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vividly-vermillion · 2 days ago

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Okay so you had me at plague doctor already because please don't judge me but they're so hot for NO reason at all. Add monster to it and my legs spread faster than I can even hit the reblog button.

Knowing this is from you Cort, I'm going into this with high expectations that I'll know you'll meet and surpass because no matter what you write it's just UGH YES TICKLE MY BRAIN!!!!

I hope you know that a shiver ran down my spine at the intro of this masterpiece and I shivered.

The entire ambient is just so good I have no words for it. But I don't want to stop reading. You set the scene so beautifully and paint a picture for my inner eye, making me a part of the story as if I'm witnessing this live and in color.

Oh lord. the description of the monster... whERE DID MY PANTIES GO???

The pain of loss - the willingness to do everything, to not run away from this it breaks my heart. Mr husband can be a very lucky man to be loved so deeply and sincerely.

THEY WERE BURNED ALIVE OH MY- i literally scrunched up in myself at the image. The downside of the way you paint pictures- the unpleasant ones also appear (which by no means is a bad thing but agsjsbsuidnw I wanna sob)

How does one even measure a soul? Is there ever enough money that would equal the love you have felt for one another? An eye for an eye? Do you need to give yourself away in order to get them back? It's such a cruel question but you portrayed it so beautifully

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

I loved this part so much for no reason at all I think. I just love great death it seems. The way he is so... otherworldly, scaring me down to my bones but also so soothing???

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

This and the next 4 blocks of text... I can not tell you how they made me feel. There aren't any words for it. It's a strange mix of disgust, sadness, need and strangely enough want? To give yourself to something like great death for love... to get back the love is so... it's a price to pay but a price I'm willing to pay if that means I get my husband back? But it also feels so violating at the same time? Is this even full consent? No one will ever know and I don't care.

He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion....

He is so cruel and absolutely vile but he also seems so.... needy? He is craving this? You scratch an itch that he isn't able to reach and that somehow makes me feel appreciated help i need to tell my therapist about this ☠️

“Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

Now, sir, with all respect... no need to get mean okay 😭 but the way he yearns, mocks and just takes and takes why am I falling in love with him help

Now Cort... I AM SHAKING YOU BY THE SHOULDERS (gently) WHAT IS THIS ENDING I CRIED LIKE A BABY!! Fuck I did not expect this at all 😭 I feared that at the question above - whats the worth of a soul - that this would happen, that he wanted a soul in exchange but hell I did not expect he would just murder us like this :(( my silly pink glasses dropped because I was falling in love over here like the village fool I fear. The way he saw everything. The beauty, the ugly, he saw our most intimate - our soul.... but noooooooooooo

I dislike great death and hope he shatters the soul jar and eats bricks >:((

Anyways, personal feelings for the monster put aside - this was a truly beautiful piece and as said in the beginning I did not expect to be disappointed. I fear that I will come back to this a few more times because it will haunt my mind in the most beautiful way.

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

My love, this is your color!

- Samuel

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

#nyssa's faves #.dc #.nsfw #I feared that the tags wouldn't be enough to scream incoherently so you'll get it in the more detailed version #the version where I try to form words but it's just explosion noises and car horns in the end #I am so sorry for all the yapping I was live commenting and screaming lol #please don't feel pressured to read my nonsense wailing 🥹♥️#thank you so much for this ♥️

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andhumanslovedstories · 22 hours ago

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I think a lot about whether I want children or not. At this exact moment, I don’t want kids and don't expect that I will have them, but the answer isn’t one hundred percent certain. I'm very open to changing my mind when I'm older. Realistically, is that going to happen? Maybe. Probably not. But clearly I'm not sure enough about it that I can put the question to rest. I think I would be a good mom, but I don't know if I have the patience to be that good of a mom. I don't like people bugging me. Children seem to be humans who exist to bug you. I can barely handle my cats sometimes.

I like the idea of children, but that's not enough. There are almost no moments in my life where I think, “What I’m currently experiencing would be so much better with a child of my own.” Meanwhile, oh the many, many moments where I’ve gone, “fuck I’m so glad I don’t have kids right now. holy shit. can you imagine.” So to me, that seems like a clear indication of my feelings and values.

But I also do like the idea of showing them this post someday and being like, Look! This is me thinking about you before you were you! Here's all the stuff I decided mattered less than having you in my life! Maybe this is a letter! I can’t fathom what you’re like. I wanna write some dorky mom shit, like “I love you, now go clean your room!” Except I get it, cleaning anything sucks. We should probably both go clean something. Anyway you probably don’t exist, but if you do, then I definitely love you. That's never been the issue, which has been very pleasant to realize. I for sure would love you. It's just that you seem super inconvenient. Like. Massively. Like a major fuckin millstone around my neck. Anyway I'm gonna go eat some weed and play video games now. Have fun like uhhhhh eating dirt or playing the 17th installment of Fortnite or whatever it is kids do.

#b.

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jelloapocalypse · 22 hours ago

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First off, incredible video, it was extremely Jibun-wo to see digimon make the cut! That being said, I gotta know, would Dandadan have made top 10 if it hadn't come out past the cut off point? It feels like such a slam dunk

Aha okay I am happy someone asked me about this.

So. If I am being dead honest with you? If I am being a trillion percent real? Even if it came out three years ago, Dandadan would probably not make the list, and if it was on it it'd be pretty low. Like high 90s maybe.

I did a temperature check with Amy just to see if I was crazy after watching it a few times and she came to the came conclusion I did: The Creepy Nuts song absolutely slaps and is insanely catchy. No surprise there, it's Creepy Nuts, they're awesome and you should check out their stuff.

Watch this little clip of them in real time. The way their bodies flow as they perform (see 0:37) is mesmerizing. I love it.

youtube

That being said, I think Dandadan's visuals are just Pretty Good™.

Most of the shots are flat pop art colors with A Weird Creature on them and big text. It's not bad, but it's also not exceptional and it doesn't tell me a lot about the series. Speaking as someone who hasn't watched Dandadan and doesn't know what it's about, I'm still not really sure! Seems like the glasses boy... can transform into a Creature? And they fight... aliens? So it's like Kaiju No. 8, maybe? Looks like a shonen. That's all I got. Speaking as an outsider, it doesn't really have any kind of thematic hook or solid show pitch.

BRIGHT COLOR + BIG TEXT is a current trend in, like, Netflix openings that I'm not a huge fan of. It's a lot of POP but not a lot of substance, if that makes sense.

There are some shots where the stylization hits harder than others. Big fan of the song credit in this one. It's creepy and weird in a hypnotizing sort of way.

The rest of the shots in this style with monsters just make me think "Oh, ok. There's monsters? What makes these monsters cool or unique?" And the opening doesn't really answer that question, which I think is an issue when a solid third of your OP is just shots of the monsters.

I should say, I loooove that slow part in the middle of the song. But I mostly like it because of the song, the visuals aren't really doing anything for me.

It doesn't help my opinion of the OP that this shot with the girl wiggling her hand around is the one that shows up in all the Top 100 lists and New Anime OP quizzes. I think this motion is a few frames short of looking good, tbh.

If I had to guess, this is because this show is made by Science Saru. They make lots of cool weird shit like Lu Over the Wall and The Night is Short, Walk On Girl and their style is a mixture of high-effort anime with wild, almost rubberhosey western animation influences. They also did Scott Pilgrim Takes Off, which I think looks gorgeous. I also think you can absolutely tell it's the same studio if you watch both OPs side by side.

youtube

Oh hey, look at that. A Netflix OP with big thick text over bright pop art colors with traditional media textures overlaid on top of it.

Science Saru is an incredibly talented studio and they're much more artistically daring than most of their colleagues, but I think they're at their best when they get to work with a very unique artstyle, like the ones you see in Walk on Girl and Scott Pilgrim. The Dandadan characters being closer to "regular" anime proportions doesn't work as well with their slightly more staggered style (i.e. the money shot of the girl moving her arm with a low frame count).

If you ask me? I think these OPs are pretty close in quality to each other. Both quite good, neither quite exceptional. Dandadan is better though, mostly because the Creepy Nuts song is so good.

I think that's where most of the hype for this opening is coming from. Creepy Nuts is at the height of their popularity in the anime community right now. Anime fans got a taste of them with Call of the Night, a series named after one of their songs, and people loved that opening but it didn't "pop off". Then Mashle came and it went megaviral. Everyone loves the second Mashle opening because everything about it slaps. It's so good. It also shows you a lot about the character of the protagonist and the show itself. The way Muscle Mob stays unflappable no matter what happens and the way his friends react to his antics show off the show's gimmick (One Punch Man at Hogwarts) very well, and it shows the dynamic he has with the rest of the cast. He doesn't give a shit. It looks kinda funny. Plus the way they use the character face tattoos to accent different shots is inspired. Very cool!

I've heard pretty universally that Mashle is kind of a bad show. But do you know how many people I know were tricked into trying it because of that opening? Its like seven of them. That's some wild advertising power. Sure, Mashle doesn't have a lot going on, but the opening pitches what it does have so well that you can't help be a little bit interested in checking it out.

Dandadan just doesn't really do that for me. I look at it and I think "Oh, okay. Cool Creepy Nuts song."

I think a large amount of Dandadan's popularity as an opening is just that people are excited for more Creepy Nuts. They were relatively unknown (at least in the west) by the time Call of the Night came out and lots of artists only do one anime opening and never touch the medium again. Mashle was a sidewinder. It came out of nowhere and proved that Creepy Nuts were not only willing to do more openings, but they were willing to crush it every time. Both of the shows they did songs for have GOAT openings.

Then it was announced fuckin' Science Saru was adapting Dandadan and the NUT BOYS were gonna be returning to do the opening? Everyone was so hyped for it. And guess what! It was really cool! They did it, yet another cool opening. They set expectations and met them pretty well while they were directly in the middle of the public eye, and I'm so happy for Creepy Nuts, I hope they make fuckin' millions off this because they deserve it.

But! I don't think the Dandadan OP has the spice the other two openings they worked on do.

Call of the Night is an incredible opening. Cool dynamic between the main two characters with evocative visuals from start to finish. The psychic vampire bite? The film-making language and clackerboard? So much fun. Diagetic lyrics. A fake-out pause in the middle of the song. Half the shots are upside down and they did it on purpose. It's a great execution of a cool artistic vision. Legit one of the strongest OPs ever made.

Mashle season two comes out. Incredible opening. Sick urban street punk rapper flare to it. The characters walk in front of graffiti, the protagonist raps about how his haters have nothing on him and he can kick everyone's ass just because he's the best. Animation that far outstrips the stuff present in the actual show. Cool artistic vision, hella execution.

Dandadan is like a pretty cool 2020s opening that happens to have a Creepy Nuts song, and you get the sense the studio was told "Hey, Mashle's second opening has like 80 million views on YouTube. We got Creepy Nuts. Do that, please." And they did! It's a similar mix of bright colors, rap, and mixed media. Mashle has grafitti, Dandadan has the texture of spray paint stencils. Looks cool! Kinda looks like Mashle, but weirder and more abstract. And that's fine! Is it list material? Ehhhh. Is it Top 10 material like some comments are claiming? Abso-lutely not. Absolutely creepy nots.

In terms of VMCTJ, the Dandadan opening has S-tier music and above-average visuals and credits. I think the theming is middle-of-the-road and there honestly aren't any Jennies for me at all. Amy and I have sort of trained ourselves so that any OP where the music does most of the heavy lifting kind of gets put on the backfoot right away, because nothing shoots an opening to popularity like a fuck jam and you need to be wary of that when judging them all on the same criteria.

So anyways, yeah! Dandadan is pretty good. I'd hesitate to lock it in anywhere in the Top 100, but I think my gut would place it somewhere between like... 160-140. That's still REALLY good, but I do have to think at least some of the comments asking about it on Patreon and YouTube are fueled at least in part by a love for Creepy Nuts and more than a bit of recency bias.

Hope that answers your question, lmao

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karlachismylife · 16 hours ago

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I am a little scared to write characters with different backgrounds, like Russian characters in the CoD franchise, because I'm afraid a Russian person will see it and be like, "What the fuck is this" and laugh at it maybe 😭 So I have to ask, do you ever find yourself judging fics based on how they portray the characters and the language? Like "this doesn't fit well" or "that's not how it works" type of stuff.. Are there any deal breakers, something you despise in fics, or maybe even advice for writing Russian characters... Thank you in advance, have a great day! 🩵

Hey comrade! This is a good question! And I can totally relate; not just to writing non-Russian characters, but even writing Russians from CoD is intimidating, because they are much older than me and witnessed a lot of historical and cultural changes in the country (even a whole another country if we think that at least Nikolai was born in USSR) that I haven't, and trust me, times haven't stopped being crazy here for the last 30 years or even more, so for me not having witnessed the 90s or being a baby in 2000s is a reason to be scared shitless writing for them, cuz fuck if I know how a person that lived through those times thinks.

All that to say, I think it's completely normal to feel awkward writing characters with backgrounds you're not familiar with, and also it's not a big deal if you get stuff wrong sometimes. I mean, isn't there like a whole bunch of fics about task force 141 and the "tapping out" ceremony that seems to exist in USA army only? People still enjoy them and no one was hurt by it. It's fiction and art, and first and foremost we want you to enjoy creating it; moreover, you are doing it and sharing it for free, so every decent person will always be grateful and supportive, and if anyone is coming at you aggressively for getting something wrong, you can tell them идите нахуй and block them. Mocking an artist that put effort and love into a piece of art is one of the worst things one can do.

(sorry this turned out longer than I expected so I'm hiding it under the cut). CW!politics and heavy themes, somewhat of a rant. I tried to summarize in the end and give a few tips so if you want to skip the rant, go down.

So me and my Paris (@nrdmssgs) came togther to make a list of stuff that might catch our eye or turn us off from reading a fic. Keep in mind that these are just opinions of two people! And I know for a fact that some Russians will not agree with me on some of these. So again, my main tip is not to overstress; we are genuinely glad when Russian characters get recognition despite all the negativity often surrounding them.

