#like. I think shed trust him and know him enough to not think HE betrayed her

[emilylawsons]

@xenobean Your wish is my command…

(This will have a few spoilery things from S1 and S2 but none from S3.)

So let’s start with the setting and surface theme: journalism and news media. Anyone who works in that field faces questions of integrity every single day. Good journalists seek the truth. They ask questions. But sometimes the truth—or one person’s integrity—threatens to expose someone else’s lack thereof. We see it all the time in what the characters face each episode. Noelene gets fired for a day because she accidentally pulls a fabricated quote that her own bosses didn’t bother to check her on. Helen is constantly searching for stories that shed light on issues no one else will talk about, and in season 2 Dale is combative to that because he’s looking to save face and maintain his station which her convictions threaten. One of Helen’s most crucial moments comes because she has to choose between her integrity and her job.

Their professional world alone is meant to be built on truth and exposing the truth.

Then we get our characters.

Helen tries to hide her mental illness, at least from the public. And herself. She panics when her past stint in a mental institution is threatened to come to light. She runs away and tries to hide her episodes but isn’t quite so successful—but she’ll still attempt to lie. (“I accidentally took too many pills,” “I think I was really dehydrated.”) And we see how her running from her mental illness rather than facing it head on or seeking help does more harm than good. And she constantly has reminders of the stigma of mental illness shoved in her face. She has people around her—namely men—screaming at her and not taking her seriously, and it just fuels her reactive anger. Which makes her impossible to deal with to most people. Except Dale, who becomes the only safe person she knows. But even he can’t always understand, especially when her struggles threaten his image.

Dale, meanwhile, has run from his bisexuality since he was a teenager. Didn’t even have the language for it. He was shamed, wrongfully punished, made to feel like a pervert. As a result, he’s kept his true feelings to himself. He’s leaned into what everyone else wants from him. Helen is probably the first person to know the whole truth and still love him as deeply as she does, but the way in which she finds out is at the cost of an indiscretion to their relationship. She feels betrayed not because he has that attraction to men, but because he kissed someone else—he entertained being with someone else while they were together—and still doesn’t quite trust that he won’t leave her. So how he is supposed to feel anything other than ashamed? How is he supposed to respond other than to hide in his career and the one place he seems to be successful, accepted, and admired? No one can know he has these feelings or these thoughts. No one can know the real him. Because they would be appalled—or that’s what he’s had reinforced in his mind.

Both of them, in their shame, fall apart despite the fact that they’re the only two people who literally only see each other and love each other regardless.

Then we’re introduced to Kay Walters, who’s spent her entire life having to live up to her parents’ public image. Who fell to addiction because of the pressure. Because she never felt good enough in the eyes of the two people in this world who should have loved her unconditionally, without question. And when she comes back and Geoff and Evelyn find out what state she’s in, they’re forced to face their own failure. Their own neglect of what’s important. Because they, themselves, are so full of shame at the idea of looking even just a little less than perfect. And when they face the fact that she needs help, there’s shame on their part because their daughter is in rehab—which is just as shameful to her. It takes that come to Jesus moment to get them to reexamine themselves.

And without giving anything away about the final season, we watch the fallout from this shame and how Helen and Dale specifically must confront it. And throughout the entire series, it’s the people who refuse to be ashamed of themselves that seem to be the happiest—Gerry and Carla, for instance. Or Tim. Or Linus. And I’d love to dig more into how we see this play out for Helen and Dale these last six episodes, but I’ll leave it there since everyone is still watching.

So, yeah. That’s the point. And I adore this show for everything it is. ❤️

Anyway the thesis of The Newsreader is that embracing the truth and everything real that you are is always going to be better than hiding in shame in this essay I will—

[theoneicelady]

SECRET INVASION SPOILERS EPISODE 1

I am 65% sure Maria KNEW it wasnt him and didnt feel betrayed, and used her last words to warn him that the skrull could/did take his form

[dirt-str1der]

How do you think majima hit his ex wife ? Do you think he did it like kiryu slapped haruka , he whapped his hand over her cheek like a reflex, without even thinking. Do you think he revved up for a backhand during an argument, or maybe he grabbed her by the shoulders and straight up threw her to the ground while she was at her most vulnerable and then he walked out the door and never looked back

[left-side-up]

Mars

One hour, thirty-seven minutes, and sixteen seconds left.

Martyn wipes the blood from his face, still panting heavily. He won. As the red haze fades from his mind, so does the ecstasy of victory.

He's the last one standing. It's over. So why is his clock still ticking?

For the first time since becoming red, he's... numb. His eyes land on Scott's body.

"Come on," he whispers, as if breaking the silence would wake his teammate, as if anything could wake Scott now. "Time to go home."

One hour, six minutes, and ten seconds left.

It takes Martyn a while to carry Scott's body back to the Coral Isles and begin digging. He furrows his brow as he pushes the shovel into the earth, hoping the minimal enchantments will save him some time. He has to get this done. Has to make up for what he did, even if it's just a small gesture like this.

(Has to keep his mind off of the memories that have been slipping into his head since he killed Impulse. Soulmates, spyglasses, snow. Things that were stolen from him long ago.)

He groans as the shovel hits stone, then pulls out his pickaxe. This is going to take longer than he'd hoped.

Thirty-eight minutes and thirty-two seconds left.

Martyn almost sheds a tear of relief when the grave is finally deep enough. Instead, he spends those precious seconds setting down the shovel and going to pick up Scott.

He's badly burned from the lava, and the stab wound has left his shirt covered in blood. He'd hate that Martyn is leaving him in such a filthy set of clothes, but he'd also hate the idea of Martyn swapping his shirt out for him. It probably doesn't matter all that much- he's going to be covered in dirt either way.

"Alright, Smajor," Martyn tells him. "Time to rest."

He lowers his teammate into the grave.

(A fellow soldier of Dogwarts. A canary. And now, his Mean Gill. Though he didn't know it when he began digging, he's done this before.)

Once Scott is settled, Martyn picks the shovel back up. His work isn't finished yet.

Eleven minutes and fifty-one seconds left.

At last, Scott is put to rest, and Martyn is free to lie down and breathe.

The ocean breeze pushes his hair out of his face. He's acutely aware of the dried blood and sweat on his skin, but he can't be bothered with it. He's not spending his last ten minutes alive taking a bath.

Besides, he knows the feeling won't go away no matter how hard he scrubs at the grime.

With nothing to keep him busy, the swarm of memories attacks him with renewed fervor. A lonely bastion. A group of towers. A castle, drained of its warmth. A resentful soulbound, a traitorous group of four, a unified army. Everything bleeds together and pulls him in every direction he's ever been in. Each path leads to one thing.

Guilt.

Guilt for leaving the one person who was supposed to be by his side until the end. For letting each and every one of his friends die before him. For failing to protect his king.

And now, for killing his only friend in the world.

He lets himself drown in it.

One minute and forty-seven seconds left.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The grave doesn't respond. Graves don't tend to respond to apologies.

"I think I'm only capable of being truly loyal to one person. And he's found his way out of this hell, so... yeah."

The waves crash against the beach. The sand in the hourglass trickles down.

One minute and nineteen seconds left.

"I didn't know that I was going to betray you. If this happens again- if this cursed game keeps going, I need you to find better allies, yeah? Don't trust me. I don't want to backstab you again."

He opens his eyes to find the sky clear and blue for the first time in a while. It's been filled with smoke and ash for the past few days, but it seems to have finally cleared up.

Thirty-six seconds left.

Martyn grabs the banner from his belt. He didn't know what it meant when he made it. He just knew that it felt right.

Now, he stares at the red flag of Dogwarts again, and he misses someone.

"I hope you found your way out this game for good. Not because I don't miss you. I just... want you to be happy."

Twenty seconds left.

"I wish I'd had time to apologize to you too. I wish we'd met somewhere nicer."

Thirteen seconds left.

"But there's no point in wishing here, is there?"

Eight seconds left.

Martyn holds the banner to his chest. Looks at the grave beside him. Closes his eyes again.

Four seconds left.

"Goodbye, Scott. Bye, Ren."

Three.

Two.

One.

[k5ashe]

promising forever

I broke up with my boyfriend so time for some angst

She stayed quiet for a while, thinking. Then it hit her, and she sighed

"I can hide. We don't have to break up."

For the first time in a long time, he hesitates.

"Hide? What do you mean? Hide where? How?"

He takes a step closer to her, studying her expression. His gray eyes betray a mixture of frustration and a hint of sadness.

"This is because of those men, right? You think they will come after me." She spoke, looking at him with a nervous expression.

"Of course it's those fucking Dragons!" He snaps, his frustration evident. "If those bastards find out about you, they'll do anything to screw with me using you. I'm not going to let them hurt you." He runs his hand through his hair, sighing deeply as he lowers his eyes. "You don't know what they are capable of. Trust me, please. You don't want to be involved in all of this."

"I'll wait. I'll wait for you." She said, grabbing his coat, pulling him closer to her trembling form. ''I'll wait, so--.. Don't break up with me. Please.''

God-fucking-damnit, he can never say no. He's not strong enough. He looks at you for a long moment, searching for the strength to push you away.

"...I-" his voice catches, the words dying in his throat as he tries to break your hopes, but his arms, moving on his own, wrap around you in a tight embrace."No. You can't. Please. You deserve better than me."

He murmurs as he holds you against his chest, one hand caressing your hair. "You're so sweet and innocent. I am darkness and violence. I live for fighting, for the chase. You deserve someone better than me. Someone who can love you truly. Who can give you a safe life. I can't do that for you. You know I can't."

"I'll die without you". She screamed, voice trembling. "Please don't leave me. I'll wait-.. So please."

