#i feel like the delusions breaking has been freeing in a way

[adimouze]

loving the fact that daniel is basically being a slut and enjoying summer on instagram like hell yeah babe go show off your hot bod you deserve it

[shhhsecretsideblog]

Hi, i hope you don't mind if i request to combine 2 prompts in one scenario.

8. "There's so much pressure..."

12. "Come on, you'll be fine. First labour's take ages.

Scenario: a pregnant woman got kidnapped by her obsessive ex-boyfriend, went into labor and begged him to take her to the hospital because she can't be having the baby in his basement, but he refused. Go as wild and dark as you want.

Thanks 💌

Thanks for the request anon, this was delicious to write. Only prompt no.8 has been included as the other didn’t naturally fit in to wherever the hell this story went. I swear I have no control, these stories take on a life of their own. You said go wild and dark, so… 😈 Trigger warnings; kidnapping, vomit, blood, violence, mental instability, death (not mum or bubs dw), oh and of course fpreg & birth. Hope you like it

Chained

Libby’s eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for her vision to focus but when it did she realised nothing was familiar. The room was dimly lit, no natural light source, only a singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Dark grey bricks formed each of the four walls and the floor below was concrete and rough. She was lying down, on old discoloured bedding on a rickety metal bed. Where the hell was she?! She tried to push herself upright, but she discovered one arm could not be moved. It was handcuffed to the bed!

“What the hell…” Libby muttered.

“Ah… you’re awake.” Came a voice from the shadows.

Stepping into the light Libby saw a man walk towards her. It was Scott, her ex boyfriend. He looked awful. She’d not seen him since they broke up 18 months ago. His hair had grown, now matted and unkept, dark circles hung beneath his eyes and his usually clean shaven chin now sported a severe and dishelved five o’clock shadow.

“…Scott? Where… where am I?” She asked confused and still a little bit groggy.

“You’re at home darling. I rescued you.”

Libby’s brain whirled into overdrive. She remembered going to a midwife appointment, it was her final check up before her due date, she finished the appointment and headed back to her car. She had stopped just before opening the door, hearing something behind her, and then…. everything went black.

“Rescued me?! From what?” Libby asked, managing to push herself to a sitting position with her one free hand.

“From making a mistake. Did you really think you could keep me away from my baby?” Scott drawled, his eyes staring hungrily at her pregnant stomach.

“What the fuck are you talking about? We broke up, I moved on. This isn’t your baby!”

Libby’s outburst was rewarded by a forceful smack across the face. The distinctive metallic taste of blood soon filled her mouth. She was shocked into silence.

“We were great together! We were happy; we were going to get married, have a family, and then… Brendon came along. Poisoning our relationship, turning you against me, stealing you for himself. No! I won’t let him take this away. I’ve brought you home baby… so we can be together.” Scott’s hand touched her bump and his eyes widened in glee. “Where we can be a family.”

This man was insane, Libby thought, realising the true danger of this situation. It was one thing having an ex that still held a candle towards you, but this was way beyond that. She knew Scott hadn’t taken the break up well, but since the split he’d clearly disappeared into a realm of utter delusion. The baby in her womb shifted, feeling the fear of its mother. Scott’s mouth twitched into an uncomfortable grin, feeling the child move. Libby daren’t say anything, it was clear he was unstable and there was no telling what might set him off.

“Rest up sweetie. I’ll get you some food, you must be hungry. Eating for two and all that.” Scott said cheerfully, removing his hand from her stomach and disappearing upstairs.

Libby looked down at her stomach and her handcuffed wrist. She didn’t feel hungry at all. Only nauseous.

~•~

Scott returned and brought her food. Libby didn’t say anything, didn’t move, too scared of accidentally provoking him. He left the tray of sandwiches and crisps on the side table next to the bed and disappeared upstairs, offering a firm “Eat” before he went.

Her memories had returned as she gradually came around from whatever drug Scott had administered. Brendon and Libby had decided to have a little trip away this weekend before the baby came. A baby-moon as they say. They’d told all their friends and family they’d be out of town and without signal for a few days, but this morning Brendon called to say he had a work emergency and they’d have to cancel. That was fine, Libby would just go visit her parents instead. Only she never got a chance to call her parents after the midwife appointment. Everyone thought her and Brendon were away, and Brendon thought she was at her parents - no one would realise she’d been kidnapped.

Her stomach rolled with fear. She needed to think, find a way out of here. Wherever “here” was…. Where the fuck had Scott taken her? She didn’t recognise the room, it could be anywhere. She looked over at the plate of food and her heart sank. She recognised the crockery - this was his family’s cabin, in the middle of the woods.

~•~

Days. She’d been there days. Her family and Brendon would hopefully know she was missing by now. But they’d never find her here.

Scott continued to visit, to bring her food, to talk the baby in her womb. He’d offered to bathe her once, disgusted by the thought she refused. When he tried to get more forceful, hitting her again, she faked practice labour pains and he thankfully left her alone to rest.

She barely spoke to him anymore, too fearful to say the wrong thing again, of which she had learnt the hard way. She tried once to play along with his delusion, that he had “rescued” her from Brendon and now they could be a family. Believing her, Scott eventually unlocked the handcuffs, but when she made a break for it towards the stairs of the basement Scott went ballistic. They got into a fight; she kicked and screamed and hit, but he was stronger and in the carnage she fell forward against the wooden stairs she was trying to climb.

Scott was stricter with the handcuffs after that. Libby swore to herself not to try it again for fear of what might happen to the baby if she fell again.

She had been feeling cramps ever since the fall. They weren’t too bad or debilitating, thankfully she wasn’t bleeding which Libby hoped was a good sign and that her baby was okay. The fall was a brutal reminder of the precious cargo she was carrying and she had to be careful.

The next night Libby was awoken by a forceful cramp rolling through her middle, much worse than any of the others she had felt. Curling round her stomach she breathed heavily through the wave until it passed, and she promptly fell back asleep.

It happened again shortly after, pulling her from her slumber and waking every cell of her body as it peaked, like a coil twisting tighter and tighter. She pushed herself up to sit on the bed. The room was pitch black - Scott controlled the lights and was the only way she knew if it was day or night. She rubbed the aching cramp rolling across her tightened belly with one hand, the other remaining chained to the bedpost. She wished she could move, to walk it off, but with the handcuffs and the darkness she had little options. Instead she got on her hands and knees and rocked steadily through the pain.

“Please be practice contractions…” she whispered to herself. “You can’t come now baby, you’re safe in there. Wait until we get outta here okay?”

The cramp eventually eased and after a few minutes waiting for the next, Libby let herself sink sideways back onto the bed. The baby had got the message, it was just practice pains, she thought to herself as she drifted back off to sleep.

~•~

The light to the basement flickered to life followed by the familiar stomping of feet on wooden steps.

“Morning sweetheart. How’s the mother of my child today?” Scott said in such a cheerful caring tone it caused a shiver to roll up Libby’s spine.

She glared at him from the bed, lying down under the covers half asleep and curled around her bump.

“Still not talking to me eh? Oh well. It won’t be long before I have a son or daughter to talk to.” Scott drawled, as he placed a cup of water and slice of toast onto the bedside table.

Another cramp squeezed her belly and Libby sucked in a breath, hissing through her teeth. She could feel her stomach hardening beneath her fingers as the practice contraction squeezed.

“Honey, are you alright?” Scott’s eyes pinched in cautious concern.

“Just a kick.” Libby said, schooling her face back to a neutral expression.

“Excited to meet their daddy no doubt.” He gleefully said making Libby feel sick.

This baby is NOT yours! She cried in her head.

“Get up and have some breakfast. I’ve got some things to show you today.” Scott said, offering a hand to help her up.

Libby ignored his hand and pushed herself upright. “What things?”

“All in good time my dear. It’s a surprise.” And with that he disappeared back upstairs with a gallop.

She could hear banging and thumping above her and wondered what on earth he was doing. Her stomach growled and she reluctantly nibbled on the toast that was provided. After eating she was left solely with her thoughts and the noises from upstairs. Plus the occasional cramps that continued to plague her. Sitting down became too frustrating and she managed to get herself to standing right beside the bed. Her arm was pulled uncomfortably far forward by the handcuffs, but at least it relieved the pressure in her hips.

The baby felt so low, like it was grinding on her pelvis. But she did feel like her breathing was better now. Libby tried to focus only on the positives and did not dwell enough to realise this meant the baby had dropped into position for birth.

She stayed standing as long as she could beside the bed, riding out the braxton hicks and swaying her hips side to side, but eventually her legs ached from the awkward position so she return to sit on the bed.

The practice contractions continued to wash over her whilst Scott was banging away upstairs. Libby was starting to get hot and sweaty and could barely sit still through them. She found herself biting her lips and humming through them, trying to keep the noise to a minimum. She didn’t want to attract Scott’s attention. She ended up back on all fours on the bed, one hand awkwardly attached to the bed while she rocked forwards and back through the rising waves. It was getting harder and harder to stay silent through these pains and it was getting more and more difficult to convince herself these were only practice contractions.

“Ohhhh… we had a deal baby. You have to s-stay in there…. It’s not s-safe…” Libby moaned quietly to her child, the pressure in her hips mounting with every contraction.

The sounds of movement from above made her panic. Scott was coming. Quickly, she moved from all fours and returned to her sitting position on the bed. Sitting down made everything worse - the heavily feeling of the baby so so low caused the pressure to spike. So much so she nearly threw up, gaging slightly at the same time Scott opened the basement door.

She could hear him huffing and puffing as he stomped every step, he was clearly struggling with something, and she saw the “surprise” before she saw him. It was a crib! Oh hell no, she thought to herself. There is no way my baby is being born here and it will never go in that thing.

“Darling…” he cooed as he got down to the basement “I got you something. Well, I got our baby something - a crib!” He said proudly as he placed it at the foot of the bed.

Libby didn’t say anything; saying something negative could earn her a slap, saying something positive he’d think she was up to something.

“Well?” He asked, clearly getting frustrated with her silence.

“It’s… nice.” She said timidly, he didn’t seem any calmer so she added “thank you.”

With that Scott broke into an unhinged smile. “Only the best for my baby. Made it myself!”

Libby felt the familiar tightening of another contraction approaching. Breathing steadily through her nose, she tried to keep any pain showing on her face.

“What do you think of the design?” He urged, unaware of the struggle happening inside Libby’s womb.

“Great.” She gritted out as calmly as she could.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Scott rushed upstairs leaving Libby alone for a minute.

The second he was out of sight her eyes scrunched and she panted erratically. Her hips were on fire, the baby sinking lower and lower. This was no false alarm, Libby finally admitted to herself.

Scott came bounding downstairs with a pile of baby clothes and blankets. “I also got these. I wasn’t sure if we were having a boy or a girl so got a selection of different clothes. And lots of blankets and toys. Everything we could possibly need.”

Libby couldn’t help it but she groaned loudly and curled over her contracting stomach.

“They’re not that bad!” Scott said, referring to the pile of clothes he’d now dumped into the crib.

“Ooooooh Scott….” Libby whimpered, the pain still barrelling through her body.

“Lib? What is it? What’s wrong?” He crouched down in front of her and placed a hand on her knee.

“I think… hooooo- I think I’m in labour. You have to take me to the hospital.” Libby pleaded.

“What? Oh no, you’re not fooling me again.” Scott recoiled away from her, and started pacing. “You- you tried that before remember. And then you tried to run away, to take my baby away! You were going to leave me Lib! No!! I’m not letting you out of my sight again. No way. No one else can have you. You and that baby are mine!”

“Scott… please. I’m having contractions… I need help… I need doctors…”

“No… I can’t. You’re just going to leave me again. I can’t lose you.” Scott shook his head, like he was trying to reorganise the thoughts inside. “You’re just pretending again, you’re not really having the baby, you’re just trying to escape. Well you can’t trick me twice. Nuh-uh. I’ll come back when you’ve stopped the act.”

“No! Scott!” Libby cried but the door slammed before she could say anything else.

~•~

Libby shouted and pleaded for 10 minutes straight after Scott went upstairs, but he never came back down. She stopped when her voice started to crack and when she thought she heard the front door slam.

This baby was coming and she was trapped - handcuffed to a bed in a basement in the middle of nowhere, the only person for miles was her crazy ex boyfriend who was convinced the baby was his.

Despite her wishful thinking, the contractions just kept on coming. It was as if accepting they were real had made them more frequent and stronger. There was no clock down here, she had no clue how often they struck, but Libby was aware of the gaps in between getting shorter.

Being in labour was bad enough but the fact she couldn’t move due to her restraints made everything a thousand time’s worse. In desperation she tried to squeeze her hand out the metal handcuff, twisting and pulling, but when it started to peel the skin off the back of her hand she screamed and gave up.

She couldn’t sit down anymore, the pain in her hips too great. All fours was bearable but her arms ached after too long. She tried squatting and kneeling against the headboard, standing and swaying beside the bed. Nothing helped. She felt like a caged animal; frustrated, angry, scared. All the while every contraction brought the baby closer and closer to being born, a fate she was trying desperately to avoid. She feared something might go wrong, and she was scared what would happen the moments after she delivered. Scott was clearly unstable, would he leave her here chained to the bed bleeding out and take away her baby?! She needed medical help, not only for the birth but for her best shot at escaping.

When Scott returned he found her on her knees beside the bed, slumped over the mattress and groaning heavily.

“You can stop this charade Libby! I’m not taking you anywhere!” Scott shouted from the steps of the basement.

“Mnnnghhh! It’s not a charade Scott! Oh god…. So much pressure….” Libby whimpered into the mattress, her knees widening instinctually.

