this is seriously unprofessional. What label are you signed under? Why would they allow you to come here so unprepared?”

You open your mouth but find that the words do not come. You've never had a panic attack in your life but you feel as if you're on the brink. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

“Justin!” the man exclaims happily as you feel a body approach you from behind. Whirling around, your eyes widen in surprise when Justin Bieber reaches out and connects hands with the staff, participating in a childish handshake that goes on for far too long. “How are you doing? Ready for the show?”

Justin smirks, raising a glass of amber liquid. “Just keep these coming, alright?”

The staff member nods frantically. The desperation to please this singer drips off of him like sweat on a Texas summer day. It's a drastic jump from the unaccommodating, discouraging way he's been speaking to you. Feeling your eyes, he glances at you for only a second before whipping his attention back to Bieber. You can almost see the light bulb click on above his head. “I know you're here to enjoy the show but this girl,” he nods in your direction and you pale at the sudden attention, “is singing tonight and she's in desperate need of a piano player for her performance. Would you be interested in helping her out?”

The “Baby” singer looks closely at you. You're aware that he most likely has no idea who you are or where you've come from but you clap your hands in front of your chin, dropping any ounce of dignity you have left to silently beg. Justin Bieber doesn't even take a full ten seconds to consider before he begins laughing loudly. “Yeah, no.”

You stare at his exiting back in disbelief. Every step he takes away from you is like a sucker punch to the gut. The staff member claps a hand around your shoulder, at least managing a semblance of decency when he gives you a pitying grimace. “Sorry, kid. That's show business. Let the scheduling staff know in at least twenty minutes what you plan on doing.”

That's it.

You really weren't performing. You've been practicing for weeks. Months. You've daydreamed about this night daily. You've pinned so much of your hopes and goals on this night. And just like this … poof. Gone.

You don't realize you're crying until the salty liquid drops onto your lips, breaking you out of your misery-filled trance. Looking around, you're startled to see many sets of eyes watching you sympathetically. But nobody approaches you, nobody cares to ask if you're okay. That's show business, he had said.

Show business fucking hurts.

“Excuse me?” a deep voice asks from beside you. Through blurred vision, you can make out colorful clothes and dark hair. Assuming that you're in the way of the BTS members, you hurriedly move from their area, mumbling a quick apology. “No, no. I will do it.”

You sniffle quietly, dabbing at your wet eyes with the pad of your thumb. “Do what?”

“Play the piano. You have sheet music?”

Wait. What? What is going on right now? Is one of the members of BTS offering to completely save your life right now? Okay, maybe you're being a bit dramatic but it feels comparable.

“We overheard,” the tall one with tan skin interrupts. “Your … dilemma. Yoongi can play the piano well and would like to help you out.”

“Yoongi?” you ask, locking eyes with your savior. He smiles softly and you control the urge to shiver. It's a universally acknowledged fact that the boys of BTS – and most k-pop idols, if you're being honest with yourself – are ridiculously gorgeous. Now is not the time to be ogling them though. “I … I can't thank you enough but are you sure? You guys are kind of the guests of honor and well … I'm not much of anybody. I don't want to put you in a rough spot.”

The tan one, who has introduced himself as Namjoon, takes a few seconds to translate your words. Yoongi scoffs and your head whips to Namjoon, suddenly nervous that he has changed his mind.

“I want to help, Y/N,” Yoongi tells you seriously. Don't swoon. Don't swoon. While you're busy trying not to swoon, you wonder how he knows who you are. “Where is the music? I need to get familiar with the composition.”

“Oh!” you blurt, scrambling for your phone. Pulling up the sheet music file from the text that your manager has sent, you awkwardly angle your phone toward him. “I'm not sure how you want to do this. Do you want to borrow my phone?”

“I will send to myself,” he says, stealing the device. He taps a few a buttons before handing it back. You notice a new conversation thread in your texts. Holy meatballs – do you actually have a member of BTS' number saved in your phone?

“I will delete it! Your number, I mean. When the performance is over … I'll delete your number so nobody accidentally, you know -” you cut yourself off, feeling your composure about to crash and burn. Behind him, some of the other members snicker but Yoongi gets right down to business, eyes scanning the file intently. You watch him with a quiet fascination. Whenever he gets to the end of the page, he nods curtly to himself – a gesture you don't think he's aware of – before scrolling to the next. He's clearly confident in what he's doing and it fills you with a warm, comfortable sense of assurance. Although the anxiety that something might still blow up in your face is present as ever, Yoongi has pushed the heaviest weight off of your chest and you don't know how you're ever going to thank him.