There are few things in the world more painful for him than seeing you cry. His heart feels like it's been stabbed as a tight knot forms in his chest. His eyes are also glassy with tears, but he doesn't shed them. Him, being an extremely stoic and closed-off man, would rather cut open his veins than show his tears. It's a weakness he refuses to show.

"Love. Lov-" he whispers, his voice strained, his fingers digging into your waist. He shakes his head, swallowing hard. His heart is breaking, he's unable to see you cry. Unable to hear you beg. He's is losing his composure as the knot in his chest tightens further. He wants to fight it, fight his feelings, but he cannot. His arms tighten around you.

"Alright. Please, please stop crying. I won't." He whispers in a cracked voice, pressing your face against his chest. "I won't break up, my love. I'm here, I-I'm here." His voice falters, barely audible. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, his voice low as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. His fingers press into your skin, needing to feel you close. To have you near.

His eyes are closed, tears welling up and he hates himself for being so weak. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He can hear his father's disapproving voice in his head, telling him that he shouldn't be crying. That he should be strong. That a man should never cry.

Without a word, she sat beside him and placed a hand on his back. He flinched slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away. She began rubbing slow, soothing circles, waiting for him to speak, but he stayed silent.

“Hey,” she said gently, her voice a soft melody in the silence. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone.”

He shook his head, his hands dropping to his lap as he wiped at his eyes hastily. “I shouldn’t be like this,” he said, his voice raw and barely audible. She knelt in front of him, her hands gently cupping his tear-streaked face. Her voice trembled, raw with emotion, but her words were steady.

“I’ll wait, okay?” she whispered, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. Her lips lingered there, as though trying to pour all her strength into him. “For days. Months. Years. I don’t care how long it takes—I'll be here, waiting for you to find your way back.”

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her gaze fierce, unwavering. “But don’t you dare die on me. Don’t even think about it. I swear, if you try to leave me, I’ll follow you. To the ends of the earth, to the edge of whatever comes after this life—I’ll chase you, and I’ll bring you back.” Her voice cracked, but her grip on his face tightened. “You can’t escape me. You don’t get to leave me here, not like this. Not ever.”

[unholyjs]

Bad Things ~ Oliver Queen x Reader

This is the prologue for a fic I'm writing on Wattpad, sharing it here because I'm kind of proud of the story.

~

"Ollie?" Your voice cracks as you look between him and the power-dampening cuffs on your wrists. "What are you doing?"

The shock doesn't come from being thrown into a cell. It comes from the icy glare in Oliver's eyes—the same eyes that once looked at you with nothing but love. Now, they hold a cold, unrecognizable look. You knew this moment would come eventually. You knew he'd find out about your double life, but even in your worst nightmares, it never felt like this.

"You've been working with us since the very beginning," Oliver growls, stepping back as the glass door slides shut, sealing you inside. "And all this time, you were playing us. Playing me."

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the sting of his words. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You joined Team Arrow as a means to an end, to gain his trust and operate under the nose of your biggest threat. You never intended to develop feelings. You never meant to fall in love.

"Well, you found me out," you say, lifting your bound hands to wipe away the tears you refuse to shed, "Congratulations, Oliver. It only took you six years to finally see what was right in front of you."

Oliver's jaw clenches, his hand forming a tight fist at his side, "You've killed innocent people, Y/N. This is where you belong."

You scoff, tilting your head with a bitter smile, "What do you think you know? You found out I'm Malevolent, but I bet you don't know half the people I've killed—or why."

"Then tell me!" Oliver slams his fist against the glass barrier. You flinch, flashes of your father's abuse overwhelming you. You force yourself to take a deep breath, pushing the fear back down.

To be honest, villainy might as well have been written across your forehead from the start. Your father beat you senseless before you were even old enough to understand what abuse was. Every small mistake became an excuse for his rage. Your mother wasn't any better—always drunk or high, barely aware she had a child.

You carried those scars for years, blaming yourself. Maybe if you hadn't touched this, or looked at that, your father would've left you alone. Maybe if you behaved better, your mother would have loved you.

But eventually, you convinced yourself that you deserved better. You left the torment behind and joined the Army as soon as you were legal, it was your first real break. You fell in love, got married, and had two beautiful children. For the first time in you whole life, you were happy. It was a kind of happiness you never even though existed growing up. But it didn't last. It never does.

"You wouldn't understand," you whisper, dropping your gaze. "You see everything in black and white, Oliver. I'm forced to live in the gray."

He steps closer, his expression torn between fury and something softer. "Then help me understand," he demands, his voice breaking for the first time. "Why did you do it? Why did you betray us?"

The question hits you hard, and suddenly the walls of the cell seem to fade away. Your mind drifts back to a moment you've tried so hard to bury—a moment that still haunts your every waking thought. The moment that's driven every waking moment and every decision you've made for the past few years.

You push open the front door of your home, smiling as you call out to your children. "Melody? Michael? I'm back!"

There's no response, normally the second you'd walk in the house you'd be greeted by their little footsteps pounding excitedly towards the door. They always knew when you were home. You suspiciously set your bag down and walk into the living room, expecting to find toys scattered across the floor and the sound of laughter echoing through the house. 

Instead, it's silent. Eerily silent.

A chill runs down your spine, and the smile fades from your face, you pull your gun from it's holster at you side. "Melody?" you call again, your voice trembling slightly now. You step into the kitchen, and that's when you see it—the shattered glass on the floor, the overturned chairs.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you move down the hallway. It feels like your feet are made of lead, every step heavier than the last. You push open the door to the kids' room, and the sight before you rips the breath from your lungs.

Melody and Michael lie motionless on the floor, their innocent eyes frozen wide in terror. A single bullet wound pierces each of their small foreheads, their once-bright faces contorted in horror—the image sears into your mind, you know their expressions will haunt you forever. You drop to your knees, a choked scream tearing from your throat as you scoop up and cradle their lifeless bodies. "No, no, no..." you sob, rocking back and forth, pressing kisses to their cold foreheads, "My babies."

You can barely see through the tears as you stumble into the bedroom you once shared with your husband. The bed is soaked in blood, the sheets tangled around his lifeless form. His eyes are vacant, the same gentle eyes that once looked at you with love.

You collapse against the doorway, a guttural scream of agony ripping from your chest. Your entire world has shattered, and you know in that moment that nothing will ever be the same.

You don't know how long you sit there, but when you finally stand, your tears have dried. All that's left is a hollow emptiness inside you, a cold determination that replaces the grief.

You will find out who did this. And you will make them pay.

You're jolted back to the present, the cold walls of the cell pressing in around you. Oliver is still standing there, his eyes locked on yours, waiting for an answer.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words die in your throat. He doesn't bother to repeat the question. Instead, he taps the computer screen, and you watch helplessly as the pipeline seals itself shut, cutting off your powers and any chance of escape—for now.

~

Oliver storms into the main room of STAR Labs, where the rest of the team waits in silence. The tension is palpable. He can feel their eyes on him, but he doesn't want to talk. Not now. Behind his stoic mask of indifference, he was hurting. His mind raced, searching for any plausible explanation that could clear your name and bring you back into his arms. There had to be a reason—he was sure of it. 

He had worked with you for six years, memorized every quirk, every fear. He thought he knew you better than anyone, better than you knew yourself. And yet, in this moment, he realized he knew nothing about you at all.

He heads straight for the computer, typing furiously until your file appears on the screen. The national meta database is almost blank, save for a few vague details.

Name: Y/N Y/L/N Known Aliases: 'Y/N Vance,' 'Black Arrow,' 'Malevolent' Occupation: Unknown Status: Unknown Family: Unknown Abilities: Electricity, Telepathy, Teleportation, Regeneration DOB: Unknown

Oliver slams his fist down on the desk, his voice a broken whisper. "Why the hell does no one know anything about her?"

Barry steps forward, pulling nervously at his fingers. "Oliver, I know you don't want to hear this, but you need to talk to her. Not at her. You can't threaten her or berate her. You have to listen."

Oliver's hands tremble as he grips the edge of the desk. He's fighting to keep his emotions in check, but he knows Barry is right. Maybe if he had listened to you sooner, things wouldn't have turned out like this.

"Okay," he finally mutters, the word coming out strained.

~

The hiss of the pipeline door opening makes you jump to your feet. You're surprised to see Oliver standing there, still dressed in his leather costume, the hood pulled back to reveal his tired, conflicted expression.

"Who are you?" he asks, stepping closer to the glass, his voice barely above a whisper.

You meet his gaze head-on, forcing yourself to smile. "I'm Y/N. Or did you miss that?"

"Y/L/N or Vance?" he demands. "Because you told me your last name was Vance."

"I lied," you say flatly, dislocating your thumb to slip out of the cuffs. The pain barely registers anymore; you've trained yourself for this.

"What's your story?" Oliver's voice cracks slightly. "Your meta file doesn't list anything before six years ago. Why?"

"I erased it," you reply flatly, feeling the electricity crackling beneath your skin as your powers return. "You don't deserve to know, because then you'd understand. And I don't want your pity."

"Damn it, Y/N! Talk to me!" Oliver slams his hands against the glass. You flinch, and a bolt of electricity shoots from your fingertips. His eyes widen, landing on the limp cuffs dangling from your wrists.

Your eyes glow bright blue, and the electricity wraps around your arms like coiling serpents. Memories of your family flash through your mind, intensifying the charge. The glow brightens, and your hair lifts as lightning surges around your body, wild and untamed.

"My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I served two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. I fell in love, got married, had twins—Melody and Michael." Tears well up as the electricity grows volatile. "They're all dead now."

You thrust your arms forward, shattering the cell. Glass and metal scatter like shrapnel, the blast sending Oliver flying across the room. You land gracefully, lightning still crackling around your arms. As you step onto the platform, Oliver rises, bow drawn and ready.