First, I'll just say, there are a lot of things that irk us in the games themselves. This goes not just for weird Russian accents or sometimes broken Russian altogether; I personally am very displeased with how freely (and wrongly, lol) they use the term "gulag" (ГУЛАГ) there. First of all, it is not a synonym to prison/camp, it's the name of the government agency that was in charge of running labor camps in USSR, so calling the camp itself this word is simply incorrect; second, it's a big tragic page in history, so throwing it around willy-nilly as some oooh scary prison place where characters in a pew pew game are put and can escape just feels insensitive to me. Generations of people whose countless families were hurt by this system are very much alive right now and it is a raw wound unfortunately, and the government is very much refusing to acknowledge this tragedy in its fullness. So there's that. There's also way too good-looking Makarov that spent who knows how much time in solitary confinement (we have people actively dying in solitary right now in much shorter time), there's Milena with a single bank account (show me one Russian oligarch that doesn't have their money shoved in 100 different places, uh-huh), there's Yegor Novak who is Ukrainan, but speaks Russian (yes, considering that he was born in USSR, he most likely speaks both languages, but erasing his identity is still problematic). So you see, there's a lot of shit to combat in canon already, and it's worth spending time looking into some of these things. Now to the fics!

I will say, I do notice of course when a Russian character is written by a non-Russian person that doesn't know much about Russian language/culture/mentality/history/whatever. And while I understand that it's hard and won't throw a fic away for not getting every little thing right, there is stuff that catches my attention.

The most obvious would be the language, of course. Russian is grammatically much more complicated than English and number one giveaway are mistakes in grammatical cases/genders. Even my good comrade here who knows Russian very well and surprises me with impeccable use of complicated constructions that show they understand some nuanced connotations/usage of words, even they often make mistakes with genders of words. And I can't blame them, for a native English speaker it is a new concept! But this, and also just the sentence structures, incorrect word choice (again, connotations are key) are always jarring in text. Usually I just skim over it and forget in the next sentence, sometimes it does make me laugh, but like. I'm not gonna make fun of anyone for making a mistake in a language, I appreciate when people make effort. But I do encourage everyone to send their Russian text to someone who can proofread it (me, for example, DMs and askbox always open). And if you really want to do it on your own, maybe don't just rely on google translate and such and try to do it with a dictionary and some base-level grammar lessons so you can make sure the endings of the words are alright, at least. Then we can talk about the difference between "blyat'", "blyad'", "blya", "blyadina" and "blyadstvo" :D

Another thing I do always have a quick upset sigh about is when people call borsht a Russian soup. No it's not, it's Ukranian. We do eat it a lot, yes, and it's not inherently bad or wrong to write a Russian character eating/cooking it, but it is nice when people do not add to the appropriation of Ukranian culture that's been going on since for-fucking-ever. Same goes for unfortunately many other cultures that Russian imperialism tried swallowing, so it's always better to google it and check. And just food in general, maybe spend a little time looking up what's the difference between pel'meny and varyeniky or what's okroshka. It's always an amazing experience when someone gets such details right! And an even better experience when you don't erase other Slavic or even Eastern European identities, brushing everyone under "Russian" rug. We are definitely nor a homogenous crowd! Moreover, not everyone born in Russia (and especially USSR) will be Russian. Looking into different ethnicities and nationalities that live here is just interesting if nothing else, but also very very important after centuries of opression.

I also have some non-serious beef with this magical "Siberia" western comrades love writing about, I touched on the topic here. An amazing impression is when people use less broad geographical names or look at less overused places. Did you know that Natalia "Raptor" Orlova is from Kamchatka? It's such a rich region with a lot to tell about!

What I do definitely dislike and it can turn me off from finishing the read at all, is insensitive writing of the characters themselves in terms of their background. It's complicated since I myself am not patriotic at all and I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it means "to be Russian", but it just. You can feel when a person thinks in stereotypes, you know? Like somewhere I saw something, I won't give a direct quote, but the main idea was that Russian/Slavic men all 100% have a breeding kink, and it was worded in a way that kinda felt like, hm, like a bit dehumanizing? Making them out to be these ooga booga barbaic cavemen? And yes, there is a lot to be said about Russian men, much of it very not good, and there is NOTHING wrong with writing a Russian character with a breeding kink, but it felt not nice to read that sentence, so just maybe after you write your piece do some introspection to make sure you weren't dipping into that kind of portrayal out of prejudice. If that's the effect you went for storytelling/your personal enjoyment cuz you like them ooga booga? I won't say a thing. Also the whole vodka/balalaika/ushanka/whatever bullshit, not entirely untrue, again, especially the vodka one, but if you write Nikto drinking kvas (which is non-alcoholic, okay, but still) or baltika beer instead of vodka, you'll make me happier, because it's like a signal "hey look I know a bit more about your culture that a James Bond movie intro showed me once". And in the next scene I'll forgive you even him riding a battle bear with vodka and balalaika in hand.

Coming back to the "barbarization" of Russian men in fics, it irks me a little when people lean too much into the whole Russian bandit/mafia stuff, and there are two characters that suffer from it, but each a little differently, the most. First is Nikolai, and while yes, he is a crime lord of sorts and he has that goddamn golden chain (which most Russian people or at least women find absolutely horrid and oh we do not come near men sporting those irl), I think people often write him... not intelligent enough? Too gruff and rough? He's an intellectual. Well-read, well-spoken, cultured. Level-headed. Whenever people write him too much like a 90s bandit, my heart breaks a little. But then again, I know Russian people that lean into the same set of stereotypes when writing him (but those same people have a lot of other uhhh xhenophobic tendencies that show when talking about other characters so I wouldn't rely on their views).

And then there's probably the biggest pet peeve of mine. Vladimir Makarov. Now, here is a big big disclaimer: YOU CAN WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT IN YOUR FICS!!! We are already romantacizing military men that none of us (I hope) would approach irl; and if you want to write Makarov or Nikolai or whoever else in a certain way because that's what hits the spot for you, just do it. You want yandere Makarov or mummy issues Nikto or whatever else your heart desires? Go for it. I will be the first one defending your right to write it with a crowbar in hand, even if I myself would never read such a fic. So this here is entirely MY PERSONAL ISSUE. Deal? Deal.

I see it a lot here on tumblr (mostly in x reader fics) and it actually bothers me a lot, but when people write Makarov as this edgelord dark mafia boss. It just misses the point so much. He's an ultra-nationalist, a head of a PMC. They are not mafia, I would honestly argue that they're much worse. I get that they cast a very attractive man to play reboot Makarov and honestly the og Makarov too; I get that villains are the hot thing to be attracted to (sorry if I sound bitter, this is a separate problem I have with fandom and it doesn't matter rn), but Wagner (PMC that Konni is heavily based on) is a real life horror that is still existing even though there have been like structural changes. And they killed a lot of people and had enough power to threaten to overthrow the government so very recently. Rusich (another nationalist military group) is still active and doing horrible things and proudly reporting them online. Smaller far-right pigs are out in the streets doing horrible things. And a lot of it is (not so) subtly encouraged by the government. A lot of it is actively used by the government to gain more power, kill more people, instill more fear. It's a reality we live in, and to me seeing Makarov portrayed with none of that nationalism in sight and with all the allure of a dark romance novel mafia boss is... honestly, painful. Feels like a slap in the face, to be honest, and while I understand that this is the kind of nuance you can't just realize out of nowhere if it's not something you live around and that it's all fiction, it just is really, really hard to read for me. He is not just a complete crazy Joker-type freak, he's not a cool sexy mafia boss, he's a fucking nazi terrorist that can and will be paid by certain people in power to do their dirty work.

In the same route, but luckily I haven't seen it anywhere besides a certain group of Russian CoD fans (which is even more terrifying considering the political implications), but anyone who writes Barkov as a hero/in a positive light - fuck you. Just fuck you. He has interesting/attractive traits as a character, yes, I'm not saying you can't write about him, looking into him from different perspectives, simping for him if you want; but again, just spend some time reading up on recent history and politics that inspired the whole Urzikstan situation0 - and do it all with nuance. Or with a disclaimer that you don't support genocide at least, lol, cuz I'm telling you, I've seen people that made me scared.

However, once again, if you really want exactly that - ignore MY PERSONAL opinion and write it. I am just a gorilla on tumblr, my opinion is not the centre of the world. But what I do consider not a taste issue, but a deeper issue, is writing REAL PMCs and the likes of those in positive light. If anyone with a "Wagner OC" sees this post, just know, I would probably spit in your face irl. Making made-up Makarov go kiss kiss uwu or whatever irks me personally, but I can close the tab and let the author be; I'm sure many people have same opinion about Graves whom I write much more affectionately than some would prefer. But the real shit? That's a hard line.

A quick addition, back coming back to the "barbarization", just portraying Slavic characters being oh so very mesmerized by the !!!wonders of western civilization!!! is funny. There are definitely moments like this, but not as much as you think. Believe it or not, we actually don't live in bear caves.

This got way too long and dark, so let's finish on a lighter note. Russian characters celebrating some very non-Russian holidays (like Thanksgiving or catholic Christmas, even though the second one is not as bad) is funny, when it doesn't have much explanation (like them celebrating it with someone who actually does). "Suka blyat'" is funny, because it's often used where a simple "blyat'" would suffice.

Summarizing, here are general semi-short tips how to write Russian characters:

get your Russian proofread by someone who actually speaks it or at least don't fully rely on google translate. check your cases and genders!

especially if you use cusswords. it's an amazing characterization tool if you manage to use it right, so putting effort into it is always worth it

don't lean into stereotypes. they are partially true, but we kinda can tell when you do that intentionally and with nuance and when you don't know anything beyond them

be mindful about characters' identities and spend a little more time to make sure you are not writing someone else's stuff as "Russian". for the lack of better analogy, it's like mixing all Latin American identities together and writing them all as uhhh Mexican. we don't want to claim others' culture and others most definitely do not want to be erased again

be careful about the "barbarization" of your Slavic characters. sure, someone like Maxim "Minotaur" Bale won't strike you as the most intellectual individual (love you Max), but be intentional with it and don't just make every Slavic man go ooga booga but in Russian

didn't touch much on Russian/Slavic women, but be careful around the whole "money-hungry" stereotype

read up on political shit surrounding your characters. whether you like it or not, Russian people have been shaped by a lot of recent/current political happennings, so missing out even on general understanding of what your character witnessed/what their political views are can ruin a lot of characterization

Russia is fucking huge and does not consist just of Moscow and abstract "Siberia". the amount of cultures, confessions, nature stuff etc in the country is insane. not all Russians are orthodox Christians, but also - many of them are. and also - church was under fire in USSR so this is a separate layer of cultural shit you might want to consider

read Russian literature if you really want to write Russian characters a lot, it'll help you catch a feel of some very specific things like our yearning. it's a very specific thing that if you get right will give me a reading orgasm

same goes for Russian songs. also just don't underestimate the role of music in Russian life!

try to look up Russian "pop culture" (it feels kinda wrong to call it that, but I dunno how else to call it). if you can make your Russian character make an appropriate reference to a movie or say a Russian saying we actually use, it'll be amazing. but it's like level impossible i think so don't give yourself a headache over this, this is just that extra spice that will have me scrolling through your profle suspecting you're actually secretly Russian yourself

watch Soviet/Russian movies to get a better understanding of the vibe, not just what Hollywood portrays!

looking into architecture can be an interesting way to approach a character. we went through many different unique architectual styles, so if you're describing a character's home, it'll be a very cool move to specify what kind of apartment building they live in, for example

but most importantly remember: it's art you do for yourself first and foremost. don't take any of it as a strict guide you'll be punished for straying away from! we REALLY appreciate you writing for these characters, and you showed you put more thought into it than some of Russian comrades I know <3

and if you have specific questions, never be afraid to ask me or anyone else you know can help.

I hope I didn't scare you even more with this all, lol, I genuinely do appreciate you coming to me for advice, it means a lot when people show interest and effort. If you feel comfortable enough, send me/tag me in your fics, I'll be glad to read them and share with comrades that will enjoy them! From Russia with love ❤️❤️❤️🦍

#juju's replies #gorilla in the snow #cod #call of duty #nikolai cod #nikto cod #makarov cod #russian #writing tips #fuck these tags man i'm too tired to be arsed lol

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herrscherofinsanity · 22 hours ago

Text

Untitled

Hi, what's up! Yes, I've been MIA, but I'll try to be a bit more active this month. Here's a break up drabble I just did, I'm liking the idea of it, so I might get back to it later this week.

Angst

Karina (Yu Jimin) x fem!reader

Word count: 0.8k

____________________

It happens late at night.

Jimin is finally back in y/n’s city after weeks apart, and they’re supposed to be spending time together. But instead, Jimin is out—again. With him.

y/n knows she shouldn’t check the internet, but she does. She always does. And there it is… pictures of Jimin and Jeno at a restaurant, laughing, looking comfortable. There’s even a video, one where Jimin reaches out to playfully push Jeno’s shoulder as they joke about something. The comment section is filled with fans gushing about their chemistry, about how good they look together... about how maybe there’s something real there.

y/n throws her phone onto the bed and runs a hand through her hair, trying to breathe. She doesn’t want to be this person. She doesn’t want to be jealous. Jimin deserves to have friends.

But damn it, why couldn’t she have spent that time with her?

Her hands shake as she texts.

Are you coming over?

Fifteen minutes pass. No reply.

Twenty.

Thirty.

y/n grabs her phone again and presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Five times. Voicemail.

And that’s it. That’s what breaks her.

By the time Jimin walks into y/n’s apartment, it’s past midnight. She’s tired, wearing a hoodie and a cap, her usual disguise to keep away prying eyes. She expects y/n to be asleep or waiting with that familiar, knowing smirk.

Instead, her girlfriend is standing in the living room, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jimin pauses, sensing the tension instantly. “Hey,” she says, voice soft, like she knows something is wrong.

The younger girl doesn’t return the greeting. “Did you have fun?”

Jimin sighs, running a hand through her hair. “y/n—”

“I waited for you.”

That stops Jimin in her tracks. “I told you I was going out tonight.”

“You didn’t tell me it was with him again.” y/n’s voice is sharper now.

Jimin exhales, already frustrated. “Why does it matter?”

y/n scoffs. “Why does it—? Jimin, are you serious? Do you have any idea how it looks? How it feels?”

Jimin shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter how it looks. We know what’s real.”

y/n laughs bitterly. “Do we? Because to me, it looks like you’d rather be with him than with me.”

Jimin’s eyes darken. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is me sitting here like a fool, waiting for you, while the whole world thinks you belong to someone else.”

Jimin clenches her jaw. “You’re the one who wanted this to be a secret, y/n. You’re the one who said it would be better this way. That it would protect me.”

y/n falters. “I—”

“No.” Jimin steps closer, eyes burning. “You don’t get to be mad at me for doing exactly what you asked me to do, for being careful, for not making this harder than it already is.”

y/n swallows, her heart pounding. “You think this isn’t hard for me?”