_________________________________________

You tried to enjoy the show and performances with the same enthusiasm as the audience but anxiety pokes at you at the slightest hint of your guard slipping. Has Yoongi learned the song well? Does he even like the song? What if he decides that this entire thing isn't a good idea and changes his mind? You're not completely clueless; you've purchased quite a few k-pop songs and you're familiar with the fan culture. Fans seeing Yoongi on stage with you could stir up a mess of rumors. You've asked the stage production staff to push the piano out of the spotlight so that only his silhouette will be visible but you wonder if it's enough. What if he gets in trouble with his company? What if you get in trouble with his company?

Shaking away the bad thoughts, you smooth out any wrinkles in your dress and round the corner to meet Yoongi. You've changed out of your evening gown and into your performance outfit – a long, yellow sundress with chunky, wooden buttons on the chest underneath an oversized, distressed black denim jacket. On your feet, instead of the typical heels, you sport a pair of black Converse high tops. Your manager tried talking you into a different outfit.

“It's your first performance on national television. Don't you want to be a bit more … dolled up?” he had asked, frowning when he saw the mock-up outfit concept you had thrown together. Being signed to a relatively new, smaller company, you knew there wasn't a big budget for stage outfits yet. But you also knew that your manager would convince the label to splurge for a glitzier look if you had agreed. However, you were literally known for singing in front of your camera with Spongebob and Pokemon tee shirts on. It didn't feel authentic to be dolled up.

You had agreed to meet at a quiet area near the stage twenty minutes before your performance. BTS' nominations and performance would be toward the end of the show – to keep those ratings steady, of course – so you weren't interrupting his schedule. He's sitting alone on a sofa in the emptied lounge, air pods in, head nodding as his eyes studies the screen of his phone. He glances up when he senses you approaching and you gulp when you notice his eyes sweep across your figure appreciatively.

“You look pretty,” he says, his smile small but killer. Heat blooms in your cheeks and you're suddenly thankful for the layers of foundation, concealer and powder you have stacked onto your skin that hides what is surely a very, very telling blush. “Are you ready?”

“Am I ready?” you ask incredulously as you take a seat next to him on the couch. “Heck no. I'm terrified. This is my first TV performance.”

“You will do great,” he assures you, eyes moving back to the phone.

“Yoongi?” His head lifts in your direction. “Do you think we can pull this off?”

“I play piano, you sing. What else is there to do?” he asks sarcastically. The first thing you notice is that he's a lot better at English than you were first led to believe. The second is that this man is incredibly sassy. The third is that you find said sass highly attractive.

“What if we're not … you know … in sync? And you haven't even heard me sing before,” you argue. His confidence and optimism is admirable but you want to make sure that his feet are at least a little bit on the ground.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Of course I've heard you sing. Why do you think I'm helping? I'm your fan.”

“My fan?” you ask with wide eyes, jabbing yourself in the chest with your thumb. He laughs, reaching over to grab your wrist away from your chest with a playful, gummy grin. “You're my fan? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. I watch your YouTube videos. You're very good,” he compliments. The sass has suddenly disappeared and you watch as his cheeks tinge pink. “I like the Eminem songs.”

“Not those ones!” you wail dramatically, lowering your head to your knees. “I was so young and thought I was being so inventive slowing down an Eminem song. That's so embarrassing.”

He's laughing with you when a staff member approaches, headset on and clipboard in hand. “You're on in ten minutes. The crew will come grab you a few moments before to get you set up on stage.”

Any bit of laughter or mirth stuck in your throat is swallowed down immediately. Dread washes over you in goosebumps, a rattling heart and clammy skin. You're startled when Yoongi reaches over to grab your hand. “Stop worrying. You are going to kill it.”

“I am going to kill it,” you repeat, nodding in self-assurance. “Okay, yes, I can do this.”

He taps your hand gently before turning his attention back to the screen of his phone. Your skin tingles at the missing contact.

“Yoongi,” you interrupt him again. He exhales a tiny sigh but his lips are upturned in amusement. “I'm so thankful to you right now. I just … I don't have any way to repay you for this. I could give you the money that my original piano player was going to receive but it's probably just pocket change to you. I want – I want to just confirm one last time that you're sure about this?”

Your words were stuttered and fast and you're not sure how much of it he understood, but he sets his phone down on his knee and turns his body to face you. This time, you can't suppress the shiver when he fixes his intense gaze on yours.

“I don't know how much you know BTS,” he begins, taking quick pauses to think about his words. “But we are from a small company. We were … overlooked and not taken seriously too.”

