#leave only footprints take only pictures

[tvickiesims]

4t2 Seasonal Trees Collection (Giant)

Some of you asked me about this and I finally delivered! 🥳

This is a collection of 4t2 trees converted from Sims 4 in original textures and made seasonal. It is meant as an add-on to my 4t2 Default Replacement Flora because I didn't include trees already available there.

Key features:

66 Maxis seasonal trees

2 cc palms by Max20 (from his Poolside Lounge Pack)

6 dead trees (non seasonal but get snowy in winter)

5 tree lights (separate objects (lamps, found in lights-misc), show up in hood view)

Seasonal recolors for a lot of trees

Hood view enabled

Quarter tile placeable

Smoothed out meshes

Undersides for leaves

As always, I tried to follow real-life seasonness of plants but sometimes had fun with some states and textures, don't take it too seriously. Seasonal states are not pictured on purpose so you could discover them yourself, in their full glory.

Tree lights at night:

I put my whole heart and soul into these conversions and I hope they'll bring you joy as they do to me ☺️

@cora626 made a great video showcasing all of these trees, check it out here!

Compressed, clearly labeled, picture included.

Download at GoogleDrive

_ _ _

UPDATE 26/03/2024

Made Dead Hawthorn smaller and reset it's footprint (expanding it was a bad idea and the game was struggling), added 3 new trees - 2 Joshua Trees and a Huge Cactus. The archive was updated but if you only need the updated + new trees - they are here.

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Stalker Malleus Headcanons:

Malleus is THE stalker of all stalkers

Now of course, his obsession with you came from the want to be friends with you.

The as he stalked you for longer periods and noticed the cute little things you do, he felt a one sided closeness to you

That platonic want for you then turned into romantic feelings.

That’s when when he starts to steal things from your dorm and take pictures of you in secret

He knows your schedule

He knows where you live

He knows what floor you live on in Ramshackle

He knows your preferences

He knows your friend group

He knows everything that is to be known about you

You only start to notice someone might be stalking you when you see the figure of a young man standing out in Ramshackle’s garden

The next day, things start to get escalate

The roof and gargoyles on Ramshackle are cleaned

There’s footprints on the dust on the floor leading to your room

And that loud green haired first year keeps trying to gain your attention.

Sebek keeps trying to drag you to Diasomnia to meet his master but you could care less.

There’s a weirdo coming in and out of Ramshackle and they know where you sleep.

You go to Sam for an amulet of protection, and hang it up on the front door.

When Malleus comes to Ramshackle, like he does every night, he notices the amulet and takes it. You don’t need this silly thing. He’s here to protect you. No one would mess with the darling of one of the greatest mages in the world. But, you’re obviously telling him you like jewelry, so he’ll grant your desire.

He sees your bedroom window and looks at your sleeping form. You look so cute like that. All snuggly and warm. But now’s not the time for adoration.

Malleus teleports inside and leaves the amulet on your nightstand with a Draconia family insignia stamped letter. He kisses your head, and you stir in your sleep.

He teleports outside your window, and just as he’s floating away, you wake up and see him. That young man isn’t a figure anymore, he’s a person. A person with glowing green eyes and horns(?).

You see the amulet on your nightstand and your eyes widen with fear. You shakily open the letter, not paying attention to the insignia and read the most terrifying sentences in your life.

There’s no need for such mear amulets for protection when you have me around. But since you like jewelry so much, may I inquire what type you like? - M

You grab grim, your backpack, essentials, and book it.

You travel to Heartslabyul where you sneak inside, and knock on Ace and Deuce’s door.

You explain everything to them.

❤️“No way, who could be stalking you?”

♠️“I’ll make sure they get a good beating!”

You ask if they would let you stay the night, and of course they said yes.

Now, one night became seven nights, and Malleus is getting cranky.

Why are you changing schedule? Why are you avoiding Ramshackle? Is someone bothering you?

Malleus takes action into his own hands and asks Sebek to once again get information out of you by being your friend.

Sebek takes his orders seriously and soon enough he’s offering to let his master, the great Malleus, protect you from this creep.

You cry into his arms and thank him.

By next week, you’re heading to Diasomnia to see Malleus, your supposed new protector.

When you arrive at Diasomnia, you’re greeted by Sebek, Malleus, Sebek’s friend Silver, and some short guy named Lilia.

Malleus bends down to kiss your hand, and you’re blushing.

Malleus is sweet and welcoming. He shares your common interests, and even knows how to take care of Grim.

But the protection he gives you is worth even more. You can finally be free of that creep following you.

Just as you’re leaving Diasomnia, you hear Lilia and Silver arguing. You know you shouldn’t, but you couldn’t resist when Lilia said “it’s my fault he’s like this.”

You press your ear against the door and hear the rest of the conversation.

🗡️ “It’s not your fault, father! Malleus is misguided by his emotions and extreme obsession for 🦐.”

🦇 “It is my fault. When I found out Malleus liked the Ramshackle prefect, I said to find out what she likes and what her hobbies are. I should’ve been more clearer, now we’re in this mess. The least we could do is warn the Ramshackle prefect.”

🗡️ “Agreed.”

As they open the door, you’re hiding behind a wall. It all makes sense now. Of course malleus was stalking you. Who else could float to a second story window? Who else would clean the gargoyles on Ramshackle? M is Malleus.

You run down the hall and push open a big black door that you think is the exit. Instead you’ve entered the dragon’s nest.

Pictures of you are hanging on the wall

Old clothes that haven’t been washed are crumbled next to Malleus’s pillow.

There’s a couple of hair strands on some sort of doll in the corner.

But the final straw was a necklace, similar to the amulet, but green on Malleus’s nightstand.

You turn to leave but run into the green dragon devil himself.

You fall to the floor, and Malleus’s tall stature makes him seem like a giant while you’re on the ground.

🐉“So now that you’ve found out I’m your secret admirer, I should probably do something with you.”

You walk out of Diasomnia with the necklace on you and a stalker for a boyfriend.

[moongreenlight]

Nanny!Reader x John Price hnnnnngh

Tw/Cw: Cheating, mentions of drug use and abuse.

@ceilidho put the words ‘marriage kink’ and ‘ambiguous gray blob wife’ into my head and it has been eating away at my psyche for DAYS.

The Maddie from Euphoria of it all, honestly.

Getting the job through a Craigslist ad because it pays better than some of the office jobs you’d been perusing and it comes with free housing and a car to use? It’s a no brainer.

The kids are alright. Spoiled, but not entirely obnoxious. They’re school-age, so you really only deal with them for breakfast and a few hours after school. Their mother is absent. Some sort of philanthropist who travels for work and prefers to jet-set instead of sitting home. Their father is lovely. Truly picture perfect.

He only brought you on because he couldn’t step away from work, and he wouldn’t hear of sending his children to some daycare. Too impersonal. He prefers to get to know the person raising his cubs. He’s sweet like that.

John doesn’t expect much of you. Decently tidy house. Well-tended kin. A pot of coffee in the morning before he’s off to work, and a hot supper if he’s home late.

Leaves you to your own devices while the kids are at school. What’s his is yours. At first, you mainly stuck to your quarters and the living room, but after so long, you got a little lax.

Started wandering the house. Awfully fucking big for a philanthropist and a military man with three kids, but you’re not one to speculate. You try out the hot tub. The jacuzzi bath in the primary en-suite bathroom. The home gym in the basement.

Even that gets boring after some time. Too routine. So you get adventurous. Get your paws on the mother's medicine cabinet. Take a cocktail of her nearly expired prescriptions and take a few hours to yourself in the bath.

You must have fallen asleep, because the snap of a door closing makes you jerk your head up off the cold rim of the tub.

"Hello?" You're trying to figure out who exactly would be home. Scrambling to yank the plug out of the drain with one hand and track down your phone with the other. Suddenly very worried you slept through school pickup.

But when your pruny fingers finally swatted at the screen hard enough, you were grateful to see you'd only really dozed off for twenty minutes or so. Still no response even though you were fairly certain you heard the door come from somewhere upstairs with you.

"Someone home?"

The drain was loud. A dead giveaway of your neglecting your job. Gargling as it sucked away the evidence of your lavender-scented bath. What's worse? You'd forgotten a towel. Mind fogged by some desperate housewives-adjacent combination of stimulants and muscle relaxers.

You nudged the bathroom door open with a dripping wet toe, poked your head out to see what was going on. Seeing nobody, you decided that maybe you were just hearing things. Just the house settling.

So you inched forward, cringing at the trail of wet footprints you were leaving on the carpet of John's bedroom floor. You made a mental note to tidy those somehow before you went to get the kids. It wasn't until you were out on the walk over the living room that you heard someone clearing their throat in the kitchen.

It made you whirl your head around, scrambling to cover your modesty as best you could. Maybe it was a contractor? John had a bad habit of not reminding you that his buddies were coming over to do some project or another.

"That how you dress when you've got the place to yourself?"

You wouldn't be so lucky.

"J-John?"

A chuff from just beyond the wall downstairs. Strategically positioning himself where he could see, but wouldn't be seen.

"I-I didn't know you'd be home. God- I'm so sorry."