"Y/N, stand down!" he commands, just as Barry speeds in.

"How the hell..." Barry mutters, taking in the wreckage.

They knew you were powerful, but breaking out of the pipeline was supposed to be impossible.

"Move, Oliver," you growl, advancing. "I don't want to hurt you."

Barry lunges at you, but you sense his move before he makes it. You blast him with a bolt of lightning, sending him crashing down the hall.

"Y/N!" Oliver shouts, more urgently now. Your eyes narrow, glowing brighter.

"What's the plan, Oliver? Are you going to talk it out with me, babe?" You mockingly pout, and he pulls the bowstring back even tighter.

"I'm not saying it again," he warns, aiming straight at your chest.

"Good, neither am I." You lunge forward, snatching the bow from his grip and hurling it across the room.

He grabs your arm, twisting it behind your back at an unnatural angle. You scream, but instead of yielding, you snap your own arm, freeing yourself from his hold. With your good hand, you throw a punch, but Oliver catches it, flipping you over his shoulder. You hit the ground hard, gasping as he looms over you.

"I told you to stand down, Y/N."

You laugh through the pain, eyes glowing once more. You hurl him across the room with a surge of electricity. "And I told you to move."

As Oliver collapses, you take a moment to catch your breath. Then, you walk over and use your good arm to grip him tight, dragging his limp body across the debris. With a practiced gentleness, you prop him up against the wall, adjusting his head so it rests back comfortably.

You kneel down, brushing his hair away from his forehead. For a moment, you let your fingers linger, tracing the familiar lines of his face.

"It's for the greater good," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, "I still have a mission to finish."

[mcondance]

till death starring stu macher

dead dove, do not eat. like the dove is actually fucking dead.

written from stu’s pov-ish.

remember when i said i needed stu to kill me and then fuck my corpse as a final act of desecration and perversion? happy halloween. and happy kinktober.

he’s proud.

lifeless, but still warm. the blood pouring from your abdomen is still bright, rushing red. his skin prickles with what he’s feeling.

jesus.

you’re still so pretty. prettier, really, now that he’s conquered you. now that you’re his victim.

so his hand draws to your hot face, and he wipes away the tears you’d shed. he’s in control of himself. the only one in the driver’s seat when he raises up over you and gazes at you with blown pupils, like he did when you were still here.

his mind is moving a million miles per hour, bouncing off of logic and murder and perversion, as his eyes dart down to the waistband of your sleep shorts, tiny ones you only wore when you were alone, or with him. you trusted him.

you trusted him. he’s hard. ridiculously hard, harder than he ever got when you were alive, even when you were letting him turn you into something unrecognizable for his pleasure.

he killed you in your home, in the space you let him into because you really, really trusted him, even when it was obvious you shouldn’t have.

it’s your fault, really. stupid girl, not smart enough to know the man she was fucking was a killer.

how did you not know, he thinks.

what a pretty body.

maybe those guys are right, maybe his knife does represent his dick. they have to be, with the way it felt nothing but sexual when he sunk it into you, when you called his name and looked right into his eyes like you used to when he fucked you, when he kept going even when you pleaded with him to stop.

his bloodied hands drag your shorts and panties down your heavy legs and waste no time in pulling his pants down. black blown-out eyes focus on the fountain of blood pouring from your stomach. this is sexual, the blood, the wound, the kill excited him more than your cunt ever did.

he loved your cunt. still does. he loves your blood, too. he swears to god it’s a different red than everyone else’s, a gleaming vermillion he’s never seen before. pleasure is pleasure, your warmth wrapped around him felt good. but he liked to hear you beg more, to see you wrap your hand around his wrist and plead with him to let go as your eyes began to flutter.

your eyes. shut closed forever.

you feel just like you did when you were alive. still tight and wet and your tits bounce just like they used to. jesus, they’re so pretty, feel so good under his hands.

he’s sweating. it drips down onto your neck as your body rocks with his movements. he’s fucking you, hard, rutting into you and grunting and groaning with so much feeling he thinks he’s going to fucking explode.

one last time, he gets to defile you, to steal your innocence and light and make you his.

you screamed when you first saw him. mask on but shroud forsaken. terror, then confusion, then realization, then fear.

you couldn’t be faster than him even if you tried your hardest.

the sound was beautiful. your shoulder firm under his hand as he held you still.

his mind is on fire.

you felt betrayed, really. brown eyes big and hurt like you couldn’t believe what he’d done. he sunk down with you, guiding you to your living room floor as he watched your life leave you. he watched your blood pour from your wound. he nodded as you reached up for him, rubbing his face and pleading as if your show of connection in your final moments would mean a thing to him. still, unmoving as he listened to you beg him to “get some help, stu, please, please help me, why would you do this, stu, oh my god, oh my god, god, stu, please. please, please, pl—.” he watched you take your last breath, and he savored it all.

his hips stutter as he cums, and he pulls out to jerk himself onto the hole he carved earlier. lights flicker behind his eyes as his rubs the tip of himself through the bright red blood, smearing it all over your stomach.

he owns you. from the moment he saw you, he owned you. in life, and in death.

[piratesfromspace]

Shell-Shocked (Price x Reader)

Pairing: Reader x Price Rated: Explicit Word count: 4.8k Summary: Price and his unit have been tasked with retrieving an important asset: you. (Lots of self-indulgent hurt/comfort) Note: It's been almost a year since I posted a real fic, 2024 ended quite awfully for me with the passing of two family members and me losing my job for economic reasons. So I'm back with a classic hurt/comfort fic because that's how I cope.

Content: fem!reader, kidnapping, violence, physical torture (light), threat of noncon, hurt/comfort, sexual tensions, description of caring for wounds and burns

MASTERLIST

“Bloody hell, Kate, what is this about?” Price’s voice is even rougher than usual.

Price can’t believe what he’s hearing. He had been summoned inside Laswell’s office in the middle of the night, and it sounded important. But he wasn’t ready for the news that Graves and his Shadows had betrayed them and stormed the Los Vaqueros base. He was even less prepared to learn that the mission Laswell was tasking him with was not to capture Graves but rather to retrieve an agent.

“You heard me, there was a girl stationed with Los Vaqueros, she’s an asset of mine. Graves must have captured her when he took over the base. You need to retrieve her and bring her back to me. Unharmed.” Kate is trying her best to control the waver in her tone, but John knows her enough to understand something is wrong - terribly wrong - worse than the treason of Graves.

“Are you even sure your agent is still alive?” he asks, trying to make sense of the situation.

“I’m not sure of anything right now, but you must do everything you can to find her.” Laswell sighs and then she says something Price has only heard her say a couple times in the decade he’s known her “ Please , John”.

“Must be really important if you’re saying please ” “It’s… it’s personal.” she admits, lighting a cigarette.

John pauses for a bit, a concerned frown on his face “Wait, is it who I think it is?”

“ Please John”, she begs again, “you’re the only one I trust for this mission.” Laswell sounds so unlike her usual self, it’s unsettling to him. “What about Graves?” John inquires, anger lacing his voice when he says the name of the traitor. “I don’t give a fuck about Graves anymore. Kill him for all I care. Just bring her back.”  “Whatever the cost?” He asks, making sure Laswell understands what she’s asking of him and his team. Kate blows the smoke of her cigarette upwards before answering. “I know you’ll make the right choices.” and her words have a finality in them John doesn’t dare to challenge.

A few hours before, on Los Vaqueros base

You’re getting ready to crash in your cot after a day of training. Your hair is still damp from your shower, and you can’t wait to shed your clothes and boots for something more comfy.

The training had been rough, but as a young CIA agent, it was a rare opportunity to be able to train here with Los Vaqueros. Actually, you wouldn’t even have heard of this opportunity, if not for your aunt Kate Laswell. Your presence here was a favor to your aunt and everyday you try your best to not disappoint her or Alejandro and his men. Even if the pressure doesn’t make it easy.

You’re just about to get in your pj, when you hear clear gunshots outside. Nothing like the dulled and regular sound from the shooting range, no, it was way too loud and chaotic. There are shouts, alarms - something is wrong. When you open your door to peak into the corridor, you understand the base is under attack. You’re used to gunshots, to police swipes of drug or weapon labs, but the chaos in front of you - it immediately sends you into a state of high alert, senses overwhelmed by the bright neon lights, the overlapping sound of fighting and siren, the distant smell of smoke and tear gas, the acidic taste of stress on your tongue. 

You have to think quick, because the sound of heavy boots and gunfire is coming at you real fast. You don’t want to hide under your bed risking getting caught in the dead end of your room, and for a lack of a better option, you decide to flee. You’re glad you still have your combat boots on, pushing your already-exhausted body through the long corridor. You run for your life, until you take a hard turn and just end up face to face with a bunch of soldiers, all clad in black, clearly not Vaqueros - but rather your assailants.

You’re stunned for a few seconds, stuck in place, just as they are. One of them doesn't have a mask on - white male, dark blond hair, and an insufferable air - Philipp Graves himself. You’ve seen him already in briefing video calls, you know his reputation, and it takes you a couple seconds to understand that he’s betraying what are supposed to be his allies. His eyes grow big with the surprise of recognizing you as well. 

“Grab the girl, I want her alive!” he barks at his soldiers.

You don’t linger, start running back from where you came. Bullets are coming from everywhere and windows on your right are breaking into myriads of glass shards as you dash through the corridor. You try to focus, to conjure up the map of the building in your mind to plan an escape, but the stress of the situation is sinking its fangs into your nape, an icy feeling turning your thoughts into useless panic.