“Fucking Justin Bieber,” you mutter angrily under your breath. Yoongi pauses to laugh heartily before continuing.

“We did rise to the top by our own hard work. But I remember all the times that we asked for help. Producers, fellow idols, music video directors … so many people shot us down because we came from nothing. And … I see that in you. You are going to be so big thanks to your own talent but I want to tell stories and brag that I played piano for Y/N at her first award show performance.”

His accent is thick and he uses the wrong words in some places but you understand everything as if he's speaking perfect English.

“Wow,” you mumble, your awestruck eyes not leaving his for even a moment. “I think I just fell in love with you.”

Wait.

Did you just …

Slapping a hand over your mouth in horror, you watch the pink in Yoongi's cheeks flush darker before he throws his head back in laughter again. Slinking down into the cushion of the couch, you groan at your word vomit.

“I should have gotten drunk too,” you mutter, absolutely humiliated.

“I think you just became my fan,” he says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking his leg up over his knee like the cocky, attractive little shit that he is.

“Oh, really? I guess I'll have to cover a BTS song on my channel next then,” you attempt to flirt. It's awful, you know, but he grins anyway.

“I will look forward to it.”

“Y/N?” your head shoots up at a neck-break speed. A woman with the same headset stands near the wall. “You're up. You can follow me and we'll get you settled on the stage.”

Like a robot, you shuffle quietly behind her, heart feeling like it's going to rip right through your ribcage. Yoongi notices, taking in the sight of your fingers trembling at your sides. He's not sure what compels him to do it, but he reaches down and snatches your hand in his, entwining your fingers together. Meeting his eyes, you feel the nerves begin to melt away.

“Just pretend you're singing to me, okay? Pretend that you're recording a video that only I will see. You are going to be amazing.”

His words envelope you like a warm hug and you nod, gathering as much confidence as you can before walking onto the stage. Yoongi stays away from the light, quietly sitting down at the piano unnoticed. There's a hushed murmur amongst the crowd when you step up to the microphone and sit down at your stool, various moons and stars dangling from the ceiling above your head like a galactic halo. Scanning the audience, the brightly colored hair and clothing of the remainder of BTS sticks out like a sore thumb, one chair in the middle of their row unoccupied. Upon realizing that they have your attention, their arms raise enthusiastically, clapping and flashing you the silliest thumbs up. You grin down into your microphone before glancing over your shoulder to pass the thumbs up along to Yoongi.

“Our next performer has amassed millions of views with her imaginative and beautiful covers on YouTube. Tonight she makes her TV debut with a cover of one of her favorite songs on it's 40th anniversary. Ladies and gentlemen – Y/N!”

The lights in the arena fade out, your spotlight the only source of brightness. You tense, feeling the weight of a thousand set of eyes trained directly on you. And that's only counting everybody in this room, not the millions of eyes that are watching you from their living rooms across the country. Pressure pushes onto your chest and you inhale sharply.

But then the piano starts playing behind you.

You don't understand. It's the same notes. It's the same melody. It's the same exact song that your original musician had been playing this entire time. So why does it feel different? Why does it sound better? Why is your heart doing somersaults in your chest at the sound of the keys?

Maybe it's because of him.

Yoongi is given a small piano solo in the beginning of the song. It lasts roughly thirty seconds before it's your turn.

You sing.

__________________________________________

The song lasts just barely over four minutes but on the stage it feels like hours. You're in a bleary kind of daze when you stand from the stool, soaking in the loudness of cheering from the audience and the amount of people currently on their feet for a standing ovation. A quick look over at the piano confirms that Yoongi has already left the stage so you do the same, walking as if you're on autopilot.

Since you've come to the event alone, nobody but the staff greets you when you return backstage. They congratulate you and shower you in praises as they remove your wires and microphones but you can't hear them, desperately looking around for Yoongi. Did he already go back to his seat? Was that it – the favor was done so he was done with you? Your chest throbs with two conflicting emotions; complete elation at the successful performance and reception that you've just received and complete devastation at the thought that your time with Yoongi was over. You stand in the middle of the lounge, eyes focusing on the couch where the two of you had sat so closely earlier.

“Y/N.”

You freeze at the sound of his voice. Spinning around, he stands in his original, colored clothing with a smug, proud grin on his face. The other six members bounce on their toes behind him, their hands clapping together as they felicitate you.

“That was incredible!” Namjoon exclaims. “Yoongi-hyung said you were good but -”

You lunge at Yoongi, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him as close to you as you possibly can, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You can feel your tears glide down your cheek and you know he can feel them dropping onto his skin. A man in plain clothes begins sputtering angrily in Korean to Namjoon. This must be their manager and he doesn't seem too pleased that you're manhandling his talent but you can't find it in you to care about manners right now.