You weren't sure if it was better to run to your room or stay where you were. This was uncharted waters, after all.

A tsk, like he was sucking his teeth to keep the smile from creeping into his voice.

"In my room?"

Your mouth is painfully dry. You can't even manage to swallow.

"I'm so sorry, John. So sorry."

"Why don't you dry off and then we'll chat?"

[blacklegsanjiii]

•°♤°• Any Zosan Fic Recommendeds?

Here's some! (And one ZoLuSan because i'm me) Some are unfinished, some are classics. Either way these are the ones I always go back to!

Learning to Listen by three_days_late

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

For as long as Zoro's felt his soulmate echoes he's hated them. He doesn't know why Sanji, or the rest of his crew mates, care so damn much.

Broke the Yolk by 3oClockSnacc (TobiSterling)

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji has a nasty habit of denying himself little luxuries. Sleeping in, hot food, the unconditional love of his crew. He's used to it though; used to getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, used to working on an empty stomach to ensure everyone else is fed, used to serving up pieces of himself and getting nothing in return. He can't afford those luxuries. Not even on his birthday.

Digital Footprint 100 Miles Wide by yellowrubberboots

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

[Profile Picture Description: A MS Paint drawing of a cartoon skull. The skull is wearing a yellow straw hat with a red band around the base.] TheStrawhats Last live 2 days ago video games and other random shit // we stream when we stream. 6.2M followers

Unwritten Recipes by aririnas

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Ingredients 2 fat garlic cloves, crushed 2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped 150ml white wine (not optional) 175g dried spaghetti 140g mussels, washed and beards removed 140g clams, washed chilli oil or olive oil, for drizzling ½ small pack parsley, roughly chopped (..) or Sanji writes everyone's favourite food in a recipe book

You'll Whisper Lies to Me (and One of Them Will be True) by Veto_power_over_clocks

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji introduces Zoro to Two Truths and a Lie. He only ever plays with Zoro, and all his lies are shit. (Alternatively: Sanji subjects himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by Zoro. He does everything in his power to ensure Zoro doesn't realize that's what's happening.)

Green with Envy Blues by adietxt

General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Zoro thinks he’s a pretty loyal person. All things considered, he’s a faithful crewmember and swordsman of the Strawhat Pirates. Zoro looks up just in time to see Luffy launching himself at Sanji, wrapping his stretched limbs all over Sanji’s body. Sanji has just walked out of the galley carrying a plate full of fancy-looking drinks and he’s extending his arm as far away as possible from Luffy’s grasp, and Luffy leans over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed against each other’s, their lips almost touching — Zoro is seriously considering mutiny.

Switching Places by TranqilChaos

Mature

Graphic Depictions of Violence

All it takes is one desperate battle in the jungle for Zoro to finally be on the other side. For him to be the one worrying at a bedside. For him to be the one waiting hours for the slightest sign of anything. For him to be the one missing meals and skipping showers and sleeping in the infirmary chair. Or Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji fight a tough battle in the forest that leaves all, but Zoro, horribly injured.

Your Eyes are Liquor, Your Body is Gold by Astauria

Not Rated

Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

It was a stupid idea, Zoro had known it all along and now he was really wondering why he had accepted such a proposal. No amount of alcohol in the world could ever be worth the decomposition he would see in Sanji's eyes when he learned the truth. Zoro had bet on him, for one fucking drink.

Rewind (Be Kind) by donutsandcoffee

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

What should be a run-of-the-mill skirmish with a devil fruit user turned Sanji into an eight-year-old, and the Strawhats are suddenly faced with a version of Sanji they have never met before: a Sanji before the Strawhats, before the floating restaurant, but after—something. Zoro observes, learns, and relearns.

[thetxtdevil]

The Haunted House

~Chapter 1~

Ghost Beomgyu x You x Ghost Taehyun

summary: You move into a very obvious haunted house, but you're not running away since the house is cheap and you're not afraid of any ghosts. Only afraid of talking to them.

content: introduction, paranormal themes, human fem.reader, beomgyu and taehyun are implied but not truly introduced

word count: 1.6k

Chapter: 1 -> 2 -> 3 -> ...

Dark cloudy skies loom over the old wood of the house before you. You could’ve sworn that creaking sounds came from the house almost tipping over. It was an original Victorian-style mansion not considered a mansion in these modern days but still big for you to live alone. The brick exterior made the building look taller than it was, with steep roofs that pointed sharp making birds awry to conjure about it. Its intense atmosphere however had some fun characteristics with rotted-away gold trimming, faded colors of stained glass windows, and the wooden porch steps indented in the middle as a sign of once frequent use. 

There was no doubt that this place was haunted. The place even contrasted with the neighbors’ bright green grass lawns and summer-colored houses. Never been on the market for its history, but of course, you had to blab your mouth to the real estate agent and say that you don’t have a lot to offer and you come from a long line of spirit mediums. The agent put two and two together and now you’re here, taking your first step the wood crumbles underneath your feet. Looking up in disgust at the agent the woman laughs and continues to show you around.

The front door creaks open revealing an even darker interior, coated with dust each step you take leaves a trail of footprints not to mention the suspicious footprints you see already made going into another room. Heading into the family room the space was cozy, your eye caught the grand fireplace walking towards it to take a better look. You imagine the crackling sounds of the fire and the warmth hitting your face. Looking up on the mantle the only decorations left in the house seemed to be two framed pictures of young men. Inquisitively picking up one photo surprised by the stark blond adorned on his dark hair, quite unusual at his time.

“This house does need a lot of fixing but it's been taking up a valuable lot so we would give you extra money to help renovate if you take it”

Putting the picture back on the mantle, you chuckle “So you’ll pay me if I move into this house.”

The lady nods, fear consuming her aura, eyes watering, eyebrows tilted, you can tell she wants to make a deal right away so she can leave the place. You lean your head up breathing in the dust almost reminding you of the scent of pages of a book. You continue to look around at the beauty that hides behind the vacancy. Going back to the two pictures of the men you suddenly feel an unexplainable warmth blanket you.

“I’ll buy the house.”

❈❈❈

You come from a long line of spirit mediums but your body and mind have yet given in to the gift of speaking to ghosts. Maybe your mother was wrong and you didn’t have the power or perhaps you secretly didn’t want to have any connections with the dead. You became tired of the constant tarot card readings depicting you as the fool, your mother constantly saying it’s telling you to embrace the tradition but you ignore it. Not making a life as a medium you went another route of becoming a nurse in the ICU. You’re still surrounded by death but at least you can cheat it and not have to see what comes after the heart monitor stops.

You have become accustomed to brushing sounds for the past few weeks. It was taking a lot of your time trying to scrub years of dust off the cracks and crevices of the house. The first thing to do is fix the porch stairs you broke through and the rest of the porch wood. Calling builders who were experts in renovating such things you divert your attention to other matters the molded torn wallpaper. The leftover burgundy wallpaper was faded, and some parts drooped down showing off a dirty cream wall. Tearing away the paper a domino effect happens, you jump at the sudden movements of all the wall coverings being torn down. Walls cleaned and primed you open a can of emerald green paint, dipping your roller brush, and you start covering the panels.

“Wow, do you need help?” a worker from the porch says. You look at him with disgust, you just started painting why would he judge so soon? Bending down to absorb more paint into the brush you straighten your posture to notice the walls already covered with the vern color. You spin around seeing the whole house was already poorly painted. Walking closer to an area of the wall that hasn’t been touched you study the way the paint has finger-like swipes running through the yet-to-dry pigment. Your head starts to feel heated a warmth consumes you making your vision falter, a green handprint materializes before you slowly streak down. Your mouth dry you decide to walk away, thinking the toxic fumes are already killing most of your brain cells.

❈❈❈

The Victorian house was restored to its former glory, it was less daunting than before but you kept its darker aesthetic to match the peculiar nature. The musky scent of mature wood was long gone and now had a fresh new car smell mixed with your vanilla candle enveloping the entire estate. The walls were cluttered with pictures, shelves as little trinkets, and cozy furniture that made the house seem a little smaller than it was. All is well except for one thing, you constantly have to vacuum up dust bunnies that trail around the house. Another thing that you have yet to renovate is a locked portion of the house. You would think the realtor would give you the key but that wasn’t the case. The dusted footprint trails to this mysterious room all the time, you were not excited to see how overgrown it looked behind the closed doors.

Rummaging through each closet, drawer, and corner of the house to find the key. A glimmer shines in your eye when you walk past the entertainment room. The wooden floors were sturdy and creaked every so often but the shine came from one tiny hole in a floorboard. Kneeling, you curl your finger in the hole opening the floor and there you see a key. Eyes widen in victory once you move your hand to grab it a sudden chill rushes through you the wood falls and slams on your hand. “OW” you hiss grabbing your hand and rubbing the pain away, “you really don’t want me to get in there do you?”

You were talking to yourself and the key, but after thinking over the unexpected motion of the woodboard you might be talking to someone else. Quickly reaching for the key, your suspicions came true when you watched the panel lift to drop down where your hand would have been. Someone doesn’t want you to go through the locked doors. Contemplating the consequences that might occur when you do go through those doors, you stare at the key in your hand the metal feels weird against your palm. One second the item felt warm and heavy pushing your hand down and another second the metal turned cold and light. 