“Come off it. You put on a good show but I know you’re faking it.”

Libby could only grunt, roaring against the building pressure between her thighs. An unmistakable splashing sound hit the concrete floor and she cried out. “My waters…. Hooo- I’m not - faking - it…” she panted and turned around to face him.

Scott’s face had paled and his eyebrows shot up. “Y-you really are in labour?”

“Yes,” Libby breathed, turning around awkwardly with the handcuffs and her large bump, sitting down heavily on the now-wet floor “please please take me to the hospital now.”

He didn’t say anything, instead he disappeared quickly back upstairs.

“Scott!!!” She cried out, worried he would just leave her there forever.

He returned a moment later carrying a plastic box. “It’s happening! Don’t worry darling, I have everything we need for our baby to be born.”

It’s not your baby!!!! Libby shouted in her head.

Sitting on the floor, one arm slung up over a shoulder stuck in the handcuffs, she rubbed her low and heavy stomach with the other as Scott began to unpack the box onto the table opposite.

“Towels. Gloves. Scissors. Clamps. Ooh more towels. Little sucker thing. Wow it’s got everything we need in here. Great Amazon find.” Scott commented as he rattled off everything inside the box.

Holy shit! He wants to deliver the baby here! Libby stopped breathing for a moment, panic squeezing at her heart. He was never going to let her go. She was never going to get her baby out of here before it was born.

“Scott… you can’t… be serious…” Libby said with strained breath.

“Shhhhh. It’s okay sweetie. I’ve done all the research, watched loads of videos. I know exactly what I’m doing and I will deliver our baby here.”

“But Scott I need a hospital, with nurses and medication.”

“No you don’t. Women birth babies every day. I’ve had months to prepare for this. It’s going to be fine, it’s going to be perfect.” Scott’s sinister smile chilled her resolve and another contraction struck before she could continue arguing.

He checked his watched and frowned. “You shouldn’t be having another contraction just yet.”

“I can’t hooooo control it!” Libby snipped.

“Oooo is this the part where you get all angry at me for doing this to you?” Scott joked with glee.

“You didn’t do this to me! This isn’t your baby Scott, please just let me go.”

“Don’t lie!!!!!” Scott shouted, an angry fire flashed briefly in his eyes and his fists clenched tight, but a second later the ire quickly disappeared. “You’re just scared, but it’s okay sweetie, I’m here and our baby will be fine.”

“Ohhh god…..” Libby grunted, the baby slipping lower and pressing against her cervix. She had to move, this position was unbearable, but her legs were useless during the raging contraction. She tried to push herself up, yanking her hands forward but the handcuff rattled and left her arm twisted backwards. “Mnnhhh- handcuffs…. Please undo the handcuffs…”

“You know I can’t do that Lib.” Scott said reluctantly.

“Please…. Mnghhhhh the baby…. I need to move. Can’t stay like this Scott…” Libby groaned and whimpered as the contraction peaked and gradually faded.

“I’m sorry honey, I can’t risk it. But let’s get you back onto the bed shall we, you’ll be much more comfortable there.”

The contraction had left her winded, Libby didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. But when Scott approached and went to help her up she managed to grit “Don’t touch me!” batting his advancing hands away.

“That’s gonna be difficult when I’m delivering our child.” Scott sarcastically replied.

Libby’s stomach rolled, not from a contraction but at the disgusting thought of Scott between her legs. Nausea bubbled inside, rising up her throat. She retched. “I think I’m gonna be sick…”

Scott jumped back as she dry heaved. “Erm…. I’ll get a bucket. Hang on.”

Libby struggled up to her knees, clinging sideways to the bed, and vomited all over the floor. The force of her stomach expelling its contents pushed the baby against her dilating cervix and towards the birth canal. She couldn’t stop herself from bearing down at the same time.

No no no… don’t push. Her brain cried but it wasn’t something she had control over.

By the time Scott returned with a bucket Libby had crawled back into the bed, leaving behind a puddle of amniotic fluid and vomit on the floor.

“Jeeze Libby, you’ve made a right mess. I’m glad we’re down here now, that would have been a nightmare to clean the carpets upstairs.”

“…water…” Libby panted, curled up on the bed and holding her hardened stomach, too exhausted to do anything other than bear through the labour pains tearing apart her body.

“Okay, sure.” Scott picked up the glass from the table and gently poured it into Libby’s dry mouth. “Everything will be okay Libby, our baby is nearly here.” He whispered, placing a grimy hand onto her bump and feeling the swell, his eyes hungrily lighting up as his fingers caressed the curve.

~•~

She was dying. This was how it would end; trapped in the dirty basement of her crazy ex boyfriend. She never got to meet her baby, or get married, never got to buy her own home, or travel the world. The pain was so much she could barely see. Curled up on the bed Libby groaned into the pillow as the latest contraction squeezed her body in on itself. She was vaguely aware of Scott flapping around the room, he was talking but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The only thing she could focus on was the mass of the baby’s head sitting right behind her opening, and she was doing everything she could not to push.

The last few hours had been torture. She’d thrashed around the bed, screaming and begging to be freed, to be taken to the hospital. When transition hit she was brought back onto all fours, grunting and pushing without any semblance of control. Scott rubbed her back and encouraged her through it. She didn’t have the strength to bat him off but she did manage to aim her next round of vomiting onto his feet. And all the while Scott refused to unlock the handcuffs and she remained chained to the bed.

Now she was lying on her side over the covers, exhausted, her body completely and utterly drained. Her knees were curled up as much as she could, her bump squashed between her thighs and her breasts. The contractions were right on top of each other and she panted heavily through each one.

Don’t push! Don’t push! Don’t push! she told herself again and again.

“Right, the waters boiled, everything’s disinfected. Clamps and scissors ready. Towel, check. All we need now… is the baby…” Scott muttered, organising and reorganising the equipment.

Ever since the well-timed vomit, he had kept a grateful distance from Libby. He looked through all the toys and clothes in the crib, talking about all the things he would do with his child, trips they’d make, sports they’d play. He was in his own little world, Libby was just a background character.

Relentless contractions kept hitting her one after the other, she breathed as quietly as she could, tears leaking past her lashes from the effort it was taking not to push. She could feel the baby start to stretch her lips, the head inching further and further even without her active pushing. He’d removed her underwear not long after her waters had broken but her dress remained on her sweaty body, thankfully covering her lower half as she laid on the bed. Libby’s legs slightly parted of their own accord as the baby slipped lower. Still curled up on her side, the baby had a clear exit from its mother, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Scott was ignoring her when she was lying like this and it was the only position that didn’t make her scream. And yet it also proved to be aiding her delivery.

When the next contraction barrelled straight after its predecessor Libby found herself holding her breath and it was only when the burning feeling started that she realised she was pushing. But she couldn’t stop. Gasping another breath she pushed once more, the baby stretching her wider and wider. An involuntary grunt escaped the labouring mother and alerted Scott to her actions.

“Are you…. Libby - are you pushing?! Is it time?” Scott jumped and rushed over to the bed.

Libby curled further over, her face burying into the pillow, squashing her bump and raising her backside. She groaned long and deep as she pushed the baby further out.

“Oh babe, you can’t push like that! You need to get in the correction position for delivery.” Scott said assuredly with all the delusional confidence his “research” had given him.

He took her bent leg, rolling her over onto her back and she screamed. “Scott! No!” The pain was excruciating, her spine was being stabbed, the fire burning between her thighs. She needed to push but she couldn’t when he kept moving her body.

“You need to be in the right position. Come on now, I know what I’m doing.”

“Stop… I can’t… I need to push…” Libby grunted.

“Wait a minute darling, you’re not ready just yet.”

Scott pulled her up to a sitting position and pushed her back against the headboard, pointlessly fluffing the limp old pillows behind her. Her legs were dragged apart and knees were bent and he jumped onto the foot of the bed and looked up her dress.

“Oh my gosh I can see the head!!!” He squealed. He threw her dress up higher, creasing the fabric just below her baby bump, fully exposing Libby’s vagina and the oval shaped crown of the head.

“Push Libby! You can push now!” He urged.

“I’m not-having a contraction-” Libby panted, furious she had been moved into this ridiculous and torturous position. Nothing about it felt right to her body, she wanted to go back on her side, to kneel, squat, anything but this.

“Oh… erm… well on the next one then. Push. No wait, I forgot the equipment.” Scott bounced off the bed and collected all the sterilised equipment he’d been preparing in readiness. “Ha! All that excitement, nearly forgot these.” He placed the items next to him, by her feet. The metal scissors glinted as they caught the light.

A desperate idea began to form in her head, but a contraction soon swept over her and pulled her focus to the burning ring between her thighs.

“Yes!!! Go on Libby! Push!!!” Scott cried.

Curling forward Libby pushed, her body squeezing the baby lower, its head stretching her wider. She grabbed her thighs, gulped another breath, and pushed. The scissors caught the light again with the movement on the bed. If she could just grab them…

“It’s coming, keep it going honey!” Scott yelled and she could feel his trembling hand between her legs.

Libby huffed releasing the push. It was too much, it was too big…

“Come on baby, go again, you’re so close.” Scott urged.

“Hooo-hoooo- okay…. Here it comes….!!!!” Libby threw herself forward curling over her bump once more. With Scott’s focus on the crowning baby she quickly grabbed the scissors and hid them in the gathered fabric of her dress. She screamed as the baby reached a full crown. Panting frantically her body twitched as the baby stretched her so wide she thought she’d be torn in two. Then it slipped further and with a sudden wail the baby’s head was delivered.

“Wow! The heads out, my baby’s head is born.” Scott awed.

Leaning closer his hands trembled towards the newly born head sitting between her thighs. No! You are not touching my baby! Libby thought, and she grabbed the hidden scissors and plunged them straight into Scott’s neck as she released an animalistic maternal wail.

Scott’s eyes bulged out, roaring in agony as the sharp scissors pierced deep into his muscles. He jumped back, standing for the briefest second staring in horror at her, before collapsing to his knees. A drowning choked sound gargled his throat and when he pulled the scissors from his neck the jets of blood sprayed across the room.

Libby watched, in shock at what she’d just done, as Scott clutched his neck, choking and bleeding. After a few strangled seconds he collapsed face first on the ground.

“Oh my god… oh my god….” Libby trembled, adrenaline and fear pumping through every cell in her body. She had to get out of there.

Twisting awkwardly around, she held the handcuff steady with her free hand and pulled her other through the tiny gap. The skin ripped from her hand, the metal scraping bone, she yelled out in pain but didn’t stop pulling until her bloodied hand was free.

It was as if she had left her physical body, the pain a dull echo compared to the survival instinct to get out of this basement. “I’m gonna get you outta here…” she panted, putting a gentle hand over the baby’s head between her legs. She scrambled off the bed, legs bowed as she cupped the head, and rushed toward the stairs of the basement.

Libby was careful, her previous encounter with this wooden staircase not ending well, climbing wide legged step after step towards freedom. She barely made it halfway when she was struck by another contraction. Holding the head with one hand and gripping the bannister tight with the other, her body squatted as it tried to push.

“Mnghhhhhhh! Oohhhhhh hang on baby…. Mnghhhhhh…. Not yet.” She could feel herself pushing hard, the shoulders starting to press against her, itching to come out, but with a firm hand and heavy panting she made it through the contraction.

When she reached upstairs she was surprised how familiar it all was, Scott had taken her here once when they were dating. It wasn’t much, the furniture and decor were dated, but it was a nice family holiday home in a nice rural location. She shuddered when she thought of the secret prison that was hidden below her feet.

Being familiar with the property made her escape easier, she knew the layout and of course where he kept the keys - in the side dish by the fridge. Grabbing the car keys Libby headed for the door and threw it open. But the baby didn’t want to wait any longer.

She hung on to the doorframe for dear life as the raging contraction took hold. “No no no!!!! We’re so close mnnnnnghhhhhh!!!!” Her legs widened as she squatted, pushing uncontrollably against the wall of her hand that held the baby’s head. The shoulders were slipping through… she could feel them stretching… “Ohhh fuck!” She cried, desperately pushing and holding the baby in at the same time.

When the near constant contraction let up just the tiniest bit, Libby made a break for it and ran to the car, both hands between her legs cupping the emerging baby. Unlocking the car with the press of the button she threw open the back door and clambered inside. She quickly locked the door, scared that Scott would somehow still be coming after her, and when she heard the reassuring click of the locks she huffed an exhausted cry.

But the baby was coming, and it was coming now. On her hands and knees in the back seat Libby finally gave in to nature and pushed in earnest, grunting long and deep as the shoulders stretched and slipped out. Lifting up onto her knees to catch the infant she released a primal roar with the final push and the baby slipped into her bloodied hands.

“Ohhhhhh hey baby, it’s okay it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Libby cried, pulling the little boy to her chest. Wiping his face clear he gave a little cough and started crying, soon matched with the tears of his mother.

“We did baby, we got out.” Libby panted and cried, safe with her baby inside the locked car. After a few minutes she wrapped the baby up against her chest with the towel, umbilical cord still connecting mother and child, and she hesitantly opened the door and got into the drivers seat. Starting the engine, Libby drove herself and her new baby to safety.

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𓇗

synopsis: stuck in a tent with luocha after he gives you the wrong meds

tags: aphrodisiacs, dom/switch!reader, riding, thigh riding, vulgar, explicit. dubcon(?)

wrd cnt: 1k+

a/n: need luocha in a way that’ll put me in the ward

You huff, your head hitting the pillow underneath you.

“Something wrong?” Your partner asks you.

“No…I just have a headache, it won’t go away” You pout, rubbing your temples.