Jimin exhales sharply, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Then why are you making it worse?”

y/n lets out a shaky breath, her chest aching. “Because I love you.”

Jimin freezes.

y/n’s voice cracks. “Because I love you, and it kills me that I can’t even act like it. That I have to sit here and watch people talk about how perfect you’d be with someone else while I have to stay silent. That I have to watch you go out with him and just—what? Pretend it doesn’t bother me?”

Jimin’s expression softens for a second, but she doesn’t reach for her. She doesn’t close the distance between them.

And that’s when y/n knows.

That hesitation is enough to shatter her.

“Do you even want to be with me anymore?” The question comes out before she can stop it.

Jimin’s breath catches. “y/n—”

“Just tell me the truth, Jimin.”

Jimin swallows, her throat tight. Her silence stretches between them, suffocating, painful.

y/n’s vision blurs, but she refuses to cry. She refuses to be the first to break.

She takes a step back, and the distance between them feels like miles. “If you’re not going to choose me, then don’t string me along.”

Jimin’s entire body stiffens, panic flashing in her eyes. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

y/n’s voice wavers. “Then tell me you love me. Tell me I’m the only one.”

Jimin’s lips part—but the words don’t come.

And that silence? That’s all y/n needs to hear.

She nods slowly, letting out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

Jimin’s eyes widen, panic setting in. “Wait—”

“No.” y/n’s voice breaks this time. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Jimin steps forward, finally reaching for her, but y/n flinches back.

Jimin stops dead in her tracks, her hands trembling at her sides. “Baby, please—”

But the younger girl shakes her head, blinking back tears. “I love you, Jimin. But I’m not going to beg you to love me back.”

And then she turns away.

Jimin watches her go, watches as the person she loves walks out of the room, out of her life.

She could call out. She could stop her.

But she doesn’t.

And that’s the worst part.

Because the moment the door closes behind y/n, Jimin realizes—too late—that she’s just lost the best thing she’s ever had.

____________________

A/N: I was in the mood for drama tonight. Anyway, despite my eternal period of leave, feel free to drop requests, I'll eventually get to them, promise.

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cillianmurphysdimples · 1 day ago

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A Female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Seventy)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and is all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Seventy: A slow and loving morning, with open and clear communication, lightens both Cillian and Y/N's mental loads. Y/N lets Cillian know where the land lies, and it seems the best approach. But arriving at the hospital sends those good feelings swiftly tumbling when they walk into a chaotic scene in the NICU. [Sexual suggestion/Angst - medical concerns surrounding preemie babies]

@cherrycilly @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme @watermeezer @strangeions @borntodiemp3 @lavender-haze-01 @meadowshelby

You don't rush to leave for the hospital, despite the want to be immediately at Clíodhna's side. You feel content to take your time, secure in flitting around the house in comfortable nothingness for at least a little while. You take a quick shower, then Cillian follows suit whilst you get dressed and make you both a quick breakfast of toast and tea. You know it won't fill Cillian up - he'll be hungry again before you leave the house if it even touches the sides at all! - and, whilst the thought is in your mind, you make sure to throw a couple of flapjacks into your bag, left on the island counter, to take with you when you leave. Cillian doesn't take his time in the shower, and is at your side, with damp hair and a clean shaven face, just as you pour out the tea.

“Jays, I timed that well.” He smiles, running his hand along your back as he steps past. He heads into the laundry room and dumps his towel into the laundry basket, then reappears as you place the mugs onto the island. “What did you throw together?”

“Toast,” you call out as you turn your back again and grab the popping bread from the toaster. “Sorry, nothing fancy. We have a few things in, but we could do with a grocery run. I could do an online thing later on. Or we could go tomorrow? Butter, jam, marmalade...what do you want?”

“Butter's grand.” He answers. You turn around just as he disappears out through the backdoor with cigarettes and lighter in hand. You set the plates down onto the island and butter the bread for you both, leaving Cillian's plate beside his mug. He pulls faces at you through the glass, and you wonder where the brighter energy has come from - not that you want to question it and quash it, it's good to feel some levity at last. You smile as he sticks out his bottom lip, exhaling his final lungful of smoke, and watch him come back in from the early May air outside. “Getting warmer by the day, I reckon.” He says, as he takes his seat.

He smells of fresh air and smoke, and his damp hair has been blown around a little in the light wind, causing his natural waves to stick out a little more fiercely. “Seems a stupid question,” you say, and sip your tea. “But your birthday's coming up. Did you want to have dinner or something with the boys? Or do you want a big blow out, let off some steam? I fully respect either choice.” You smirk.

“Dinner with you and the lads is enough, but sure it all depends.” He shrugs. He takes a bite out of his toast. Talking around the mouthful, he continues. “We'll see what the craic is with Clíodhna, and go on from there. I'm only forty nine, it's not like we're celebrating some big hurrah. Clíodhna is all I'm thinking about really - Clíodhna and you.”

The sentiment is lovely, but you want him to know he's important. “You're a big hurrah,” you say, raising your brows and smiling. “We can celebrate you. I want to celebrate you.”

“Ah, give over.” He rolls his eyes, and takes another bite from his toast. But there's a cheekiness on his face, a small smile that tells you he appreciates the sentiment even if he'll never accept it.

“I mean it - call some friends, go out and get drunk, stress relief or whatever you want to call it.” You say, smiling when he frowns at you. "So out on a mad one with some friends before you run out of chances to. What do you say? Gatting?!" You smirk.

“I'm nearly fucking fifty, Y/N, I'm not fit to be dying for days after getting into a state like that. And I don't fucking want to. Dinner, or whatever, with you and the boys or something. That's fine.” He insists, rolling his eyes like you've suggested strippers and cocaine.

It makes you laugh, though. And you know that if it wasn't for Clíodhna being in the NICU, he might even have considered the idea a little more. But you let it go, and consider raising it another time. “You want something else to eat? Toast won't keep you going. There's yogurt I think, and there's fruit.” You offer. You can barely manage your toast, despite knowing that keeping your own health in check is vital. “I put your flapjacks in my bag to bring with us, but I don't want you passing out with starvation between here and the Rotunda.”

He squints his eyes at you and then raises one eyebrow. “I'm not gonna die from not eating fucking four courses for breakfast " he tuts good-naturedly, but you can recall plenty of moody occasions when a hungry Cillian has been an awful Cillian to be around. "I'm grand with the toast.” he says, and takes another bite to cement it. “How's your stomach?” He asks, and lifts his mug. He looks at you with a measure of concern on his face.

“It’s okay,” you shrug your shoulders. “It's a bit, I don't know, tight? But it's okay.”

“Not weeping or anything?” He asks, and grimaces as he does. It makes you smile that it seems to make him cringe considering everything you've both been through lately.

“No, it's fine.” You shake your head. “I'm okay, Cill, really. I'm fine, don't add another stress to yourself, please.”

“You're not in pain with it though? I know they gave you the painkillers and you fucking take them, but I can't decide if you don't need them or you're being stubborn.” he smirks.

“I'm alright, love, really. It's not sore.” You reassure him. It hurts a little, but it isn't unbearable or anything. You drain what remains of your tea. You pause for a moment, your secret discovery this morning on your lips, and wonder if you should mention it at all. You don't want to embarrass him, but you want him to know it's okay to ask. “Cill…”

He hovers his slice of toast near his mouth, “What?” He raises his brows and there's an amusing slither of suspicion in his voice.

“Earlier this morning,” you say, and you watch his expression shift.

“I knew you were awake.” He draws in his bottom lip. “I'm sorry… I…”

“No, stop, stop,” you shake your head. “Love, please. I'm not saying anything about you doing it, as such, I mean, all I'm saying is…” you sigh. “I'm not ready for sex Cillian, not the whole shabang at least. Not physically, and definitely not mentally, but...you are, and that's fine, it's good, and I just wanted to point out that…I have two hands.” You raise your eyebrows. “I just mean… god, I shouldn't have fucking said anything.” You smirk, feeling like you're talking about sex with your grandmother or something. You've been sleeping with this man for years, and in the last week he's witnessed you naked and at your lowest, and woken up beside you with blood-stained pyjamas. Why did this feel like the worst of things to talk about?! “Fuck sake, okay, I just mean it's okay to ask, okay? I'm not ready, but I will be eventually, and that doesn't mean I don't want to…help.” You feel awash with embarrassment.

But Cillian's pinked up cheeks give away his own abashment. “I didn't want to say something wrong. I know you're not gonna feel like it, but I can't keep ignoring it myself. We've gone from doing it frequently to not, and I'm gonna be reverting to my teenage years and be needing to throw my jocks in the washer every morning!” He smirks, but you can see the embarrassment. You didn't want to embarrass him at all - you just wanted him to know you want to have some kind of intimacy with him, and he just needs to ask. You know how important physical intimacy is to him, in all formats, and you need him to feel comfortable asking for what he needs.

“Just ask, even if we try and it doesn't work out. You know I don't care about what you do, I never have. If you want to masturbate, Cillian, then do it, but I don't want you to think you can't ask for something either. That's all. I love you, and I want to make sure you just...let me know if you need something from me.” You say, hoping the awkwardness lifts.

He smiles, and it's cheeky and sweet, and he arches up over the counter top and purses his lips before you. You grant his kiss, and close your eyes when he - albeit teasingly - slips in the tongue. After a moment he draws back just enough to look at you clearly. “So I can have hand stuff then, yeah?” He grins.

You chuckle, “Yes, you can have hand stuff.” You shake your head as he drops back into the stool. It's quiet for a moment, and you watch him staring at you with that cheeky look still across his face. “Stop it!” You shake your head. “Come on, get that into you and we'll get going.. I want to hug her.”

He smiles brightly, all silliness dissolved. "Fight you for her." He winks.

You're surprised by the chaos in the small room when you arrive to see Clíodhna. There are noises, bodies, and faces you're not familiar with. For a moment, your heart catches as you fear that something has happened that they're about to inform you of. You look to your left, and you can see Cillian looks as concerned as you. You grab his hand and lace your fingers tightly in his. There's the calling out of numbers, and moving of people, and fast beeping machines; you hear words you've never heard before and immediately feel that fear grow. You walk forwards, letting the door close behind you both, and you're immediately approached by a young nurse. That slight catch in your chest becomes a fast beating that nearly deafens you as it floods your ears with rushing blood. You recognise the nurse as Imelda, and her expression chills your spine.

“Y/N, Cillian…” Imelda begins, holding out both hands towards you.

"Fuck," You shake your head slowly, “No, is she…”

“Y/N, Y/N… please, my love, she's stable, and she's settled. Okay?” Imelda says gently. “Clíodhna vomited, and it caused an aspiration - she has been given increased sedation, she's being supported with antibiotics now to ensure infection doesn't take hold, and her oxygen levels are being carefully monitored.”

“How?” You shake your head, “...the tubes…how can she…?” you can hardly control your breathing. “Cillian…I don't…?”

“What happened?” Cillian asks, calmer than you, but you can hear his voice wavering. His hand is tight around yours.

“It's just something that can occur, like any baby; she vomited on her feed slightly. Some of the vomit moved in the wrong direction and entered her respiratory system. She was immediately assisted, and the likelihood of anything ongoing is low, but to ensure she remains comfortable and she is properly cared for as needed, all the stops have been pulled out.” Imelda explains. “Due to the increased sedation, those smaller responses you've been seeing the last day or so will likely be less frequent, but I can promise you that she is stable, and she is being safely supported.”

You work your hand from Cillian's and shove your way through the people gathered around your daughter, fighting your way through to her incubator. If it's at all possible, she seems smaller now. She's less pink - instead, she seems paler all over - and her little spidery fingers are still and closed in. The number of pads on her chest have increased, and there's a new cannula in her tiny arm, that's been splinted and bound with bandage. You look back at Cillian and can't hold a single tear back. “Cill…” you shake your head, then look back in at your little girl.

“Cillian, it happens and she's being given every level of support possible. We have no reason to expect this to knock her back too far, or for too long at this point.” You hear Imelda behind you.

“The, um, the aspiration, that means she got sick…in-um into her lungs?” Cillian asks. “And the antibiotics will make sure that doesn't cause, what, an infection?”

“It'll prevent or treat any threat of aspiration pneumonia.” She answers.

“And long term?” He asks her and you can hear that waver again.

“Cillian…” Imelda placates.

“Long term?” He presses.

“A weakening of her respiratory system, infection, sepsis… but it's…” she says calmly, but sadly.

“Sepsis?” You look back over your shoulder and cut her off. “So if she has pneumonia now, will her lungs be damaged forever, if she even survives?” You ask, fear flooding your entire body.

“Please, Y/N, we can't jump to the worst case. She's being given antibiotics and increased oxygen, and we'll continue to keep a close eye to assess any signs of anything that causes concern.” Imelda says. “Sit with her, talk to her.” She encourages with a kind smile. “I'll fetch you both a cup of tea and if there is anything you need to ask, you can ask.”

Cillian comes up behind you and while he places a hand on your back, you can tell his focus is only on Clíodhna - and rightly so. Side by side, you stare into the incubator at your tiny girl. “She's gone so pale,” he whispers.

“I know.” You shake your head. “How can she… it's all tubes, how can she choke like that?”

“Babies get sick, Y/N.” He says, “I suppose she can't cough or whatever with that tube in her throat, she can't… I don't know, I don't…” he sighs. “We wait, and we fucking - we hope.” he draws his hand from your back and scrubs both of his hands across his face.

You look up at him. “Maybe we should be doing shifts, one here in the day, one here overnight?”

He drops his hands, “It wouldn't have stopped it, Y/N.” He says; it sounds snippy but his face is soft and sad. “She shouldn't be here, she's too small, and little things are big fucking things because of that. We just have to wait and see, and hope modern fucking medicine doesn't fail.” He moves closer to her tiny box of a bed. “What are you at, leanbh? Scaring the shit out of us. Don't be checking out on us now, you hear me? You're after fighting so fucking hard to get here. Don't be quitting that fight now.”

Your throat constricts as he speaks. “...why is she so pale?”

“Probably exhausted, and I suppose her breathing wasn't good. I don't know, Y/N.” He reaches back his arm and wraps it around your shoulders. “Do not shut down, you hear me? We can't do that now.”

“She's too small to fight pneumonia, Cillian. And fucking sepsis? That takes adults, Cillian! How could she survive something like that?” You shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. You press yourself into his side. “She's too small for this. It isn't fair.”