You made up your mind, this is your house and you’re going to see everything you own. Snatching the key so the sensations stop, you get up to walk toward the double doors. The closer you get faint wispy sounds evolve into whispers however the conversation isn’t quiet it seems like an argument between two people that you couldn’t hear clearly. The voices stop when you push the key into the keyhole. The doors went flying open revealing an extraordinary library, walking in and spinning around to see the walls filled with books you felt like the beauty who was shown the beast’s castle library with high ceilings to fit the many bookshelves that shined from the tall windows. The curtains were outdated and probably held a family or two of spiders, and the books seemed in good condition compared to everything else in the room as if they were constantly opened and read. Turning around once more to see another fireplace in the house and above it a big painting of the two men from the mantle of the living room’s fireplace. As you walked closer, you couldn’t help but feel like their brown eyes were following you. Strangely alluded to the men, their beauty seemed more advanced almost touchable. How you would love to talk to them, play with the long strands of hair on the taller one, slice your finger against the other’s sharp jawline.

As your arm extends to touch the delicate colors of the painting a big smack awakens you. Looking around to find the cause of the sound you see an open book on the floor. Forgetting the two men’s painting you walk over to pick up the novel. Getting closer to the open page you’re hesitant at the illustration that is shown before you the book was a guide to tarot readings. The page shows Nine of Swords, from your memory of the meaning someone wants you to fear them, you felt sick instantly getting anxious as to what is to come. Looking back at the big painting you see the two men were gone, a painting of deep reds and black. An unexplainable gust of wind strikes you like a cold sharp dagger into your gut sweeping you off your feet.

You lay there unconscious shivering with closed eyes hiding your fears.

-> Chapter 2

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling

[shadow-riley]

FIREWORKS {Simon Riley x reader}

written by yours truly

gn!reader simon riley fluff? SFW [plot w a lil sum at the end] [feel free to skip to the 'not boring part']

(scroll to red letters if u wanna skip this part)

It was New Years eve, at 23:30 (11:30pm). Task Force 141 was celebrating loudly, either down stairs in the base lounge, or in the backyard doing fireworks.

You, however, were in your room, lights off, the fireworks changing the color of your walls with each boom. You exhaled, smoke leaving your lips from the blunt you were smoking.

Your best friend, Simon, knocks on the door frame, standing there with whiskey in hand. There was a strange understanding between the two of you. Two broken souls in a broken world who fixed each other and only each other in a beautifully symbiotic way.

Ever since your bf died, KIA, (k!lled in action) you were a wreck, Simon being the only person who would see you vulnerable. Ghost was there on your hardest, lowest, ugliest days though. And you were the one who held him when he sobbed. He was your best friend and you were his. You both hated everyone else, only having a soft spot for the other.

He came over and sat next to you on your bed.

"It's crazy out there, don't blame you for hidin'. how you doin'?" Simon says. he hated everyone but you. Though he was still tough, he had a soft spot for you.

you pass the blunt to him and he takes it from you and chuckled, a low chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest. He smoked, and looked up at the ceiling, the only source of light coming and going, changing the room to a different color every couple of seconds before fading out like footprints on sand.

He leaned his head back against the wall, his hand on your back slowly moved up a little bit, now it was fully on your side, his warm hand rubbing the skin of your side.

Simon continues to rub your side, his other hand bringing the blunt up to his lips again to smoke.

"You alright? ....Y'know, fireworks remind me of Hunter (kia bf) sometimes." he said as continued to rub your side.

you turn your head to face him but don't make eye contact.

"Why's that?"

"he liked to blow shit up" Simon answered, his gaze on the wall facing him. He took another hit before passing it to you.

He watched you closely, knowing that if the weed wasn't in your system you would have been halfway through a breakdown at the mention of his name.

Your voice is low and smooth, if anything, slurred as you speak up after the smoke from another hit evaporates from your mouth. "you ever done the midnight kiss thing?"

He glanced down at you, his hand had settled on your hip now, he chuckled a laugh that rumbled from his thick chest. "No no, never have. Never really cared for it.." he said, a smirk on his lips.

"yea i find that shit for the Instagram couples" your tone relays something almost envious, but not noticeably so.

He laughed again, deep in his chest. "And the overly cutesy couples who are 'so in love' that they need their relationship validated by other people, by kissing in front of them."

A sharp exhale of a laugh sounds from the back of your throat, a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes tugging on your lips. "oh definitely"

Simon takes the blunt back from you as you pass it to him, his arm around you tightens, subconsciously pulling you ever so slightly closer to him.

Your eyes flicker to the photo of my bf who was kia that was on my desk.

Simon follows your eyes gaze to the photo of your ex. he swallows a little, watching as your eyes flicked to the picture of your boyfriend.

He didn't know what to say, but he knew that you missed him… a lot.

Simon continued to look at the picture, a pang of sympathy washed over him as he knew you missed him dearly.

"Right…" he said, gently rubbing your hip with his hand in a gesture as to silently say 'I know you miss him..'

"thats why i'm high right now"

Simon knew your vices, and what you turned to when you missed him.

"The reason you're always smoking, the reason you're always high…" He mumbled as he glanced down at you.

You nod as the smoke leaves your lips.

The two of you looked like a couple from a grungy romance movie from the 90's.

He took took another hit before changing the subject. "New years resolutuon?"

"not murdering Soap" you say straight forward.

A smirk appeared on his face behind the black mask as he let out a gruff, deep chuckle. "I don't blame you, i've almost shot Soap myself a few times."

THE NOT BORING PART~

"yea...what time is it anyways?"

Simon lets go of you for a moment and looks at his watch. "It's 11:50pm.. why?"

"You gonna go find someone to kiss?" you were half joking.

He raises an eyebrow, face bare before you, before he looked down at you.

"Me? Nah, I'm fine right here." he said as he wrapped his arm around you again, his hand resting on your hip this time.

"here?" you ask, but it's more of a statement then a question.

He hummed, it almost sounded like a scoff as he glanced down at you.

"Yeah, right here. With you…" he said as he continued to smoke the blunt, and look at you.

"yea but im no fun…im here moping, you should be getting wasted and having stupid sex, know, all that shit" you say to the wall.

He chuckled again, this time as he shook his head. "Why should i go out and do that… When I can be in here, with you? I don’t mind the moping, and you’re fun to me." He said as he moved the blunt from his lips.

You turn to look at him.

He looked back down at you as he exhaled the smoke.. He had a soft spot for you, and right now it was showing through.

"What?" he asked, his voice thick and gruff.

You take in his features for a moment before answering. "i d'nknow"

He smirked a little as he looked back at you, his arm around your hips tightened a little as he leaned back against the wall, his head resting back as well.

He held the blunt up to his lips for another moment and took another hit, as he exhaled the smoke he spoke, keeping his eyes on you. "You're looking at me like I did something."

"j's thinkin'..." you continue watching him.

"Thinking? What are you thinking about…" He said in that deep voice of his. He took another hit of the blunt, and held in the smoke for a moment as his eyes lingered on you.

"you…" you look at the wall "you're the only one im vulnerable with…and i think you can say the same about me" you look at him.

He looked down at you, eyes scanning your face as you spoke. He knew you were right, and he also knew you were the only one he was vulnerable with. "Maybe i do… So? Whats your point?" he asked, not meanly. He exhaled the smoke he was holding in as he waited for an answer.

Simon looked back down at you, his arm around you stayed tight. "You're staring at me again..." he said as he took a hit of the blunt.

"maybe its the weed, but your eyes are pretty...." your tone is soft.

He chuckled a little as he inhaled the smoke from the blunt and watched as you said that.

"My eyes, you think my eyes are pretty.." he said with a scoff. "Never heard that one before." he said.

He glanced down at you, watching as your eyes lingered on his own. Something sparked between the two of you in that moment.

He slowly started to lean into you, his head tilting to the side as his eyes continued to watch you. He could feel his heart start to beat a little faster, thump thump thump, the sound deafening in his ears.

The sound of the fireworks outside was faint, but you could still hear it. It faded away slowly as he continued to get closer to you. His hand on your hip tightened as he came even closer to you.

"I don't get it… why now…" he mumbled as he was inches from your face.

"maybe it's not now...maybe it was that day you picked me up off the floor and told me to keep living."

Now that you said that, he remembered that moment vividly.

When he found you crumpled up on the floor in a ball of tears, and he picked you up and told you that you'd keep going, despite whatever happened.

He exhaled a breath through his nose, almost like he sighed in realization. His head had been even closer to yours, his eyes still watching you intently.

"maybe…it's just now that we're both…feeling"

He hummed a low hum, it was almost like that was exactly what this was.

Him realizing that he felt something for you, and you realizing that you felt something for him.

"Maybe you're right…" he mumbled, he was impossibly close to your face now, as his eyes continued to look into yours.

The loud cheering and counting down signaled midnight, fireworks going off outside… but the two of you were trapped in this moment.