If Yoongi had a problem with it, you knew that he would gently push you away. Instead, he cradles your head with the back of one hand, using the other to rub your shoulder soothingly.

“Is she … okay?” one of the members asks hesitantly when you don't come up for air.

You take this as a sign to knock off the waterworks, extracting your body from his and wiping away any traces of mascara from your cheeks before they can see. “I'm fine. Sorry for being so dramatic. I'm just really thankful to Yoongi right now.”

Yoongi's hand doesn't leave your shoulder. You can almost feel the heat of his fingertips through the thick denim of your jacket. “I told you that you would kill it. You were amazing.”

“I don't know how we're supposed to perform after that! You stole the show!” Namjoon exclaims. The rolling of your eyes is contradicted by your abashed smile.

“BTS!” a staff member calls loudly from across the room. “You're needed for a quick rehearsal!”

Yoongi holds a finger up to you, speaking Korean to his members and managers for a few moments. They all turn to leave except Jungkook, who is simultaneously the youngest but largest. He leans in to show you something on his phone. “Noona, I did what Yoongi-hyung said and deleted all of my Justin Bieber albums. See?”

Yoongi shoves him away quickly, muttering in Korean, and you can tell that it's not something you were meant to be told. Yoongi is clearly embarrassed and it's so fucking cute that you can't restrain the hideous, lovesick giggles that force themselves from your belly.

“Don't you have to join them for rehearsal?” you ask curiously, scuffing the toe of your shoes against the shiny, linoleum floors.

“It's rehearsal for announcing best male artist. Namjoon is doing the talking on stage so I'll just catch up with them in a minute.”

You wonder why Namjoon is in charge of doing the speaking when Yoongi is clearly skilled at English but for right now, you don't mind it. It's giving the two of you a few more precious moments.

“So … thank you, Yoongi. A million times – thank you. I won't ever forget what you've done for me tonight,” you tell him sincerely, choking your emotion back down. “I know there's not much I can do for you but I'm in your back pocket if you ever need me, okay?”

“I'll remember that,” he quips, gummy smile making an appearance before he turns solemn. “I'm glad I could help you out. I can't wait to see where you go from here. Starting with that BTS cover, of course.”

You giggle. “Oh, of course.”

“Well, I guess I'll let you go now. I'll be cheering BTS on from my seat later, not that you need any encouragement,” you tease. You gulp down your coyness when he takes a step toward you.

“I don't know,” he drawls in that thick accent of his that is beginning to sound awfully sexy to you. “I'm feeling kind of … terrified.”

Somehow, you know exactly what he's doing. Your grin is stupidly huge as you reach for his fingers to interlace them with yours.

_________________________________

Later that night, when you've come down off of your high and you're tucked into the comfortable sheets of your hotel bed, you get a text message.

By the way … don't delete my number.

478 notes · View notes

yoshinorecommends · 4 years ago

Text

Q - # Fandoms & Characters Masterlist

Queen's Gambit

Ready or Not

Reanimator

Reboot

Records of Ragnorok

Red Dead Redemption

Red Queen

Remarried Empress

Resident Evil

Rick and Morty

Riot Club

Rise of the Guardians

Riverdale

Rock ‘n’ Roll High School

Rooster Teeth

Fake Achievement Hunter Crew

Roswell New Mexico

Repugnant

RWBY

Sakamoto Days

Sally Face

Saltburn

Sandlot

Sandman

Santa Clarita Diet

Santa Clause

Saturday Night Live

Saved By The Bell

Saw

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

School Spirits

SCP Foundation

Scream

Scream (TV)