It was probably your dehydration, or stress, or both.

The two of you were on a mission to get some materials, and camped out overnight before heading to the area.

A small fire illuminated your camp outside which you could see from the small crack you left open in the tent, where you and Luocha sat.

“I have something that can help”.

You sprung up, “Really?”

Of course he did, he was always prepared for anything.

Nodding with a smile, he handed you a small, cream colored vial with small pieces of flora. It smelled like Vanilla.

Luocha noticed the aroma, quickly looking up as you chugged the bottle.

“Wait-“ He said, his hand reaching out to stop you, but he was too late.

You freaked, thinking he gave you poison or something on accident.

“What- WHAT?! Am I gonna die…What did you give me-?!” Frantically, you leaned toward him, begging for answers to soothe your delusions.

He gulped, looking as if he was too embarrassed to tell you what you just drank.

“It won’t kill you. It’s just flat leaved vanilla and rose water.”

Your look of confusion and his avoidance of eye contact didn’t answer much.

“Oh…Then why’d you make a big deal out of it? Do you still have any pain meds?” You ask.

“I do. It’s just that….that concoction you drank is typically used as an…aphrodisiac.” He says too calmly.

You break the silence, hours seemed to have gone by in those long couple of seconds.

“You really believe in that herbal medicine stuff? Pfft- It’s probably just a placebo effect.”

That’s what you had believed. Had.

What you couldn’t believe was the heat that started somehow radiating through your body.

First, you thought it was just the fire burning a little too bright.

Then, you started taking off some clothing.

A jacket, then your sleeves, leaving you in just an undershirt. You felt as if a warm liquid was coating all your organs and expanding all the vessels in your blood.

“Y/n? Are you feeling already?” He asked calmly.

You wipe the small beads of sweat off your forehead, and try to go outside to get some of the cool night air on your skin.

Worried for your wellbeing, Luocha grabs your arm before you leave the tent, “Where are you going? It’s dangerous to go out alone.”

His hand felt like the coolness you needed.

As if you couldn’t hold yourself back, you leaped into him, lips pressed together.

You felt as if your face had been extinguished, as if steam would surface off your lips and burn his.

You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him deeper, moaning into his mouth. Luocha was taken aback at first, but soon his hands were roaming all over your body, his kiss matching your urgency.

“We- We can't do this here y/n” he managed to say between kisses, trying to pull away but you only reeled him back in.

“We can’t do this here, or at all?,” you whispered, your voice dripping with desire as you grinded your lower half on his thigh, feeling your folds get slippery against him.

“I meant…we shouldn’t”, he says, his eyebrows twitching as your hand starts to palm his cock as you sit on top of him.

“Why not…? No one’s here…no one has to know”. You say against his lips, kissing them again as you feel him get harder under your hand.

“Y/n- But we…” he groans as you start to kiss his neck, leaving love bites all over with your hand in his blonde locks, earning his approval as his hand snakes under your ass and grinds your own hips against him harder.

You decide to take matters into your own hands, or mouth, as you start to kiss your way down his chest and open his pants, freeing his already hard length. Without hesitation, you take him into your mouth and start to suck, feeling him twitch and moan above you.

“Y/n…I can’t…I can’t do this….we need to stop…”. His words are weak and unconvincing as you continue to suck and swirl your tongue around him, feeling him grow even harder.

You pull away and look up at him, “Do you really want to stop?” You ask, your voice sultry and full of lust.

You can see the struggle on his face, but eventually, he gives in and pulls you up to kiss you, his hands roaming all over your body. He quickly strips off the rest of your clothes and does the same.

“Fuck….” He mumbles under his breath, your naked body splayed open over him, all the consequences seemed to drift away as soon as he leaned back, elbows on the hard tent surface as he watches you slide your cunt along his shaft, getting your slick all over his pre-cum leaking cock before sinking down slowly.

As he entered you, you both gasp in pleasure, the concoction working its magic as you both move together in a rhythm that leaves you both huffing and moaning each other's names.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you up and down at a steady pace as you lean down to kiss him, tongues swirling in a passionate dance.

“You feel so good…so warm,” he whispers against your lips, his breath hot against your skin. You smirk and quicken your pace, feeling his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

“Do you like that?” You say, knowing he can't resist your teasing ways.

He growls in response, flipping you over so you're under him, his hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You know I do” He spouts against your ear. You moan in pleasure and submission, your body tingling with pleasure at his words and display of power.

He begins to move faster, his hips slamming into yours, sending you both into a frenzy of ecstasy with his mouth latched onto your nipple, every feeling more intense now. Your moans and cries only encourage him, knowing he's driving you closer and closer to the edge. His pace made it seem as if he was the one to drink front the vial.

“Come for me,” he whispers in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. And with those words, you both reach your climax, the pleasure coursing through your bodies and overwhelming your senses. You collapse in a sweaty and satisfied heap, panting and trying to catch your breath after squirting all over his cock.

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - V

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, divider by animatedglittergraphics

5.  fight the good fight

When you wake again you are bouncing, bent in half slung over a man’s shoulder; the vampire hunter’s. You can tell from the intoxicating scent of his cologne, his sweat, his blood–him. It’s like catnip to you, and for a moment you just want to go back to sleep, and let him take you wherever he’s taking you. 

That’s a very bad idea, of course, and good on you for recognizing it through the haze of bloodloss and whatever other hold he has over you. You still do not understand what he is, or why he has such power over you. 

From what little you can see, it seems like you’re in a dark alley. There are sirens in the distance–the aftermath of the massacre in the club, you presume. He has got you far away. How long have you been out?

You struggle again, managing to worm free and get down, before the vampire hunter pins you against the wall of the building. “Stop that, you’ll hurt yourself,” he grouses, annoyed. He seems in much better shape than before, having stolen your blood. You, on the other hand, feel so weak you can barely stand. 

“Let go. Please let me go.” 

You must sound so pathetic that even this brutal killer softens for you. His grip changes slightly, holding you up against the wall by your waist. You have no delusions, however, that that can change in an instant. Yet…he’s looking at you with those sad dark eyes, like a man drowning. Even with the splatter of blood across his face and the crust of it dried in his long dark hair–he’s so handsome it hurts, and your fingers clench in his jacket, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, vampling. I saved you.” 

“You…ate me!” 

There is a tick at the corner of his well-formed mouth, betraying his amusement. 

“I took too much. Here, have some back.” He unbuttons his shirt further at the throat to display the strong column of his neck. Your vision zeroes on his jumping pulse like a laser sight, and you notice that intoxicating scent engulfing you again. It’s warm spices and your favorite flowers and pure man–it’s so good that you want to mold yourself to him and never let go. 

It’s a good trick, for a vampire hunter, and at least you are conscious enough to know now that it is a trick. 

“Stop that,” you scold, squeezing your eyes shut as you try to fight it.  

“I can’t help it,” he answers, his voice gone low in a way that shuts down your brain and skips straight your loins. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, engulfing you with the pure size of him and his hair swinging down to brush your face–he also smells like blood, which does not help you at all. “It’s…you. It’s us.”

“No,” you answer, mostly because you're afraid of someone having that kind of control over you, again. 

“It’s…rare,” he admits. “Who are you?”

“No one,” you insist. “I’m just a girl…who’s really good at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” And really good at keeping a soft spot for the wrong man. You cannot stop yourself from thinking about John in that moment, and how just one night with him flung you into this strange and terrible supernatural world. Would you change it, if you could? Will there ever come a time, when the thought of him does not feel like talons digging your heart out of your chest? 

“Hmm. Maybe.” He lifts his hand to his throat, and you watch as his fingernails lengthen to sharp points, perfect for breaking his own skin in one neat, bloody line. “Here, milaya. My apology to you.” 

That ruby welling of his life’s essence smells marvelous, and you want to seal your mouth on it more than you’ve wanted anything in a good long while. Somehow, you manage to shake your head, even if minutely. “No, you’ll…enthrall me again or something. I don’t trust you.” 

He sighs. 

“I admit that I want you,” he acknowledges reluctantly. “But you need blood.”

“Yes. Let me go, and I’ll go get some. Again.” It annoys you in that moment that the efforts of your hunt all went to this man’s benefit. Dhampiro, don Juan had called him. Dhampir, you translate to English. Not human, by his own admission. 

Obviously.

He smirks a little down at you. “I saw you feed earlier. Why did you pick him?”

“He killed his wife.” 

“Ah. You like to play jury and executioner.”

“I didn’t kill him.” 

“You’ve killed others though. You’re sloppy about it too.” 

“Am not.” 

He laughs at you, a short, amused, huff, which is as good as an ‘are so’.

“What do you care?” 

“The High Table might start to care, if you make a big enough spectacle of yourself. Naughty little vampires get a visit from the Boogeyman, you know. You aren’t supposed to draw attention. There are rules.” 

“I don’t…know what any of that means,” you’re loathe to admit. 

There’s so much John Constantine could have chosen to fill you in on. Maybe he thought you’d figure it out on your own. Or maybe…he has as much trouble thinking straight around you, as you do him. If he felt a fraction of what you did, when this man before you took you–it’s no wonder you scared John off. Surrendering to that would not be easy for a man like John Constantine. 

“I’d say you need a coven to teach you, but considering what I’m going to do to the locals here…you’d better stick with me.”

“You’re…going to kill them all?” you ask, more intrigued than horrified by the thought. 

“Yes.” There is zero doubt in this man that he can do it, too. After what you saw…you guess you agree with him. Constantine is dangerous, but he could never wreak the sort of massacre this man unleashed in the club. 

And here you are, in his grasp. Well done. 

“Why?”

“Don Juan’s scheming to overthrow the High Table. They don’t like that.” 

“Wait, wait.” A hunger pang washes through you, and you grip his jacket a little harder, your knees weak. The blood dripping down his beautiful throat smells so good, but you realize this might be your chance to finally get some answers. “Who the fuck are the High Table?” 

“How do you not know that?”

“Why does everyone always ask me that instead of just fucking telling me the answer?” you snipe, practically vibrating with frustration. 

“You really have been so alone this whole time?” he asks, his dark eyes inexplicably softening for you. He looks down at you, cupping the side of your face with a paw of a hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Maybe it just feels good to be handled like you are something precious, rather than like a farm animal. Or maybe…you are losing your mind, but you have to close your eyes again, shielding yourself from the weight of that blackhole gaze.

“Yes.” You’re not proud of the way your voice cracks as you utter that one word. You hate it, that you think of John, and how he said he’d help you, but mostly he just disappeared on you. You know he has his own life, and his own problems…but he practically abandoned you, all while living right next door. 

It was a good trick, truth be told.  

“That’s a hard way to live. I would know.” His thumb is still stroking your cheek, and it feels so good, and you know this is madness. It has to be a trick. Everything is a fucking trick, with these guys. And yet…it’s as though you can feel this man’s loneliness, the weight of his solitude pressing down upon you, every time you look into his eyes. 

Maybe it’s because he kills everyone, you remind yourself, marveling at your unflagging ability to empathize with the most unavailable men you can find. 

“The High Table?” you prompt again through gritted teeth, trying not to give in to the urge to pull him close, to hide in the bend of his neck, to lose yourself in the heady taste of him and forget everything else. 

“They rule the Underworld. You. Me. Everything that goes bump in the night answers to Them.” He tells you this without condescension, and you could kiss him for that alone. 

“Demons too?”

“No, they’re Hell’s problem. Usually.”

“Then…the High Table are vampires?”

“Vampires. Weres. Sirens. Fey.” He tilts his head in thought. “I’m sure I’m missing something.”   

You nod, trying to digest this information while you are so starved you can hardly think. He’s named more things you didn’t even know existed, but you shouldn’t be surprised at this point. But then…if demons are Hell’s purview, what system of belief do the rest of them answer to? The magnitude of this question makes your head spin. Finding out that the Christian God was real was wild enough for you. What about the rest? 

“Wait…does this mean…all the Gods are real?”

Your leap of logic to the biggest existential question known to man seems to amuse him, the corner of his mouth curling for you. “Malyshka,” he scolds you softly. “You really want to discuss this here? Come on.”

He seems to think he’s taking you somewhere, but you resist again, bracing against the wall.   

“I’d rather…go home, if it’s the same to you.” you admit, winning yourself a tired sigh.

“I can’t…let you do that yet.” 

“Why not?”  

Again, he strokes your face with that big hand, and you feel as though he’s looking into your very soul. 

“You remind me of someone I once knew,” he admits. “A long time ago.”

Someone he lost, you infer from the longing that is woven into those words. Why does that make your heart ache for him?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But whoever she was���I’m not her.”

“No,” he agrees, but he tilts his head to examine you, like you are an amoeba under a microscope.  

“But the universe moves in circles, and something is happening here.” He inhales, and you see a flash of that eerie electric blue in his irises again. “I have to know what it is.”

Whatever you meant to say in answer is swallowed up by his mouth lowering to yours, a kiss that is somehow demanding and languorously slow. He claims your lips for his own, holding you to him as his tongue slides into your mouth, teasing you like you’ve done this a thousand times before. Maybe you don’t need to breathe, but he leaves you breathless all the same, overwhelmed by that pheromone scent and his hands on you, one paw at the back of your head guiding your mouth to his neck. He tastes like a miracle, strong and heady and so delicious as you drink him down mouthful by mouthful. His blood is so potent you feel your strength begin to return just from the first swallow, and the rest is pure high. 

You start to see some things, about this man whose blood is in your mouth. You see flashes of a forbidding dark forest, and fighting, so much fighting. A quaint little cottage in the woods, so humble, so warm. There is a woman whose touch feels like sunshine. ‘Yelena,’ he calls her. And with her hands in his hair and a smile on her lips she calls him…

“Jardani?”