Simon's breath hit your skin, a shiver ran down both of your spines, it was an intoxicating feeling that pulled you two closer together.

"Si..." Your voice is breathy and soft

Those two letters coming from your lips sent shockwaves through his body and soul as he heard them.

He didn't know if he was supposed to do this, but he needed to. He needed to get even closer to you, to feel more of you.

He shifted close to you and brought his other hand up to your face, holding your head in his large, calloused hands.

"its midnight" you say, tone gentle and voice low.

He glanced over to your alarm clock, the red lettering on it said 12:01am. Simon looked back down at you and hummed.

"Yeah it is, what about it?" he said, he was so painfully close to your face. "Are you going to do anything special now that it's midnight..?" He mumbled, the two of your faces were only about a centimeter or two a part, his hands were still on either side of your face.

"are you?" you ask.

He exhaled from his nose, as you were so close he could smell you and you could smell him. It was a mix of gun powder and sweat.

"You're supposed to kiss someone at midnight…" He said, his eyes lingering on your lips.

"yea.."

"And are you gonna kiss someone at midnight..?" He asked, he knew damn well he didn't want you to kiss anyone else…

"im waiting to find out" your voice almost becomes a whisper.

He chuckled deeply, his eyes continued to switch between your eyes and your lips.

"Are you going to make me say it…" he mumbled, his face was so close to yours that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"are you going to do it?"

"Depends…" he said, a smirk appeared on his face under the mask, a smirk that made your heart skip a beat.

He brought his face even closer to yours, he was millimeters from your lips, his hands still on your face. "Are you going to let me kiss you…?" He mumbled, he was so close to your lips that both of your breaths mingled together.

Your nod is almost non existent, as if you're scared to move.

He let out a breath, it was a breath that said 'it's about damn time'.

Simon closed the space between you two, and kissed you, his lips pressed up against your and he took a breath through his nose.

Simon's hands slid off your face and onto your hips as you kiss him back, pulling you closer to him as you two kissed. He needed you closer to him, he needed more of you. His hand held onto your hips, pulling you even closer to him.

PART 2:

https://www.tumblr.com/shadow-riley/758940387954032640/pt-2-fireworks-simon-riley-x-reader?source=share

[arafilez]

੭୧ ⼂ LIES YOU BUILT ﹗

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ kwh x reader ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤangst, no comfort, bsf to strangers ㅤ warnings crying, woonhak is a little toxic ㅤ﹢ㅤ1k wc

Kim Woonhak,

It’s stupid how you still have a mark in my life, the smallest importance with the biggest meaning. Your footprints over my soul never washed away, instead, they stay, stubborn and scratched, like rock carvings. To put it simply I hate you. That is pretty straightforward, isn’t it? I am like that, I have always been like that. Oh, wait you know that already. You used to find me simple, you loved that. Said we completed each other. Now, I cry in my bed thinking about all the lies you fed me about being best friends forever.

Oh, the lies you mastered so well!

I regret every one of those days I had called you up just so I could update you on my life. Every single secret, every laugh, and every tear I had told you of and every bit of our shared stories. I used to be interesting to you, so when did I become so boring that you had to find newer, more popular and cooler friends? What happened to our late-night chats, the ones till three where we both had to hide from our parents with excuses? Where are the stories now? Did you forget them as easily as you threw away our friendship? Did you tell your new friends my stories just so you could get a good laugh out of them? A good laugh out of the class’s lame bitch’s stories- yeah I believe you can do that. If anyone told me a year ago that Kim Woonhak is doing this I would have laughed at their faces. Now, I am the one who scoffs and tells those to the few classmates who feel sympathy for me.

Pathetic! I am pathetic!

There is still no note, no explanation, not a single sentence you said about this while I hold on to the thread loosely binding the last pieces of our friendship. Every time I asked you what was wrong you had one word, “Nothing.” Where was I wrong? I think I was wrong to put my trust in you. Tell me why you left our friendship as if it was not even worth the dirt under your shoe? Tell me why am I still hung up on our last conversation even if it was just you taking advantage of me and wanting my notes? Tell me, did I become lame after you found friends who are more popular than me? Tell me, was I lame the way I behaved? Or was it the way I became loud when I got excited or the way I laughed? Did that make you leave and go to your new friends who have the “cool” aura? How could you take everything I love and crush it so easily? Are your fingers that strong Woonhak?

What happened to our years of friendship Woonhak? Why does this hurt more than any break-up ever did? Why does every time now a simple, sub-important friendship breaks or an argument happens with my friends do I hurriedly apologise multiple times even if I was not in the wrong? Why does it always me feel maybe I am the rotten apple among my friends? Why does your face drop in my mind every time I think I am not enough? Why I am still hung up on you when I have so many newer friends who actually appreciate me? Why do I still picture myself in the mirror arguing with you and putting you in your place with my words and my confidence? Confidence I have only when I am alone? Why do I fantasize about a time you even feel a little fucking sorry for doing all this?

I have so many questions for you, questions I never got to ask and questions that formed later. What did I do for you to break this friendship? Where was I wrong? Why did you start ignoring me that Tuesday when we talked on Monday? Why did you make sure your whole new friend circle hate me? Why did you make fun of me with them? How could you do that? Did our friendship mean nothing to you? Was it that worthless? Was I wasting that much of your time?

Do you think I am being dramatic? Then explain this!

I have so many friends, but every time a minor crack appears, my insecurities build up. Insecurities that weren’t there till you crafted them. Insecurities that weren’t there till you made fun of me in front of me only. Insecurities that weren’t there before you decided to blatantly ignore me one day after our years of friendship. Insecurities that weren’t there until you decided the term best friend is not for me anymore. I would say we both drew blood, and we both got hurt, but were those cuts ever equal?

This is all very straightforward, isn’t it? That’s the second time I am asking you that. Because damn hell, it is. It is my rawest and truest emotions and I don’t want to twist my words to let you know this, which you never will. The worst part of the whole thing is that you will never read this, I will never send this and this will not get you a scratch but it is jabbing my heart multiple times. Twisting the knife you crafted especially for me and pushing it in repeatedly. Why would you do this all to me? Can we talk? Is there something there you never told me and let it build inside you? Or am I just simply horrible? I wish I could let it go, I have tried so many times but I can’t. I wish I could forgive you but what should I forgive you and your cocky, small-minded friends for? Nothing! It is terrible how you come into my mind whenever the smallest incident occurs and I think of telling you, and then it hits me again.

You are still everything to me while I am nothing to you!

From Y/n

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤ is this self-indulgent? yes, a lot! i will be back with bonedo fluff tho TT ㅤ𓏧ㅤ library ㅤ bnd shelfㅤ navi

੭ 𝅄ㅤ ꒰ TAGLIST ꒱ ㅤ⏤ㅤ @haneagerr @slytherinshua ㅤ𓏧ㅤ fill this or comment or ask to be added.

ㅤㅤ(ㅤㅤ© arafilez on tumblrㅤㅤ)

[orcasoul]

Din Djarin Headcanons:

Din when you're injured

Oh how we love a protective and attentive man, and Din Djarin is the perfect example :)

Din shifts nervously, head searching in every direction. Something's wrong. He can feel it in his bones, in the pit of his stomach. "She should have been here by now," he mumbles nervously to Grogu, while placing a hand gently on his tiny head. Grogu wriggles in the satchel at Din's side, a little wimper of concern coming from him. This was only supposed to be a quick supply run on Tatooine so where the hell were you? And why, as the minutes pass, does Din's chest feel like it's about to cave in on itself?

When contact via com link fails, he decides enough is enough. He's waited too long as it is. "Don't worry, pal," Din said, softly, "We'll go find her." The market is still quite busy as Din and Grogu make their way through the crowded streets. Ten minutes of searching has turned into twenty, and still, no sign of you. Apprehension swirls in Din's gut, anxiety conjuring up the worst things imaginable in his head.

'What if she's hurt? What if shes scared? What if she's screaming for me right now?' He can't lose you, can't let anything happen to you! Why the hell did he let you go off alone? His heart beats wildly behind his ribs, panic and frustration taking root the longer you are missing. After questioning a few of the vendors, a woman informs Din that someone fitting your description had come to her stall earlier, pointing in the direction you'd left.

With a nod of thanks, Din immediately makes his way to the outskirts of the market. It's getting late now, the side street he's searching eerily empty and still. The silence is broken by a wailing Grogu, causing Din to look down at his side. Grogu's large brown eyes stare worriedly while pointing ahead. Din's stomach sinks when he sees it; Your satchel. Your unmistakable sage green canvas bag, with a picture of a loth cat on it, abandoned with it's contents strewn across the dusty ground.

With shaking hands Din picks up the bag and calls your name, over and over. The silence is deafening. He just needs to hear your voice, to know you're okay. 'Please, please answer me, Cyar'ika!' The world is suddenly too much, too suffocating, oppressive darkness closing in around the edges of Din's periphery. To lose you would be to lose the very best part of himself. His breaths begin to come shallow and quick, causing his head to swim.