You’re a fast runner, but it’s not enough. One shadow crashes into you from behind and topples you to the floor. The shock steals the air from your lungs, and it’s a small miracle you don’t bash open your skull on the hard floor. But you’re not gonna yield just now. You squirm in his grasp, try to fight him off, aiming for the tender parts of his face, just like you learned in your self-defense classes. You manage to draw blood with a mean scratch of your nails near his eyes, but his fellow soldiers are on you before you can do more damage. Two more Shadows seize your limbs, lean their weight on you, glass shards slashing your bare skin in dozens of cuts when they force your arm and the side of your face flat against the floor. You scream - more so in anger than in pain - and the inhumane cry coming out of your mouth scares you. You didn’t know you could sound like this. 

The acrid smell of tobacco is what wakes you up. You’re fully awake in an instant, adrenaline spiking in your system the second you open your eyes and remember your situation. You must have dozed off after your capture, but now you’re faced with one of the guards blowing off the smoke of his cigarette right into your face. You cough and it’s like all your nerves have a misfire, your whole body hurts like hell. From sleeping on the hard floor with your hands bound behind your back and from the cuts all over your arms and the left side of your face. Cigarette in mouth, his colleague laughs at your pained reaction, cruel bastard . 

“Fuck you” you manage to utter out between two coughing fits. The first guard is unimpressed, he just laughs, but his colleague makes a crude joke about teaching you a lesson or two while he grabs his crotch in an unambiguous threat, punctuating his sentence by a few kicks in your legs. It’s far from the first time a man has made this type of comment, and in a rageful reaction, you retaliate by trying to kick him back. You know you made a mistake when he easily grabs your ankle, pushes your pants back up your leg, removes the cigarette from his lips and brings the glowing head right to the fragile skin of your shin. The burn fucking hurts. You scream, and trash against his hold. It’s no use and he has the time to inflict a second burn, before the whole commotion attracts the attention of the rest of the room - including Graves himself.

He’s visibly not very happy to stop the fight and to remind his guards that he needs you untouched for now. He also orders them to allow you a trip to the bathroom and to give you some water. What a gentleman - you want to taunt him and be all cynical, but you’re also scared he will withdraw his little crumb of a peace offering. 

You’d be so easy to break, you realize bluntly. If Graves decided he wanted to ask a few questions about your aunt, you’d be fucked. A dash of torture, the promise of a glass of water, and you would spill the beans. You don’t know much about Laswell’s missions, but you know where she lives, the name of her wife, you know one alias or two. You could probably guess a few of her passwords. Fuck , you think you’re all tough and shit, promising CIA agent sent to train with some badass men, ready to take on the bad guys all over the world - that’s bullshit . Nothing can prepare you for the real deal.

You could keep wallowing about how bad you’d be at resisting interrogation, but you settle for trying to understand whatever the fuck Graves thinks he’s doing here.

“Why are you doing this Graves?” you ask, voice raw and on edge. “That’s none of your business darling” he answers, insufferable swaggers on, no matter that it's probably 5am by now. “Then release me. You must know who I am, otherwise I’d be dead by now, so you also know it can’t end well for you to keep me here like this.” you plead. “I’ll take my chances” he concludes with a smirk, leaving you to the surveillance of the two cruel Shadows.

After this, you can’t fall asleep again. No matter how exhausted you still feel, your anxiety is through the roof, and your whole body is vibrating with it - the pain not helping. It’s still dark outside, even though dawn is just minutes away.That’s when you start hearing gunshots all over again. Everything is turning into chaos, but it seems this chaos is the result of someone coming to take the base back.

Graves is yelling orders to his shadows, the sound of grenades coming off is getting closer and closer, and you try to think of a plan. The sudden shot of adrenaline at the prospect of a rescue mission on the way makes you bold. Maybe you can turn this diversion into the opportunity to flee? Your train of thoughts is cut short when one of the Shadows grabs you by the arm, massive gloved hand yanking you up, leaving mean bruises in its wake. You scream to let you go, but the giant is deaf to your protests and he drags you across the room, following Graves and a couple more soldiers into the stairs.

You quickly understand their plan is to reach the roof so they can fly away from this clusterfuck safely tucked into their helicopter. And apparently you’re supposed to come with them. As a literal human shield and as a guarantee the assailants won’t shoot their heli down and risk your life. And who knows what they’ll do to you once they successfully leave this place. No matter what you can think of, one thing is for sure: it’s not gonna be pretty and whatever it takes, you can’t board this helicopter.

Floor after floor, your little group is closing on their exfil point way too quickly. You keep screaming, trashing with all your strength against the grip of the Shadow holding you. With one vicious kick, you almost got free, but the Shadow has enough of your fighting. With nothing more than an exasperated grunt, he hauls you up on his large shoulder like you were a naughty child, tightly securing your legs against him, holding you with so much pressure, you’re afraid he’s gonna break a bone. You see black spots for a few seconds, head dizzy with the sudden move and all your blood rushing to your skull.

All your screams and squirming are not stopping your captor in its track, and you reach the final floor. You remember its layout: a few desks and shelves are scattered through the open plan. And on the other side of it: a flight of narrow stairs going to the roof. Graves yells to the group to hurry up and starts sprinting through the floor. The man carrying you follows, his shoulder digging painfully into your stomach with each of his heavy steps. It’s only a matter of minutes before you all will finally board this helicopter. If you can’t escape right now, it’s gonna be too late. But you won’t go down without a fight. It’s frantic and probably a little pathetic the way you fight back against the grip of steel on your legs. You throw everything you got into it. The last scraps of your energy burning in your desperate attempt to break free - to no avail. 

You’re halfway through the floor when the terrifying whizz of bullets come from behind you. Shadows drop dead around you.You raise your head up at the best of your ability, and spot a few soldiers coming after you. Their gear looks familiar. American-issued helmets. Boots you recognize. Allies. Allies are here, but for now, they are also shooting at enemies dangerously close to you.

The guard holding you doesn’t falter, heading even more rapidly towards the stairs to the roof. More bullets are grazing you both and some Shadows are returning fire. You feel more helpless than ever, not a single inch of protective gear on your body, just your thin skin, already slashed and bloody. Gunshots and screams fill the air. The soldier holding you turns to face the opponents. You momentarily lose sight of your saviors, your hearing now the only way of knowing what is happening behind you. That’s when the sound of a shot is perfectly timed with the recoil of your captor, who falls to his knees with a grunt of pain. 

Hit . He’s been hit . 

His grasp on you grows weak, his balance undermined by your dead weight. And now that you’re closer to the ground, you don’t hesitate, roll yourself violently on the side, and fall hard on the floor. Free, at last . Not for long though, because after a moment of pause, another round echoes in the air and the giant Shadow falls down for good, his limp body crushing you under him, pushing the air out of your lungs. Everything goes fuzzy around you for a moment as statics fill your ears.

Are you dead? That’s what you think until you hear the noise of the room again, the screams of Graves and his men as they flee to the roof and leave you there. You can hear the low rumble from the heli starting up, and then the hurried steps of the men who shot your captor growing louder as they got closer to you.

Panic grows when you realize you’re now trapped under the heavy dead body of the guard, your wrists still tied, his warm blood drenching your clothes, in a disgusting tepid embrace. You gasp for air, breathing made difficult by the weight pressing you down. Until someone carefully lifts the body of the dead guard from you. That’s when you finally see your savior. Striking blue eyes, straight nose, and a thick beard covering a square jaw. You… know him somehow?  

“John?!” you whisper, too stunned to address him by his rank or family name like you’re supposed to - you’re not even sure it’s him and you’re not just being delirious.  “Careful, dear.” he crouches next to you, promptly cutting the zip ties with his knife. You can’t believe it, but in front of you is John Price. You spent a couple months with him a few years ago when you shared a training facility. He taught you a few tricks back then, became your sparring partner and a friendly face you were always happy to see. Well, now even more than ever. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?” he asks as he helps you sit up, eyes scanning your body, methodical, efficient, just like he used to be. You don’t understand why he’s losing time helping you, the traitor is fleeing just a few stairs away, you’re definitely not a priority.

“Graves, he’s gonna to escape, you need to go after him…” you wheeze between two coughs. Your protest is cut short by his answer. “I’m not here for Graves.” “Then, what are you…” the question dies on your lips when the realization sinks in. There are 3 other men with him you notice, taking defensive positions around you. Price is already getting body armor out of his backpack, and starts securing it on your chest. Orders are being given to his men, his voice soft but assured, confident. You understand now. He’s not here for Graves. He’s here for you .

You let him work the straps without any fuss, still light-headed from it all: the bullets that grazed at you, the pain from your numerous cuts and bruises, the tiredness, the lack of food, the sticky blood from the dead guard coating your clothes. The rest of it is a bit of a blur. You’re slowly feeling yourself getting into some sort of shock. You only register the sound of Graves’ heli flying away, and then being escorted out of the building, Price holding you upright while the rest of his squad opens the way for you. You’re finally hauled into a jeep, and you’re on the road just as the sun rises, sky bathed in oranges and pinks, peaceful and oblivious to the massacre you just escaped.

You can’t say how long the ride was before you parked in front of a random farm - a safehouse John provides. The place looks old but clean enough, the kitchen you’re ushered into definitely more inviting than the room you spent the night in.

You want to ask a million questions to John, but you settle for a very simple what is the plan now? His familiar low voice is a blessing after all the noise of the battlefield, but you can sense the worry in his tone.

“We have an exfil plan for you, but right now we need to focus on keeping you alive, yeah? Can’t have you die from septic shock or Laswell will have my head.” 