 He jerks back to look at you with haunted eyes, pinning you to the wall with his big hand spanning your chest. Drunk on the want of him, you whine like a thwarted kitten, trying to return to the bloody font of his throat. He searches your face as though desperate for the answer to some crucial riddle written upon your features. “How…?” But does not give you the chance to answer, his mouth crashing over yours again with a new ardor, gripping you so hard that even you will have bruises. 

You cannot think. 

There is only the taste of him, intoxicating and wonderful and you cannot stop yourself from pulling at his clothes, holding him to you. You want to climb him, devour him, be inside him, as surely as his lightning-charged blood is raging through you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss when at last you manage to pull away, not for breath but just a break from this madness. What the fuck is he doing to you?

“Yeah?” he asks, seemingly with all seriousness, hoisting you against the wall with hands on your thighs like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct; he pins you with his hips, his manhood rock hard against your center. He grinds against you, his lips on your neck again, teasing open the wound he left earlier, and you can’t help but moan, soaking wet and aching to be filled. In that moment you don’t care that you’re in a dirty alley with a man you don’t even know. You know the heart of him, and right now you would swear unequivocally that he belonged to you. 

“Wow. You High Table assholes sure know how to treat a lady.”

The sound of that familiar voice makes you freeze, some small modicum of sanity returning to you. 

Your would-be lover is less civil, snarling at the newcomer in the alley. “Not a good time, Constantine.” 

“No time like the present, Wick. Put her down.”

With his attention fixed somewhere else, some modicum of clearer thought returns to you. Your first stop is pure mortification. 

There is John, standing tall with his legs spread in his usual black and white suit, and to his shoulder he is holding a large, golden…cross gun? Like he totally intends to use it if he has to. 

The sight of him makes your heart ache with longing. No tricks. No magic. You just…adore him, even while wrapped up in another man’s arms, and you realize you are as hopeless as you are smitten. That connection between you glows again. You feel it in your chest, and it helps clear the lustful ardor that a moment ago gripped you so completely.

Dhampir magic is some scary shit.

The vampire hunter–Jardani?–Wick?–looks at you as though you’ve said something out loud. His eyes narrow; he doesn’t seem to like it one bit. He does put you down, but holds you in front of him like a shield, his big hand at your throat. 

“Never thought the John Constantine would turn vampire’s familiar. Who knew?” taunts the dhampir behind you. 

“What?”

 Both men ignore your question, fixed on each other in this standoff. 

“Call it what you want,” Constantine answers stonily. “I’m the one holding the gun. Let her go.” 

“I don’t want to.”

“I see that. Nice, you always gotta use your Blood Lure to get laid?” 

“Hardly. Your little vampling here is a special girl.” 

“Yeah. But she doesn’t belong to you, Wick, so let her go.” 

“You love her?” 

Wide eyed, you can’t stop yourself from fixating on John at that question, gone grave-still in Wick’s unrelenting grasp. 

In answer, John mostly just grinds his teeth, his lower jaw jutting. “It’s complicated,” he finally admits, and though that’s never a good answer from a man, your treacherous undead heart still skips a beat.  

“I think she deserves better than it’s complicated.”

“Not from you, half breed. Let her go.” 

You feel Wick tense behind you, and you remember the absolute whirlwind of carnage he caused in the club a few blocks away, that supernatural berzerker rage that mowed down vampire after vampire. John is formidable, but you can’t help but think no one can stand up to that and live. “Please,” you say, appealing to the wall of a man behind you. “Please, just let us go.”

Wick growls deep in his chest–a chilling, primal sound that resonates through you, your every hair standing on end. 

His grip upon you flexes, as though his physical being abhors the very idea of it. You’re not really afraid for yourself now. You’re afraid for John, and unbidden you start to cry those bloody tears. “I love him,” you say in the most hushed whisper you can muster, and the moment it leaves your lips you know it’s true, and maybe it has been true since the night you made that grouchy man dinner, and he made you feel like you mattered to someone in this big mean city. “Please don’t hurt him.”

Somehow, this is the thing that seems to call this dangerous man down. For a moment his grip around your waist tightens; he inhales your scent deeply, his nose behind your ear sending a warm thrill down your spine. He speaks low, though you think John can probably hear him anyway. “He doesn’t look good, vampling. I won’t have to wait long for you.” 

Suddenly, he’s just gone. Disappeared into the shadows, as though he is made of night. 

Unsupported, you stumble, and fall right on your butt. 

John looks around warily with the strange gun at the ready, sweeping the alley like he can’t believe the dhampir had actually retreated. Slowly he crosses to you, impossibly tall from your vantage of the ground. He seemingly reluctantly offers you a hand. “You ok?” 

“No,” you answer truthfully, taking his hand, the warm strength of his grip a welcome boon. When he pulls you to your feet you want more than anything to just be in his arms. 

But all he offers you is a hard stare, and a brusque, “Come on,” as he pulls you towards the other end of the alley. 

It’s complicated, he’d said.  

Why does that have to feel right then like he hates your guts?

You’re getting tired of crying for this man. You remind yourself of this as the ball of despair rises in your throat and your eyes sting like mace. 

Did he hear you? If he heard your heartfelt confession to the dhampir, even if it saved his life…he did not like it at all. 

[lovelyo]

Season 3 part 2 will be Ass. Let me Tell You Why.

Cause in the end, Penelope, Lady Whistledown, the one who has left devastation in people’s lives will get all what she wants. The man that she wants, the attention that she wants, the family she always wanted to be(so envious of them she talked shit about them ), will get her best friend back, might have the heir for that dumbass Featherington plot line, might get the Queen’s pardon and above all else, will most likely not give up LW cause they made LW such an integral part of the show.(so in that case, she’ll be even more filthy rich)

And if we go by leaked spoilers, it is said that Colin will be mad at Penelope for like 1 episode until Kanthony talks some “sense” into him. So that just tells me Kanthony will be OOC because there’s no damn way Anthony would let that beast comment about his wife slide.

There are no stakes when it comes to this season cause we all know how it’s finna go down. If Penelope gets any type of consequences, then her very undeserved HEA is doomed so everything is going to have to go her way for the already idiotic plot to make some form of sense. It’s like the love triangle in part 1, what the hell was the point of Lord Debling when everyone and their ancestors knew Colin and Penelope were end game? So we can see Colin’s cringe angst? If we already know the answer to the love triangle, there’s no point. The “find you a husband” plot line was stupid as shit anyway, but it’s whatever now.

Ugh, then we have to sit through more awkward love scenes between asshat 1 and 2

Eloise threatening Penelope with her LW identity is going to amount to nothing cause we know Penelope isn’t gonna receive any comeuppance. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they made Eloise apologize to Penelope for…🤷🏾‍♂️🤷(let’s apologize to the toxic friend for not dealing with their toxicity)

For Penelope to have a happy ending, she has to get away scot free and that’s what boils my blood. I hate in media and literature when a character goes around, creates chaos and receives nothing for it or just a slap on a wrist. I’ve noticed an increase in it lately too. Also, I’m tired of writers not severing their bias from their writing. I’ve been encountering many series lately where the writer(s) have favoritism towards a specific character and gives them the easy route, bends the world for them and pull punches just because they like them so much. It’s really aggravating cause you see everyone else getting put through the wringer and then you see the favored character walking through Candyland. It hurts the story, the character, and frankly makes you hate the character.

Everyone around Penelope is gonna act brain dead in order for Penelope to get what she wants and I’m not here for it. Even the general audience ain’t for it. The only people cheering this madness are the asylum patients called Polin fans with delusions that Penelope deserves the world.

I’m not even looking forward to Francesca and John’s story cause of the Poolin fecal matter I’ll have to swim through to get there. At this point, I’m might just watch spoilers of part 2 cause it’s not worth it.

P.S. Watch Cressida get the short end of the stick cause she’s the “bully” of the show and Penelope is the “victim”. Watch them break Creloise because of the “I don’t want you hanging around Eloise” subplot which will ultimately fuel Eloise and Penelope becoming friends again. Also, Penelope and Cressida competed for Lord Debling just for Penelope to go “sike” and marry Colin so she wasted Debling’s time and made Cressida feel like shit because she wasn’t chosen. P.S.S- Polins are huge ass hypocrites cause they ragged on Eloise being privileged and having “everything” but are silent about Penelope being privileged. By the end of this season, Penelope will basically have everything, even more so than Eloise, but sure, Penelope is definitely not privileged 😑. Penelope is privileged inside the world and outside by production, why are we denying this?

[aishangotome]

Azel Radwan: Dramatic Ending Ch. 23

Dramatic Ending Ch. 22

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

♡———♡

Azel: Is that...

Azel: What you call "true love?"

From the dim light behind the benevolent, smiling apostle, the God emerges, bathed in the radiant moonlight.

Ignoring the apostle and the surrounding people, Azel stands boldly before me.

(I wonder how long he's been listening.)

I look up, trying to hide the ticklish feeling of him rushing to my side even in this situation.

(Whether not betraying Azel is true love, or not...)

(...That's probably not for me to decide.)

(Even if it is love, if the recipient doesn't perceive it as such, it becomes distorted violence.)

Emma: I hope Prince Azel sees it that way.

When I voice my prayer, Azel only smiles mischievously.

Azel: But it's quite a disaster for you to get tangled up with such a troublesome old man. I offer my condolences.

Akatsuki: You're the cause.

Azel: Yes, that's why I came here like this.

Azel: If Akatsuki draws his sword, a fierce, blood-soaked war will break out, apart from the whole end of the world thing.

(I thought Azel wouldn't appear before us anymore after that distancing behavior.)

(...It's just like Azel to not abandon us at the very end.)

Apostle: Living God, I have been waiting for you.

The apostle's face is filled with ecstatic joy at the sight of the God appearing.

Azel also shows his disgust at the benevolent smile that gives me goosebumps.

Apostle: I believed that you, the Living God who can see the future, would surely come.

Azel: Old man, you're old enough to stop dreaming.

Azel: You seem to be mistaken in thinking that you can stop the death of God by calling me here, but your futile struggles are just unsightly.

Azel: Tanzanite no longer needs a God.

Azel: In the old days, when this land was barren and desolate, people couldn't have survived without the protection of God.

Azel: But what about Tanzanite now? It has progressed to the point of being one of the major countries on the continent.

Azel: The economy has developed thanks to the many tourists who visit, and the poverty-stricken country with nothing but desert no longer exists.

Azel: If people have gained the ability to walk on their own, it can be said that God has fulfilled his role.

Azel's perspective was lofty, truly the words of a God watching over his people.

(Even if I don't want him to die, I surely won't find the words to overcome this will.)

Azel: Why do you think the first Living God spoke of the end?

Azel: It's because he believed in the potential of humans.

Azel: That wasn't a prophecy of the end, but a prophecy of the beginning.

Azel: The Living God of the past dreamed of people acquiring the ability to live without the power of God.

Azel: He entrusted that dream to the prophecy.

(People will only truly live in reality once they awaken from their slumber.)

(The prophecy of the end, from a human perspective, speaks of an ending...)

(But perhaps God only wanted people to break free from the moon's control and welcome a new dawn.)

Azel: Old man, you want this dream to continue, don't you? I don't deny that idea.

Azel: People have the freedom of faith. If you want to believe in God forever, then do so.

Azel: But that faith must not be forced upon others.

Azel: God's will is for "humans to awaken from their dream."

Azel: Please stop with your usual "all for the sake of God" spiel, okay?

Even with Azel's rebuke, the apostle doesn't flinch.

His unwavering smile is terrifying.

Apostle: Living God, do you truly believe that humans can survive this harsh environment on their own?

Apostle: All the prosperity Tanzanite has enjoyed so far has been built by God.

Apostle: If we lose God, this land will surely return to an uninhabitable environment.

Azel: That's a baseless delusion.

Apostle: For those of us who don't know a world without God, it's a natural conclusion.

Apostle: The country of Tanzanite is a desert dream shown by successive generations of Living Gods.

Apostle: To perpetuate this dream eternally, the power of the Living God is indispensable.

Apostle: I, too, am a servant of God... I understand that I must respect his will.

Apostle: However, it is also my role to convey the voices of the people to God.

Apostle: Please, won't you reconsider?

(It seems like he won't listen to God's will no matter what.)

Azel: Just as you won't withdraw your will, I also have no intention of changing my mind.

Azel: It seems we'll never see eye to eye. I knew that.

Azel: You deny the potential of humans, and I believe in the potential of humans. That's all there is to it...

Azel: I didn't come here to have a heated argument with you.

Azel: I just had some business with them, so could you please leave?

Azel seems to have quickly given up on reaching an understanding with the apostle. He turns to me and pushes my shoulder.

(Whoa!? )

Azel: Come on, let's get a move on. Let's get out of here quickly.

The apostle's followers who were surrounding us don't seem to have the courage to defy the God, and the path opens up before the owner can draw his sword.

Apostle: Living God, there's one thing I want to tell you.

Azel: I'd rather not have my ears rot.

Apostle: If anything should happen, the devout people plan to perform a ritual to resurrect God by offering their own lives.

(...What did he just say...?)

I, not Azel, stop in my tracks.

Apostle: The number is about 10,000... It may not be enough as a price for the precious life of the Living God.

Apostle: Our will to avoid our own end is stronger than the Living God thinks.

(10,000 people will offer their lives?)

(What in the world kind of logic is that...!)

Azel: This is the first I've heard of a life-offering culture in our country. It seems there are things even I don't know.

Azel turns around, his face filled with astonishment.

I wish it were a bad joke, but the apostle's eyes were serious at a time like this.