Squeezing his hands into fists, he takes slow, deep breaths, trying his best to maintain some composure. He'll be no good to you if he falls apart now. Engaging the sensors in his helmet, Din urgently scans the ground. Dank Ferrick, there are too many footprints to discern. But then, an area of kicked up dirt at the entrance of a nearby alley catches his attention. Upon inspection, it's obvious a scuffle had taken place here very recently.

In true hunter mode, Din follows the telltale signs of dragging, all the way to a dead end, to be greeted by a sight that almost stopped his heart. There you are, face down and unmoving! Din's legs move of their own accord, carrying him to you by pure instinct and adrenaline alone. He drops to his knees beside your prone body, your name leaving his lips like a prayer, a prayer he's desperate for you to answer. Gently cupping your shoulders, he rolls you over onto your back.

Din chokes on a breath at the sight of you. His vision now clouding over in a sweeping tide of red, rage boils his blood to the point where he feels like he's going to explode. Your face is almost unrecognisable. Two black and swollen eyes, a clearly broken nose -still trickling blood - a split lip and a nasty gash across your forehead is the last thing he would have ever expected to see on you. "Cyar'ika?..." his voice trembles while trying to rouse you. "Can you open your eyes? Come on, sweet girl, I need you to open your eyes for me!"

Grogu reaches out for you, whimpering. Din can see he's distressed but what can he do? He could say you're okay, he could tell him not to worry, but how can he try to comfort him when he, himself, is cracking at the seams? Din cautiously scoops your unconscious body into his lap, handling you as if you were made of fine china. With your head lolled back, he can now clearly see big purple bruises littering your slender neck, bruises in the shape of fingers.

His whole being is now shaking with outrage, teeth almost cracking from the pressure of his clenched jaw. Who the fuck did this to you?! Why would someone do this to you?!.... And where can he find those fuckers?! A small groan slips from you, and Din released a breath he didn't realise he was holding, shoulders slumping, slightly in relief. You're alive. Thank the maker you're alive!

But that relief is snuffed out when you weakly cry out and clutch your side. Din removes your trembling hand and gently tugs up your top. How the kriffing hell did he miss this?! He'd been so preoccupied with trying to wake you, that he'd missed the stab wound, which is still oozing blood. "Dank Ferrick!" Din curses under his breath while inspecting the wound. To his relief, it doesn't look too deep. Clutching your limp form to his chest, he quickly rises, being careful of your state, and also trying not to jostle Grogu too much, who's sad eyes have not not left you.

Back at the Razor Crest, Din is silently seething. He cleaned and applied bacta patches to all lesions and stitched up the knife wound. A part of him is thankful that you'd lost consciousness along the way. The last thing he would want is for you to have to go through any more agony. Grogu has become your shadow, refusing to leave your side and snuggling up to you in the bunk. Now that the adrenaline has vacated Din's system, and you are home safe with him, he feels like he can breathe again.

He could have lost you today. It's unthinkable, the very notion that you could have been ripped from his life in the blink of an eye. How could he exist in a galaxy where you don't? He'd failed you toady. He should have been there to protect you. He'll never forgive himself! Looking at your battered and bruised face, Din is overwhelmed with a primal and desperate need to shield you from succumbing to harm ever again.

It brings tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat, seeing the brutal devastation left all over you, painting your body with all the horrors this cursed galaxy hides around every corner. This will never happen again. He'll make damn sure of it! He will destroy every bastard foolish enough to even try and lay a finger on you or Grogu ever again, starting with the pieces of Bantha fodder who attacked you. But that will come later. The main priority now is you. Din sits beside you on the bed, holding your hand and smoothing his thumb gently over your knuckles.

His heart skips a beat as your eyelashes flutter open, your heavy and exhausted gaze meeting his behind his helmet. His taut shoulders instantly relax and a warm wave of reassurance fills his aching heart with the smile you give him. You're okay, you're home and you're safe and he'll never let anyone hurt his Cyare again!

[heartfullofleeches]

why can’t we have monster sheriff reader and horny ass town mayor and bandits

(Werewolf sheriff? Werewolf sheriff.)

A picture frame crashes to the abyss as you tumble into the nightstand. Those god damn idiots. Robbing someone blind on today of all days. The rage visible in the venom dripping from your teeth only upped their ante. None the wiser to your curse, the little demons damn near fainted when a growl slipped from your throat as you chased them about, catching the bastards in record time so you could return home before it was too late.

Your spine curves against the floorboards as you fall onto your side. You barely made it back before the transformation began. Your fangs assault your gums in trial to force out your human canines; the smell of the blood flowing from the vacant holes sending you into a furor. Course hair sprouts over your entire body, stemming from the deep claw marks on your bicep. The scar flares with a white hot pain in similar burn to when you first received it, the fruit bearer of your blight.

You drag your body across the floor as your limbs extend; fighting to reach the basement before the haze clouding your mind traps your brain in its fog. Vision spotty, the soft moonlight on your back doesn't register until you're facing it fully as you writhe in pain. Your talons rip the wood to shreds as your conciousness slips; heartbeat hammering through your maw. The last thing you hear before everything fades is a door handle rolling across the floor.

-

"You moron! Now they'll know we're here if they're home."

"Sorry! I'm still excited from earlier. Coulda swarn they were tryin to take my head off with that swing."

Shaking off the fuzzy shutter the memory brings, the lockpicker joins the rest of the group in piling into your home. The bandits were worried about you after your public display. While you losing your shit was a welcome surpise, they feared you had a bad week and wanted to cheer you up in the only way they knew how. Stealing things and dumping them off in your shack.

As they place their goods in various directions, a shout comes from the bedroom.

"Hey, guys- come quick!"

Rushing inside your room, the bandits stumble across the scene of a crime that looks like a tornado blew in armed to the teeth in blades. The nightstand was knocked over and blinds torn from the rack. Claw marks splintered the floors, walls, and even the ceiling. The moonlight centered on the bloodstains in the carpet; four teeth embedded in the wool.

The leader kneels and picks up a tooth. "What the hell happened here?"

"Is the sheriff okay?..."

"Look outside, I saw something move!"

A large shadow slinks away from view. Reflecting the natural light, the pin on its tattered clothes could only be one thing. The sheriff's badge.

"What was that?"

"Whatever it was, it has something to do with the sheriff. Follow it."

Fueled by anger and fear, the bandits barrel out the backdoor and after the creature. It's long gone by the time they tumble outside, but footprints and broken leaves lead them directly in its wake. Their adrenaline makes the chase as close to a match as possible for a beast of such calibre; broad shoulders easily the size of at least two of the bandits' torsos.

The pursuit comes to a halt as the group approaches the old farmer's gate. Fool spent a fortune on silver wiring after the lawsuit he lawsuit. As it stands still, the bandits get a good look at the creature. Fur as black as midnight, jaws and dentures that could snap some clean in two, familiar eyes. Looking closely at the beast, it becomes clear that the torn clothes on them aren't from them ripping someone to shreads, but from someone growing to large to wear them. A sheriff hat sits tucked bewteen its ears.

"S...sheriff?

The wolf's ear twitches in recognition. You huff in warning.

All at once things become clear to the group. All at once - that fear they each felt blends with something else. Those claws. That build. You could annihilate whoever you pleased. And that was one of the hottest things imaginable.

"Holy shit."

The human part of your brain wonders if now would be the best time to use the silver bullet tied around your neck as they approach. The weight of nearly a dozen humans jumping on you is about the same as a fly in your hair, but to avoid any casualties you allow them their fun. You have enough control for that, you think- till hands start wondering where they shouldn't.

[animasolaoriginal]

A B A N D O N E D 🥀 1/3

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

Normal dude meets broken girl turned sex toy

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

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

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What now?” He gapes at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir,” she replies, her shoulders shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[dvchvnde]

It appears on several lists of must-see places before you die, usually accompanied by a beautiful picture of the sprawling park—one with towering, gunmetal batholiths and rugged, snow-capped peaks on either side of the frame, almost perfectly mirrored. They plummet into a vertiginous drop down to a lush valley of vivid Scheele’s green below. 

Through the unfathomable gap of these primordial mountains, nestled in the thick of the valley, is a white line of the rushing river that bleeds into what makes this place an absolute must: 

The roaring waterfalls, the gorgeous fjords. 

When you click on the pictures, the magnitude of just how massive this land is, and just how big those gorges are makes it all seem so empyrean. As if the land itself touches the heavens in places, disappearing into the sky. Swallowed by the aether.  

It's dizzying. 

And entirely remote. 

Save for a visitor centre close to one of the bigger falls, this place is far removed from civilisation. A protected land hidden like a glimmering gem in the privacy of the wilderness. It's the sort of place where novices are well-forewarned about the dangers of testing their mettle against a basin of nature that sees less than one hundred people traversing the rugged landscape a year. 

You only have yourself to rely on out here, someone writes. It's not for the faint of heart. 

Simply put: it's perfect. 

Cheap, too. You follow the instructions, requesting a weekend pass in the northern backcountry. Permits approved, credit card accepted. A map is emailed off along with an itinerary of what to bring, what to do (and what not to do—no scents, nothing that isn’t bear-repellent approved, no firearms without pre-approval from park services; same with fishing and hunting), and where to go. Signing in and out is mandatory lest they have to launch a massive, and expensive, search and rescue for you. 