You wince when he removes the body armor from your chest, revealing your blood-drenched tank top. Price orders you to sit on a wooden chair, as he carefully cleans his hands in the kitchen sink. He drags a stool to sit next to you, and gives a glance to the rest of his team that conveys in a silent request that they leave you both alone. You’re oddly grateful for that, because you could sense your growing unease at being under the watchful gazes of the 3 other unknown soldiers. Especially the black-clad giant with a literal skull mask who looks a little bit too much like a Death allegory for your peace of mind.

“Let me see” Price finally asks and he takes hold of your wrist to turn your arm a little bit, trying his best to assess the damage under the grime and the caked blood - yours and the one from your captor. His touch is firm but gentle, his fingers dry and warm against your sticky skin. You’re mesmerized for a second by the sheer size of his hands, closing so easily around your whole wrists, dwarfing your own, holding your whole head when he checks you for concussion  - you had forgotten how much space his body is taking. 

He takes some time prodding at your skull before he hums, satisfied by your encouraging answers, and turns his attention to your injured arm. He pours the contents of his water bottle on your upper arm, and the feeling of the cold water is soothing until it awakens the numerous cuts from the broken glass, making some of the tiny wounds bleed again. Bright red streaks mixing with the dark crimson in a gory painting. Price tries his best to clean them with a pad of cotton dipped in antiseptic, the sting of it making you hiss between gritted teeth.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, but I can see a couple of glass shards still in your arm.” the captain states clinically “I’m sorry, darling, it’s gonna hurt a bit.” he adds more softly, apologetic.  You flinch when he brings the thin tweezers he fished out of his medkit near one of the most painful cuts. “Easy, girl, stay still.” He commands although there is no anger in his words. “I’ll be gentle.”

You’re pretty sure you’ve already known worse pain - but it was different. Minor medical issues or training injuries that had nothing to do with being thrown on the ground in a sea of broken glass by real enemies before being tied down for a whole night and thrown over a shoulder like a vulgar sack. It’s… a lot. And now that you’re somewhat safe, with the release of the pressure comes the release of all the fear and pain that were dulled by the adrenaline and the stress. 

You’re shaking by the time Price has disinfected every wound and removed all the shards from your arm - almost a dozen of them, tiny cristales leaving red drops on the white porcelain of the plate he drops them on.

“Good, you’re doing good, breathe for me love.” he encourages, his voice low and soothing. “I just need to bandage your arm now”. 

He wraps gauze around your arm in small sections, careful not to tighten it too much, before taping it in place. He presses the final bit of tape on the top of your hand, and gives your palm the gentlest squeeze. You respond to it immediately, and your uninjured hand settles on top of his, silently asking him to keep it on your bandaged skin. His warmth seeps through the gauze, helping less with the pain and more with the bubbling cocktail of awful emotions clawing its way through your initial defense mechanism. It reminds you of the time you spent together a couple years ago - the firm hand that brings you up from the training mattress, your fingers touching when he hands you a bottle of water, the light touches against your elbow or your hips to correct your fighting stance, never lingering more than necessary, professional and respectful, that made you crave him even more.

It reminds you of the drinks you shared on a few occasions in that lively pub next to the base. How you were dancing on the line between regular camaraderie and coy flirting when tucked against his side on those too small benches. But nothing ever happened. It’s not like he openly turned you down, more so you both did not know how to take the final step, too afraid to break something that would be impossible to mend. So you had to settle for late night reveries, your fingers between your feverish legs under your thin sheets, pretending it were his. You knew your attempt would feel nothing like his capable hands, but you still came the hardest when thinking about him.

Pain brings you back to the here and now, and your eyes find his, the light of the morning sun catching in the baby blue of his gaze. He looks older than the last time you saw him. He used to shave clean but now a thick beard styled in mutton chops covers the lower half of his face. When he smiles gently at you, the corners of his eyes wrinkle. The grizzled look talks of experience and wisdom, and he’s even more handsome than before , you think to your own surprise - the crush you hardboarded for him had been long locked away in your memory as an unrequited and hopeless thing, frivolous and naive. But here, in the shambles of your life, covered in dry blood and antiseptic, shell-shocked in this unknown kitchen, his kind hand laying on top of yours is enough to reignite the amber of your dormant love.

“Let me look at your face, dove”.

The captain is thorough, cleaning the superficial wounds there, shushing you with gentle mouth sounds when you whimper because it bloody stings, he even promises morphine once he’s done examining you. He puts a strand of hair back from your face to have a better view of your bloodied brow bone and he smooths his palm absent-mindedly over your hair, just once or twice. A reflexive attempt at comforting you like you were a frightened kitten and the intimacy of the gesture makes your heart flutter.

You thank him once he’s done with your face. He keeps busy, cleaning and putting his tools away, feigning detachment when he asks you with careful words if you’re wounded anywhere else. When you answer a weak no, he can’t help himself to finally look at you, concern written all over his face. 

“I’m good” you whisper. He wants to believe you, really, so he doesn’t push for now. Instead he stands up and calls for one of the boys - callsign Gaz - to bring some fresh clothes and some warm water for you, grumbles something about how it’s not possible to let you in those blood-drenched pants. The younger soldier sets a plastic bucket filled with steaming water, a towel and a pile of black clothing on the table next to you, and quickly leaves the room when Price gives him a glance and a nod that clearly says you can leave the lady alone now . 

John takes a few steps himself, ready to leave you to clean and change yourself, but you stop him. The fabric of your top is way too tight, stiff from the dried blood, and you’re pretty sure you’re gonna rip off half your bandages if you try to remove it on your own. Plus, the pain from your ribs and legs is starting to seriously hinder your move range.

“Okay this is embarrassing but… I think you’ll need to cut off my top” you confess, feeling the warmth of shame heat your cheeks.

The metal of the trauma shears is cold against your skin, making your breath catch in your throat - how close Price is from your body as he’s cutting open the front of your tank top is definitely not helping. He’s going slowly, concentrating on not hurting you in the process. The fabric finally parts, and reveals large bruises that extend across your ribs. More bruises appear when you shyly remove your pants to expose the skin for his examination. His eyes zero in on your shin. Amongst scratches and smaller bruises that Price recognizes for “grab mark” contusions, there are two circular wounds from the cigarette burns, their clearly defined shape unmistakable. His gaze flicks to your gray panty, also stained with blood, and suddenly he’s not so sure it’s not your own.

“What have they done to you?” his voice stays calm but you can hear the tinge of anger behind it. “I need you to tell me exactly what” he continues, the commanding tone of Captain Price replacing the soft voice of John - it’s enough to spook you. You must have flinched too visibly, because he immediately adjusts his request “It’s not an order. I- I just need to understand so I can help you, dove.” 

The word of endearment is what breaks your resistance, and you tell him what happened. How Graves’ guards found it fun to torture you for a minute - not even asking questions, just for their cruel amusement. You don’t shed a tear, you just feel a bit sick and tired - so fucking tired - and you’re shaking and everything hurt. He listens, cerulean eyes focused on your face, not straying for a single moment until you’re done. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” his voice is low, wants to be reassuring, but you can hear the underlying guilt, the part he leaves out, that he’s sorry for coming in too late, sorry for not being more aware of Graves’ allegiance .

You swallow gratefully the mix of painkillers and anxiety meds he places into your hand, before he kneels in front of you to carefully tend to the burn wounds. The meds kick in almost immediately, sticky heat dropping heavy and soothing on your limbs. You’re grateful for it, because you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t have let him touch your ankle otherwise. 

“Torture. Can’t say I’m surprised.” Ghost comments dryly, while inspecting his gun, getting ready to leave the safehouse for exfil.  “Bastard” Soap provides, his accent thick on the word, betraying his anger. “What did they ask her?” Gaz inquires, serious and focused. “Nothing. Was for the sake of it.” Price answers, and his boys are quick to pick the unusual sadness in his tone. 

They finish gearing up in silence, until they are ready to escort you to the car, where Price takes the wheel. The exfil point is a short ride away, and the moment you hear the familiar sound of a Black Hawk filling the sky, something lifts from your chest.

(please let me know what you liked, comments and reblogs are very important for writers and the community overall! Also let me know if you want a part 2?)

[klausysworld]

Hey!

could i request a

klaus mikaelson x fem hybrid reader

where reader use to be friends with the Scooby gang but she got in a fight and they all chose Elena’s side and Elena made it worse and rubbed it in so to get back at them she bit Elena.

and when they klaus doesn’t know he just knows she had a fight but then they come begging for his blood because she bit her and his like proud of his girlfriend or something like that

I didn’t mean to

Being Klaus mikaelsons girlfriend is hard enough anyways. Constantly having to watch your own shadow to make sure nobody going to grab you and use you as leverage. Making sure to always give him your attention and affection while also balancing the blood shed and agony.

What made it harder was being one of his hybrids. Now yes i was sired but he didn’t use it against me. And i knew that he actually felt something for me. My friends however didn’t.

“You’re being pathetic y/n he will never love you! It’s that stupid creepy bond that you have for him, you’re just doing it to please him!” Elena yelled, her arms flinging about as though it would make her point better

“Then why hasn’t he made me do anything I don’t want to? I haven’t had to betray any of you or anything so if he was using me surely it would be more obvious!?” I questioned growing upset

“God it’s like you’re stupid, he’s smart y/n, he knows what to do to make you think you’re in the right, but you’re not, you’re just a joke to him, a toy” she sneered. I hadn’t been a hybrid long enough to gain complete control over my anger, any of my emotions really.

“You know she’s right y/n” Damon said in a singsong tone making me further agitated. I could see Caroline and Bonnie refusing to look at me as Stefan gave me a sympathy face.

“Fine. I don’t need any of you, clearly i never meant anything to any of you enough for you to trust me” i growled making my way to the front door

“Oh yeah? What you gonna run home to your master or something?” Elena asked with her arms crossed and her head cocked. I didn’t think as i lunged towards her, my canines digging into her skin before i pulled away, ripping a chunk of her neck out as i sped away. I could hear her pain filled cry echo through my head at the same time Stefan and Damon began yelled and Caroline screamed.