Apostle: We don't want to lose God, even if it means using forbidden measures.

Apostle: But it pains me to do so. If possible, I don't want to sacrifice their lives or the life of the Living God.

Apostle: I informed you of this in hopes that it would help the Living God make his decision.

(...Coward. This is just blackmail.)

The Living God wanted the people to resist.

But surely he doesn't want them to resist like this.

(I can't say it's impossible, considering the gatherings that Clavis and the others mentioned before.)

(...If it's the apostle who was brainwashing people with incense and instilling them with praise for God...)

(Maybe he could also induce them to throw away their lives for God.)

Azel: If you want to die, go right ahead. I won't stop you.

(!?)

Azel: God won't be resurrected even if 10,000 people die, but your believers will understand that once they actually die.

Azel: If you thought such childish threats would work on me, you're a little too naïve.

Azel: Ah, or perhaps... the me reflected in your eyes is still a "small God."

Azel: Are you seeing an illusion of the obedient, young God you could freely manipulate?

Apostle: Living God...

Azel: Well, it doesn't matter. Let's go.

(Is he really leaving?)

Azel pushes my back again and starts walking.

When I almost stumble, he supports me and lifts me up.

Emma: Th-this is embarrassing!

Azel: Could you please stop blushing? I'm suffering collateral damage here.

Even though we're not running, the apostle is already getting further away.

As I cling to Azel so as not to fall, I notice that the owner, who came with us, still hasn't taken his hand off his sword.

Azel: ...Akatsuki, your bloodlust is directed at the wrong person.

Akatsuki: Don't casually touch a maiden before marriage.

Azel: No, I told you, it's troublesome if you walk slowly. Read the room.

Akatsuki: Why do I need to read the room?

The two of them, bickering, don't seem to be taking the situation as seriously as I am.

(Maybe Azel has a chance of winning.)

(…But, I wonder if he’s noticed.)

The apostle didn’t stop smiling gently until he turned the corner of the alley.

As if to say that even Azel's reaction was just as he expected.

-

Azel: Well then, goodbye to you both.

Emma: That’s not happening, is it!?

Azel entered the sanctuary, which was the base of the anti-god forces, and went straight to the city exit from there.

When I was thrown out into the desert from a place like a back entrance and waved to with a smile, I honestly felt like grabbing my chest.

Emma: There are a lot of things I want to ask you.

Azel: I won’t be speaking with you.

Emma: You’re just going to use me and then toss me aside when you’re done?

Azel: That’s right––

Akatsuki: Oh?

At the sight of the dull-colored blade emerging from its scabbard, Azel quickly moved behind me.

Azel: …Fine, what do you want to know? I’ll answer one question, as a special favor.

(Just one…?)

There were a mountain of things I wanted to ask, and I couldn’t seem to narrow it down to just one.

But it seemed like Azel really would rush back into the sanctuary after answering.

The fact that he had stopped at all now might be the biggest concession he was willing to make.

(If I can’t hear the whole truth, I’ll just ask the one thing I’m most curious about.)

(If I hear this, I can return to Rhodolite without any regrets… Not really, but…)

(I can tell myself that.)

I turned around and peered into his mystical eyes that held the starry sky within.

I was surprised by how close we were, but I couldn’t back down now.

Emma: Prince Azel, are you satisfied now?

Azel: …What do you mean?

Emma: Is everything that’s happening now going according to your wishes?

When I asked him this clearly, word by word, Azel seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment.

Just as I was trying to ascertain his true intentions, perhaps Azel was also trying to figure out mine.

Azel: Of course, it’s going according to my wishes.

Azel: …What would happen if I said that?

Emma: I would just be relieved.

(If no one is threatening you, and Azel is creating this situation of his own volition…)

(I… I want to pray for your success.)

*flashback*

Azel: People revere and worship me as a God. But that’s just a convenient illusion.

Azel: The true identity of the last God on this continent is…

Azel: …Just a pathetic slave.

*flashback over*

(So that Azel will never have to say such a thing again.)

(…Though in my heart, I want to stop him.)

(…Though I don’t want him to die.)

Emma: I hope your wish comes true, Prince Azel.

I took Azel's hand as if in prayer and enveloped it in mine.

The perverse God didn’t shake me off.

Azel: …I’ve thought this before, but you really are an idiot, aren’t you?

Akatsuki: Oh?

Azel: No, that’s not right. I apologize for my poor choice of words.

Azel: …It’s just that, with that look on your face like you’re about to cry…

(…!)

Azel: You, with your kind heart, shouldn’t be able to accept my death. And yet, you pray for it?

My inhaled breath trembled, and I exhaled as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t notice.

Emma: That’s right, I’m praying for it.

Emma: …Like I said before, it’s up to Prince Azel to decide what happiness is.

Azel: ......

My hand, which had been passively held, was squeezed back tightly.

I couldn’t quite read the emotions contained within.

But… the divine smile had disappeared from Azel's face.

It wasn’t his usual sullen expression either; it conveyed a sense of urgency.

(...Maybe I shouldn’t pry too deeply.)

(Because if I knew, I might not be able to leave.)

I lowered my eyes slightly and filled my vision with sand.

Emma: If I stay in Tanzanite, the apostle will continue to target me.

Emma: If I’m captured, it might interfere with Azel's plans.

Azel: You have quite a high opinion of yourself, don’t you? Even if you were taken hostage, I wouldn’t help you.

Emma: No, I’m sure you would help me.

(You came rushing to my aid earlier, so I’m confident.)

(Azel is the type of person who says he “won’t help,” but then does the opposite.)

Emma: If leaving is the only thing I can do…

Emma: …Then this is truly goodbye.

(And the next time I come to Tanzanite, Azel might not be here.)

(…I might regret not stopping him.)

The thought of the inevitable future made me want to crumble, but I lifted the corners of my mouth with all my might.

Emma: I’ll ask anyway, what kind of offering would you like?

Azel: You’re going to give me an offering?

Emma: I still have a debt to pay, so I’ll have no choice but to come see you while sobbing uncontrollably.

Azel: That’s a nuisance.

Emma: Please forgive me for that much.

Emma: …The time we spent together won’t disappear like a dream.

(I’m sure I’ll remember it many times.)

(And each time, I might curse you, saying that it’s all the fault of the wicked God that I feel so much pain.)

Azel's fingertips tightened.

Azel: In that case… I’d like a home-cooked meal as an offering. Preferably something hearty.

Emma: I’ll remember that. If I make it, you have to eat it, okay?

(I’m glad we were able to say goodbye properly in the end.)

I opened my hand to move away from Azel before the tears overflowed.

Emma: …Goodbye, Prince Azel.

Azel: Yes, goodbye. I hope we never meet again.

Emma: .....

Azel: ........

Emma: Um…?

Azel: What is it?

Emma: Please… let go of my hand.

(I can’t say goodbye.)

Even though I was saying goodbye, there was no sign of him releasing my hand.

Azel: You let go.

Emma: I am letting go.

Azel: No, you’re not.

Emma: I am letting go, aren’t I!?

Azel: Your grip is so strong, my hand feels like it’s going to be crushed.

Emma: Liar!

Azel: Calling me a liar…

Akatsuki: How unsightly.

The owner once again put his hand on his sword, but unlike before, Azel showed no sign of running away.

Emma: …Is there something else you want to say?

Azel: ………… No.

Azel: ..........

Azel: Yes, there is something I want to say.

.

.

.

Dramatic End Ch. 23 Letter

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to leave me a tip here or buy me a coffee through the "Leave a Tip" button on my navigation bar!

You guys have no idea but I was (and still am) a wet, sobbing mess while translating this chapter T__T Literally sobbing but trying to get this done so you guys can share in my agony.

[imagineredwood]

EZ for D pls 🥺

D is for...Delusion 1. "This hurts me more than it hurts you." 3. "Why are you running? I did this for you!"

**Dark EZ as you can tell by the prompts. Pretty OOC but its for the plot just be delulu with me. Also, this gif of EZ has always had such dark energy to me so it fits perfect. I left out 2. because it just didn't fit the vibe to me.**

Warnings: Breaking and entering mentioned, kidnapping, confinment+bondage, gaslighting

Pairing: Fresh out of prison, Dark!EZ x naive!reader

EZ was sweet.

At least you thought so.

He was still trying to get used to being free. Get used to not being controlled. Prison allowed him to create a regimen. Form discipline. But it also kept him in line.

He had to follow orders, be it those of the guards or the gang he found himself aligned with.

He had to stay focused and do as he was told, and that kept him straight for the most part.

But now that he was out, this newfound freedom and ability to do as he pleased proved to be...both exhilarating and terrifying. On the one hand he enjoyed the freedom, but on the other, he felt the intense need to belong to something again.

Or have something belong to him.

And that was where you had come in.

A sweet little innocent thing that saw the good in absolutely everyone. Even him.

Especially him.

You had taken pity on him. Felt sorry that he had lost his future. Lost his high school sweetheart and his child later on. Lost that bright light. So you had decided to be a friend, and that was all it took for him to realize you were the one that he needed to belong to him. Something Someone that would be all his. That would never leave. Never trade him in. Never abandon him. He wouldn't let you.

That was how you had ended up here.

In his basement.

It was a nice basement, not one of the scary decrepit ones you always see in movies.

He would never put his precious girl in a shitty, dingy basement.

No, it was nice and clean with a bed for you. Sheets in your favorite color. Blankets and pillows. A mini fridge for you to eat and drink at your discretion. Sure the walls were concrete, but the night he had broken into your home and taken you, he had also gone back and gotten all of your pictures and decor. Then he put them up for you, so it felt more like home. He allowed you to walk around freely during the day.

But at night the shackle went back on, no matter what. He couldn't risk you escaping. And now was that time.

You hugged your knees as close to your body as you could, watching him as he walked closer and closer. He sat down beside you at the foot of the bed, eyes sympathetic but still stern. He patted his thigh and you knew exactly what he wanted, but you kept your legs just as they were.

"Maybe I can sleep without it tonight? I've been good. I'm not going anywhere."

EZ nodded and tapped the metal shackle.

"I know. This makes sure of that."

You gulped and continued to stare at him.

"It's just hard for me to feel at home when you always lock me up like this."

He thought it over and was distracted long enough for you to catch him slipping. The kick to the side of his head was full of as much force as you could muster. He saw stars, shaking his head to gather himself while you took off sprinting towards the stairs. You dashed up the entire way, the door coming into view closer and closer until you finally reached it and grabbed the handle, turning it quickly.

And finding it locked.

You stood there at the top of the stairs and turned slowly, just in time to see him come to stand at the bottom of them. His eyes were black as they looked up at you, hands clenching at his sides.

"Why are you running? I did this for you!"

You whimpered and stood frozen, watching as he came to stand on the first stair.

"I've done all of this for you. You don't have to work. You want for nothing. You have everything you need. And this is how you repay me?"

Suddenly he was running, taking the stairs three at a time and before you knew it he was right there, toe to toe, hand holding a cloth over your mouth and nose, his face nuzzling into the side of your neck as he cooed at you, voice laced with sorrow that you still hadn't come to accept that you were now his forever.

"Shhhhh. It's ok. This hurts me more than it hurts you."

Dark fiction taglist 

@whitetxilwxlf @kikijackson-blog @ben-c-group-therapy @ravennaortiz @mama-mischief @flowercrowns-goodvibes @shellofashadow @pekusofixus

[late-draft]

Something interesting, I ran into an innocent comment that was something like, "Katara healing Zuko's scar would have been the final element that pushes Zuko to join the Gaang" and I don't think this is true!

Switching sides and joining the Gaang wasn't even on Zuko's mind for most of the show. It did flash briefly through his head as a shocking idea when Aang had asked him if things could have been different, back at the Blue Spirit rescue. But he chased that idea away as quickly as it appeared because the only reason he would have entertained it would have been to have friends. Everything else in the situation is adamantly opposing the idea, from the sides of the war to the very point of goals of each group. Aang was on his way to mess up the plans of the Fire Lord, Zuko's father whom he believed, at that point in the story, he owed complete loyalty to. So there is no dilemma.

Only after rejecting Ozai, letting go of an (understandable) delusion that he could ever receive love and affirmation from him, breaking free of the Fire Nation's propaganda and rejecting the Fire Nation's conquest and cruelty, does Zuko arrive to the question of "what now". Only after this is he able to see that he has a clear option of switching sides. This is satisfying because Zuko isn't switching to the Good Guys side chasing a carrot on a stick, instead it's because he's finally freeing himself of shackles and following his internal moral compass.

Even though he doesn't exactly know what side Iroh is on, he wants to be on it, but he at least knows his uncle is against the Fire Nation. And then he goes and confronts Ozai. (Here's a moment in the narrative of the show that I feel wasn't explored enough - I think there should have been more discussions among characters what Iroh is doing, whose side is he on, what does he support and what does he believe in, especially from Zuko because when the Order of the White Lotus is revealed, it's just glossed over. This plot thread is frayed.)

While it is the writer's job to get Zuko's character to join the Gaang, this has to happen exclusively due to in-world events and character choices, otherwise it would be bad writing.

In a way, the writer's story has to be the consequence of in-world character choices and actions, even if this sounds strange at first!

~

So back to the first statement; what is happening in the scene in the catacombs of Ba Sing Se then? To me it's clear the only thing running through Zuko's head at the moment is "Katara Katara Katara Katara..."

And then she runs and hugs Aang.

And then she leaves.

It's very evident that in-universe, this tension is never released and the event never resolved or talked about. First cut short by Aang's appearance, and then made worse by Azula's ultimatum.

That is, until the famous hug on the pier.