Scream Queens

School Ties

Sea Beast

See

Set It Up

Sex Education

Shadow and Bone

Shadowhunters

Shameless

She Ra

Sherlock

Ships

Shugo Chara

Silence of the Lambs

Silent Hill

Sing

Sixteen Candles

Skam

Sky High

Slumber Party Massacre

Squid Game

Society

Solo Leveling

Sound of Music

South Park

Spirited Away

Spy x Family

Stand

Stand and Deliver

Stand By Me

Star Trek

Star vs the Forces of Evil

Star Wars

Anakin Skywalker

Bodhi Rook

Cassian Andor

Finn

Han Solo

Kylo Ren

Leia Organa

Luke Skywalker

Obi Wan Kenobi

Poe Dameron

Rey

Stardew Valley

Steven Universe

Stranger Things

Street Fighter

Stitchers

Stumptown

Succession

Suits

Summer I Turned Pretty

Superbad

Supernatural

Sweet Home

Takers

Tears of Themis

Ted Lasso

Teen Wolf

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

That's Not My Neighbor

The Bikeriders

The Man Who Saved Me On My Isekai Trip Is A Killer

The Villainess is a Marionette

The Villainess Turns the Hourglass

The Way to Protect the Female Lead's Older Brother

The Youngest Princess

Thing

Throne of Glass

Titans

To All The Boys I've Loved Before

Tokyo Ghoul

Tokyo Revengers

Top Gun

Total Drama

Trainwreck

Tricked into Becoming the Heroine's Stepmother

Trigun

Triple Frontier

Truman Show

Twilight

Twin Peaks

Twisted Wonderland

Twisters

Umbrella Academy

Allison Hargreeves

Ben Hargreeves

Diego Hargreeves

Five Hargreeves

Klaus Hargreeves

Luther Hargreeves

Vanya Hargreeves

Undead Unluck

Under the Oak Tree

Undertale

Until Dawn

Uta no Prince sama

V for Vendetta

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

Vampire Academy

Vampire Diaries

Vanishing on 7th Street

Velvet Buzzsaw

Victorious

Vikings

Vlog Squad

Voltron

Walking Dead

Warm Bodies

Watch Dogs

Watching the Detectives

Wayne’s World

We Need To Talk About Kevin

Welcome Home

Welcome to Night Vale

West Side Story

What in Hell is Bad

What We Do In The Shadows

Who Made Me a Princess

Whisper of the Heart

Windbreaker

Winx Club

Witcher

Wizards of Waverly Place

Wolf Among Us

X-Files

You

Your Boyfriend

Your Throne

Yu-Gi-Oh!

Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V

Yu-Gi-Oh! GX

Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal

Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D’s

Akiza Izinski

Bruno

Crow Hogan

Jack Atlas

Leo

Luna

Yusei Fudo

Yuri on Ice

Z Nation

Zoey 101

10 Things I Hate About You

100

13 Ghosts

13 Going On 30

13 Reasons Why

21 Chump Street

911

#Fandoms & Characters Masterlist

7 notes · View notes

space-blue · 4 years ago

Text

Angel Plague

Theme: image prompt.

The old bird says they came on a ship. And she's that: old. Her wings huddle featherless behind her warped shoulders, twitching as we pull the story out of her. She claims to be old enough to remember the messenger who passed through her village to tell of a ship like a city, come to Dieb in splendour, and that was before rumours of coastal Gamar and Drasel falling to a plague, before the plague itself came to dispel the rumours.

'So many places burned along the coast that month, people forgot where it started. It wasn't like knowing who died first would save your life.'

I nod in agreement. To this day there is no deciding which city had burned first, which village turned into a charnel before its neighbours.

'I remember suckling my mam till I was twice over the age of weaning, because corpses were the only crop around. People always jabber about Dulik since that's where the first angel came from. Before that poor girl it was just plague, and then it was angel plague. But it was them strangers on their death ship that came to Dieb with it.'

Nobody likes the idea of riding to Dieb, even if it is our most solid lead. Some grumble the word of old harpies isn't proof enough.

I flap my wings angrily, rounding on my men.

'What other rumours would you have us checking first? Whether the dead princess Mia lost her virginity to the Devil? Whether Carusians were sinning with their chickens?'

'No, Alessar, we only mean–'

'You mean you're terrified of going cross-country. Your nannies told you it's full of ghosts and entire villages dead and unburied, with bones scattered by animals and the wind.'

God knows it's the truth, for the bones at least, if plague-country is half as bad as what we've seen so far in the borderlands. I pitch my voice to sound reasonable, encouraging.

'Yes it's plague-country, and nobody knows what goes on further down the road, but finding this ship, its people, are our orders. It's the rumour our King believes in. We will go and be safe, because the plague won't touch us. And if men try...'

I raise my spear up and look sternly at each of my men: four angel-born like I, and three plague survivors of middling age, Damian the only one among them changing, the bony stumps growing out of his back hidden under leather wrappings. All soldiers, handpicked.

'Don't lose heart now.'

I mount my horse, a deep-chested stallion very willing to take me in any direction so long as he can gallop there.

'We ride to Dieb,' I say, and my men follow, putting up a show of enthusiasm that is more for their own sake than mine.