I went straight to Klaus’. I didn’t say a word just went straight into his arms hiding my face in his chest. His arms circled me instantly, a hand petting my hair as he dropped whatever he was doing

“Shh, it’s okay” he soothed as i cried into his henley, hiccuping as i tried to calm myself

“Sh sh, are you hurt sweetheart?” He asked gently holding my close against him. I shook my head and clung to him tighter

“Just my emotions” I uttered. He kissed the top of my head before picking me up and taking me to his room

“That’s okay, you’re going to get used to it love. You’re already much better at controlling them hm? You’ve done so well” he encouraged. I was put on his bed, duvet pulled up over me and blackout curtains closed

“Just sleep my love, a rest will make you feel better I assure you.” He muttered as he kissed my forehead lovingly “I’m just across form you in my art room okay? Do you want me to stay?” He asked softly but I shook my head. I knew i was lying saying it was my emotions and ill feel worse the longer he coddles me.

Once he was gone i continued to cry quietly. Knowing that the people i once considered my family now wanted nothing to do with me just because of what i am and who i love. Eventually to fell asleep with a tight grip on Klaus’ pillow trying to replicate the feel of hugging him.

I woke hours later. My eyes fluttered open to the feeling of someones fingers in my hair against my scalp. I hummed sleepily in content as they massaged my head gently. I found that i was laying on a body, face on a warm chest making me frown in confusion before looking up to see Klaus with a smile on his face.

“Hello” he whispered looking at me making me smile in amusement

“Hi” i replied looking at him with a tilt of my head.

“You know…a little birdy told me that you might’ve gotten into a bit of fight today?” He hummed and my heart pounded

“Umm it wasn’t really a fight” i mumbled laying back down so he couldn’t see my face.

“No, clearly they didn’t stand a chance hm?” He asked with a literal chuckle making me blush in embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean to” i whispered sniffling.

“Oh my love, I’m not upset with you” he cooed while lifting me to have me straddle him as he sat up

“No love, if anything I’m proud of you” he explained as his hands cupped my face

“Because you want me to be a monster” i whispered remembering Elenas words from the start of the argument. He frowned at me his hands bringing me closer as he lightly pressed his lips to mine. Softly moving them together before pulling back to look back at me

“Because you are strong enough to defend yourself” he corrected, his arms slipping down my body to pull me closer

“You’re the opposite to a monster sweetheart” he uttered kissing me tenderly, my eyed closing in appreciation

“You mean the world to me” he told me as he gently rocked my body like a parent would a child as the tears slipped down my face once more

“I bit her Klaus” i sobbed and he nodded

“I know sweetheart, i know but it’s okay. Ive given them my blood so you don’t need to feel bad anymore okay?” I shook my head

“They hate me”

“But i love you” he whispered “you just stay with me, I’ll keep you safe” and i found myself nodded, Klaus was all i had, all i could ever want.

[lady-shadow-and-darkness]

Why not leave?

I find it interesting how almost all the higher ups in the mafia don't really wish to be there, but despite having more than enough power and resources to leave, they don't.

Kouyou has been an executive since 15 (at least), and throughout those seven years I find it impossible to believe that she never thought about leaving. In fact, this is even addressed in this manga by Mori himself, to which she just responds with something lighthearted. Her earlier escape attempt was a fail, yes, but surely she understands that things are much different this time?

It is not her capability which is preventing her, but rather her mindset. And while this also ties into her responsibility, it is also important to note that she may very well believe that she can never truly be rid of the mafia and its teachings. It took an immense amount of reassurance for her to trust Kyouka in the hands of the agency, and even then, very reluctantly.

To Kouyou, I don't think that's a demonstration to her that she can leave, but rather a reminder of what she couldn't achieve in the past. And now, she most likely thinks that the mafia's influence on her is too deep to be shed off. She says as much herself to Kyouka, who has barely been in the mafia for 2 years at that point. Imagine what she thinks of herself. I do think that her duty to the mafia also makes her stay, she acknowledges that she's an important piece in their operations and jokes that it would fall apart without her. She has accepted her role in the mafia, and knows thinks it's too late to get out.

Mori, the leader himself, despite being...well, the leader, simply views his role in the mafia as necessary. He doesn't want to be the PM boss, his life in BEAST is clearly indicative of what he actually wants (you can't tell me an 'inherently evil person' ends up taking care of an orphanage in some universe), but he knows that he is the person best equipped to handle this role. His strategy of the "optimal solution", speaks to his neutrality and general capability of remaining apathetic towards necessary events which would most likely break someone else emotionally and mentally.

This isn't to say that he doesn't have any emotions, the man has a lot of them, it's just that he's incredibly adept at putting them aside and dealing with a situation completely unbiased. Fukuzawa acknowledges in canon that despite their great differences, a common motive that they share is the well-being of their city. In fact, Mori's making a HUGE sacrifice in his life just to maintain the workings of Yokohama. That's something you have to respect.

Chuuya is more of a complicated case. A lot of people in the fandom seem to disagree over whether he wants to stay or leave, but the answer is a bit more complex than the black and white ones we've been looking at. I'll be addressing this separately later, but for now, about Chuuya : I personally think that it is both, and he has conflicting feelings on this situation.

To start with, unlike Kouyou, we actually know when Chuuya came to be affiliated with the mafia. And that in itself isn't the most ideal set of circumstances, he had just been betrayed by his friends (who essentially raised him) because of a situation clearly orchestrated by the mafia (specifically Dazai, the one person he was coming to trust and resonate with), and more or less forced to be a new recruit. From stormbringer, we know that Chuuya's incentive for not leaving came from his need to protect his friends (who had already betrayed and backstabbed him at this point) from the mafia.

Any sane person would assume that Chuuya absolutely abhors the mafia at this point, but this isn't the case. Despite having his friends' lives hung over his head, he was still able to respect Mori and what he was working for (especially since he considered his own period of 'leadership' to be a failure). He was still able to care about the lives of his comrades and underlings who were also a part of the mafia (depicted in the dragon head incident). And he was still able to remain loyal to the mafia despite the several hardships and burns he faced for it.

Aside from his respect (and possible admiration) for Mori and the mafia itself, Chuuya's a person who's really attached to his relationships with people. He doesn't just respect the mafia, he also views it as his family. He has formed bonds with Kouyou, Mori, Dazai (shhh I don't want to hear anything), Akutagawa, Hirotsu...and even Gin, Tachihara and Higuchi. I mean, is there any known character in the mafia who this man doesn't know? He probably even knew Kyouka before she left. The only exception to this is Kyuusaku, and even that is because of his attachment to people (he's mad because Q, directly or indirectly, caused the death of his subordinates). He talks about burying his subordinates personally and contacting their families, if that isn't care, I don't know what is.

I think his arc with the mafia supporting him unanimously in stormbringer helped strengthen his attachment to it, which is why we've got the epilogue of him seeing his biological parents and declaring that the mafia is his true family in that LN. It's safe to say that he appreciates what he has right now a lot. But does that really mean he doesn't want to leave? In the very same light novel, it is ALSO implied that Chuuya longs for a life outside of the mafia. Hell, we literally have a character who was dedicated to bringing him to the light. And now, there is no risk associated with it either. But he chooses to stay. Or maybe the choice was never his.

With all of that said, I think it's incredible how BSD manages to portray what it's like for someone to lead a life of crime in the dark somewhat realistically in terms of feelings. It isn't some "badass mafia person" aesthetic (even though some people interpret it that way), it actually depicts the complexities that come with being associated with a criminal organisation in a fictional setting (to the best of its ability). Literally nobody in the mafia wants to be there, they just have to be. Sure, it offers them resources and opportunities which is why they choose to stay, but as an ability user, if they don't have the choice of living a normal life with the opportunities offered to an average person, do they really have a choice about being in the mafia at all?

[scrollwyrm]

ScrollWyrm you've obviously been cooking yo new story and I'm hyped as frick.

Can we get like a sneak peak or something? Like a prologue?

BECAUSE I AM SO HYPED!

OOOOH HELL YEAH! You mean Moon’s Above? I can put the prologue here! The official release of the prologue and first chapter is tomorrow on Quotev!

SecretKeeper watched in anguished dismay, being dragged roughly away from her everything, the real secret she kept, by the cruel guards. Cruel guards. How dare she even think that about them? They were her own loyal tribe. They were her friends. Dragons she knew. 

Slaughter, not smart, not kind, but caring deeply for his cousin, Vengeance. 

StrongWings, barely old enough for guard duty. Always in trouble, but he meant well. 

And FarSight. Tears in her beautiful, grass-green eyes. Her favourite dragon in the world. She could almost hear her whispering under her breath. She could only catch a few words, before she caught Secretkeeper's eyes. Her face contorted into a snarl, tears streaming from her eyes. "I loved you." Her face softened into an agonised mask, all sadness, anger burned out of her scales, and she shook her head, tears flowing in rivers down her cheeks. 

Her friends. None of the other guards would let her see their faces. Fair enough. After all, she had betrayed them. For what? She wasn’t sure anymore. Her odd, silver egg that MorrowSeer held roughly under one arm? Her dragonet, about to hatch? She heard a crack like the breaking of bones. Forcing her eyes to look at the hatchling, she saw an eerily perfect, dark silver dragonet. Maybe a little bigger than average, but she inherited that from her father. She inherited everything from MorrowSeer. She was all him, none of her. A destroyer, a liar, probably. Just another fake prophet. 