It’s all a little overwhelming (beware of wild animals, do not engage with them, do not feed them; do not leave trash in the outback; do not swim in the rapids and be wary of the vicious undercurrent in the river; do not go where you are not prepared to be) and the laundry list of what not to do seems bigger than you’re prepared for. Trepidation sinks in. 

And then, as if in mockery of your unease, an email pops up in your inbox—

you're in bear country now, it warns, and then proceeds to tell you how to defend yourself against an attack—defensive and predatory—and to always, always, report any sightings you see to the park rangers. Immediately. Instantly. Without hesitation. Anything. Everything. Footprints, feces. It could save someone else's life. 

It’s daunting. you are your own protection, it adds, vicious and cold. Cruel. We share the responsibility, but you are the one who carries the biggest burden. Be smart, be prepared, and be cautious.

They send three emails about safety, and advise that you attend a two-hour-long park seminar when you arrive on your first day to warn you about the dangers within the valley, the wildlife and rugged mountains, the steep ravines, and the treacherous rivers. 

The man leading the seminar is dismissive during it, derisive. The park is open to the public, the ranger mumbles, gruff and unkind. His eyes skewer into the meagre rucksack on your back, and the outfit you picked—trousers, a thermal long-sleeve, and hiking boots the sales associate assured you that you would grow into, and huffs, adding: and it’s up to said public to decide if it can survive in here; we post signs and warnings and make all of the dangers as accessible as we can, as apparent as we can, but once you sign in, and head out, you are on your own. 

But in none of these pamphlets, in this abrupt dressing down of your limited experience and their ambivalence on whether or not you can take care of yourself, does anyone ever tell you about the real danger hidden in these woods:

man.

Or rather, a man. 

There's something unmatched about the wilderness, about the innate sense of self-reliance that seems to exude from within, this precocious sense of isolation and inner dependence. Out here, so far away from rescue or civilisation (about seven clicks in the opposite direction, give or take a few additional hours just maneuvering around jagged rock cliffs and steep canyons), you only have yourself for guidance, for salvation. 

Maybe that's part of the reason why it draws you in so much. This idea of alienation. Of loneliness. 

You are as safe as mother nature permits. As the grit in your bones allows. Flash flooding, intense storms. Whiteouts. Avalanches from the highest peaks in the distance. Surges in the river below. Currents. And—

Bears. Wolves. Wolverines. Bison. Moose. Coyote. 

The list of hazards always seems to exceed the majesty of the world around you—haphazard cliffs, towering batholiths, roaring rivers—but only marginally. It's always worth it when you're there. In the heart of it all, staring down at the ink-black water below a massive fjord. The cut of limestone. Water slicing through the valley. It's ancient, primordial. And standing in the basin of its grandeur, a meagre slip of time in the palms of unfathomable aeons, the dangers balance out. Risk, reward. 

This one, though, is probably the loneliest place you've ever been. 

As you stand outside the visitors centre, the park looming large and untamed before you, there's a prickling sense of unease that permeates the air. A fine mist of worry draping over your shoulders. The park is—

Unfathomable. 

The ledger they had you sign in on boasts five names in the last three years. A quick flip through the aged pages is just as barren. Empty. 

“Not the most isolated or remote, no,” one of the wardens says, eyes creasing against the harsh glare of the sun. He offered to accompany you into the park, and you'd eagerly taken him up on the offer. Not quite ready to be on your own. “That's probably higher up. Quttinirpaaq, maybe? Heard from some buddies up there that they had no visitors last year. We do pretty well. About one thousand a year? Usually filmmakers and the like. Adventurous types. Gets kinda lonely up here. Ain't no Banff, that's for sure.” 

You felt that isolation when he'd reached the cut-off heading toward South Nahanni, and waved you along. Sage advice following him as he walked, hand on his holstered gun. 

“Keep yer wits about ya. Strange things happen in these parks, ya know?” 

Strange things, indeed. 

It starts with a noise. 

The rustle in the tussock concealed between heavy, darkened spruce. Snap of twigs underfoot. A shallow grunt when you're clamoring up the steep incline cradling the mouth of a still lake. Footfalls echoing through the valley when you rest in the lush green grass, peeling an apple to satiate the meagre appetite you've dredged up on your climb to get to this spot. 

It can all be chalked up to the wilderness. Sound, you know, is a mirage in a place like this. Deceitful. Screams that sound like it's right next to you are just the trawling echoes of wind whistling in a canyon. It isn't anything to be immediately worried about. This space is vast. Open. You'd see someone if they were there. 

An animal, maybe. 

But that thought does little to quell your sudden nerves. Or abate the spike of anxiety that rivets down your spine. 

It feels like you're being watched. 

This unease lingers as you pack your apple core inside your travelling pack. Nothing left behind, you remember, and pretend that's the only reason for the quick survey you take of the area. Just in case. Just in case—

Nothing.

Just a sprawling valley, an endless sea of green, crawling up jagged monoliths. In the distance, a thunderous plume of fog curls over the sawtooth peaks. Their heads lifted to the heavens as if scenting the looming danger congealing in the distance. Thick gunmetal clouds brew over the mountains. A sudden swell sweeps through the valley, shaking the tussock. Cold enough that your teeth chatter. 

They warned you of an oncoming storm. 

[stnkiconverse]

you're going to do it, and you're getting away with it. you know that.

Ch.2 - The Plan

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genre: psychological horror (in a way), creepypasta, supernatural thriller (in a way)

pairing: none. (yet ;) )

WC: 1.8k

content warnings: echoes in the static contains scenes and themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: graphic violence and murder, mental illness and psychological distress, suicide and self-harm, domestic abuse and strong language.

Reader discretion is advised.

Yes this has to do with Greepypastas. Yes, Creepypastas will pop up and make appearances, it's basically a reader insert into the Creepypasta word.

do not repost my work anywhere, I only post in Tumblr.

The memories of what Frank put your mother through came rushing back immediately after the funeral, as you watched him kiss another woman and drive away without a shred of remorse. The image burned into your mind, solidifying your decision. This man, who had driven your mother to despair and death, could not be allowed to continue living his life unpunished. You would make sure of that.

Back at your apartment, you sat in the dark, the glow from your laptop screen illuminating your determined face. Research became your life. For days, you delved into the dark corners of the internet, reading about unsolved murders, the meticulous plans of serial killers who evaded capture, and the critical mistakes that led to others getting caught. You learned about creating believable alibis, the best ways to dispose of a body, and methods to make remains unrecognizable. Each article, each video, was a piece of the puzzle, slowly forming the picture of your plan.

Your notebook filled with scribbles and diagrams, each page more detailed than the last. You mapped out potential scenarios, rehearsed alibis in your mind, and memorized procedures to avoid leaving any evidence behind. You even went so far as to research the forensic techniques used by police, understanding what they looked for and how to avoid detection. The perfect murder took time and patience, you reminded yourself. This was not something to rush.

---

Taking cash out of your bank account bit by bit was the first step. You knew that large withdrawals might raise suspicions, so you took only small amounts, ensuring that no one would notice. This money would be used to buy everything you needed without leaving a trail. The cashier at the hardware store didn’t look twice as you paid in cash for gloves, bleach, a lighter, a shovel and a glass knife. Each purchase was a step closer to your goal.

You carefully selected each item. A wig to change your appearance, contact lenses to alter your eye color, bigger clothes to hide your frame, men's shoes that were at least two sizes larger than your own, gloves to avoid fingerprints, two bottles of bleach, a glass knife, a lighter, a shovel and an axe. Each item had a purpose, each step a piece of the puzzle. You made sure to purchase the items from different stores and at different times, never raising suspicion.

The last item was a concert ticket, purchased with a credit card, deliberately leaving a digital footprint. This ticket was your alibi, an essential part of your plan. You chose a local concert for the night you planned to kill Frank. On the day, you would post about it on all your social media accounts, labeling it as ‘a personal day out.’ The ticket and posts would place you far from the scene of the crime, or so you hoped.

---

You began quietly stalking Frank, a shadow in the background of his life. At first, you followed him from a distance, memorizing his work schedule and noting his habits. Frank was predictable, his routines almost painfully mundane. You observed him at the house where your mother had died, watching for times when his new girlfriend wasn’t around. Those were the days you would strike. You noted the time he left for work, the days he stayed late at the station, and the evenings he spent alone at home. Your observations were meticulous, each detail recorded in your notebook.

You were careful to avoid being seen. You parked your car several blocks away and walked the rest of the distance, keeping to the shadows. You dressed in inconspicuous clothes, blending in with the surroundings. On more than one occasion, you felt the thrill of fear as Frank glanced your way, but he never seemed to notice you. The adrenaline was addictive, fueling your resolve.

Your determination was unwavering, though it took a toll on you. About twice a week, you found yourself breaking down, overcome by grief and the weight of what you were planning. The memories of your mother, her laughter, her kindness, and her pain haunted you. But each time you remembered the cold, uncaring look in Frank’s eyes, the way he had dismissed her death as if it meant nothing, your resolve hardened. This was for her. You had to do it.