He drags you into his body tighter, “I know.” He whispers, and his voice sounds strained and emotional. He kisses the top of your head and it feels grounding, but it fixes nothing. “We're right here, leanbh.” He says quietly. “Mammy and Daddy, we're right here. Don't you stop fighting, you hear me? Little fighter from the get go, don't stop now.”

#cillian murphy #my fic #my fic: we got issues #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction #reader fic #y/n fic #female reader #female y/n #reader x Cillian Murphy #female reader x Cillian Murphy #female y/n x Cillian Murphy #y/n x Cillian Murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian x y/n

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heartavenue · 1 day ago

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After the Storm

'"Cause after the storm's when the flowers bloom

I've been thinking about making this post for a while now, and it's a pretty day outside, so why not sit and write it? This is one of my favorite songs ever, and it helps me get through my dark moments, so I thought why not share it with others!

So if you need a hero (if you need a hero) Just look in the mirror (just look in the mirror) No one's gonna save you now So you better save yourself

PSA: to all of the overconsumers in the community! What did Kali say? No one is going to save you, no shiftokker, no blog on shiftblr, no shifttwt acc (it's dead so no one is definitely going to save you there), no youtube, NO ONE! Because at the end of the day the only person who can shift you is YOU! So you better save yourself

And everybody's hurting Everybody's going through it But you just can't give up now 'Cause you gotta save yourself (Yeah, I gotta hang on)

Now, this right here is important to say: Everyone, please do not neglect your mental health for the sake of shifting/manifesting. Your feelings are VALID! Don't ever feel guilty because you are disappointed, anxious, or upset about anything! Back at the beginning of my shifting journey, I wanted to shift so badly that I became a shell of a person.

In fact there are still times where I spiral and I let my circumstances get to me and that is okay! Whatever you're feeling right now just know that I see you, I hear you, and I sympathize with you. You are so special and you are so important, the law will always be here. Shifting will always be here, make yourself your priority. Take a break if you need to, take a walk, read a book, listen to your favorite song, or watch your favorite movie. Do whatever you need to do, but please take care of yourself!

The sun'll come out Nothing good ever comes easy I know times are rough But winners don't quit So don't you give up The sun'll come out But we've been struggling endless days Someday we'll find the love 'Cause after the storm's When the flowers bloom

But just remember the sun'll come out! Now the next line I'm going to have to disagree with Kali here, good things do come easy. Whatever you can possibly imagine comes easy. Just like this verse says although times can get rough winners don't quit, so don't you give up. You have already won the race, you've crossed the finish line.

Imagine you're running a race and you were the first one to run through that ribbon, reporters come up to you asking you all of types of questions, you have just received a 1st place medal and trophy. Now are you going to continuously ask yourself if you've won the race? No because you're already a winner. Know that. Accept that.

I know it's hard But do you even really try? Maybe you could understand When all you had to do was ask And just open your mind When everything is passing by And all you had to do was try Yeah, all you had to was try

The hardest part about shifting/manifesting is being disciplined and being consistent. It took me four years to finally understand the law/ . Now I don't like the word "try" because I don't "try" to do anything, I just do. But for a lack of better words just try, try to discipline yourself, try to stay consistent, try to find what resonates with you. Don't give up. Don't succumb the the illusory ways of the physical.

#I love Kali uchis #reality shifting #desired reality #shiftblr #loassumption #shifting realities #law of assumption #manifesting #shifting motivation #loablr #shifters

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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 24 hours ago

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my lovely, please ⌛⌛⌛ some snippets!

I GOTCHU BB

⌛ #1 Buck starts saying what he means!

“I had hoped that you'd want to try again,” Tommy says, and Buck nods vehemently. “Now that the competition—”

Buck’s hand is over Tommy's mouth, and they're both looking at each other with wide eyes at the gesture. He's only done this when they're joking, but this isn't one of those times.

“There's no competition,” Buck says, taking his hand away just in time to see a little twist to Tommy's lips that ignite that anger and hurt again. He steps back and swallows hard. “Who could compete with how I feel about you? Huh? Because from where I'm standing, every single day since you left has been hell for me. I thought I'd gone through this before, but I didn't have to start using coping mechanisms to deal with Abby leaving me. I didn't cause an actual flour shortage at a grocery store because of her or anyone else except for you. I haven't ever been afraid to pick up my phone because I can't trust myself not to call someone day in and day out for months. So who the fuck is your competition, Tommy?”

⌛ #2 A few minutes later after confessions

“So now I have two questions for you,” Buck says, stepping back to hop up on the counter. “One: what are you doing Saturday? And two: I know you probably spent, like, thirteen bucks on those eggs, but do you think we could reheat them?”

Tommy steps between his thighs and looks at Buck’s eyes and then his lips. “Why? What’d you have in mind?”

“For the first or second question?”

“Either. Both.”

Buck crosses his wrists behind Tommy's neck and feels his belly flutter when Tommy's hands go to his waist. “Thought we could do dinner. Not Micelli’s until we know there's not a curse there, two bad dates feels like a sign. And I really want to have ‘I just told someone I love them’ sex.”

Tommy smiles, moving closer until their chests touch on every exhale. “There's no such thing as curses, but fine. I was thinking of that Thai place by my house, since I finally got to try it and it's really good. And most people call that ‘making love.’”

The term always seemed cheesy and dumb to Buck, but what does he know? Tommy's the romcom expert. “There is such thing, that sounds great. And, fine: Tommy, will you make love to me on my bare mattress on the floor?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Tommy says, pulling him close and smiling into their next kiss.

⌛ #3 They just had sex and Buck thinks they should celebrate!

Buck grins and raises his arms above his head, his wrists crossing over each other on his pillow, because it always makes Tommy's pupils dilate a little. “Sounds like something worth celebrating. Got anything for that?”

His boyfriend's incredulity shifts to exasperation and then mild embarrassment. “Saw that, did you?”

“I did,” he confirms happily. Actually, it's another piece of evidence that he either had the world's most lucid prophetic dream or he somehow went back in time. So he should maybe be more concerned. But Tommy's still inside him, and his head is shaking and he's grinning and there's deep lines around his eyes. He'll worry about it later.

“That's supposed to be for mimosas.” Tommy kisses his nose and carefully, carefully pulls out. “But I'll open it now. Do you have any champagne flutes in an easily accessible box?”

Buck snorts softly. “I don't think I even have them in an inaccessible box.”

Tommy hoists himself to his feet and walks unsteadily toward the door. “I'll get you some. As a housewarming gift.”

He grabs his tank top to wipe himself off and grins. “Pretty sure you already got me a gift. Twice.”

“Actually,” Tommy says, smirking over his shoulder. “Three gifts.”

“Three gifts,” Buck agrees, because there had been that blowjob to take the pressure off the night before. Or the night before that? Whatever.

He lays on the bed and makes a face when he realizes he has cum leaking out of him onto a bare mattress and feels retroactively guilty for the at least three times he'd done this same thing to his exes.

#bucktommy #my wip

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pinkcelestialstar · 20 hours ago

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Studying for exams has stressed me out so here to relax/procrastinate :')

Drunk on love....and tequila

Stupid/ Silly fluff

Bada was out with her friends tonight, you knew she was most likely to get drunk and cause chaos.

In the dimly lit club, surrounded by her girlfriends, Bada lets loose - dancing wildly, laughing loudly, completely carefree.

As the night wears on, Bada becomes increasingly drunk. Her friends start cheering her on as she dances on a table, her long hair disheveled, "Who's the prettiest?" They ask in chorus.

Bada always has the same answer, "My girlfriend! She's the prettiest!" she slurs out, before falling off the table and into her friends' arms, giggling uncontrollably.

Just then you walk in, shaking your head at her falling off the table and head towards them. You suspected that she'd get this drunk so you thought to pick her up if she was too drunk, and that's exactly what happened.

The moment Bada sees you approaching, her expression shifts to one of pure adoration. Despite being drunk, she manages to stand upright amidst the laughter of her friends. She stumbles a bit but catches herself, then loudly announces, "My baby's here!"

"Baby? Why are you so drunk?!" You ask concerned.

Bada giggles uncontrollably at your question, her eyes sparkling. "Cause I'm-celebrating! Girls night out! Best night ever!"

You catch her as she's about to fall. "Dummy, so you're drinking your brains out?"

Bada laughs, leaning into you as you catch her. "Maybe! But don't worry, baby. I'm too loyal to do anything stupid." She tries to stand straight but ends up resting her head on your shoulder instead. "You know I only have eyes for you."

"I know that, silly, but you're gonna be having a very bad hangover tomorrow" you say as you hold her.

She lets out another laugh, nuzzling closer to you. "Worth it! Worth it!" Her voice drops to a drunken whisper. "Besides, who's gonna take care of me tomorrow? My pretty girlfriend, that's who."

You wrap your arms around her waist guiding her out "Now, come on, let's get you out of here first before you pass out or throw up on me"

"Mmm, spoilsport." She pouts slightly but wraps her arms around your neck for support. Her friends laugh and shout, "Call us if you need us, babe!" and "Make sure she drinks water!" You nod at them and guide Bada carefully outside the club.

While walking, she leans heavily against you, occasionally pressing drunken kisses on your neck that make you both laugh. "You're my favorite person in the whole world, you know that?" Her words are slurred but sincere.

You open the passenger seat door and get her in. "Yeah, yeah, you baby. You're my favorite too," you say as you secure the seat belt on her before walking to the driver's seat.

She hums happily, watching you through half-lidded eyes. You're like an angel to her when she's drunk - taking care of her, not getting mad at her drunken behavior, she thinks go herself.

Leaning her head against the window, Bada watches the city lights blur by, a tipsy smile on her face. "You know, if the world ended tonight, I'd be fine. Cause I just told everyone my girlfriend is the prettiest. Perfect last words, right?"

You slap her thigh lightly "Why would you talk like that, dummy?"

She giggles, rubbing her thigh where you slapped. "Ow! No hitting a poor girl!" She sticks her tongue out playfully. "But seriously, I'm just saying... if aliens invaded or something, my last thought would be 'damn, she's cute'."

You shake your head at her drunk words but your eyes filled with love for her, "Stop being so melancholic"

She giggles again, shifting in her seat to face you better. "Am not!" Her expression becomes strangely sentimental, the alcohol making her emotions more intense. "I'm just expressing my genuine feelings. Isn't falling asleep thinking about how much you love your girlfriend a good way to go?"

"Stop..." you voice wavers a little as you take her hand in yours, intertwining your fingers.

Bada squeezes your hand tightly, leaning towards you as much as the seatbelt allows. "Fine, fine. No more apocalypse talk." She mimics locking her lips and throwing away the key, which makes her giggle.

You kiss the back of her hand "my baby..."

Her heart melts at the affectionate gesture. She leans back in her seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, a soft smile on her face. "I love you, you know that?" Her voice is barely a whisper, the alcohol making her feel unusually mushy.

"I love you too, my silly puppy"

She grins goofily, her mind slightly tipsy. She mumbles to herself, then suddenly sits up straight, watching your profile intently. She unbuckles her seatbelt slowly, carefully. "Baby?"

"What are you doing?" You ask as you glance at her while still driving.

She leans over, trying to be careful but wobbling slightly due to her drunkenness. She presses a soft, sloppy kiss on your cheek. "Just wanted to kiss my girlfriend." She giggles and sits back down, buckling her seatbelt again.

You chuckle, blushing "I swear you're gonna melt me physically"

She giggles again, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She's proud of herself for making you laugh and blush. "That's the plan, isn't it? Melt you so you're all soft and lovey-dovey with me forever." She pouts playfully.

You hum, nodding, "I think you're plan's working."

Bada leans her head against the window again, watching the city lights with a dreamy expression.

You smile as you see her, your heart fluttering and you just want to hold her.

She looks at you through the reflection on the window allowing her to see your smile without you knowing she's looking. She makes a mental note to draw this moment - the soft smile, the gentle eyes behind the wheel, the city lights reflecting on the glass.

You finally pulled over at your shared apartment.

As soon as the car stops, Bada unbuckles her seatbelt and throws her arms around your neck, pulling herself closer to you. She giggles drunkenly. "Home~" She nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent. "I love our home..."

You giggle. "Hey, hey, calm down, puppy. Let's get you inside first before you tackle me and start demanding cuddles"

She laughs, pulling back slightly but keeping her arms around your neck. "Okay, okay." She tries to climb out of the car but wobbles, nearly falling. You catch her, and she grins at you.

She wraps her arm around your shoulders tightly, resting her head on yours as you walk. You manage to get her to the door. She fumbles with her keys, dropping them once before successfully unlocking the door.

She plops down onto the couch, kicking off her shoes and wiggling her toes. She pats the seat next to her, inviting you to sit down. "Come here, baby." She grins, her eyes sparkling with drunkenness and affection.

"You're so drunk, don't wanna shower or something? Shall I bring you something to eat-" you ask.

She cuts you off with a dramatic pout, her bottom lip sticking out. "Nooo~ I just wanna cuddle with my girlfriend and watch stupid movies until I pass out." She pats the couch again more insistently. "Please?"

"Fine fine, atleast let's get you changed" you agree.

She giggles as you help her up, wrapping her arms around your neck again. She allows you to guide her to the bedroom and helps her change into her favorite oversized t-shirt and shorts. She looks up at you, smiling brightly. "You're the best..."

She flops down on the bed dramatically, holding her arms out towards you. "Cuddles~ Now~" Her not-so-sober state makes her extra clingy and affectionate. She reaches for your hand to pull you down onto the bed with her. "I'm cold..."

You laugh and join her on the bed.

She immediately snuggles up against you, her head resting on your chest. She wraps an arm around your waist and a leg over your hips, holding you tightly. "Mmmm~ warm and comfy." She sighs contentedly, her eyes fluttering closed.

You stroke her hair and she hums happily, her face buried against your chest. She nuzzles into the touch, seeking more affection. Her breathing slowly evens out as she drifts off to sleep, her arms and leg tightening around you possessively. "Love you,"

"Love you too, my pretty little octopus"

She doesn't respond, already deeply asleep. Her breathing is soft and steady, her body completely relaxed against yours. She looks adorable with her hair messy and her face flushed from the alcohol. She's practically glued to you, her limbs tangled around you like an octopus.

You hold her as you fall asleep, too, only to wake up in the middle of the night to her pouting at you, "What's wrong, baby?"