Like her father, who just stood there, dragonet in his talons, expressionless. She had dark, rainforest-green eyes. Rainforest green. The colour of freedom for the NightWings. The colour of their perfect paradise, if they just had the guts to take it. A colour that SecretKeeper knew she would never see again because of this cursed dragonet. The dragonet with the long slim tail and the two tiny silver teardrop scales behind each eye. How beautiful. Maybe it was a symbol. Maybe she was just destined to cause tears. Or to shed tears. Maybe she hadn't decided yet. Well, she would have ample time to choose if she was raised by MorrowSeer. 

His fiery yellow eyes glared at the dragonet’s mother, SecretKeeper, but his voice cracked, barely perceptibly with well-hidden emotion. A dragon who didn’t know him as well as SecretKeeper would never have even noticed it. “Since you care about her so much more than I could, what would you have me name her?” SecretKeeper met his sad, golden eyes in one last act of defiance. “MoonWatcher. Name her MoonWatcher.” The tall, obsidian-gray dragon nodded slowly, remaining silent apart from his laboured breaths. Just another awful by-product of living on the island. Maybe he hated her. Maybe he didn’t trust himself to speak. The curving galaxies on his wings glittered mournfully, almost like the real stars that SecretKeeper knew she would miss so much, shining bright beside the beams of moonlight that snuck through the shadowy shapes of the rainforest, where the canopy stole the light from the ground. 

Somehow, SecretKeeper found herself missing the dragon MorrowSeer had been before he’d become so obsessed with trying to get the tribe off the island. He spent all his time in his quarters, drawing out horrible plans of salvation and destruction. He had been so good before. He’d been honest, ambitious, and loving himself and his mate over anything else. That was the dragon SecretKeeper had loved. That dragon would’ve been so excited to meet his dragonet. Where had he gone so wrong?

“It is a… good name. Goodbye, SecretKeeper.” He turned away from her. Neither she, nor the NightWings holding her back, could see his face, but SecretKeeper could have sworn she saw a drop of silver like their own dragonet’s scales roll off his face. Was MorrowSeer crying? She reached a talon towards him, forgetting herself for a moment. “Go! Leave me. Or I’ll never let you meet her.” SecretKeeper turned on her tail, silently hanging her head. 

He carried the tiny dragonet through the tunnel, and SecretKeeper wanted to scream. No. Not MoonWatcher. Not in that hellscape. Picturing the awful, innocent little creature living under the constant threat of fiery death and unbreathable air and hostile faces that hated her. It was too painful to bear, but the guard, StrongWings, only six years old, shoved her into the tunnel after him. She tried to call after him, but his ever-constant wing beats grew fainter and fainter. He was gone. And so was her dragonet

[lightlycareless]

sneak peak of one of the requests I've been working on :> also an idea I wanted to explore with Naoya hahahah he's a jerk btw.

complete version here.

When the idea of an open relationship is suggested… the first, of many fractures, unwittingly struck onto your relationship.

First by shattering the image you had of him.

Sure, your feelings for him remained, which is what made this ordeal far more painful…

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t harbor other feelings, such as anger.

“—just before we finally settle.” Is the lousy excuse he gives you when confronted, another stab to your heart. “Get it out of the system, you know?”

No. You don’t know, because for the past few years, Naoya is the only man you’ve had eyes for, imagining a future with him—and solely him.

It hurts to even consider he hasn’t been doing the same, probably already interested in some other woman, the reason behind his suggestion in the first place.

“I don’t want to…” you murmur, doing your best to not leave the table, or at least not shed a tear.

“It’ll only be a short time.” Naoya insists. “This way, we can know if we’re truly meant for each other. See if we don’t feel the same with others, hm?”

It’s stupid.

It really is—

Naoya’s suggestion… and your devotion to make him happy.

Because even after all the dumb things he said to justify the unjustifiable, you still wanted to please him.

“I guess we could go through restrictions or something, not that I have an—”

“No sex.” The rapid way in which you reply is something Naoya can’t help but find adorable, interpreting your eagerness as jealousy, overprotectiveness… before brushing it off as silly.

“Y/N—my love, you’re not seriously thinking we can reach a conclusion without that now, can we?”

Truth to be told, you didn’t want to find out. Not by this way at least, by laying in the arms of another…

Could he really blame you for trying to fight it?

“Besides, don’t you want to try it out too?” Naoya smirks. “I’m fine with it, really. It’s a two-way road, after all. What’s good in me having all the fun?”

What hurts more?

That fact that Naoya wanted to pursue other women with your permission?

Or that he was pushing you onto other men, appearing careless to whatever you did or didn’t do with them?

It’s not that Naoya doesn’t care—far from that, really. He doesn’t like when men do as little as glance in your direction.

But he doesn’t worry, because he knows there’s nothing to worry about.

Trusting that his hopelessly-in-love girlfriend would never betray him like that. Aware that your attention and devotion has been on him the moment you took him into your heart—and that no matter what, you’ll always come back to him.

It’s why he suggested the idea in the first place, because he’s long acknowledged that even past your limits, you still tolerate him.

Thus, unsurprised that you agreed to this change—Naoya leaving the apartment soon after that.

Looks like you were right in assuming he already had someone in mind to debut this new arrangement; willing to bet anything to prove he’s already on way to her.

…Well, you hope that Naoya at least respects the only condition both agreed on: not bring any partners to the apartment.

Not that you’d be there to see much of it anyways, opting to stay in your friend’s—Shoko— apartment for the time being.

“Can’t say I didn’t imagine him capable of something like that—but I guess I never thought he’d actually do it, not after dating you as long as he did.” She’d say, before taking a deep huff of her cigarette and exhaling.

You always found it endearing how she’d release the smoke to the side, as if it didn’t permeate the air around you… but at least Shoko cares enough to try.

“So much for having faith on him…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, offended yet intrigued by her implications.

“I mean, you knew of the rumors before dating him, Y/N.” Shoko adds, you sigh. That, you did. “I don’t want to say I told you so, but…”

“I guess I was hoping they weren’t real.” You slowly admit. “…What am I going to do, Shoko?”

A breakup isn’t exactly what you had in mind, certainly not what you wanted to do….

But why do that now when you could take advantage of this exploitable opportunity? An opening all too obvious to Shoko, which she doesn’t hesitate to let you know.

“Give him a taste of his own medicine.” She suddenly suggests. “He told you, didn’t he? That you were good to be with other men.”

“But I don’t want to.” You shake your head. “I don’t—I don’t think I can.”

“It’s exactly the same, just another face if that’s what you’re wondering.” Shoko explains, but to you, it was much deeper than that, always has been, certainly for an emotional personal like you.

It’s why she was so angry that your beloved boyfriend was quick to disregard your feelings.

“Ok, sure, let’s say I agree.” You play along. “How do I even start? It’s been a while since I’ve been in the dating scene—I don’t even know if I’m still… desirable.”

Oh, if you only knew.

.I. naoya

[vampv0id]

(Spoiler Warning for Mizumono)

I am such a fan of the Hannibal and Jack fight(s). It's so excruciating how long Hannibal remains undetected, that when he is detected, it doesn't immediately feel real. Hannibal spins such a savvy web, and makes Jack (and everyone else) believe he's this warm, selfless psychiatrist doing everything he can to help his colleagues and friends.

The little moment where they both look at each other for a few seconds before charging into the fight is so significant, Imo. It's the tension of being on the borderline. Their fight starts smack dab in the middle of Jack's past beliefs and fresh realizations. Hannibal is shedding the last bits of his cunning 'friend and psychiatrist' act. Jack is trying to remain tethered to this shocking reality to fulfill his objective of making Hannibal pay. He shifts from this previously unchanging belief that Hannibal isn't the man Will has warned, to this flabbergasted anger. You can tell that when he's looking at Hannibal he can hardly believe it. He's only coming in after Hannibal because from a logical point of view, he's seen enough evidence to know it's certainly him. But it still is so much for him to genuinely comprehend. There's that piercing tension between them. Hannibal just stares through Jack's soul for those small seconds. His eyes say "I know, and though I didn't plan it, now you know," in a very bitter way. And you just know that he's shutting down inside with shame for allowing himself into a position to be 'betrayed' by Will. He's more out of control than ever, and he has to actually wrangle for power instead of having it in the palm of his hand. His meticulousness has been taken through a coup, and for once, he has been the one blindsided. Now all the calculations and tabs he has kept have turned to dust, and he feels pummeled with the idea of lack of power.

There's so many other rushing thoughts I feel they must have been having as well. One side of Jack during the throw down must feel like he's still attacking his completely innocent colleague and friend. Hannibal is a master of puppetry. He knows every single detail to misconstrue. And this fake version of him assimilated so well. He felt so real. And the other side of Jack is probably revisiting every little interaction he had with the man, thinking about how many lies were packed into each day. He's looking back and finally clicking the motivations into the the behaviors. It must have felt like fighting two men at once. Everyone that realizes what Hannibal is has a variation of this.

Jack's looking back and thinking of all the horrible things he missed. He's ashamed. Because of how he permitted a serial killer to harm the countless victims and torture and single out Will, but even more so because he let himself be disrespected and lied to. The most dangerous serial killer in the area came into his department/his house and slyly mocked him. That's what bothers him the most (which is kind of fucked up of you, Jack,).

Hannibal was falling apart inside because of his hurt from Will's double-dealing. Will had went for the most vulnerable part of him, which was his rare trust. Hannibal is most likely so preoccupied with his heartbreak, that he was probably a little disappointed he couldn't fully relish Jack's contempt. He goes on this slaughter spree, feeling so humiliated and abandoned by Will that he needs to maim everybody, even more than usual. He flocks to this vice to numb his self-loathing, the way he always has. To convince himself he's powerful and better than everyone.