---

In the flower shop, you tried to maintain a facade of normalcy. Lisa and the regular customers could tell something was off, but you brushed off their concerns with forced smiles and excuses about stress and exhaustion. You were not your usual self, and it was impossible to hide it completely, but you hoped it was enough to avoid suspicion. You continued your work, arranging flowers and helping customers, but your mind was always elsewhere, consumed by your plans.

Lisa, ever the observant friend, approached you one afternoon as you were preparing a bouquet. "Y/N, are you okay? You seem a bit... distant lately," she said, her voice full of concern.

You forced a smile, placing a vibrant red rose into the arrangement. "I'm fine, Lisa. Just a lot on my mind. It's been a rough few weeks, you know?"

She nodded sympathetically. "I understand. If you ever need to talk, I'm here for you."

"Thanks," you replied, grateful for her concern but unable to confide in her. The less she knew, the better.

---

The plan was to kill Frank in his own house, the place that had been a prison for your mother. The idea of ending his life there felt fitting, poetic in a dark way. You imagined the final moments, the look of surprise and fear on his face, and the sense of justice it would bring. The phrase “You only have one chance” repeated in your head whenever you thought about it. There could be no mistakes.

You didn't perform any trial runs, convinced that everything would go perfectly. You were thorough in your planning, confident in your ability to execute it flawlessly. The phrase "You only have one chance" was a constant reminder of the stakes. The pressure was immense, but you believed in your plan and your ability to carry it out.

---

As the day of the murder approached, you made final preparations. You accepted that you wouldn’t be the same after this, but it was a price you were willing to pay. For your mother, you would sacrifice your own peace, your own soul, if necessary.

On the day, you would wear the wig and contacts, change into the larger clothes, and don the men’s shoes and gloves. You would carry the glass knife and the axe, tools of retribution. You would ensure Frank was alone, and then you would strike.

---

The concert ticket was in your pocket, a reminder of your carefully crafted alibi. You would post about the concert on social media throughout the day, creating a digital trail that would place you miles away from the scene of the crime. It was a simple yet effective plan, and you felt a strange sense of calm as the day approached.

That morning, you woke up earlier than usual, the weight of your mission pressing down on you. You looked at the mirror, your reflection almost unrecognizable. You had not slept well in weeks, and the dark circles under your eyes were a testament to the nights spent planning and grieving. You practiced your expressions, ensuring you could smile and seem genuinely excited about the concert when posting on social media.

You spent the morning going through the motions at Petals and Posies, trying to keep your mind off the evening's events. Lisa chatted with you about mundane things, the latest neighborhood gossip, and the plans she had for the weekend. You listened, nodding and responding appropriately, but your mind was far away, replaying the plan over and over.

---

As the afternoon wore on, you began to prepare. You double-checked your bag, ensuring everything was in place. The wig, contacts, oversized clothes, men's shoes, gloves, glass knife, axe, lighter and bleach – each item was checked and rechecked. You couldn’t afford to forget anything.

Your hands trembled slightly as you donned the disguise. The wig fit snugly, changing your appearance dramatically. The contact lenses felt strange at first, but you quickly adjusted. You looked in the mirror, seeing a stranger staring back. Perfect.

You then continued you contour your face to the point where there was absolutely no trace of you.

You left your apartment, making sure to post a photo of the concert ticket on social media with the caption "A personal day out. Time to enjoy some music and relax!" Your friends and few followers liked and commented, wishing you a fun time. It was surreal, knowing what you were about to do while presenting a façade of normalcy to the world.

---

Arriving at Frank's neighborhood, after having walked to it, there was adrenaline already making itself present. The men's shoes were heavy and uncomfortable, but they served their purpose, making your footprints untraceable. You moved silently and quickly, your heart pounding in your chest as you approached the house.

The house was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning unit. You slipped around to the back, using the spare key you had taken from your mother’s belongings to let yourself in. The familiar scent of the house hit you, a mix of stale air and Frank's cologne. Memories flooded your mind, but you pushed them aside. This was not the time for sentimentality.

You moved through the house, your senses heightened. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of fabric seemed amplified. You made your way to the kitchen, where you knew Frank kept a spare bottle of whiskey. If he was drinking, it would be easier to catch him off guard.

The sound of the front door opening made you freeze. Frank was home. You listened intently, hearing the clink of his keys as he tossed them on the table, followed by the familiar sound of his heavy footsteps. He was heading to the living room.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. This was it. The moment you had been planning for weeks. You felt a surge of adrenaline, your body ready for what was to come. The phrase "You only have one chance" echoed in your mind, a reminder of the stakes.

---

You peeked around the corner, seeing Frank settle into his recliner, a bottle of whiskey in hand. His eyes were closed, and he looked relaxed, oblivious to the danger lurking in his home. You tightened your grip on the glass knife, the cool weight of it grounding you.

Silently, you moved closer, your heart pounding in your chest. You could hear your own breathing, shallow and quick. The distance between you and Frank closed with every step, each one bringing you closer to your goal. Your mother’s face flashed in your mind, her smile, her laughter, her pain. This was for her.

As you stood over him, you hesitated for a brief moment, the enormity of what you were about to do hitting you. But then you remembered the bruises, the fear in your mother’s eyes, the indifference in Frank’s. Your resolve hardened.

You moved both of your hands towards Frank, the urge to immediately kill him being immense, but no. You’re gonna make him suffer, even if it’s just for a bit.

banners: @drizztdohurtin

Taglist is open, ask to be added.

🏷️: @mimmickmouse @stranger-of-the-internet

[stupendousfoxthing]

Since the issue of whether Taekook were in Busan a day before is still a debate, let’s clear it up once and for all.

On the 12th of October 2022, Hobi posted this video to wish Jimin a happy birthday on his instagram stories (tried searching for Hobi’s post on x but only found this one from a jikook account. I checked and they are not a Tae anti but a true OT7 so I didn’t see the harm in posting this link from them)

https://x.com/lovemazejikook/status/1580228345354387463?s=46

This video was taken after their dance practice video of “RUN BTS” was filmed and we know this because Jimin and Hobi still have on the exact same clothes they had on in the video. After this, Jimin started his birthday Live at around 11:49pm on the 12th and he ended it around 1am on the 13th KST. During the Live, he mentioned that he had just finished rehearsals with the rest of the members before coming in to do the Live and I know that some people were confused about the timeline because of the video Jk posted for Jimin from the hotel room in Busan but that video was posted at about 5am kst. Jimin finished his Live at around 1am kst and seeing how they mentioned during the Live vminkookhope did on the 15th after their concert that they all arrived in Busan on Jimin’s birthday which was the 13th, then it is safe to say they all left for Busan after Jimin was done with his Live. It only takes about an hour to fly from Seoul to Busan and about 4hours to drive so Jk would have had enough time to leave Seoul to Busan, settle down a bit and then do and post a video for Jimin’s birthday at around 5am kst on October 13th which is when they said they all arrived Busan. So whoever mentioned seeing taekook in Busan on the 12th at night by the stadium couldn’t have possibly seen them because they weren’t in Busan then.

As for the beach, there also really isn’t any solid proof that Jk was there was Tae either and I know that some people mentioned seeing them but when you look at the trail of events it isn’t likely that the person with Tae at the beach was Jk.

After Jhope, Jungkook, Tae and Jimin finished their Live after the Busan concert on the 15th, Tae went out to eat at a restaurant called Ilpumhanwoo with his family, Hyungsik and a few staff and we know this because some fans saw them together and posted about it.

https://x.com/taehyungimpact/status/1581881241389129728?s=46

Some people questioned whether it was really Hyung-sik with Tae because apparently one of the servers at the restaurant who spoke about it didn’t say anything about Hyungsik being there but that was soon cleared up after the manager at the restaurant posted the autographs that Tae and Hyungsik left behind. Here it is

https://x.com/vteambase/status/1583752725187420160?s=46

After this, Tae was at the beach with some BH staff and he was definitely with some other person whom some people have claimed to be Jk but I don’t think it was Jk (and just before you call me a joker who is trying to debunk a taekook hangout, I am not) and the reason I don’t think it was Jk is because there is no solid evidence that points to Jk being there, everything is pure speculation in my opinion. Tae was at Ilpumhanwoo restaurant with Hyunsik, his family and staff, no mention of Jk being there and later he went to Haeundae Beach which is very close to the restaurant he ate at with the other people. So doesn’t it make more sense to assume that he stopped by the beach after dinner with the people he was with at the restaurant which were the staff and hyungshik? I know that the shoe prints and shadows is what convinces many people that it was Jk but Tae was the one wearing the bucket hat and the shadow was his. I know this because if you zoom in on the pictures he posted on the beach, you can see the folded black bucket hat in his pocket. The size of the shoe prints are also too small to be Jk’s. Compare the size to those of the other footprints, which we assume to be Tae’s and see the difference. The “video evidence” that one fan also posted about seeing taekook was a grainy video of what looked just like one person who might have not even been Tae at all, so it isn’t decisive. So the taekook beach date to me is one of those things which I put in a “taekook maybe” pile because while there is no decisive evidence that Jk was there, there is no evidence that he wasn’t either but given the trail of events, it makes more sense to me to think that if Tae was at the beach with anyone that evening, it was Hyungshik not Jk. The people or person who claimed to have seen Taekook in Busan on the 12th clearly lied or probably mistook some other people for taekook because we have decisive evidence that they weren’t in Busan on the 12th. Fans lie and make up stuff all the time. Fans have been caught faking sightings all the time for different reasons so it is wise to treat every sighting news without clear video or picture evidence as a maybe because if we all had to go by “fan sightings”, then Tae and Jennie would have been in Hawaii together at the beginning of last year because people claimed to have spotted them but we know Jennie wasn’t there. That’s my point. I also think Tae would have posted a picture if he was there with JK or who knows, maybe he would post the picture someday in the future but until then, it’s a maybe “maybe taekook” for me (in Peach’s voice)

Welcome back? Have you started your own blog yet? Imagine how much you can write about your theories in your own blog. Also.