The map says that the road–really a trail we barely make out through the encroaching wilderness–passes through several villages on its way to Dieb. In the first, everyone is winged. The children look up in wonder and the adults flock to us, eager to trade for news, but they can't tell us what lays further down the road. There are open-air ossuaries, but we expected them. The real blow to morale comes from the hamlets where, more and more often, half naked farmers turn the tools in their hands into weapons and give chase without a word, without a shout of warning. When the scouts spy a village without an angel in sight, I send Lud and Mallory through, human as they look, with instructions to make themselves perfectly agreeable while the rest of us give it a wide berth. They rejoin us with provisions strapped to their saddles and a grim set to their mouths. We avoid all the villages after that. Finally there is salt in the air, and the murmur of the sea beyond the swishing of palm tree leaves. There are more ruins of old farms too, as we near whatever is left of Dieb. So when Damian is taken by plague-fever, I'd consider calling it a day, but the men are having none of it, reeling with impatience, several of them going ahead to scout the shore. He lays on his belly, to accommodate the bony slabs that one day will form useable limbs. Maybe. His eyes, bloodshot, the irises slowly splitting three-ways, are starring into whatever inward hell the plague crafts for him.

Bruno squats by me, giving me a hand unwrapping the wing stumps.

'Alessar, let's strap him to his horse.'

'I don't know,' I whisper, waving at the spasming muscles, the snarling lips revealing bleeding gums. Soon his teeth would need filing again.

'Well, he'll hurt either way. Plus, look,' Bruno says, waving his hand in front of Damian's face. 'There's nobody home.'

I scowl at the feeling of burning flesh and sickly sweat under my fingers, an unwanted reminder that we are the product of disease, but we saddle him up like a bag of potatoes and move on. We're too close now.

We come upon it not in the main harbour, but beached in the cove south of it. The masts, which guided us from afar, should have prepared us for the sight of it, but even presented with all its broken splendour, I struggle with the size of the thing. It is a monster beyond my wildest dream. As if I had gone out to the beach with a stick to poke at jellyfishes, only to stumble on the carcass of a whale.

It's gutted, split in half, its seven great masts lolling haphazardly, connected by the last remnants of rotting rope and shreds of sails long lost to the wind. People made a staircase out of driftwood, going up and up, into the great wound itself. Still, several thousand people could hide in this wreck without crowding its crumbling decks. And yet, most noticeable is the figurehead: a gigantic woman, winged like the angels of lore, holding forth objects whose meaning I cannot guess. Her beautiful form bitter irony.

'Alessar...'

I look to where Lud points at a lone fisherman pulling traps out of shallow waters, not far from the much smaller wreck of what must have once been a dinghy. We ride down to him, holding hands in signs of peace, but the man welcomes us with a bout of spitting.

'You gulls lost or something?'

I laugh.

'Quite the opposite, fisherman. We come from the new Altan court, in search for the ship that brought strangers to our shore. This boat,' I say, pointing up over my wing at the behemoth eating half the sky.

'Is that so?' the man says, looking vaguely amused. 'The ol' king's still kicking?'

'His son,' I correct, 'Altar the second. He believes the people came to our shores carrying angel-plague with them, and so maybe they know of a cure. We were sent to investigate, seek their healers–'

The fisherman laughs then, in disbelief or mockery, I can't tell, but it shakes his whole body, sends crabs rattling in the trap he's clinging to.

Bruno flaps his wings in irritation, making the horses dance nervously.

'Are the ship people still alive? Tell us man! This is no joke.'

'Oh, aye,' the man whizzes, 'they don't really like birds like you though, so good luck talking to them. They first settled on top of Akram,' he says, pointing at the tall cliffs that cut the northern horizon, 'and resettled a lot of Gamar. But they come here often enough, especially the young ones. Kind of a pilgrimage, maybe? Not like they'd tell old Beko here.'

The men cry out, calling out to each other about our good luck, and I feel a hand slapping my shoulder, but I only have eyes for the little man whose own eyes have gone up, past my wings and into the sky.

'Well, aren't you gulls lucky!' He exclaims, pointing. 'Here's one of them now, and no kid either!'

So I look up too, just as a shadow passes over us.

It is an angel, and it isn't. It is more, like the ship is more than a ship. Maybe three times my size, with a far larger wingspan, its arms are human enough, holding a bag to its broad chest, but the legs are disjointed, ending in terrible talons. It flies over us without slowing or looking down, uncaring for the humans floundering in the shadow of a ship whose size suddenly makes more sense. Whose figurehead is nothing more than a herald of her species, and no angel at all.

'Still want to go ask the cure for bird-plague?' The old fisherman asks, smiling sadly. 'They call themselves something chirpy. Sounds like 'Titwak'. Usually they kill people like you, so we do the same. When a little gull is born, we offer it up to the sea.'