[noosayog]

wc: 700

warnings/content: non-con? (sfw)

part 7. directory here.

--

A while ago, you and Atsumu had made plans to celebrate the end of finals week by taking a trip to a nearby town for the weekend. With the events from last night looming above you, that obviously isn’t happening so you pack your things and sneak out to make the earliest train to your hometown to escape potential confrontation. 

There was a part of you that had hoped that Atsumu had camped outside your door the entire night to catch you and desperately apologize and beg you to stay. Shame burned at your cheeks when you scanned the entire hallway and found it empty and clear as it is any normal day. 

With that, you speed off to the station before you can embarrass yourself any further. 

–

The break at home is welcome. Not to say that you’re not still utterly heart-broken, but the reprieve from Atsumu is much needed, however short. You steel yourself for the inevitable encounter as you return to your apartment a week later, making sure to wipe any delusions of Atsumu waiting for you from your mind. Anticlimactically, you survive the short trek from your building entrance to your door in peace.

It’s much later, when you’re leaving for your first class of the semester that it finally happens. By now, you’ve had plenty of time to run all the possible scenarios and plan your respective responses. Predictably, he marches straight up to you when your eyes meet. You immediately move to avoid him but you must be equally predictable to him because he grabs hold of your wrist before you can put any more distance between you two. 

“Where have you been,” he breathes. 

Yep, you had thought through this scenario. This is manageable. 

“Away from you,” you return evenly, trying to twist out of his grip. 

He sucks in a breath at that, like you had just punched him in the gut. Not a bad idea.

“Baby-”

Pet names were scenario C of your imagination. Nothing you can’t handle. 

“Don’t call me that,” you say, still trying to writhe away. 

He tightens his hold and pulls you that much closer. This makes you stiffen up. You had thought of the physical contact route, but had no countermoves for his brute strength. 

“Let go,” you seethe. 

“Not until you let me apologize.” 

“You can apologize all you want. I won’t accept anything, and nothing is going to change,” you recite your practiced lines. 

Atsumu seems to be figuring out what is and isn’t working, and words aren’t, so he focuses his efforts on keeping his hands on you. 

“What can I do, then?” 

“Nothing,” you answer. “We were nothing anyway, so you don’t have to act like you owe me anything.” 

You know you’re being cruel. But you just want to hurt him, make him feel what you felt. 

It works because he clenches his teeth, jaw tightening. 

“You know that’s not true.” 

“Who cares if it isn’t? You clearly didn’t.” 

He groans in frustration. “Why can’t you just- and why are you so-” 

He’s talking in a frenzy, a mix of unfinished thoughts and voice raising in volume. 

You’ve practiced a line that would end all this uncertainty. You’re late to class, you rationalize. This has to end so you can move on, you convince yourself. 

Deep breath in. 

“Miya,” you cut him off authoritatively. “There’s one thing you can do.” 

His eyes widen; he thinks you’re throwing him a bone. 

“Fuck off and stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you and nothing would make me happier than if I never saw you again.” 

Shaky deep breath out. It’s fine, you’re fine, it doesn’t hurt. You’re imagining it. Your vision is blurring a little but you keep repeating it. It’s fine. You’re fine. It doesn’t hurt. 

His grip on you releases, his hand dropping down at his side limply. It’s all going perfectly according to the scenarios you had run in your head. The tears in your eyes were not planned, but you’re fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt. 

The damage is done and you think you’re free to go, so you turn to make your way to class and leave him behind.

That’s when you’re yanked backwards, one arm winding all the way around your waist and another palm sliding under your chin. And suddenly, his lips are on yours.

[super-paper]

I still don’t understand AFO. Why is he like this. This series repeatedly goes out of it’s way to humanize the villains but AFO is still just evil because he wants to be the demon lord and I don’t get it.

That would be the point, I feel-- AFO doesn't want to be understood or seen as "human." He wants to completely lose himself in character, wants other people to mindlessly play along with the story he's written for himself like good little extras, and wants everyone around him to acknowledge what a ~perfectly inhuman demon lord~ he is-- and he's bent the entire narrative of MHA around himself like a shield in order to accomplish that. Like, the idea of people breaking the same black and white narrative that he's been using to protect himself (and trap others) quite literally drives him insane:

"That murderer--" "You killer--" oooooo you're so mad that human nature is basically good, that people are endlessly capable of growth and healing, and that actual human beings can't simply be shoved into teeny black and white fictional boxes ooooo all the more evidence that he's gonna completely lose his shit when Tomura ultimately refuses to kill Izuku lmao

I wanna point out his speech bubbles in the second image, bc Hori frequently uses speech bubbles to emphasize a character's mental state-- Like.... Bro is literally coming apart at the seams with rage that Stain is trying to be anything more than a starter villain. 😭The english translation also kind of sort of makes it seem like AFO is simply referring to Stain by his moniker (Hero Killer), but the term he uses in the original text feels a little more... loaded, imho?? The kanji used for Stain's "Hero Killer" Moniker is "Goroshi" ("殺ごろし"), but here, AFO instead refers to him as a "Murderer" (殺人犯/satsujin-han). Calling Stain an out-and-out murderer instead of calling him by a villain moniker feels a lot more specific, a lot more pointed, and it also tells us a lot more about AFO’s fucked up sense of values.

Anyway, I've said this before, but AFO is a character who reads heavily as an escapist fantasy gone horrifically wrong. "Why is a world where villains are allowed to climb back up from rock bottom and heal so intolerable to AFO?" "why does the idea of people breaking free from their roles make AFO so angry?" "why is AFO literally trying to BECOME a comic book character?" are better questions to ask than "why is bro just evil for the sake of it," I feel. Like obviously, a world where the label of "villain" gets thoroughly and utterly dismantled is one where AFO loses his power over others.... but it's also a world that rips that protective layer of "fiction" away from him, exposes his own humanity, and destroys that delusion of becoming the "perfect villain king" that he's wrapped himself up in.

tfw you LARP so hard that it ends up getting your brother killed and now breaking character means you gotta Process All Of That .................................................... Unless...? :)

What I find especially interesting about AFO is that MHA's narrative actually cooperates with shielding him from the readers, to a degree-- scenes that depict rare moments of genuine emotion are overlaid with contrary, cartoonishly evil narration that's meant to distract the reader from what's actually being depicted. The bulk of the series depicts his face being hidden in shadows even though it *literally* has no reason to be, and we don't get an unobscured look until the other characters finally start rallying together to reject his story. He is literally introduced to the series through a TV screen, which MHA has been using as a shorthand for its depiction of fantasy since day one:

In my opinion, I feel the final act of "rejection" that AFO fears isn't from his brother, or his followers, or "his other self"-- what he fears is the story itself rejecting him and finally exposing him for what he is: an utterly mundane human. Like, a total freak of a guy to be sure, but still totally human. The narrative revoking its various "protections" and working against AFO to humanize him acts as the final insult to everything he claims to believe in while doubling as the last bit of confirmation that he was never gonna become a "perfect demon lord." MHA being what it is, this is something inevitable.

Where other characters in this series draw strength from their origin-- the moment that defines them as a human and individual-- AFO likely fears and rejects his own origin for this same reason.

Anyway. I would describe AFO as a wannabe-author who refuses to make public appearances or divulge details about his personal life, but ultimately reveals a little too much about himself through the "stories" and "characters" he tries to write-- so ppl still know he's a freak with issues by virtue of how fatherless his content is. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Putting together all the pieces of himself that AFO accidentally lets slip is part of what makes MHA so fun (to me, at least!).

[st4rg1rl-pl4n3t]

──── is that all i'll ever be ? ۶ৎ

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary — unrequited love.

wc — 1.2k+

warnings — none.

a/n — english is NOT my first language. please excuse any grammatical/spelling errors.

i met the triplets, and justin, when i was just four years old — they were five, and justin was twelve. the one that stood out to me, you may ask? matthew — the "weird", scrawny kid who helped me collect the lizards in our backyards.

my whole life, i was told that me and matthew would end up together. of course, as kids, neither of us wanted to believe it, nor did we want to feed into our parents' delusions. we attended the same schools our whole lives, then high school started. matt, being a year older than me, went to high school first. in his freshman year, he met her — aubrey.

naturally, the pair being in the same class, they started talking. he asked her for her number when they had a maths class together, and from there on out, they were practically inseparable. i felt so left out, because the boy i'd been best friends with for most of my life was suddenly replacing me with another, newer girl. and it hurt. way more than it should've.

i don't really know how, or when, or why i started developing a crush on him. i think it was way back when i was about eleven or so, when his dad made a joke about me being "matt's girl" and my cheeks flushed bright, crimson red. everywhere i went, for years, i was known as exactly that. matt's girl. and though it felt good to hear it, it hurt me because i wasn't actually his girl. aubrey was. with perfect, dark brown hair and pretty, doll-like eyes to match, matt must've fallen in love with those eyes that weren't mine. a voice that wasn't mine. a heart that wasn't mine.

i've tried getting over the stupid, blue-eyed boy, for years. but truthfully? i can't. it feels impossible. it is impossible.

when i started high school, i got attention from boys that i hadn't ever gotten before. older boys, specifically. me and matt would still hang out, our families together for a dinner at some restaurant downtown, at least once a month.

slowly but surely, as the years passed, those hangouts died down and became less frequent. i'd always hear about aubrey this and aubrey that. but never once was there heard about me having a special someone in my life. and when i talked about a boy i was seeing at the time, it'd only last a week tops.

in the tenth grade, when the triplets were in eleventh, i had a boyfriend. he was kind, sweet, and my parents adored him. shit hit the fan the night, after months of not seeing matt, he decided to show up at my bedroom window. saying he 'missed me in his life'.

and it went downhill from there. just when i thought i was finally getting over this embarrassingly hopeless crush, he had to show up — to maneuver his way back into my heart. but, really, the question stands: did he ever really leave?

we talked for hours that night, about all the detours life has taken us on in the time we'd been out of touch with each other. he told me about school, his plans for after he graduated, and of course, his girlfriend.

and, don't get me wrong, i was happy for him, really, i was. seeing him smile made me smile, regardless of it breaking my heart to know that i wasn't the girl he loved.

sometimes it felt like he loved me, though. when he'd hug me, it wasn't a quick, brushed-off, side-hug. it was a real, tight hug that lasted for more than just two seconds on end.

the way he'd get all protective when i mentioned a boy at school, acting as if it was his duty to protect me from all evil in the world. the way i'd catch him staring at me, under the starry night sky when we sat by the lake, like i was the one living rent free in his heart.

it was confusing, i'll be honest. i never really knew where we stood with each other. he was hard to read, but god, i would give anything just to understand him.

it's like he kept me on this line, on a hook, because he knew i liked him. loved him, even. he had to, right? because there's no way he couldn't see the way my eyes lit up everytime i saw him. there's no way he couldn't feel my heart pounding against my ribcage everytime he gave me a hug. the way my hands would shake when we parted from said hug. the way my cheeks always burned brighter than a stoplight when people teased us about liking each other, and i had to play it off and say that we were just friends.

because that's all i'll ever be, right? just a friend to him.

it can't be, though. i refuse to let it be that way. he has to love me. at least just a little bit.

i mean, c'mon. he doesn't even look happy with his girlfriend.

he doesn't laugh until he can't breathe when he's with her.

he can't be silly around her without being made fun of.

he can't be himself when she's around.

so, another question that stands: why is he with her, pretending to be this man, when he's really still a naive, eighteen year old boy?

i saw him again today, for the first time in almost a year. and god, my heart ached. seeing his stupid, toothy grin made me smile so dumbly. i hugged him when i saw him, wanting to never let him go again, but... he didn't reciprocate the hug. his hug was cold and rushed, as if he wanted me to get away from him. my face dropped, and my heart sank. but, i understood. he had a girlfriend now, a pretty girl at that, and hasn't seen me in ages.

it felt like i was a stranger to the kid. as if he'd never met me before. as if we hadn't grown up together, and spent most of our lives glued to each other's sides.

i thought that, at seventeen years old and after six pathetic years of a dumb, childhood crush, my feelings would've vanished. but no, not really. i don't think it ever will, if i'm being honest. he's the thing i keep coming back to, no matter how hard i try to stay away.

the countless nights i've spent balling my eyes out suddenly felt like it wasn't enough. the countless nights we've spent under the stars, laughing until our tummies hurt and we cried of joy felt like it wasn't... even real. like it had never happened. the countless nights we'd spent in each other's arms, watching silly movies or tv shows, singing karaoke or playing call of duty... was it all a lie? was i so stupid, young and naive that i thought it meant more?

when play-fighting turned into almost-kisses and his hands all over my body... it had to have meant something, right? otherwise it wouldn't have happened so many times. countless nights our faces were millimeters apart, yet to me, it felt like he was lightyears away. he was there, but not really. so close, yet so far.

still, the last question that stands: is this really all i'll ever be?

[fadelbison]

no but seriously I miss their pre-jojo shows dynamic 😭 this feels kind of artificial at times HDHDZ

HELP don't send me these asks because I open my mouth to say stuff that have people come at me for being an anti asldkjdfldjhg BUT OF COURSE it feels staged they have been blissfully cosplaying whatever character they play on screen and ever since "did not have to audition for" Akk and Ayan Firstkhao's characters have kept diverging further and further from their base personalities and First seems to be at the BRINK of how much play acting he can keep engaged in 24/7 as this occasionally macho butch lesbian. The thing is if you compare their approach to fanservice pre-FK then they had completely different philosophies. First - despite his threeway kiss - was never a big fanservice guy??? Even though Toew Laew brought out the very worst of his anxious people pleasing personality his interactions with the guys were quite regular and bro-ey. He was pretty bro-ey with Gawin too. You wouldn't think it but First does cool pretty effortlessly with a partner when he's not trying to project anything at all. In fact, he spent most of The Shipper "fan-servicing" with Khaotung bless his soul.