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

[park ranger voice] now it’s important to be mindful of the local birds! this area is home to a lot of dromaeosaurids and troodontids, the animals you might know of by their more common name: the raptors. these little guys are a lot less dangerous than the movies would have you believe, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t worry at all! our local raptors range from turkey sized species like pectinodon and dromaeosaurus to the much larger dakotaraptor, which can get up to eighteen feet long! the small ones are skittish and likely to run away from any humans they see, but dakotaraptor will essentially ignore most humans unless you act overtly threatening towards them. when you’re setting up camp, remember to keep all of your food bags in a high up place where they won’t get broken into by any curious critters. raptors are incredible jumpers and climbers, so we recommend tying them up at least ten to twenty feet up. when you’re on our trails, it’s a good idea to have bells tied to your gear, to make sure our raptors can hear you coming. even the big ones will generally try to stay away from you if they can help it! the small troodontids can get curious, but they don’t mean you any harm, and if you leave them be they’ll do the same to you. if you run into a raptor, don’t panic! don’t run away either, or they’ll probably chase you just on instinct, even if they don’t actually want to eat you. give them a wide berth, and make sure they know you’re there and that you aren’t a threat. when they’re threatened, raptors will spread their wings like this and raise that big feathered tail, making themselves look big and scary to ward off larger predators. if you see this threat display, that’s your cue to slowly back away, making sure they can see that you aren’t interested in going after them. on the other hand, if they’re lowering themselves like this, that might mean they’re getting a little too interested in you! so if you see that, spread your arms like this, open up your jacket if you have one, to make yourself look big. the point isn’t to fight them, it’s to get them to back off on their own because you’re too big to eat. slowly back away while making yourself look big like that and making a lot of noise. but i have to stress that raptors almost never attack humans, so you won’t have to use this advice except in the rarest of circumstances. our local raptors are mostly solitary hunters, so they won’t be going after large prey like humans, instead preferring animals around their size or smaller. even the largest ones don’t usually see humans as worth the effort! just remember to respect these beautiful animals, and stay away from their nests, which you might find in sheltered woodland areas off of the trails. it’s the brooding season right now, and some of our animals here can get REALLY protective, which is why it’s important to stay on the trails! remember that these animals are more scared of you than you are of them, so just let them live at a distance. take only pictures, leave only footprints. we have pamphlets here about the different species and the conservation efforts for them if you’re interested! if you’d like to donate, every penny helps, and we need all we can get to protect these beautiful birds and their habitats. thank you all for your time, see you on the trails!

(wanted to write something based on bear safety PSAs i used to see for hikers, sorry it got long lol)

holy crap its amazing

[7h3g3n3r4l]

Take only pictures, leave only footprints.

Jeremy Gibbs

[lumieumie]

A little drabble that I might fix up eventually!

This is my take on what happened when Keefe decided to run off and join the Neverseen! This is directly after the part where Keefe leaped away from Havenfield once Calla made her decision. This is just a short little drabble on what I thought might’ve been going through Keefe’s mind when he got his memory back.

This has not been edited or revised, and I kind of just typed whatever until it became this, so please don’t be too harsh! I’ll fix it up and make it nice later maybe. Also, Keefe pricks his finger so there’s an eensy teensy weensy bit of blood!

When Keefe arrived at the daunting towers of Candleshade, his father wasn’t there.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise—Keefe had long been aware of his father’s secret havens. But Keefe had pictured his father alone in his cold, lonely tower that he took so much pride in. It would certainly be fitting for Lord Cassius Sencen.

Either way, it made things much easier.

He wasted no time, climbing onto the Vortinator with his goal clear in his head; trash his mother’s room. Er, search it, too.

He tried—he really, really did try to convince himself that’s all he was there to do. But he knew there was more to it—knew that despite all she had done to him and his friends, he just… couldn’t seem to let go. He had to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind he could trace, or maybe there were clues of her intentions, or… something.

Who was he kidding. His mother was too careful to leave anything behind. But even so, he needed a way to get all his pent up emotions out. There they were, bubbling just below the surface, and if Keefe didn’t find a way to let the pot boil over in private, he was certain he’d explode at the most inopportune moment.

He kicked the door to his mother’s room open, relishing in the way in squealed on its hinges before slamming into the wall. Keefe hoped it left a dent.

His mother’s room was… well. There were clearly marks that said it had been searched in the not so distant past. Footprints disturbed the thin film of dust on the floor, and he could see signs of disturbances on most of the fancy furniture. But other than that, it was just how his mom had always kept it from what he remembered. Not that he’d been in here more than three times. His mother definitely wasn’t the type to invite him in and cuddle his nightmares away.

He marched straight to the closet, throwing it open and getting to work—tossing clothes, shoes, capes, anything he could grab onto the floor. He searched the pockets of a few of them, but mostly, he was just throwing things. He wanted to rip up his mother’s stupid dresses, lay waste to her obnoxiously high heels, and his anger only grew as he caught glimmers of himself throughout the closet.

A small picture of him on his first day at foxfire. Crumpled drawings he’d thrown away. Bits of jewelry he’d made for her when he was young, that she’d never worn but kept anyways. His search turned into a mission to tear through each and every piece of art, break every beaded string. The floor was a mess of glass beads and shreds of paper, and clothes covered every corner of the room, but he still wasn’t done.

He grit his teeth and yanked on one of her fancy capes folded at the top of the back shelf, sending a diamond-encrusted jewelry box crashing to the floor.

Keefe recognized it, vaguely. It was his mother’s plainest jewelry box, despite its elaborate design. She used it for all the trinkets she never wore. Made sense that it would be tucked in the back of her closet.

Or… she could’ve pushed it to the back of her closet because she was hiding something in it.

Dropping to his knees, he slid the latch and opened the small chest, fumbling through the contents of the box, searching for… something. Anything—

Keefe hissed as something pricked his finger, yanking his hand back. Blood welled on the pad of his thumb, and… oh.

“It’s a rare starstone.”

“Don’t you feel powerful?”

“This is your future.”

“The washers will be here soon, Keefe.”

He clutched his head as if it could save him from the oncoming headache, scrambling away from the jewelry box like it was full of boiling acid. His ears were wringing, and his heart was pounding, and his lungs were begging for air, but he couldn’t seem to get any in.

Legacy. His legacy. On top of some mountain, in the middle of nowhere, was a plan that the Neverseen had made—a big plan. And it involved him.

The starstone.

He crawled to the chest, dumping out the jewelry box and shuffling through the assortment of hairpins. When that yielded no results, he leapt to his feet. He overturned furniture, emptied out drawers, pulled back blankets—looked anywhere and everywhere in the room, but… of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Either it was hidden somewhere in the tower, or his mother had brought it with her. Or…

The Neverseen had it.

Pieces started coming together in his head, forming a plan. Well… sort of.

He was vital to the Neverseen’s plan—him. His mother had something planned for him, locked behind the door of that desolate building in the middle of a frigid mountain, and the Neverseen knew where it was—knew how to take him there.

And a smaller, childlike voice that he tried time and time again to squash whispered that the answers regarding the state his mother was in lay with the Neverseen as well.

He could end this. He would end this. This was what he had to do.

His friends… and Sophie… they would hate him. By some miracle, they’d kept the son of a traitor around, but this?

Knowing he was a part of the Neverseen’s plan, that he’d gone along with it, was just… too much.

His friends would never forgive him.

Sophie would hate him—everyone would.

He had no other choice. He had to try. He had to make this right.

Something wet slides off his face and drips onto the floor, and it takes Keefe a moment to realize they’re tears. He lifts a hand, letting his fingers graze his wet cheek, before staring at the small splatter on the floor.

It had landed next to a painfully familiar necklace. Each bead with a different bloom, capturing every little detail.

He knelt down, picking up the necklace. For some reason, the flowers made him think of Sophie; but these days, there wasn’t much that didn’t make him think of her.

She’d be angry. She’d probably never speak to him again, but…

He had to do this. He would fix this, even if it killed him. It was the least he could do, and… it was the best plan he had.

With his decision set in stone, Keefe tried his best not to let his heavy heart weigh him down as he closed the door to his mother’s room, necklace in hand.