Hannibal's love for Will was a leap of faith, and therefore, to his own thinking, naivety and weakness. He feels cornered by his shame, so weak for showing the closest thing to love he someone like him can give to another human being. The bile of the vulnerability he digested is coming back up his throat, and he needs to do something to feel powerful again. So he does what he always does. Rubs salt in the people that believed him up until the point of realization's wounds. He savors his near complete mutilation of Jack, manipulates Abigail into an anticipated promise of safety as long as she does what he says, and instructs her to shove Alana out the window. And then, reduces Abigail to another victim, in front of Will after gutting him. But while he reduces everyone around him to prey, he reduces himself to an almost childish animal burning with hurt pride.

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

https://www.tumblr.com/the-obnoxious-sibling/735283406764752896/thats-also-how-i-always-saw-shanks-reaction-but

Anon from this ask!

I’m so glad I decided to send that ask to you. You’re so right.

But I must admit my “But I wonder what he would think if he knew the real reason why Buggy left him?” Was worded wrong, I’m sorry English is not my first language and I have troubles with expressing myself. What I meant is if that knowledge would change shanks view right now, like he founds out the reason. I wonder if he would be less accepting of buggy just choosing his way vs knowing he broke his heart

But your answer made me wonder so much about everything. I wonder if anyone in shanks crew knows about why he waited so long. And exactly what you pointed out. How would Buggy react to “actually I NEED to wait”.

WHY THEY CAN’T JUST TALK GOD DAMMIT

hello again, anon! (i have been wondering how many of you are unique vs returning askers! it's nice to know at least one of you has come back for more~)

please don't feel any need to apologize for your english! i was the one who misunderstood that you meant shanks learning the truth now, not shanks being told the truth at the time. that’s on me!

so. shanks as he is now—thirty-nine, an emperor of the sea, boss of a good ship and crew, protector-captain of a massive fleet, finally going after the one piece—learns that the reason the first person he asked to sail with him refused was because shanks didn’t want to go after the one piece when he was fifteen.

would shanks think differently of buggy for feeling rejected by shanks’ decision, and not sincerely wanting to go his own way? i think he must! if your best friend leaves because they have their own plans that don’t involve you, that’s one thing… if they leave because you failed to live up to their (unspoken!) expectations of you, that’s quite another!

thinking about it like that, i wonder if shanks might be mad, or disappointed, to learn that buggy left because shanks wasn’t the person buggy had been imagining him to be. because on one hand: shanks isn’t responsible for the shanks buggy made up inside his head! he isn’t beholden to the way buggy thought that false shanks would act, or the things buggy imagined he believes. that’s on buggy! and on the other: if the person you thought knew you best can misjudge you so badly they run away from the real you… it must shed a dim light on your whole relationship.

…but maybe it’s been long enough that it would just make him sad. it’s a decades-old hurt by now, and with the way shanks dislikes and avoids conflict there’s no way he keeps grudges or clings to hurt feelings. so it might just be a passing feeling of sadness—ah, so even buggy thought too highly of me, huh?

i think benn beckman must know at least a bit of shanks’ plans. that’s his first mate, after all! there has to be trust there, or the whole crew falls apart! as for the rest of the red-haired pirates… i don’t think we know them well enough to say whether any of them would need truth to offer trust. i suspect most of them don't, that they trust shanks unconditionally, and will follow his lead wherever it takes them.

and buggy… i don’t think he wants to trust shanks, but for a long time trusting shanks was as easy as breathing, so it's a hard habit to break. (though shanks makes it easier the more he betrays that trust, however good his motives or minor the deception.) i think if shanks had said, back in roguetown, that they needed to wait, buggy would have whined and complained and begged shanks to reconsider, but he would’ve gone along with it. if buggy found out about that now, i think he’d snap that you could have just said so back then! stupid shanks, didn't you trust me?!

to which the answering silence must be a new flavor of the old heartbreak, because no, apparently he did not.

[inkblot22]

Shattered Glass

I have been putting zero effort into these titles lmao help me

TW for yandere, captivity, sadism, physical abuse, condescending behavior. Yandere punishments are something I'd like to write more of, so this is what that is.

You hate it when he takes off his glasses.

You don’t even know what you did wrong this time. Why is he upset? He always does the same few motions, same few things before he “disciplines” you, and you always hate it.

First, he takes off his glasses and places them calmly by his side. He always does so, never faltering once in his tradition. Is it because he doesn’t trust you not to break them when you inevitably fight back, or is it because he doesn’t want to risk them falling off of his face or getting fogged up or something similar? You don’t know, and you’d argue that you don’t want to know.

Trey slips them off of his face and tucks them in his pocket, giving you a wan smile, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as he takes a few steps closer to where you sit on your makeshift bed in this dumb gardening shed.

His voice is neutral when he speaks, “Honey…” That’s the other thing he does. Step two. Trey uses some pet name to refer to you, his voice betraying no emotion as he steps closer towards you. It makes you feel tense, triggers that primal fight or flight reflex into freeze. When he crouches before you and cups your chin, that thin smile falling into a disappointed frown, you do the same thing you’ve always done.

You shove him away and try to run. You would imagine after however many months you’ve been here, you would have learned your lesson on trying to fight back or get away, because it plays like it was rehearsed. You kick backwards after shoving his hands away from you, sprawling out onto the thin mat you’ve called a bed for the past three or so months before you regain your balance and swivel your body so you can run.

Trey is sweet. Trey is sweet and kind, he has this warm, brotherly personality and a generous heart. But Trey is also a sadistic asshole, which is why he always waits until you’ve taken one step, only one step away from being out of arm’s reach, to grab your ankle and yank backwards as strongly as he can.

Trey isn’t a small guy either. When he does it, every single time it plays like a twisted slapstick cartoon, with you crashing to the ground with a resounding thud, rattling the old rakes and shit in here. And every time it happens, he always makes this smug little face, especially when you start kicking at him.

“Aw, c’mon, honey, don’t do that. You’re only gonna hurt yourself.” He says it like he’s talking to a child.

When he says you’ll hurt yourself, he typically means that he is going to hurt you, but it’ll be your fault. You learned that the first time you had an “argument,” but you suppose you are lucky because he isn’t brutal. He doesn’t derive sick pleasure from the simple sight of you in pain, he derives pleasure from the broken look in your eyes when you give up for the moment. 

With his hands clamped around both your ankles at this point, he smiles briefly and step three begins. He yanks you closer in one swift movement and slaps you hard across the apple of your cheek. It’s always so loud, and you imagine to an outsider you just look more like a married couple in the 50s when it happens. His hands are solid, likely as a result of kneading dough for basically his whole life. You usually have to fight back the tears after it happens, often failing miserably.

As you recover from the blow, that single, stinging blow, he pulls you up by the shoulders and leans close to your face, close enough so you can feel the breath puffing out of his nose on your face. He smiles again before step four in the punishment process occurs.

He calmly explains what you did that caused him to get upset. 

“Why did you think that freshman would help you?” It was a one in a million chance. The gardening shed you’ve been holed away in has been abandoned for a while since Heartslaybul got a much larger, much nicer one, but sometimes the freshmen get the two mixed up, especially since they’re both fairly easy to find and look near identical, the only true difference in peeling paint and other weathering.

Trey’s eyes are sharp when he asks the question. It isn’t why you asked for help, since his denial of the situation he has put you in is nonexistent, and it isn’t how could you ask for help, because he doesn’t expect you to be so irrational that you think you belong here yet. No, he wants to know what you expected would happen, why you thought that your plan would pan out.

His glasses are still tucked securely in his pocket, he’s cupping your chin, and you think you’re out of luck. Because despite all, despite him being a sweet, kind man by nature, Trey is a sadist, and he won’t stop until you break.

[carbuncle-paws]

what would Peter from your fanfiction do if I, for example -

1. what if I went into his room without asking and stayed there for a while until he discovered me there.

2. what if I would rather sleep on the couch instead of sleeping on y/n’s bed?

Forewarning, some of these answers contain spoilers for day 4 of the game!

For your first question, it depends on the circumstances. You can think of it like a sliding scale, where different factors build up towards breaking his trust. Things like: - If he was home or not. He keeps things locked while he's away, so if he just returned to find you in there, he'd assume you broke in. If he is home, he'd still be weirded out, but not as alarmed at baseline. - What you were doing in the room. Keep in mind he'd look over the security cameras to know for sure. If you only laid on his bed to rest or glanced around without touching, he might think you're just curious and don't have a good sense of personal boundaries (ironic coming from him) Rummaging through his belongings or accessing his computer would make him think you're up to something. Doing anything lewd would be confusing and violating, and make him lose just as much trust as going through his things would. - If it's your first time doing it, or if you've been doing it repeatedly after he told you to stop. - Everything listed above assumes it's his upstairs bedroom you went into... If we're talking about the one downstairs (in my fic, all the rooms in his shed are connected to the basement) He would instantly lose all trust in you regardless of what you were doing in it.

How he reacts depends on the amount of trust lost you accrued from the above factors. If your intentions seem relatively innocent (although invasive) he'll probably just let you off with a warning that it crossed his boundaries and not to do it again. If you kept pushing, or did things that were less innocent, he wouldn't be so forgiving. He'd make you confess what you were doing and why, then punish you (verbal abuse and removal of privileges come first, keep in mind he considers walking around without shackles as one) If you betray his trust enough, he'd eventually go back to treating you like he did in the first days of the fic...

For your second question, he'd be confused, and might even try coaxing you out of it if he's built up a friendly relationship with you at that point. He'd stop pushing though if you seem intent on it, or if you give him a good reason why. You might occasionally wake up with a blanket and pillow you don't remember falling asleep with (if, again, you have a friendly relationship)