She pouts up at you, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she tries to focus on you in the dark. She whines softly, her arms tightening around you. "You said you wont marry me...." She nuzzles into your neck, huffing dramatically.

"What? When did I say that?" You ask her confused.

She pokes your chest with a small frown, her words slightly slurred. "In my dream... you said no when I proposed..."

She makes a sad puppy noise, burying her face in your neck. "And then I woke up feeling all sad..." She pouts dramatically but keeps her voice soft. "You should just marry me now to make me happy..."

"Baby...." you stroke her hair laughing.

"Mmmph." She continues pouting dramatically but melts into your touch. Despite her complaining, she's secretly loving how sweet you're being with her in the middle of the night. "At least tell me you'll consider it..." She smacks a kiss on your cheek.

You laugh at her being adorable, "of course I would marry you, my love. We're going to be wives someday" you peck her lips, assuring her.

Her face breaks into a sleepy smile. She nods eagerly, her arms tightening around you. "Mhm... wives... I like that." She nuzzles back into your neck, her voice getting softer as she starts to drift back off to sleep. "My wife..."

You chuckle, "my baby..." And continue to hold her close as she fell asleep.

She drifts off to sleep again with a satisfied smile, murmuring your name softly. In her sleep, she continues to hold onto you tightly, as if afraid you'll disappear if she lets go. Her dreams that night are filled with wedding dresses, flowers, and you walking down the aisle together.

Morning. You wake up to find yourself practically smothered by your girlfriend. She's thrown an arm and a leg over you, her face buried against your neck. You hear her stomach grumble loudly, making you laugh softly.

"Good morning, my giantess" you boop her nose.

She stirs slightly. She mumbles into your neck, "Mmmm... warm..." She lifts her head slightly, blinking her eyes open to find you underneath her. "You're squished..."

"Yes, you squished me," you say, chuckling.

She giggles, realizing how much she's sprawled on top of you. She attempts to lift herself but ends up just squishing you further with her efforts. "Oops!" She collapses back down, burying her face in embarrassment against your shoulder. "Sorry, not sorry..."

You laugh as you wrap your arms around her, "hangover?"

She groans softly, "Yes... my head hurts..." She nuzzles into your neck to hide her face. "Hurts..." She whines softly, her stomach grumbling again loudly. She freezes suddenly, "God, did you hear that?"

You laugh, "Fine fine, I'll make you breakfast. Why don't you go take a hot shower while I'm at it?"

She perks up at the mention of breakfast, "You're the best!" She plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek before rolling off of you and stumbling towards the bathroom. "I'll be quick!" She calls over her shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.

You make her breakfast, the way she likes and arrange them on the tray before walking back to your room.

As you're humming your way to the bedroom, "Baby, breakfast is ready-" as you got it, you almost dropped the tray, gasping.

You see her on one knee with a velvet box in hand, you quickly place the tray on the nightstand. "Baby...what..."

She bites her lip, steeling her nerves. She opens the box to reveal a beautiful ring with a giant diamond - something she'd saved up for months to buy. "Will you marry me?"

You gasp again.

Her eyes fill with tears as she waits for your response, the ring box shaking in her hands. "I know it's sudden... and maybe I should've planned something better... but I just can't wait anymore. I love you so much and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I can't....I can't wait!"

You still process everything as you know one of you were gonna do it any way but her doing it this soon was so unexpected.

Her heart is pounding in her chest as she waits for your response. She looks up at you with hopeful, tear-filled eyes. She's put everything she has into this moment, and she's terrified of being rejected. "P-please say something... Anything"

You cry and throw yourself to her "yes yes yes!! Lee Bada!! I will marry you!!"

She bursts into happy tears, her hands shaking as she slides the ring onto your finger. As you cry together, she pulls you into a tight embrace. She was grinning through her tears. "You... you actually said yes..."

"Of course, dummy"

She laughs, wiping away her tears. "I was so nervous. I thought you might say no." She looks at the ring on your finger, her eyes sparkling with joy. "It fits perfectly." She takes your hand and admires the ring, then pulls you into a deep kiss.

You tackle her on the floor, kissing her back.

She giggles, kissing you back passionately. As you both roll around on the floor, she breaks away, panting. "Wait... wait..." She tries to catch her breath, her mind racing with new thoughts. "Does this mean we're getting married soon?"

"Of course, get married, adopt dogs and make babies, everything soon!!" You say excitedly.

She laughs, "God, you're so cute. I love you." She nuzzles your neck, then pulls back suddenly, "Wait..." She realizes something and laughs again. "You do realize we're lesbians, right? We can't make babies..."

"Shut up. Don't ruin the moment" you tackle her back on the floor.

She squeals, dissolving into giggles as she squirms underneath you. "Okay, okay! Geez, aggressive much?" Despite her teasing words, she wraps her arms around you tightly, smiling up at you with pure adoration. "I love you, crazy woman."

Just some stupid shit I came up with studying +_+..

#bada lee #bada lee x reader #bada lee x y/n #lesbian #bada lee swf2 #bada lee fluff #street woman fighter 2 #swf2 #lgbt

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salty-autistic-writer · 4 hours ago

Text

Hold a little longer and believe I'm here to stay

Summary: Buck knows he's in love with Tommy but has a feeling that Tommy is keeping something from him. The inevitable confrontation reveals scars and shows they will have to fight for their happiness together. (WIP, Tw: Suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced suicide)

Buck wakes up to déjà vu and lingering frustration.

The other side of the bed is empty. Only the crumpled sheets and pillows confirm he didn’t sleep alone. Buck rolls on his back and blinks up at the ceiling, inhaling the scent of coffee and scrambled eggs. He can hear the sound of drawers being opened and closed. Dishes rattle.

Tommy is making breakfast again.

He always makes breakfast when they meet and stumble to the bedroom. When they have passionate sex, where neither of them is talking, apart from gasped-out names or moaned curses. When Buck falls asleep warm and satisfied, only to wake up like this. Wondering what this is all about. Feeling a little lost in his own feelings.

Sure. They did talk about … them. Or they tried at least.

Buck apologised. He had words prepared. They hurt. But he said them anyway. Because the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Tommy even more.

“I’m sorry for what I said and how I said it. I didn’t want to hurt you. That night … it was amazing. I really missed you. And I would love to see you again. Like. Regularly. But, uh, if you don’t want that, I would understand that,” he added quickly. “Really. You can tell me to get lost. It’s okay. I would get it.” Please don’t. Please don’t leave me again.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “Okay,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee (Buck got it right this time.)

“Okay?” Buck repeated, baffled. “Just … okay?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you to get lost, Evan. How would I find you again?” Tommy asked, his eyes sparkling. “We can’t be sure Ravi will always be there to reunite us.”

Buck chuckled breathlessly, feeling immensely relieved.

They smiled at each other.

And then they had amazing sex again. Not able to keep their hands and mouths off each other. Not able to let go.

It happened. It happened again. Turns into a hungry routine. “Are you free?” becomes code.

The sex is great. The breakfasts too. Feels like being taken care of. Buck sighs, chewing on his lip and fidgeting with a loose thread of the blanket while bacon sizzles in the kitchen.

What they have right now feels good.

Buck doesn’t want to mess it up again. But … He can’t fight the feeling that something is missing.

Words. It’s unsaid words that haunt him. Tommy’s. Because Buck talks plenty. He always does. Tommy … Does the listening. And the reacting. Buck’s throat tightens when he tries to remember if he learned anything new about Tommy lately.

No. And if Buck happens to ask something, Tommy finds a way to avoid the question or throw it back at Buck.

The more Buck thinks about it, the more it startles him. If they aren’t really talking, what are they? Are they friends with benefits? Buck likes sex. Loves it. But … He wants more. Because it’s Tommy. He wants more Tommy.

Tommy is different.

There are so many things Buck wants to say when he looks at Tommy, but he rarely knows how to put all his feelings into coherent words.

Buck knows he’s in love. This is unlike anything he felt for any other person in his life. A desperate kind of craving that bites into his heart and makes his stomach ache when Tommy is not there. That makes him feel lightheaded when he gets to see and touch Tommy. He knows he wants Tommy in every way possible. It’s a constant longing that sets him ablaze.

But the lack of talking … It starts to nag at him. Feels like a little shard of glass that slowly twists its way into his flesh. He involuntarily begins to wonder. Does Tommy not trust him enough to be open about what he thinks and feels? Does he not feel safe enough to share? The thought burns.

Sure, Buck does know a lot about Tommy’s past, family, and hobbies already. But it’s been mostly casually thrown in information. Added to something Buck said.

He knows he has to confront Tommy about his worries. But … he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to disturb the nice routine they have right now. Talks like this. They have the potential to turn into fights. Buck’s stomach twists at the mere thought.

You know you want more, though, a voice reminds him. You know you don’t only want sex and breakfast. You want to be with this man. Really be with him. You want all of him. You want to wake up to the sight of him still sleeping by your side. You want to hear all about what makes him happy and what makes him scared. You want to share his dreams and nightmares. Don’t you?

Yes. Even if Tommy might not believe that yet, it’s true. Buck knows it.

And he thinks it’s finally time to make his point clear.

Tommy looks deliciously soft in the kitchen, his hair tousled and his cheeks stubbled. He’s sipping coffee out of one of Buck’s mugs - he sees it’s one that Maddie gifted him, with a smiling dog on it - and he thinks he should gift Tommy a mug too, maybe one with a helicopter and some funny quote on it, like that one he saw in a shop a few weeks ago: Helicopter pilots get it up faster.

Buck chuckles to himself.

Tommy’s eyes are distant. It looks like he’s deep in thought, but when he sees Buck entering the room, they light up. A smile spreads on Tommy’s face. it’s the kind of smile that makes Buck feel goey inside.

“Hey, did you sleep well?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah.” Buck smiles and stretches. “You know I would feel even better if we cuddled in the morning.”

Tommy smiles, looking a little surprised. “Yeah? Hm. I think I can do that. Next time.”

“Or maybe you can just … stay,” Buck suggests, walking up to Tommy until he can kiss him. Tommy’s lips taste like his too-sweet coffee. He hums happily when Buck puts his hands on his hips, and Buck’s chest glows. See? This is how much I love you. “I’m not moving in, Evan,” Tommy says when they part, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

“I’m not asking you to,” Buck says quickly. “I … I want to talk, though.”

Tommy’s expression shifts from amused to guarded. “Talk?” He repeats, clearly trying to sound casual.

“Yeah.” Buck already feels like he’s walking on eggshells. That’s probably not a good thing. He sighs and scratches the back of his head. “Okay. This is even more difficult than I thought. Can we … Can we maybe sit down?”

Tommy frowns. He places his mug on the kitchen counter. It’s not empty yet. “I don’t know, Evan,” he says. “If you want to have a serious talk, you need to wait longer. I just had my first coffee. The caffeine hasn’t started to hit yet.”

He starts to turn away, eyeing the breakfast instead of looking at Buck.

Wow. This is going so well. Not.

Buck can’t help it. He feels a spark of anger. “Tommy. Why do I have the feeling that you’re keeping something from me?”

Tommy looks at him, brows furrowing. “What? I’m not. Why would I? That’s ridiculous …”

So very believable.

Buck crosses his arms over his chest. “Why do you never talk about yourself then? You’re avoiding every question. Do you really think I don’t notice that? If we are talking, between several rounds of mindblowing sex, we are talking about me and my life!”

“Well. You are interesting to me,” Tommy says, raising a brow, trying to get out of this uncomfortable situation with a joke. Of course he does.

Buck shakes his head. “No. This is different. You’re hiding from me. Why?”

He can pinpoint the moment Tommy decides to pull his walls back up and end the conversation. His eyes turn cold, and his lips press into a thin line. “I should leave,” he says quietly.

Another deja vu. This one burns like a slap in the face.

"Oh, really?" Buck asks, irritated. "What is it this time? A shift? A doctor's appointment? Or did you just remember you are meeting some nameless person in some nameless bar? Come on, Tommy. There's no reason to leave. There never was a reason to leave. You’re scared of something. What is it? I deserve to know!”

Tommy's face remains closed off. He's already taking a step towards the door. Trying to bolt again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Evan.”

"You do know you can't run away every time we are about to have a serious conversation, right?" Buck asks, his voice getting louder. Suddenly, he’s not willing to give up. Not this time. "That’s not how a relationship is supposed to work. You ask me to try again, but you can’t even be honest with me? Do you really trust me so little? What is it that you can't tell me?”

"You don't want to know this about me, Evan," Tommy says after a moment of hesitation, his walls cracking for a volatile moment, pain flickering in his eyes before he tries his best to look indifferent again.

Buck feels hurt. "What are you talking about? I'm in love with you, Tommy, I want to know everything about you."

Oh. This was not how and when he wanted to say it.

Tommy freezes. He stares at Buck, incredulously. "You're ... in love with me?" He echoes, blinking.

Buck smiles weakly. "Well. Yeah. I thought that's kind of obvious, to be honest. Can we talk now? Please?" he pleads, reaching for Tommy. Wanting to pull him back. Away from every door in this house.

Tommy hesitates. He clenches and unclenches his hands a few times, eyes flickering everywhere. He looks like he can’t decide what to do. To run. Or to stay.

Buck feels increasingly helpless. The stretching silence stings. Burns. Nothing he says seems to be enough for Tommy to believe him. Do his words mean nothing to Tommy? What else is he supposed to do?

“I just want to understand,” he says, his throat tightening with a bitter combination of sadness and anger. “But I start to feel like you don’t trust me at all, like there is still an invisible wall between us. I don’t know what I can do to make you believe that I -”

“I was thinking about killing myself,” Tommy blurts.

Buck startles. “What?”

“I was thinking about killing myself,” Tommy repeats, blankly. “At the bar. I was thinking about it before … before Ravi approached me. I called in sick that day because … I wasn’t sure if I could show up at work and operate a helicopter with those … those thoughts I had. And no one at the station can know about this. Because … what if they decide I’m not stable enough to fly? What if … I don’t know if I would be able to deal with that. Not on top of … everything else.”

Tommy stops, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and fearful, his body tense like a bowstring. Still ready to run.

Buck exhales shakily, staring at Tommy. This … was not what he expected. “Tommy. Fuck.”

Tommy looks away, his jaw working. “Yeah.”

“Are you … are you thinking about it now?” Buck asks, stunned. Shocked. Scared.

“No,” Tommy says softly. He sighs, and his body relaxes a bit. He finally walks away from the door, sinking on a chair instead, suddenly looking like every ounce of energy had left him.