But Khaotung is remorseless about fanservice, Khaotung when he was promoting Tonhon Chonlatee was an entirely different human being. Like when you witnessed it happen (like I did) the switch to Ayan was IMMEDIATE like it happened overnight while we weren't looking. And Khaotung just has that personality so gentle and easy going that everything feels very natural. I called him remorseless earlier and I think that was underselling him. It's almost like he does away with any concept of remorse, he's doing his job after all and he's on good terms with everybody. But he did drop Podd FAST. His mom came on that OffGun cooking show and called Podd her son in law and yet I'm not even sure that they were even very good friends hahahahahahahaha But even when Firstkhao are so obviously staged they are each other's exception and that is why I am hooked onto this pair. They are so so so unnormal about each other. Khaotung genuinely lives in First's mind rent-free and he is trying so hard to do this Khaotung's way (because Khaotung's way is the most professional and beneficial to the show and company).

But Khaotung doesn't actually want to (???) This time it feels like Khaotung who is resisting playing into it. And just pointing to my delulu hat for emphasis but I think Khaotung breaks more often now than First. Khaotung revealed that they know we like the size difference. they have been suspiciously playing into it lately even though Khaotung hated to before. It was Khaotung that said "First is resisting his own cuteness" pointing out quite clearly that their dynamic is pre-planned. These aren't huge faux pas since I think it's understood widely that discussion and staging will be involved in branded pairs but I find these delusion-dispelling comments slightly un-Khaotung like. Anyway sorry for rambling for 10 thousand years but GOD I have so many feelings about how fascinating First and Khaotung are just as creatures doing the most confusing mating dance on the planet.

[tripthelightfandomtastic]

It’s not Wednesday and the only wild thing about this is the level of delusion I’ve reached, but this scenario has been playing over and over in my mind:

You and Jake have been together for years. Maybe you’re engaged or even married, doesn’t really matter, the point is that this is it for you. He’s undoubtedly the love of your life, and he feels the same about you. Naturally, you’re also really close with his family, Josh especially. He’s genuinely one of your best friends, and you both recognize and appreciate how much the other loves Jake and the irreplaceable space you both fill in his life.

One night at a party/get-together with everyone, you’re sitting off to the side on a couch kind of keeping to yourself. Music’s playing. Everyone’s mingling and having a good time. Everyone (except for you) is at least a little buzzed. Josh eventually comes over and sits on the couch with you, just checking in. You curl into his side, resting your chin on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you and asks if you’re okay. You nod but stay cuddled against him, and the two of you sit in silence for a minute before you quietly say, “Josh, I’m pregnant.” He immediately pulls away just enough to look at you, a huge grin stretching across his face. “Really?” You nod again, and he hugs you tighter. “That’s incredible! Does Jake know?” “Not yet. I just found out. I was going to tell him tonight… I don’t know why I’m so nervous.” You and Jake had of course talked about having kids. You both wanted them, but agreed to hold off until you both felt ready. This was a surprise, although probably not an unwelcome one. It was sooner than you expected. Josh squeezes your knee with his free hand, “He’s gonna lose his shit… but in the best way possible. It’s gonna be great.” You smile, the anxiety easing a bit. Just then, Jake walks over, a smirk on his face, “Hey, what’s with the cuddle sesh?” He’s used to this by now — you and Josh are both physically affectionate people — and he knows that it’s always platonic. You scoot, putting just enough distance between you and Josh for there to be room for Jake in the middle. Josh pats the now empty spot, “Join us, brother.” When Jake sits, you cuddle into his side and Josh leans into him. Jake laughs, saying something about being with his two favorite people. It just kind of slips out. You say, “Three, actually.” You lift your head to meet his eyes, and he looks confused. Your eyes flit to Josh and he motions for you to go on. You look back at Jake. “I’m pregnant.”

I like to think Jake's eyes light up, still unsure it's exactly what he heard, "you're pregnant?!" He'd say with a huge smile, awaiting your confirmation. You smile with tears in your eyes, nodding quickly, tears threatening to spill over. "Oh my God! We're pregnant!" He shouts excitedly, voice subtly breaking in joy as he picks you up from your place on the couch, hugging you tightly, spinning you around before giving you a passionate kiss. He's smiling, tears in his eyes as you two laugh in disbelief, "Oh my God, we're gonna have a baby."

[princelylove]

Oh I happened to choose all characters from part 3? I'm sure have something for muscular dominant men 🫢

May I ask for Polnareff and Avdol with their darling's first time too?

I love your headcanon for Jotaro, I find it quite cute for him to not know much about sex and awkward with it. And he has virgin kink, very interesting. Do you think he has other kink too?

Feel free to share about other characters you want to write too, I just love reading your work, your highness ❤️

~ 🏵️ anon ~

For future reference, I spell Avdol as “Abdul,” since it makes more sense in Arabic. There’s no v sound, but there is a b and f sound. 

These two are both romantics when it comes to sex. Except one is out of genuine respect, and the other is out of delusion. 

Mohammed isn’t bothered by your past. It was before you met him, how could he hold that against you? Your experience, or lack of experience, isn’t any of his business. Sex is something intimate to Mohammed- he was younger once, he’s not without a past, but he doesn’t really want something casual with his darling. He’s rather vanilla when it comes to sex, but he’s willing to humor his darling’s requests, as long as they don’t expect to dominate him, or top him. He just doesn’t prefer it, don’t take it personally. Mohammed asks his darling what their sexual expectations of him are now that you’re together. He wants a proper answer, do you want it often, do you not want it at all, do you want it weekly on the dot, do you have anything specific you’d like to incorporate, etc. He’s already forcing you to live with him, he’s not going to ruin his chances of his darling developing stockholm syndrome by forcing them to do something they don’t want, or aren’t going to enjoy. Slow and steady wins the race. 

Jean-Pierre will never, under any circumstances, force his darling to have sex with him. Is he fine with it being dubious…? A little. Depends on his mood. Does he realize that holding you down and repeating how much he loves you and how much he wants to touch you is forcing you? Nope! To him, it’s all sweet talk. And if you cry, or scream, or kick, he’s just going to assume it’s your way of introducing him to some sort of kink you have. Ohh, he’s the big bad man, coming to eaaat youuu, hm-hm-hm. You’re a pretty good actor, you were making him nervous there! Jean-Pierre has opened up to you about his past- it was traumatizing to not be there for his sister when she was murdered. It makes him think of the torture Sherry went through before she died, and to be honest, he’d rather not have to stop pounding you because of a panic attack. It doesn’t look good for his suave, charismatic presentation. It stresses him out to think that he isn’t your protector, so let’s not do this kind of play often, alright? Only as a little treat when you’ve been good. He isn’t too thrilled about his darling trying to top him, but honestly, he’s down to switch if you really want to. He’s often loud when he bottoms- be prepared to hear him practically screaming your name and every lovey pet name he can think of in french, alongside begging you to keep going. He won’t mention it the next morning. 

As far as Jotaro’s fetishes and kinks… I put him in the same category as a recluse mama’s boy who learned what relationships should be like from his mother + old romance movies. Creep. His primary focal point is how “delicate” and “helpless” you are- it makes him feel needed, and therefore loved. Regardless of your actual strength and durability, Jotaro is forever convinced that you’re constantly on the verge of breaking. As for some specifics, besides from his virginity kink:

Praise. This man goes crazy for some genuine praise. Even if you say it more like an observation, if it can be taken as a compliment, he’s fighting his body’s reaction. “You’re very tall.” is more of a statement than anything else, but being tall is attractive to most people, yeah? So you like his height… He never slouches in your presence after that. Jotaro’s delusions aside, if you were to praise him during sex, he’d lose himself entirely. 

Breeding. Even if his darling cannot get pregnant, a man can dream. It isn’t about having an actual child, he just thinks it’s hot to finish inside of you and how fantastic you’d look pregnant. You’d have trouble doing things for yourself, won’t you? Jotaro isn’t about to complain about finding a way to force you to let him do everything for you. Maybe he can tell you to just pretend to be pregnant…

Somnophilia. You just look so sweet and innocent while you’re sleeping, he can’t really help it. Jotaro touches himself quietly- as to not disturb you, he’s worked hard to get you to actually relax enough to sleep- next to your ‘shared’ bed. He likes to think of it as belonging to both of you, but it really doesn't.

[ohanny]

so fun fact, i've been feeling like crap and spiked a fever and literally dreamt this so from my actual delusions to you...

give kim something to do and get these three fraternizing:

basically, there was a deleted scene where pete hears about kim roaming free and he's like “oh, how did he escape?” and his henchmen informants (or way) are like “he didn't, rumour has it kenta let him go” and pete is like “... interesting.” because kenta serves tony’s interests. kenta doesn't disobey. kenta does not argue, ever. so the fact that he even at bare minimum dared to start giving tony suggestions on what to do? mmh.

so pete calls kim like “hey, we gotta talk? like i need to know what you said or did to kenta to make him let you go. come over, boo, let's chat” and let's be real, it's not like kim has anything better to do so he's like “sure” and arrives to the scene (which in my head took place in pete’s office, shh) just as kenta is about to kebab skewer pete.

and kim is like “KENTA NO!” using the same voice i use when i see my dog have something she definitely should not have in her mouth. and he grabs kenta’s shoulder and shoves him back and kenta just… goes. and pete is like “... interesting.”

kenta has scampered up and points the knife at kim, asking him to just “please leave, this has nothing to do with you, you got out so just GO!” but kimberly of justice is like “nah, kenta, we can't just shish kebab people” and starts walking towards kenta, pissed off, all “huh, whatcha gonna do? stab me too?” and the second his chest is about to touch the knife kenta yanks his arm back because yeah, no way is his knife getting anywhere close to hurting kim as seen before. and pete just lays there like “.... INTERESTING INTENSIFIED”

kim squares up with kenta going “you know what, you can stab pete if you want to but you have to go through me first.” and kenta is already at the breaking point and he keeps saying “please” as if he repeats it enough, kim will just step aside but no. kim is all “you helped me so let me help you” and kenta is all “i don't -” and kim rolls his eyes like “yeah, you really don't deserve it right now, look at you, but you can change. you can do better. you can earn it. you're nothing to tony. aren't you tired of just being his tool? don't you want to be a person again?”

kenta lets out this strangled scream of “i don't know how!” and kim is like “for starters you're gonna give me that knife and sit the fuck down so we can talk instead of stabbing each other” and pete - who in the midst of being INTERESTED has slowly inched his way back up to his feet - says “i'm sorry i didn't do more for you then. i should've just knocked you out and dragged you out with me but let me do it right this time.”

and when kenta turns to look at pete, kim grabs his wrist and twists the knife out of his grasp and as the knife falls, it's like all of kenta’s strings have been cut. kim catches him, saying “it's okay, i got you” and kenta basically just blue screens and passes out and then kim is like “oof, pete? little help here?” and then pete sweeps kenta up from kim’s arms and lays him down on the couch so kim can fuss over him, put a pillow under his head and straighten his clothes.

pete’s looks at kim all “yeah, that's why i wanted to talk to you. what did you do to him?” and kim huffs, offended, with a flip of his perfect fluffy fringe, “absolutely nothing. who do you think i am? i'm not part of your freaky little super squad.” and pete is like INTERESTING.

[blackholesun321]

the mental illness can be called Abandoned Nesting Syndrome-and can usually occur in individuals who were abandoned either young or suddenly and traumatically like say,, a very prominent and very wanted crew breaking up and leaving the two young cabin boys to fend for themselves and assuming that they will be able to see eachother again only to watch the head of the flock be very publicly executed

and given how the would government acted at baterillia on just the rumor of roger having a child….

what do you think they would do when two young, (relatively) inexperienced members of his flock are flying free?

alone?

Ok I kinda went overboard with this one and wrote an entire Fic chapter for you. Idk if it’s any good but hopefully it conveys the absolute mess Shanks is as a person. And how much Mihawk loves him despite this— well there both huge messes. I’ll get into Mihawks neuroses ���at a later date but enjoy!

⛔️ WARNING⚠️ THIS CONTAINS MENTION OF GORE! DEATH! INFANT DEATH! DESCRIPTION OF SUICIDE! SELF HARMING! AND A DESCRIPTION OF A DISSOCIATIVE DELUSION MANIC EPISODE! If you are triggered by any of this DO NOT READ THIS WORK! I will mark the bit in red when it starts but you will be missing most of the chapter.

—————/—————————/—————————/———————/-

Summary ——Mihawk is visit the red force to show off his new murder child to his husband.

He instead comes upon an quiet ship, a smoking first mate and the terrible horrible feeling that something is wrong.

———

Mihawk knows somethings wrong.

Call it intuition, call it knowing his husband, call it noticing that the Red Force is never this quiet without something unusual happening, call it observation Haki.

Whatever it is, as Mihawk's coffin-sloop slides side by side with the giant bastardization between a long ship and a galleon, he can't help but brace himself for the worst.

He removes his hat to check yet again at the vivre card stuck in the band, the motion disturbing his cargo tucked up and held securely against his spine. There’s a shuffle and a small adjustment on Mihawk's part to allow a green head, mussed with sleep and disgruntlement, to poke itself out the top of his wing.

Zoro yawns, a mouth full of missing teeth on display before squinting up at the Red Force. A quiet "woah" on his exhale as the fledgling seems to try and lean back all the way, kicking the inside of Mihawk’s wing to look at the ship in its entirety.