He shrugs, turns around to empty his trap.

'Go home. No point in you dying for a cure that doesn't exist.'

~~ November 2018

#original work #original story #competition #fantasy

1 note · View note

wri0thesley · 4 years ago

Note

Semi-angsty scenario (however much hurt you feel willing to put in) of Prosciutto surviving the train fight, albeit quite injured, at home with his s/o when the new passione finds him and wants him (for like information or to recruit him again? idk)

recovering - prosciutto x reader (1.7k)

SFW. reader is gender neutral.

warnings for: hospitals, injury, self-hate, death idealation.

Things do not change overnight; not really.

Oh, for Prosciutto, they changed in the course of an hour, or maybe less. For your boyfriend, it had been a case of waking up that morning with two legs and two arms and two eyes, a heart that beat sound and fast, a charming smile and a teasing voice and the knowledge of his own finesse - and having almost none of those things by the time midnight struck.

Prosciutto’s physicality changes overnight. The doctors do what they can for him (you, on pulled tight tenterhooks by his bedside, listening to the beep of monitors with your heart in your mouth in case of a flatline), but the battle and the train have taken much from him. His brain does not change at all.

He spends two months in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and needles and monitors. You both count the tiles on the ceiling, over and over. You bring him grapes and magazines, but not flowers (and absolutely not cigarettes, though his hand fastens about your wrist and he begs - the doctors say his lungs may never function the same way again). The nurses speak to you;

“Oh, he must have been so handsome,” they say, pity lacing their tone, as they pat your shoulder. As they ask you about children, and the engagement ring on your finger, and you know that they’re thinking that you should get away now, before you’re railroaded into taking care of him (as if you wouldn’t, as if taking care of him is a punishment--).

“He is,” you say, stubborn - but they give you those same smiles. “He is handsome.”

He hates how they fluff his pillows, how they speak to him, how they simper. “Like I’m an invalid,” he says, frustrated. You do not remind him that he is an invalid right now; there’s no point in that. Prosciutto is still grappling with being in bed.

He grapples with the prosthetic leg and arm. He grapples with the glass eye when he’s allowed to remove the adhesive pad (he gives up on that one, eventually; you source an expensive designer eyepatch instead, all embroidered with roses and thorns and glittering semi-precious stones). He grapples with himself, the first time he sees his body full-length in a mirror.

“Look at me,” he says, lip twisting in disgust. “I should have died instead.”

“Don’t say that,” you say, softly, standing behind him. Your eyes travel the same path as his; the prosthetic leg, all plastics and metal (the shiny skin of where his leg finishes just visible beneath the hospital gown he hates wearing). The jointed arm that he’s still struggling to use. The scars all across his face, the place his hair had to be cut because of how blood was matting it together, the pinprick needle points of all the cannulas and wires he’s had sticking out of him for months. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You say that now,” Prosciutto replies. “But in a few months . . . in a few months, after you’ve had to take care of me, you’ll wish I’d died too.”

He tries to refuse help at first. He drops glasses and whiskey bottles and his cutlery and swears and kicks his one good foot into doorways, toppling over because his balance is still not quite right. He shrugs off your attempts to help dress him. He rolls away from you in bed and fiercely shakes off your kisses on scarred shoulderblades.

“You should leave me,” he says, bitter and angry. “Find someone whole. I’m a fucking liability.”

“I won’t,” you tell him, patiently. “I would stay with you if you were a brain in a jar.”

“Better than this,” he grunts, but in the night his body curls around yours and you kiss away tears from his scarred face that neither of you mention in the early morning light.

It does not change overnight. Six months after his discharge from the hospital, things have calmed slightly - Prosciutto still drops his silverware sometimes, but instead of swearing and blaming himself, he forces himself to laugh. The house has adapted, too; Prosciutto had tried to avoid them at first (“The period features!” He’d said to you. “I don’t want a fucking stairlift, these stairs haven’t been altered since 1840--), but he’d acquiesced in the end.

Extra rails, things he can hold onto, antique wingback chairs with new handles he can help himself in and out of more easily. Gadgets to make his grip better, your bedroom relocated into what used to be his study - Prosciutto has always been the kind of man to resist change, but for you he pushes himself.

And he still cries, of course. You hear him call out for Pesci. You hear him call out for Risotto. He wakes up panting and sweating and cursing Bruno Buccellati’s name (though both of you know what happened to him. Prosciutto has made his peace - he respects Buccellati’s devotion. He’s glad of Diavolo’s deposement. You feel rather less sanctimonious about it, and sometimes the voice in your head is glad that Bruno Buccellati came to a sticky end.). He tells you to leave him and that he’s not worth it and his working hand curls around your waist, pulling you into him, whispering he wishes he’d died instead.