“Ever since we started to see each other again, the thoughts aren't so loud anymore,” he says quietly.

Buck swallows. “Good.” Let me talk to you forever then.

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s kind of ironic, really. I … I think it’s depression. There’s some family history. Uh. My mother was depressed. My uncle too. I barely remember him. I was still a child when he … when he died. He was funny. I liked him. I remember he was laughing a lot. Always smiling, playing pranks, cracking jokes. One day, he went for a walk. And never returned. He was found two days later. He jumped from a bridge and drowned in a river.”

“Jesus,” Buck supports himself against the kitchen counter, his legs suddenly feeling weak.

Now that he has started to talk, Tommy doesn’t seem to be able to stop, his eyes blank.

“I remember. My mother, sitting somewhere and just staring into the void, a cigarette forgotten in her hand, ash dropping down on the table. She didn’t notice. She never noticed a thing. I looked at her and I said to myself that I wouldn’t end up like her. Then I looked at my Dad, with his sour breath and his red eyes, and I thought I wouldn’t be like him either. Now look at me. Here I am. I was so desperate that night that I went to a bar alone to drink and forget. But also to remember.”

“Remember?” Buck asks, his mouth dry. “Remember how alive you make me feel,” Tommy says with a sad smile.

Jesus. Buck shivers. Images haunt his mind. He has to ask. “Tommy … If Ravi hadn’t seen you that night and brought you over. What - what would have happened? Would you have hurt yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy admits, running a shaky hand over his face.

Somehow, that makes this even scarier.

Tommy taps a finger to his head. “You know, sometimes everything is just … grey in there. It’s filled with grey fog and I can’t think. I can’t feel. Everything seems empty. Pointless. Once that grey fog hits, I’m getting bone tired and there’s no way to get rid of that kind of exhaustion. I’m lying on the couch and I can’t find the energy to move. Every breath is agony. I think about my life, and it feels like nothing I do matters. That I don’t matter. That everyone will always leave me. Because I’m damaged beyond repair.

And at the same time, I’m hating myself for still trying to be here with you and allow myself to be happy at least for a while, because … You don’t deserve this. You’re so kind. And loving. I'm being selfish for doing this. For ... for using you to feel something. You deserve someone good. Someone who will make you happy.”

“Tommy,” Buck says quietly, feeling tears filling his eyes. “I’m always happy when we are together. Did you … did you think like this the whole time?”

“I tried not to let you see too much of it,” Tommy admits. "I'm sorry."

“You mean you were playing a role. Wearing a mask. Because you thought if you open up and show me, I would leave you?” Buck asks, stunned. I would never do that.

Tommy swallows heavily. He blinks wetness out of his eyes. Starts to get up. “I’m sorry, Evan. I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. I should go now.”

No.

“Don’t,” Buck breathes. Begs. “Don’t leave. Not today. Stay.”

Tommy looks at him. Smiles sadly. “See? That’s exactly why I hesitated to tell you. Now, every time you look at me, you will remember. You will remember what I told you. You will wonder what self-destructive thoughts my mind is cooking up right now. And you will look at me like I’m broken.”

“I don’t think you’re broken,” Buck says quietly.

Tommy scoffs. “Come on.”

“No, really. I’m worried. I’m scared. I’m sad. But I … I don’t think you’re broken. You lived a life before we met. I did too. I’m glad you trusted me with this,” Buck says. “And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. I can’t say I know what you feel. But I have my own experiences with trauma and thinking that I’m never enough, no matter what I do. It hurts. It hurts even more if you think you have to deal with it alone. But … You don’t have to. I’m right here.”

“Evan.” Tommy looks away. Closes his eyes. “Don’t do this. I’m not your responsibility.”

“But you are,” Buck insists. “I believe that loving someone means to love them wholly, fully. Do you really think I would only love your smile, your laughter, your happy thoughts, and your breakfasts? No. This is what I was looking for, Tommy. I want to love all of you. I mean it. Because you’re the person I want to spend my life with.”

Please. You have to believe me.

“Evan,” Tommy breathes, wringing his hands. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Because I can’t promise you that it will get better. I can’t. I’ve been trying to fight this when we were together. But look what happened! Look what I did to us.”

“We are here now,” Buck says softly. “We are here. Talking. Sharing. And you see. You see me now. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. And I will stay. We will figure this out. Because this is something worth fighting for. I know it.”

Tommy smiles weakly. “I don’t know how much fight is left in me, Evan. I really don’t know.”

He looks so scared.

Buck wants to sob. He wants to rage. He wants to punch the walls open and find whoever hurt Tommy in the past. He does none of these things. Instead, he opens his arms and says, “Come here.”

Tommy hesitates. His wide eyes are swimming in unshed tears.

And Buck has never seen Tommy like this. It’s scary. It makes him want to cry too. But it also makes him want to shield Tommy from the world and the dark thoughts in his mind. So many things make sense now. In a horrible way.

Silence lingers. The moment stretches. But finally, Tommy gets up and closes the distance between them, stepping into the embrace and leaning his forehead against Buck’s shoulder.

Buck wraps his arms around Tommy, pulling him as close as possible.

He can feel Tommy start to tremble in his arms. Can feel the tension in his body. It feels like he’s fighting. Fighting himself. Fighting the demons in his head. Fighting the urge to break down.

“Let go,” Buck says, kissing Tommy’s head. “You can let go. I got you, Tommy. I got you.”

Tommy makes a choked noise in the back of his throat.

His body shudders, then relaxes. And he starts to cry. Starts to sob. They shake him. Going through him like waves.

Buck holds Tommy, his own tears running down his face. They will figure this out, he thinks. Hopes. Somehow. They will figure this all out.

And they will be okay.

#bucktommy #tevan #bucktommy fanfic #tommy kinard #evan buckley

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thisgirlnamedblusy · 13 hours ago

Note

Ciao, blusy! 😊

I think this idea might be a bit triggering, so you can totally ignore it if you want, but I just thought of it and had to share! What if Mother Miranda kidnaps the Reader because she thinks they know who the perfect vessel for Rose could be, but they really don’t have a clue?

So, after asking a bunch of questions and getting no answers, Miranda gets super mad and hands the Reader over to Donna to lock them in the basement. Miranda drops by every now and then, trying to get the Reader to talk, but when they keep quiet, she loses it and tortures them. After she’s done, she tells Donna to do the same when she's gone.

Donna hesitates at first, but eventually decides to take care of the Reader after Miranda leaves the mansion. This whole cycle keeps happening—Miranda tortures the Reader, they don’t know anything, then Donna comes in to help afterward.

But one time, Miranda totally runs out of patience and goes harder on the Reader than ever before. Donna can’t handle it, so she finally steps in and convinces Miranda that the Reader really doesn’t know anything. After that, she takes extra care of the Reader and all that good stuff!

Yesss!!!! Sorry about the delay and thank you for your request!!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))))

Hopeless

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, slightly dark themes, hurt & comfort, fluff...

Word count: 7,514

Summary: You are trapped in a nightmare and no one was going to save you...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

“She's a stubborn little bird,” the blonde commented with a sinister smile, glancing sideways at the other woman accompanying you, the one dressed entirely in black.

“I don’t...” you murmured.

“Shut up!” the woman dressed as a priestess, the woman who had kidnapped you a few days ago, shrieked. “If you're not going to tell me what I want to know, remain silent.”

The other woman looked at the witch briefly, but you couldn't tell how, since a strange black veil covered her face.

You knew little about where you were at that moment. You remembered the cold, an impressive mansion next to a waterfall, a portrait you could barely make out, and finally the darkness and dampness of a basement.

At least it wasn't the kind of cage that woman Miranda had locked you in for days, but of course, you were aware that your situation hadn't improved at all.

“Ugh...” Miranda sighed, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. “Donna, I guess I can trust you.”

The lady in black nodded slowly, without saying a word. All you could do was watch, instinctively protect yourself, and slide to the floor. Trying to escape wasn't an option; you had marks on your arm to prove it.

The veiled woman didn't move; she stood before you, like a stone statue. You didn't know for sure, but you had the feeling those hidden eyes were watching you.

The priestess moved forward, leaning over you as you shielded yourself with your arms.

“You're lucky I have important things to do than make you talk, little bird,” Miranda whispered to you, tilting her head. “Or rather… You're almost lucky,” she murmured with a terrifying laugh, sitting up and addressing the woman in black again. “Fine, Donna… Keep her alive, will you?”

The lady nodded slightly again, and a cold draft told you that your kidnapper had moved away, causing you to lower your arms. The woman leaned toward the witch, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

“Of course you won't let me down, my dear,” the blonde said. “Well, I have to go, and I'll tell you again: As much as you'd like to play with her... don't kill her, okay? And you, little bird,” she whispered, approaching you again. “Don't force poor Donna to disobey me, will you? She doesn't like rude dolls.”

With a wide smile, the kidnapper turned around, leaving the dark room, leaving you alone with the unknown, silent lady.

The sound of the elevator told you she had left, and your heart calmed slightly, at least until your gaze fell on the strange woman again.

The silence was somehow reassuring, but uncomfortable. That lady in black stood motionless, her eyes probably fixed on you. For a moment, you thought you felt some relief, but the words of that woman, Mother Miranda, echoed in your head.

“Please...” you sighed softly, keeping your gaze on her. “Please help me, that woman has kidnapped me.”

The lady didn't move, but she turned her head towards you, showing she was listening. Of course, there was no response.

“Please, I shouldn't be here, I...” you insisted, standing up, but keeping your distance from that Donna lady. “I haven't done anything to deserve this.”

Once again, silence reigned in the dark basement.

“I've been locked in this place for days. I'm hungry and thirsty. Please, I beg you, set me free,” you pleaded, clasping your hands together.

A sigh escaped the black veil, and her heels clicked as she got closer to you, as if she were studying you, watching you. A pale hand reached out slowly, cautiously, towards your face.

You averted your face from the contact, causing her arm to flinch and a gasp to emerge from the black fabric. Then, without saying a word, she walked toward the door, ready to abandon you there.

“Wait!” you screamed desperately, lunging at her, grabbing her wrist. “Help me, please,” you whispered.

The lady turned slowly, slipping from your grasp with a sharp movement, but not moving away from you.

“Please... Donna, y-your name is Donna, right?” you stammered, breathing heavily, sensing an invisible danger that seemed to be stalking you.

She looked at you, you were sure of it, and grabbed your shoulders with a swift movement, forcing you to walk backward, to the back of the room.

“No, please, no,” you said, closing your eyes, fearing a retaliation, one that never came.

The sound of her heels fading away made you relax, keeping your gaze on the lady in black as she disappeared through the door, merging into the darkness of the basement.

“No...” you sighed, walking back to the exit. “Wait, please wait!”

The door slammed shut in your face, and you began to bang desperately on it.

“Help!” you shrieked, your fists bouncing off the wood. “Please, someone help me!”

“Shut up, you noisy girl!” A disgusting shriek came from the other side of the room, making you flee to the small bed. Could it be that strange woman? That voice certainly didn't suit her at all.

Exhausted, you sank onto the mattress, curling into a ball and letting the tears escape. Your situation hadn't improved, it never would.

Maybe it was your fault for fleeing your country, for seeking refuge on the old continent, for wanting to create a new life.

Almost a year ago, you lost your father, the only person you had left in the world. If you closed your eyes long enough, you could still hear his last words, his distorted voice through the phone, his last call.

“You have to burn those documents, (Y/N), do you understand?”

“Dad, what's going on?” you asked, his voice sounding cold, as if he were hurt.

“Honey, y-you just do what I say, do it, (Y/N), and no matter what happens... Remember, your father loves you more than anything...”

You obeyed his orders without question, unaware that it would be the last time you would speak to him.

The next day, reality hit you. That strange scientific expedition had gone wrong. The ship your father was on, along with his companions, had run aground in the Louisiana swamps; there were no survivors.

You'd never know what really happened, what was in those documents he forced you to destroy, but you barely gave it any thought. You were left alone, your dreams as a young scientist sunk with that ship.

Nothing mattered anymore; nothing was left for you in the United States. You'd have to start from scratch.

You spent months traveling around Europe, looking for the ideal place for someone like you, but there didn't seem to be one. Romania seemed pleasant enough, and spending one more day among those snowy mountains was the worst decision of your life.

Being kind was your downfall. An old woman asked you for help crossing a street, something that wasn't suspicious at all. Then you saw her smile, and everything went black.

You woke up in a cage, next to a blonde woman who called herself Mother Miranda. It didn't take you long to recognize that woman in one of your father's photos. She, along with him, had worked in the scientific group, The Connections, and had been on the Louisiana ship.

It was impossible; that woman was an old woman, and suddenly, she transformed into that horrible witch.

What did she want from you? Information, documents your father had kept secret, documents that apparently contained something very important to her.

And so, you ended up kidnapped in that strange village filled with nighttime roars, with shadows that seemed to lurk around that imposing castle. But Miranda's patience had its limits, and after days of torture, she decided to take you to that mansion, with that lady in black.

You were trapped in that place, and the worst part was... no one would come for you, something Miranda reminded you of again and again. What horrors awaited you with that woman in mourning? It seemed you wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

Your crying was interrupted by the creaking of the door.

That woman named Donna appeared slowly, and you instinctively got out of bed, leaning against the wall farthest from her. She was holding something in her hand, something steaming, which she placed on a small table next to a glass of clear liquid.

“W-What...?” you sighed in confusion, peering over to see what the steaming plate contained. It seemed impossible: Food. “What...?”

She didn't answer; she just stared at you, as if waiting for something. You, of course, didn't move, but tried to confirm that what was on the plate was indeed food, eyeing it suspiciously.

“A-Are you giving me food?” you asked in a low, cautious voice, taking a step forward. “Why?”

You expected nothing but a tense silence in response.

A tired sigh escaped from behind the black veil before the lady approached, roughly tugging at your arm and leading you to the table.

“Let me go!” you yelled, trying to defend yourself. You were weak, and that woman seemed stronger; you had nothing to do. “No!”

Her hand rested on your shoulder, pushing you down onto the chair in front of the steaming food.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice trembling, your senses clouded by the alluring smell of that plate of pasta. “What do you want from me?”

She didn't respond. She let your arm go and brought it up to your face with a strange, erratic movement, wiping away with her thumb a tear that was running down your cheek. You remained motionless, petrified with fear as her hand moved down to yours, to the marks left on your skin by the handcuffs you wore in that cage.