“Your husband must be strong.”

Mihawk hums in acknowledgment, sliding his hat back into place upon seeing that once again the card was just as whole and ivory as before.

“Do you assume I would have married someone who wasn’t?” He wonders idly if he’d have to fly up, dreading the idea of leaving his fledg—student here alone. God knows the number of times Mihawk had had to keep him from walking straight off the bow and into the sea.

“No, but I bet he’s as much of a bastard.”

Now a cold nose and cheek are being rubbed into his shoulder, and lord above, Mihawk hopes Zoro isn’t wiping his nose on his jacket. Children, he has come to learn in the last weeks or so, are disgusting and won't hesitate to use you and anything near you as a hand towel.

“Language,” he can't help but admonish, as someone finally must have noticed his sloop and waves of subtle Haki he’d been sending out for the last fifteen minutes. (And now he knows something is up. Shanks would have never missed his Haki signature, not with him projecting it like a neon sign.) A ladder has started being lowered, and Mihawk mentally sighs at the thirty feet he’ll have to climb with a wriggling child tucked safely to his back.

“Try not to move so much or this will be uncomfortable for us both.” There’s a grumble and some twisting that has Mihawk mentally noting to himself and his student for a quick preening session after this is over. Two tiny arms snake around his neck and grab a handful of down. Scratch that; he’s going to need a long preening session. The ladder finally arrives, and Mihawk starts the long, arduous climb up his husband's ship.

———

It takes a second to reach the top, and by the time he does, both him and Zoro are absolutely done with the uncontrollable wind currents slapping them against the hull.

“Permission to board?” He huffs, already heaving himself and cargo over the rail before Benn has a chance to reply.

“Yeah-yeah, fucking welcome.”

Mihawk's wing has started to cramp from holding Zoro close to keep him from falling thirty feet into the sea. Witnesses and prone-to-getting-lost child be damned, he gives Zoro a warning shake before slowly stretching out the offending appendage.

Zoro, instead of plopping down like a normal considerate child, chooses instead to slide down Mihawk's body and puddle on the deck at his feet, grip still clutched in his pant leg.

“Never again, just let me take my chances on the ship next time,” the fledgling hisses as Mihawk lifts up his boot to try and detangle the child from his leg. It isn’t working. With an aborted sigh of a man learning to pick his battles, he gives his wing and boot one more good shake before giving in to his fate of his leg being clutched like a barnacle.

“I see you’ve been.. busy.” He could flip Beckman off and is incredibly tempted to do so, but knows that would only play into what his husband's first mate wants. No one could get under his skin faster, aside from maybe Shanks and the marines as a whole… and Doflamingo, but that was Doflamingo, and the man practically made it his life goal to live under others' skin. But bigger fish to fry, like the fact Benn is smoking. He never smokes unless something's up. Something big. And usually to do with his husband’s stupidity.

“Where is Shanks?” His eyes scanning the deck for red, bloody, and stark against the Red Force's maroon paneling. He finds nothing, and the panic he’s been suppressing goes from defcon 1 to defcon 1.5. His eyes slide back to Beckman, who winces, teeth chewing, sifting at the end of his cigarette.

“He ain’t hurt, Hawkeye, just… he’s a bit.” Beckman glances down at Zoro, who has taken the opportunity to curl up like a cat around Mihawk's boot and is most likely fast asleep.

“He’s been on a bit of a spree.” Spree could mean a number of things for Shanks. Benn was being circumstantial and oblique, and it was pissing Mihawk’s already small amount of patience into the wind.

“Elaborate.”

“It’s an episode, not…” He takes a minute to inhale cancer— and Mihawk wants to rip the cigarette out of his hand and make him get on with it, anxiety and pirate guest rights be damned.

“Obsessive.” Is what he finally lands on, and it’s something, it’s something. “Just all over the place en’ shit. Hasn’t hurt himself, I think? Hasn’t hurt anyone else.”

And that’s ok, not good but enough to make the fear in Mihawks chest curdle into something manageable. He can do this, he’s done this before, but a lot was happening right now, and Mihawk didn’t need—he already had a surprise to show Shanks in the form of his protégé. For someone like Shanks, being introduced to new flock, especially a fledgling, could exacerbate him into something worse.

“How far along is he? Is it just nesting, or is he trying to rearrange the cargo hold?” And Mihawk isn't trying to make light of the situation; Shanks has and will tear the ship apart if it doesn’t meet the unachievable standards his mind has conjured. But not obsessive, not this time— that’s not good; but means they probably won’t have an entire disaster on their hands.

“Not too far, started about a day or two ago. He's been locked in his cabin, hasn’t eaten, and refused to drink when I offered. Was about to call if— you know.” The ashes from Benn’s cigarette are flicked over the bow, and Mihawk appreciates that he made an effort for it to be downwind at least.

He forced himself to breathe and braces his heart. He loves his husband more than he thinks he’s ever loved anything, aside from swordplay, but these episodes can be hard on both of them. Especially if Uta was...

“Is Uta here?” He's going to have bruises from how hard he's pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle the migraine starting to build behind his eyes.

“Nah, dropped her off with Buggy a few days back. We’ve been looking for something to do with the government; didn’t want her involved.” Well, that's a relief. At least he won’t have to be fielding two children today.

Thinking of children, Mihawk's eyes glance back down to a definitely asleep fledgling, wings tucked up and over himself in a display of youthful flexibility that makes Mihawk's back twinge just to look at.

“May I leave my charge with you while I go... talk to Shanks?”

Benn shrugs. “No skin off my nose.” He’s already getting in his last few hits before he’ll have to pitch the cigarette over the side. Mihawk hopes the smell won’t be too much of a bother for Zoro.

It takes a second of removing surprisingly strong fingers from his pants leg before Mihawk is able to lift a still very asleep fledgling over to his husband's first mate's arms.

The boy's face scrunches for a second, feathers fluffing, and Mihawk worries he’ll wake before his protégé turns into Beckman's warmth and starts breathing shallowly again.

“I bet it's a hell of a story how you managed to adopt a fledgling,” Benn grins, gazing moving to the dead asleep boy curled to his chest. “-you, of all people.”

“He’s my protégé,” Mihawk corrects, fixing Zoro’s newly grown flight feathers from getting crushed and smoothing out the down.

“If you say so,” the bigger man chuckles. The only reason Mihawk doesn’t retaliate is that he’s an adult and can rise above the petty need to stab whatever displeases him on a day-to-day basis. If he did that, he’d be a widow several times over by now.

With one last shuffle of Zoro's wings, Mihawk nods once at his fledgling, once at Beckman, and he steals himself as he leaves to find whatever state his husband might be in.

———

Warning this is where shit gets real do not read beyond this point- if trigger by any of the thing wanted about above.

———

There are good days, you know?

Mostly good days now. It used to be bad days sometimes and good days another, and you learn to live with it. You learn— you don’t move on, but you move, and that's something.

It's mostly good days, but when the bad days come and hit like a hammer, it's hard to catch yourself before the fall.

It's not Luffy's fault. Well, it is kinda, but not entirely. It's Shanks' fault mostly. He's not good with kids; it's a rule of his. No kids on the force, no babies or children, just he can't, not him, not them, so small and fragile and—

He dreams at night, okay. He dreams, and they aren't good dreams. Those small, headless, limbless forms drip past his line of sight. They chant dead names and tiny insidious things that burrow beneath his skin, crawling like parasites into his brain.

Memories are funny things. Red had his memories and attachments, but those were nothing to Shanks; separation and repression. And well, ignorance was bliss. That empty murdered town was peaceful, in a way they hadn't felt since...

The square had been, in its own twisted way, the heave of bodies, the humidity, the perfect moment before the blades fell, and red and black feathers, falling with them. He's on the floor, nails in the wood, heaving, knots in his stomach, lamprey twisting up in knots under his skin; he can feel it.

He went, and he saw. Feathers, so much down, wings ripped from corpses, heads and bloated stomachs that popped like bursting overripe fruit, limbs, and burned mother and burn father and grandfathers and whole families, piles on piles.

And the screaming. screamingscreamingscreaming-

—the light skitters like a crab and the ground pools like blood—

No, like feathers, his hands are red and brown, full of feathers, blood just down. He pulls, and the pain shoots down to the marrow, painpainpain. Here, in ripped and ruined sheets

Here in his room. It’s not safe— it’s never safe. It’s never perfect, he tried he tried to make it perfect make it safe and they’re going to die the world is rotting under his finger tips, dripping dropping red-red-red and dead dead Dead!

There is no squeak as the door opens, no tell other than the barest ghost of the air around him shifting, and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who it is. A sudden wave of paranoia courses through him, and he can feel his silent appreciation shift. The whisperings in the back of his head grow conflicted, some enraged beyond reason, others whispering comforts and idealizations.

Ignoring them is second nature, but reality is just as cruel as his mind.

“Shanks? Are you.. Shanks.”

The screams of dead children echo through the room, and he absentmindedly picks at the flaking blood beneath his nubs of a thumbnail. “Shanks? Love, I’m going to touch you, ok?” That part of him that is Shanks revolts at its state, and the part that is Red laughs like cracking bones, telling him to pull them out. “Can you hear me love? Nod if you can hear—“ The part that is 13 is a gaping emptiness of nothing but grief-grief-anger-pain, and the part that is 15 screams, “Shanks? i need you to look at me ok I need-“ and the part that is 17 laughs with Red, digging down, down, down! And—

“SHANKS! STOP-“

He's spiraling again.

Shanks breathes or Red does, and there's blood dripping down his face, the nails of his left hand buried deep into the skin. He's here, there, now, and he isn't, but it's enough, maybe, to struggle back up above the screams.

He opens to see, he doesn’t want to look but— Gold and black and gold on black and gold within in gold, ringed and round and—

“Mihawk?”

Mihawk. Birds and flight and freedom, arms and swords and blood, blood rivers of blood— and pressure, hands over his hands, red with stains and red with feathers, and it’s all red, please I can’t, I don’t want to see, I can’t, please—

“I’m here, that’s right, I’m here, love. Benn didn’t say... I am here, your safe; focus on me ok?”

Fingers in his fingers, broad and strong, and heat, not cold, not limp-dead-rotting, not small, focus and focus and focus, not small, here and pressure stinging on his face—

“I’m going to pull your hand away from your cheek; you’re hurting yourself. Nod twice if you understand?”

It takes all that he is, and he is so much, so many pieces, so many times and places, so much pain—it takes all that he is to nod once-twice, to stay here with him, his safety, strength, his—

“Yes, I'm just okay. Yes, that's okay. I'm here, I'm here, you're here with me. Can you talk?”

There is air over fresh cuts and words pressing over his ears and eyes, and holding his hands, broad and warm and alive, and here, and Shanks is so tired.

“I can't... I'm so tired but I can't...” he wants and wants, he's twisted with need, the lampreys squirm, his skin writhes, his wings ache, he wants.

“Shanks, I—Shanks, can you stay with me? I need you with me just a few minutes more, okay? Have you taken any of your medications today?”

There is more, there is always more, it’s a well— a never ending pit. It swallows him sometimes, it rarely swallows him whole, like here, like now. He has things to keep it small and manageable, at bay. He has tells and medication and alcohol—god, does he want a drink—and people who know, who catch him when he starts to fall. But this was so soon, so sudden, he didn't realize, he didn't notice—

“No, I... rum, that’s—that.” And it is, it is, but not enough, never enough. He's so tired, he wants it all to stop, but if it stops, he'll die, and everyone he loves will die. It's not safe. He needs to make it safe. If it's safe and everyone is safe, then no more, no blood, no more feathers, no more red—

"Thank you for telling me," hands, his hands, their hands, nails filled with dirt. He dug so many shallow graves—When it rained, the little feathers floated back up. So many babies—he doesn’t want their faces. He wants, he wants the ground to swallow them whole—

"So many. I don't, I can't. It's not safe. They'll kill you, and Uta—WHERE'S UTA, UTA!" His Baby Were Is His Baby! They killed so many, they’ll kill his Baby— they killed his brother, they’ll take his baby too. He saw the mothers, he saw the fathers, corpses with slit wrists and slit throats, bodies thrown from the cliffs. He can’t, if she dies, he’ll die too. She can’t die, everyone will die if she’s dead—

“Shhh, she’s safe—she’s safe, she’s with Buggy their… hiding, no one can find them. I don’t even know where they are. They're safe, love, we're all safe, I promise.” He doesn’t know, he has to see, he doesn’t know but... this is Mihawk, this is here, and hands pressure on his fingers, moving up his arms to cup his cheek, this is true—he doesn’t know, but it’s Mihawk, and that’s enough—he’s so tired.

“I know, love, I know, you can be tired—” no, he can’t. “I’m here now, I'm keeping watch, you just lay back for me?” No, he can’t, but Mihawk, it’s his husband who asks. There's ashes in his lungs and maggots under his skin, but Mihawk is here, and maybe, maybe?

“Yes, just like—“ the hands move from his cheek and pulse point to slide under and over— a body, firm and warm and alive, pressed to his own, down, down, down to the ground.

“I’m here, shhh, I’m here.” The rain and the mud and bodies, cold shivering, the black heat of his father's corpse, grinning with flies, but hands in his hair, stroking—tangled. Words pressed to his skull— He's here, he’s here.

“That's right, I’m here. I'm not going anywhere.” Shanks is here, Red is dead. Shanks is now; Red is then.

“That’s okay, close your eyes for me, okay?” Shanks is real, and Red can dream.

———

Yeah that’s it for now. I’ll probably be rewriting this first draft and posting it on ao3 with another pov from Benn.