You live a slightly quieter life. Prosciutto likes luxury, but likes a bargain and hates spending money even more - you two have a nice little savings pot that keeps you in (if not the manner you were accustomed to before) modest fashion. Grateful Dead potters about the house - some of his tentacles are wizened and broken, but he reaches things for Prosciutto that your boyfriend cannot and lays his head on your knee, more desperate for affection now than he ever was before Prosciutto’s injuries. Prosciutto tenses when you lay your hand on Grateful Dead’s head, but shivers when your fingers trace soft patterns, his own head rolling back to enjoy the ghost of your hand on his stand.

And you are happy.

You are as happy as you can be. You and Prosciutto muddle along, but he is alive and you are by his side. You kiss him and his good arm goes around your waist, goading you into sitting on his knee. He whispers that he loves you, adores you, that you keep him going - and you whisper the same into his, sighing against his skin, happy that he is with you.

Until the knock on the door, eight months after his accident.

Giorno Giovanna, in real life, is tiny. He’s a boy - that much is clear. You’d heard he was fifteen (though perhaps he is sixteen now), but you hadn’t been expecting him to look . . . so young. Prosciutto is on edge in front of him, scowl on his handsome face so his overbite and slight buck teeth are more prominent, his knuckles white on the cane by his chair.

“I don’t understand why you’ve come now,” you say to him, your voice pitching. You can see Prosciutto’s careful veneer falling apart in front of the new Don of Passione. “It’s been months.”

“We were waiting for Signore Prosciutto to recover from his injuries,” Giorno says, all benevolence. Your own heart beats treacherously fast in your chest. You do not trust this golden-haired angel, nor the dark-haired man he’s brought with him with one hand on the table and one hand in the gun in his pants.

“I won’t be regrowing any of my limbs,” Prosciutto snaps, and you start as you see the gunman’s fingers flex on the handle. You put a hand on your boyfriend’s leg, high enough that it’s leg and not prosthetic, hoping to calm him.

“We won’t be asking that of you,” Giorno continues, as if - in Diavolo’s reign - Prosciutto’s outburst wouldn’t be enough for him to find a bullet lodged in his brain.

“I’m not exactly suited for field work in my condition,” Prosciutto says, and you want to shush him and talk for him. You hate this - hate that you can hear the barbed wire in Prosciutto’s voice, that it feels like you’re teetering on a tightrope. If Prosciutto says the wrong thing . . . you two have come so far! You’ve worked so hard! For Prosciutto’s life to come to an end, here, because of a wrong inflection or a rude word when he’s staring the man who killed his team-family-friends in the face and is expected to show deference to him . . .

You can’t bear it.

“No,” Giorno says. Your throat is dry. You stare at the table in front of you (your old mahogany table was sent to an antiques shop; this one is perfectly sized for Prosciutto’s wheelchair on his worst days) and try and pretend that you aren’t on the edge of a breakdown and that your nerves aren’t fraying with every syllable that comes from Giorno’s mouth. “But . . . we have access to Diavolo’s files, signore, and we know you’d be well-suited for other things.”

“Prosciutto,” you say, aware your voice is small and whiny. You put a hundred things into the whisper of his name. The fear and anxiety and regret - the hope that you’d put the mafia behind you. You’re not stupid. A man like Prosciutto doesn’t get to leave his whole life behind. But you’d thought . . . after everything, you’d thought you were safe.

“Your family,” Giorno continues. “Your good name. Your knowledge of how the syndicate works. We could find a good use for you, signore, if you’ll agree to come work with us.”

(Giorno uses the word ‘agree’. You and Prosciutto both know that is not the case. There is no disagreement when it comes to these things. It is an agreement or an assassin in two weeks from now and a knife at his throat and you, with Prosciutto cradled in your arms as he bleeds out. Men like him do not get miracles twice.)

(He carefully says ‘with’, too. You both know it is ‘for’. ‘Under’. Prosciutto will be a pawn. Again.)

“Yes.” Prosciutto says. He shoots you a brief look that has a hundred apologies written all over it. “I understand, Don.”

They do not give Prosciutto much time to decide - both of them know, with you at his side, he isn’t going to say no.

And when Prosciutto kisses Giorno’s ring and swears fealty again, he looks at you and you wonder how you were ever so foolish to believe you’d really escape.

#writing #prosciutto #sfw #hospitals for ts #injury for ts #Anonymous

112 notes · View notes