Her finger curiously traced the wounds, gently, delicately.

Your instinct forced you to move away, frightened, and she responded with a quick gesture, moving away, but still looking at you.

The lady clasped her hands in front of her, nodding towards her plate of food, turning and disappearing quickly, leaving you alone again.

When you recovered, you looked at the pasta. It might have been poisoned, it might be the last thing you'd ever eat, but your desperate stomach growled loudly, forcing you to pick up the fork.

The flavor was perfect, delicious, and the warmth ran down your throat, comforting you. There was nothing unusual, no sour taste to indicate that the dish had been altered in any way. It was food, real food.

You devoured the pasta quickly, noticing how you regained some strength, how the water calmed the screams in your dry throat. Maybe you'd gotten lucky, or so you thought for a second.

After dinner, you began to feel lucid and looked around the room more closely.

Flour, cans of preserves, boxes... At least you wouldn't go hungry. You sat up in bed, sighing, wondering what you could do to save yourself, and noticed a detail: the bedroom door wasn't completely closed; a black line appeared between the frame and the handle.

“My God...” you sighed, slowly getting up, pushing the door to check that it wasn't, indeed, locked. That could be your chance.

You were afraid, but your desire to escape was much stronger. Carefully, you walked, peeking through the door, looking around. Darkness was all you could see.

After a few minutes, checking that the woman wasn't around, you decided to try your luck, see if you had any luck left. You slowly left the room, wandering through that damp and gloomy place.

The labyrinthine hallways were a bad idea, and you turned to look for the exit, only to find a wood-paneled room, one that seemed to lead to a possible salvation. The creaking walls and the feeling of danger invaded you, forcing you to walk faster.

A smile formed on your face when you saw your salvation: an old-fashioned elevator that seemed to be waiting for you.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you repeated, nervously pressing the button, trying to open the door grille, without success. It was locked. “No, no, no, damn it,” you wailed, grabbing the bars and shaking them. “There has to be something around here I can use to open it,” you muttered, looking around.

“I wouldn't do that, stupid!” A squeaky voice like the one from a moment ago startled you. You'd been caught.

You gasped in shock, turning around as quickly as you could; there was no one, nothing in that place, only the dim light from a lamp, confirming that you were alone.

“Shit,” you whispered, your heart about to jump out of your chest, scanning your surroundings, looking for the lady in black, the source of that unpleasant voice.

Walking, you moved forward, peeking into the rooms you found and tripping over something that had been thrown on the floor. It looked like a doll, an antique ventriloquist's doll made of porcelain and wood.

“What’s this?” you asked quietly, bending down to pick up the puppet and examine it closely. “What the...?”

“Boo!”

“Ahhhh!” you squealed as the doll moved, as that squeaky voice came out of its mouth and its limbs thrashed in your arms. “Oh, God!” you squealed again, dropping the doll and running through the hallways.

“Hey! Be more careful, stupid! I'll tell Donna, I'll tell Donna!” it crooned, its sinister laugh echoing off the basement walls as you desperately tried to flee.

“Fuck, fuck,” you gasped as you ran, staring into the darkness behind you, clumsily tripping over something that crossed your path, a black figure you knew. “Donna...” you sighed, horrified by the consequences of your attempt to flee, but too scared to even think about it.

“Hey, come back here!” that voice shrieked, forcing you to make a stupid gesture, to take refuge behind the veiled woman, protecting yourself from that terrifying living doll.

The lady in black turned her head towards you, allowing you to see a thin line of pale skin on the sides of her veil. Realizing your mistake, you stepped away from her black clothing, unable to find a valid excuse for your behavior.

“S-Sorry, I was...” you murmured, moving further away from the lady as she followed you with her gaze. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Bullshit! Donna, she was trying to escape!” the voice spoke, making you retreat behind the lady again, who this time pulled you away, grabbing your arms.

“Please... I won't do it again, I...” you begged as she held you, while, out of the corner of your eye, you saw something impossible: That doll walking on its own, approaching you. “Oh my God... it's impossible...”

“Shut up, silly girl, do you think you could escape? Silly, silly,” the doll mocked, hands on its hips.

The lady abruptly let you go, approaching the puppet, extending its arms to her owner.

“How is this possible?” you asked, delirious at the sight before you, observing every detail of the doll. “No... This isn't happening.”

“Miranda didn't send us the smartest girl in the class, huh?” the puppet mocked, causing its laughter to bounce off the walls. The woman in black remained motionless.

“Are you a ventriloquist?” you asked, slowly moving away from the lady and her doll. “S-Sorry, I…”

“Shut up, silly girl,” the doll—or the woman, you didn’t know—scolded you. “By the way, the bathroom is down the hall on the left, not by the elevator gates.”

“Yes, I…” you said, thinking maybe you were talking to Donna, that it was her way of communicating with people. “I won’t try anything again, I promise, but please, d-don’t hurt me, Donna.”

“Donna? Lady Beneviento to you, stupid,” the doll snapped, making your legs shiver. “I’m The Fabulous Angie, but you can call me Angie for short,” it said afterward, extending a wooden hand towards you. “Come on, don’t be rude!”

Hesitant, but wanting to protect your life, you shook off the doll’s hand, walking away shortly after, your gaze searching the end of the hallway.

“That's it, go to the bathroom and then to bed, silly, don't make us angry,” Angie said, as you walked around, mouth agape.

You had no choice but to do what she said; everything was too strange, and you were too tired to think about anything else or run for your life.

Once in bed, the thoughts and memories of what you had experienced prevented your body from resting; living dolls, women in mourning, dark hallways... Yes, you might not be in a cage anymore, but you were in another prison.

The creaking of the door put you on alert again, deciding it was best to pretend to sleep, hoping the punishment for your disobedience would be swift.

The mattress sank with a new weight, and the scent of lavender that flooded your senses told you it was the lady in black who had sat down. With your back to her, you closed your eyes tightly, suppressing as much as you could the trembling of your body, the involuntary sobs you were emitting.

“Ti prego non piangere...”

You had to make a great effort not to jump when you heard that hoarse voice, so different from the doll's. You felt a warm hand in your hair, a subtle and silent caress. Her hand tangled itself slowly in your hair, and another hand pulled up the sheets to cover your trembling body.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, you didn't move. You let her cover you in a disturbingly maternal way, getting up with a sigh and carefully closing the door again.

You didn't have the desire or the time to think about what had just happened; it would be best to wait until the next day.

Nothing happened when you woke up. There was no punishment for your daring; there was nothing, only silence, only the distinctive smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of heels leaving your room.

“What?” you said drowsily, checking that you had a full breakfast on the table, your eyes searching for the lady in black. “Breakfast?” you asked, your voice cracking with sleep. You looked at the toast and the freshly brewed coffee.

“Good morning, stupid!” a high-pitched squeal almost made you jump.

That horrible doll was on the floor, waving mockingly at you. No matter how hard you searched, you couldn't find its owner, and you couldn't find a rational way to explain that extraordinary ventriloquism.

“Ahhh,” you murmured in fear, shrinking in on yourself as the puppet climbed onto the table.

“Well, I hope you've learned not to try anything stupid, silly girl,” Angie said, in a military tone. “It's your life that's at stake.”

“Miranda said she needed me alive,” you whispered, causing that sinister laugh to hurt your ears again.

“Oh, there are worse things than death, silly girl,” the puppet mocked, leaning too close to you and pretending to clear its throat. “So, Donna asked me to tell you that you can't get out of here, no matter how many times you try.”

“Donna told you to tell me? Aren't you her?” you asked curiously, shaking your head, but letting your hunger take over, reaching for a piece of toast. “I don't understand what's going on here...”

“Me? Donna? Please... I'm much more funny than her, you'll see,” the doll laughed, sitting on the table and swinging its legs, leaving you more and more astonished. “Anyway, you can wander around the basement, but try anything strange and you'll pay dearly for it, stupid...”

With those disturbing words, the doll disappeared, causing the idea of escape to return to your mind, but not as intensely as before. You knew there was real danger in that place.

Two strange days passed. You ate breakfast, lunch, dinner... That strange woman fed you, but never said anything, not a word came from behind that black veil. You only saw her on those rare occasions; the rest of the time, you were alone.

Despite the warnings of that impossible living doll, you tried to escape once more, realizing, to your misfortune, that the place was much more dangerous than it seemed.

It was so real... much more real than a dream. The hallway was on fire, a ship's siren ravaged your ears, and your dead father haunted you, blaming you for everything. You didn't know what that was, how it was possible to hallucinate so lucidly every time you approached the elevator, but you didn't ask.

Donna, that Donna Beneviento, seemed to pay no attention to your escape attempts, probably because she, somehow, was causing those horrible visions. Resigned to staying there, you began to carefully explore that basement.

There was no torture, no contact. If it weren't for the fact that you knew the Angie doll was following you, it would seem you'd been abandoned to your fate in that place, alongside a lady in black who seemed nothing but a ghost.

“Hmm...” you murmured one bored morning, tired of begging for your release, accepting your cruel fate, studying the books in the old office.

In one of them, something was sticking out of the pages. You carefully pulled it off the shelf, frowning as you read a title you didn't understand.

“Italian? Great, I should have paid attention in my classes,” you commented with a wry smile, flipping through the pages until you found the paper sticking out.

It looked like an old black and white photograph, a photograph showing a family with serious expressions: a father, a mother, a teenage girl, and a baby, held in the woman's arms.

Curious, you turned the photograph over to read a small inscription.

Famiglia Beneviento, 1987

“1987?” you asked silently, shaking your head and turning the photo over again.

The teenage girl looked somehow familiar; she was a brunette, with her hair tied back in a messy bun and... with a scar across her right eye. In her arms, there was something even stranger: that sinister doll, Angie, was resting in the arms of the young woman, which meant one thing: That girl was Donna, the lady in the black veil.

“It's not possible,” you said, reading the inscription again. No, it certainly wasn't possible. The lady's hands were young, too young for that date, for all the years that had passed. “What are you?”

“Do you find anything interesting?” A familiar voice made you turn quickly, to discover something terrifying.

That horrible witch, Mother Miranda, was leaning against the doorframe, staring at you with glowing eyes. Fear gripped your body; the relative tranquility you'd experienced disappeared with her presence. You backed away slowly, your throat dry, you were paralyzed.

“You look fine, (Y/N),” the blonde commented, approaching slowly. “But I'm afraid we need to talk.”

Screams, demands, shoving… Your days in that cage resurfaced from your vague memory. Miranda tortured you on a chair, inside a sinister workshop while the lady in black, oblivious to what was happening, seemed to be working on something.

“You can’t remain silent forever!” Miranda shrieked, furious, gripping your cheeks tightly as your tears stained the stone floor. “For the last time…” she snarled, hurting you, digging her metal nails into your skin. “Where are those documents? What was the plan B?”

“I-I…” you stammered, paralyzed with fear, hissing in pain. “I don’t know what plan B you’re talking about, I don’t know anything, I swear…”

“You’re lying!” the witch shrieked, letting you go, almost knocking you off balance. “Your stupid father discovered a way to improve Eveline… I know you know it, speak up!”

“I don't know who Eveline is,” you said, your voice breaking, clumsily shielding yourself with your arms. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“You useless little girl!" she yelled again, slapping you hard, knocking you to the floor. You felt a painful wetness on your cheek.

Desperate, you curled up on the cold stone floor, pleading desperately.

“Please... I don't know anything, please,” you sobbed, letting your tears soak into the blood running down your cheek due to the cut of her golden nails.

“Ugh,” Miranda protested, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “You're stubborn (Y/N),” she murmured, approaching, bending down and tugging hard at your hair. “Luckily for me, no one's coming after you. You can shut your big mouth as long as you want, I can wait…”

The woman released you, causing your head to bounce against the floor as you sobbed uncontrollably.

“Sorry, Donna, looks like you have to hold her in a little longer,” the priestess murmured before disappearing from the doors. “I'll come back tomorrow.”

The silence was only interrupted by your crying, your moans of pain. You remained lying on the floor, being closely watched by the living doll, which moved away, running toward its distracted owner.

“That looks bad,” Angie commented.

The woman stopped sewing, glancing at you before continuing.

No one was going to save you, and that reality made your tears intensify.

“I-I have to get out of here,” you muttered, dragging yourself along the floor towards the exit, clumsily trying to escape, something you knew you couldn't do.

The lady in black abruptly rose from the chair, still watching you, walking slowly towards your torture-battered body. She seemed nervous, playing with her hands in front of her body and seeming to nod and shake her head erratically, turning away from you.

When you heard her walk away, you continued crawling, but exhaustion and despair stopped you, causing you to collapse.

Donna, Lady Beneviento, stood up again, gesticulating strangely, as if she were debating something internally. Finally, her pace quickened, and her arms picked you up from the floor, pulling you to your feet. Panic gripped you.

“No, no! Please, no!” you begged, struggling with the woman, preventing her from holding you, kicking until she had no choice but to lift you into the air with a strength that was unnatural.

The lady in black effortlessly led you to a room adjacent to the dark workshop, dropping you into a chair. You tried to get up again, but a firm hand on your shoulder prevented you from doing so.

Weary, you lowered your head, the cut on your cheek beginning to sting. Donna stepped away when she was sure you wouldn't try to flee, opening a small cabinet on the wall as you watched.

“Please... let me go,” you sobbed, feeling the desperation speak for itself. “Please, Don... Lady Beneviento...”

She didn't respond. She turned around, holding a few jars and bandages, sitting in front of you. Frightened, you sensed a new round of torture.

“Don't do this, you don't have to do this...” you sobbed again, grabbing her wrists before they moved towards your face. “No, please...” you sighed, seeing in the motionless lady an opportunity to fight. “Don't touch me, don't touch me!” you screamed, frantically, moving your hands as hers approached your face again.

In one of your desperate gestures, you grabbed something, a black cloth that had been left in your hand; the black veil. Shocked by what you had done, you looked at the lady, discovering a truly beautiful woman, with a deformity on her face that was far from the small scar in the photograph.

Her single eye widened in surprise, and her expression grew cold, turning dangerous.

“Oh my God... I'm sorry,” you said, lowering your gaze, squeezing your eyes shut to withstand the blow you were sure to receive. Nothing happened.

Donna snatched the black cloth from your hands, glancing at it briefly, then back at you and finally deciding to leave the veil on the table.

“What... What happened to you?” you asked, moved by her appearance, by a beauty that seemed impossible to you.

The woman kept her gaze on you, but said nothing. She quickly brought her hands to your face again, bringing you back to the harsh reality.

“Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!” you begged, shrieking, resisting her advances.

A cool sensation and a slight stinging settled on your wounded cheek. Fearfully, you opened your eyes, discovering that her hand was on your skin, alcohol and a cotton ball were cleaning your wound.

“What...?” you murmured, confused, seeing that this strange lady was healing you, looking intently at your wound while the cotton ball soaked with your blood. “Ouch...” you moaned at the stinging, causing her hand to retreat.

Her mysterious gaze rested on yours briefly before she brought the cotton closer again, her movements gentler.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, sobbing, feeling a strange relief in your wound. “Why are you healing me?”

Donna didn't respond; she continued with her meticulous work, applying disinfectant, studying each of the blows the blonde witch gave you. She spread cream on her hands and carefully rubbed the bruises on your wrists while you, paralyzed, could do nothing but watch.

“Why aren't you talking to me?” you asked, pulling her back from her strange task, making her look at you briefly. “Talk to me!” you squealed demandingly, pulling your wrists away from her touch. “Fucking hell, say something!”

She gave you a dark look, but grabbed your hands again, applying more cream to them, ignoring your words.

“Shit...” you protested, shaking your head, wondering what you could do to get a word out of her mouth, an explanation, a reason for everything that was happening. “Don't you speak my language? You're Italian, aren't you?” you said, knowing you were walking a tightrope.

The woman stopped, but silence was still her answer.

“Fuck... P-Parli l’italiano?” you stammered clumsily, without causing the slightest reaction from the brunette, who seemed to be staring at your hands. “Aiutami, per... per favore...”

The woman looked up, removing one of her hands from your wounds, running a strange caress over your face. For a moment you thought you saw a smile, a change in her expression, but it was fleeting, too short.

“This isn't fair,” you sobbed, unable to get a response. “I shouldn't be here, I... Ah...” you hissed in pain as she placed a small bandage on your cheek, securing it tightly to your skin.

She opened her mouth, even if it was only for a brief moment, but no words came out. She simply rose from the chair with a discreet sigh, picking up her veil and putting it back on, ready to leave you alone.

Without fully understanding what had just happened, you dissolved into tears, in the confusion surrounding that new life, that horrible new life.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the last time Miranda went to that house. Like a sinister routine, the torture took place in that old workshop, and then, yes, then that lady in black, that silent, strange woman, treated your wounds.

Torture, affection, care... a spiral of pain and comfort repeated itself for several days. You could think whatever you wanted, but deep down you saw something different in Donna, something different in that woman who, little by little, stopped wearing the black veil, allowing you to study her features.

Your desire to escape was still intense, but doing stupid things wouldn't improve your situation. Somehow, that woman felt a certain... affection for you, a certain pity. Maybe you needed a different strategy.

“Why dolls?” you asked, wandering through the workshop while the lady painted a porcelain face. It was a bad idea, but you had to try.

During your stay in the basement, you had learned a little more about her, a little more about the lady in black. Apparently, she wasn't right in the head, suffering from an illness she inherited from her family. She was a shy girl who only spoke through her doll.

Your investigation came to an abrupt halt a year too far in the past, when, apparently, Mother Miranda took pity on her soul after the death of her family.

Something had happened; something had caused that woman to retain her youth after all those years. She couldn't be that old, she simply couldn't, just as her doll Angie couldn't move on her own. You were convinced; Mother Miranda had a lot to do with it.

“Y-Your father made dolls, didn't he?” you insisted upon hearing her silence again, leaning a closer to the lady, who paused for a moment. “I-It's a strange job. You don't see many porcelain dolls anymore.”

Donna didn't respond, but you were used to it. You sighed, shaking your head and picking up a finished doll, observing every detail, but still glancing sideways at the lady in black.

“It's beautiful,” you said with a natural smile, combing the toy's hair. “You're good”

“Basta,” a hoarse voice made you put the doll back. It wasn't the irreverent Angie speaking, it was that husky voice you heard on your first night in that house. “I know what you're trying to do.”

“Donna?” you asked surprised. She had spoken. “Oh, so you can talk,” you said in a lower voice, pulling away slightly when her eye met yours.

“Mother Miranda warned me,” the lady whispered, putting that porcelain head aside and crossing her arms. “She warned me that you would try to get along with me, that you would try to earn my sympathy.”

“I didn't...” you said, knowing that she understood your attitude, that she wasn't as easy to fool as you thought. “Well, so what if I do? I've been in this house for two weeks, trapped, being tortured.”

“That's because you want to,” Donna murmured, making you raise your eyebrows.

“Because I want to? That's a good one,” you said incredulously, crossing your arms. “You kidnapped me.”

“I didn't kidnap you,” she said, slowly standing up, making you regret your words.

“You're keeping me here,” you challenged, your voice nervous but strangely confident.

“I follow Mother Miranda's orders,” she stated, blinking erratically and sitting back down, sighing.

“Of course, you always follow Mother Miranda's orders,” you whispered, unfortunately loud enough for her to hear. “What the hell do you owe that horrible woman?”

“Don't you dare talk about Mother Miranda like that!” Donna shrieked, furious, clenching her fists on either side of her hips. “She saved me, she saved us all!”

“She did that to you, didn't she?” you said confidently, pointing at the deformity of her face.

“You...” the lady hissed, looking at you darkly. “You don't know anything, stupida,” she snarled, looking away. “Everything changed. I changed for her, for the Gods. It doesn't surprise me that an outsider like you doesn't understand.”

You were about to say something, but decided to keep quiet, decided to suppress the curiosity her words stirred in you.

“Do your siblings also obey her that way?” you asked, certain you were beginning to understand how that village worked, the Four Lords, the Black Gods…

“Mm,” Donna murmured disinterestedly, returning her attention to painting that empty face. “(Y/N)...” she said in a slightly different tone, with a different expression.

“You know my name,” you sighed, confused, trying not to lose your temper.

She didn't respond; of course she didn't.

“Just tell her what she wants to know,” she finally whispered, subtly signaling to you that the conversation was over.

“I'd love to, but it turns out I don't know anything,” you replied, leaning on the table, watching her hands work delicately. “So I guess things will stay this way, huh? Miranda tortures me, and then asks you to heal me so she can break me again.”

“She didn't ask me to heal you,” Donna said in a dark voice, making you freeze for a moment.

“No...?” you stammered, blinking in confusion. “Then... why are you doing it?”

“I hate seeing something so beautiful damaged...” It was a sigh, a terribly low whisper that came from her lips. It was the last thing she said before silence fell in the workshop.

The lady's words entered your ears, lodged in your mind, in your chest. A strange statement that made you begin to feel a certain... relief, the certainty that this woman wouldn't hurt you.

You didn't understand her elusive reasons, her veiled words, but you embraced your new reality. Miranda would hurt you, but Donna would heal you, take care of you. For someone like you, it was much more than you thought you deserved.

But the torture grew worse and worse. Miranda's screams masked Donna's subtle words of affection, her strange whispers in a different language. The blows and the slaps began to make your skin forget the soft touch of the dollmaker's hands, the relief you felt from her caresses.

Even Miranda, tired of her failure, ordered Donna to torture you, to extract the information in any way possible. But Donna... she didn’t do it.

Everything turned dark, sad, and you didn't know how much longer you could endure.

“I can't take it anymore...” you sobbed as Donna treated your scratches, your new wounds now overlapping the old ones. “This is too much...”

“You can stop this, (Y/N),” the brunette murmured, wiping the blood from your arms. “Just tell her what she wants to hear.”

“I don't know anything!” you shrieked, pulling away from the lady's caresses. “I don't know anything... I... I burned the documents, I didn't read them... but she doesn't believe me... she'll never believe me... If there were any way to know what was in them... But there isn't...” you cried desperately as the lady looked at you stoically, without interrupting you.

“I believe you,” Donna said, making you rise your head. “No one is stupid enough to put up with this on purpose.”

“Do you believe me?” you asked hopefully. She nodded slowly, grabbing your hands, which began to caress each other. “Oh my God... you have to, you have to tell her.”

“I can't,” the lady sighed letting your hand go and shaking her head.

“Fuck... well...” you muttered, starting to lose your temper. “Then just kill me! Kill me now, I can't take it anymore! I can't do this, Donna, I can't... I'm suffering...” you sobbed, letting your body lean into hers, letting her arms wrap around it and your head bury itself in her chest.

“Calmati (Y/N),” she whispered in your ear as you clutched her clothes, desperate, crying like you never had before.

“Yesterday she asked you to torture me,” you said, your voice muffled by the fabric. “She asked you to continue and you didn't... Fuck!” you shrieked, abruptly pulling away, standing up from the chair. “I don't even have a reason to want to get out of here! My parents are dead, my girlfriend left me and... Shit, shit, shit!”

You screamed, kicking chairs, everything within reach.

“My life is so miserable that you're the only person who's ever given me any affection! And look at you, you're crazy, you have living dolls and... Fuck!”

“I'm just trying to take care of you,” the brunette defended herself, hurt by your words. “I know what it's like to be alone, you know? I know it better than anyone, but you... you can still save yourself, just... you just have to tell her...”

“I have nothing to tell her,” you said in a passive tone, slumping into the chair. “If you truly believe me, you know there's no solution, I have no escape,” you commented indifferently, playing with the bandages.

“It's only a matter of time before Miranda realizes. If she doesn't kill me first, then...”

“Then?” the lady asked, with a childish look.

“I'll die,” you declared, shaking your head, noticing how you had accepted your fate. “She'll kill me or, well, she'll set me free, and then... then I'll be alone again.”

“I-It doesn't have to be that way, (Y/N),” Donna intervened, gripping your hands too tightly. “You could... you could stay here, with me. Neither of us would ever be alone again.”

You didn't answer, didn't want to answer. Stay with that woman? It’s crazy...

As time passed, the proposal faded. You didn't speak of it again, nor did she, but somehow, it sounded better and better in your head, even though you refused to think that way.

“I've had enough of you, (Y/N)...” Miranda hissed the next day, in another round of relentless torture, pacing around your semi-conscious body. “I'm getting tired, girl... I'm getting tired of you.”

“T-Then... kill me,” you said, your voice hoarse from crying, from the pain of an excessive beating, from noticing how she'd already lost her patience.

“Mm, you'd like that, wouldn't you?” the witch mocked, putting a foot on your chest. “I'm not going to give you the satisfaction... Speak!” she yelled, stomping hard on your foot, causing your screams to echo around the workshop.

Donna looked away, pretending not to see, not to know what was happening. Your eyes sought her help, that affection she gave you, but it was far away, too far away.

“You impertinent brat,” Miranda murmured, grabbing your arm, forcibly lifting you to your feet. “Very well, I think you can still talk with one less arm,” she threatened, lifting you up and pulling out her golden nails, ready to mutilate you.

“No!” A different scream appeared in the room, and the priestess abruptly stepped back as some arms pushed her away. “Basta! Basta, per favore!”

It was Donna, the lady in black pushing her Goddess away from you. Miranda's face was something that would be difficult to forget.

“Donna,” the witch said, straightening her clothes, approaching the brunette, who bent down to gather you in her arms, cupping your face. “What are you doing? Donna! Cosa fai?”

“D-Don't hurt her anymore, please, don't... don't hurt her,” the brunette sobbed, caressing you softly, letting a tear land on your surprised and weak face.

"Oh, I can't believe it," the blonde laughed, walking toward you, tilting her head. “Don't tell me you've grown fond of her... What were you doing when she asked you to torture her? Cuddles?” she mocked, pouting.

“S-She... (Y/N) doesn't know anything, Mother, she told me,” the Italian woman said, her voice breaking, flustered by her creator's anger. “She doesn't know anything...”

“She doesn't know anything,” she repeated, with a nasty grimace. “Gods, Donna, I can't believe you're stupid enough to...”

“(Y/N), tesoro... please, look at me...” the lady in black whispered, patting your cheeks to keep your eyes from closing. “Perdonami…Perdonami, tesoro…”

“Please, I’m going to throw up,” Miranda sighed, observing the scene and shaking her head, her expression changing. “Have you fallen in love with her, Donna? How predictable…” she murmured afterward, bending down towards you.

Donna pulled you away from her touch, causing the witch to laugh ironically, standing up again.

“Damn… it’s true, isn’t it? That girl doesn’t know anything,” she commented with a nervous gasp. “Then… well, I guess you can have her. But I’m warning you… I don’t want any trouble,” she said in a disgusted tone, fading into a black cloud.

“D-Donna,” you gasped, weakly grasping the pale hand that was caressing you. “Donna…” you sighed, letting your eyes close slowly, succumbing to the darkness.

“No, no! Per favore! (Y/N)!”

You thought you'd never open your eyes again, but you did, slowly, feeling a strange, pleasant comfort.

“Mm...” you murmured, your body aching, discovering an unfamiliar room and a pressure on your hands.

Donna was sitting in a chair across from you, her head buried in the mattress and her hands tightly squeezing you. She was crying, you could feel it. Somehow you remembered how she had saved you, what had happened; you knew Miranda wouldn't come back, thanks to that strange lady in black.

Your hand slipped from hers and traveled to her black hair, stroking it slowly.

“(Y/N),” she gasped, raising her head hurriedly, tightening her grip on your hand. “You're awake.”

“Yes...” you sighed, looking around. “Wow, this bed is much more comfortable than the other one,” you joked, checking your wounds.

She laughed through her tears, sitting on the bed, still looking at you, admiring you.

“It's all over now, (Y/N), she won't hurt you again,” she explained, cupping your face in her hands, making you smile for the first time in a long time.

What happened next surprised you, but it wasn't unpleasant at all. Donna pulled you in, briefly placing her lips on yours in a salty kiss, quick and clumsy, but terribly affectionate.

“You... you saved me, Donna,” you said, ignoring the kiss. “Thank you...”

“I couldn't do anything else,” she replied, signaling to Angie to give you a glass of water. “Drink, you need to hydrate.”

“Yes,” you sighed, looking at her lips, leaning in closer, kissing her again, deepening a kiss of gratitude, with an affection that went far beyond simple affection, although you tried to ignore it.

“I liked that,” Donna said shyly, her cheeks flushed, like a little girl. “S-So that means... you'll stay with me?” she asked impatiently, kissing you quickly again, caressing your free hand as her lips sought to touch yours in a clumsy, inexperienced, but adorable way.

“I can't imagine myself anywhere else but with you, Donna...”

#donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader #oneshot #re8 donna #re8 village #requests

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