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love-toxin · 4 months

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Cattle -> Harley Kunuk

plot: a world in which the realm of monsters & yanderes has merged--that's the au you find yourself in as a low-producing cow hybrid. you've never impressed any master as working cattle, always cast aside in favour of prettier, more talented cows. that might change once you get dropped off at the wrong farmer's ranch.

(cws: fem!cow hybrid!reader, chubby+naive reader, yandere themes, explicit smut, lactation, fondling, dry-humping, chest worship, dirty talk/soft degradation, clothed sex/cumming in pants, kinda monsterfucking, power dynamics, reader refers to him as 'Mr. Harley')

a/n: welcome to the long-awaited 'harley x cow hybrid reader' saga LOL

wc: 4.7k (art by milove @the-zipper !! <3)

If not for the grace of the gods, you'd surely be thrown into the ditch or to the wolves by now.

The transition between seedy motels has never been easy, sure, but you've reached new lows since your last rancher kicked you to the curb. Besides, nor has having to deal with the treatment from your superiors been easy when most of them see you as nothing but what your brand reads out.

Cattle.

If farm hybrids have anything, it isn't rights–at least not for undesirables like you. There's probably places out there like Runerhéa where you could live in peace, but this new world is even tougher than the last. When the realms merged as one, everyone on the lower side like you thought it would turn out to be a blessing. Maybe you'd finally get a break and wouldn't have to live like a piece of meat. But so far, it's only been a curse.

Ever since you were passed into the hands of these “livestock traders” your life has been absolute hell. Your last master had at least left you be most of the time, preferring to pay attention to his other, better-producing and prettier cattle rather than get on your case for this or that. These guys that have been toting you around since then have been complete nightmares to deal with–they're callous and cruel and they never let you rest properly, they keep you up all hours of the night with their hollering and drinking and gambling on those awful card games.

Yet, even when you were told that your time with them would be coming to an end, you weren't excited about it. Not one bit. How could you be, when you've been surrounded by horrible people saying such horrible things about your abilities? They've called you “moon-face” and mocked your pitiful history as working cattle, to the point that they've joked about re-branding you and making you a sex toy or something instead, because that's probably all you're good for. You can't even moo right, much less make any milk that doesn't taste sour or curdle within minutes. You're totally useless, and whoever your new owner is, he's quickly going to come to that realization too. Your handlers have been quick to remind you of that, just in case you happen to pick up some worth in yourself on the way there.

That's all you've thought for the past three days since you've been here, too scared to come out from the back of your stall for fear that the big, scary farmer with the loud voice is going to yell at you for not turning out to be what he hoped. You heard him arguing with the traders when you were delivered: ”What the hell is this?! I bought a cow, not some girl! Is this a joke? Did Elias put you up to this?” and since then you've cowered in the corner, refusing even to touch the water and food he brought and left at the door for fear he might just poison you to save the trouble of bringing you back. You've never been kept with real farm animals before, yet even now there's not much interaction you have with them. The big guy put you in a stall far away from his other animals, probably because he thinks you might infect them or something. It's always something with you.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. You've been hearing those noises from outside for the last two days, the sounds of wood scraping and hammering pervading your fuzzy ears and filling your mind with all manner of horrors that might await you. Is he building some kind of horrible torture machine? A rack? A device to forcibly milk you? Oh, that thought sends a chill down your spine. Or is he simply building your coffin? It could be any one of those possibilities or many, many more horrible ones, and it leaves you to tug your floppy ears down and try to block out the noise as you cry softly. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die, even if I'm bad at being a cow. I just wanna live another day.

You pull the scratchy woolen blanket he left in here closer around your shoulders, hoping and praying with your head bowed that this won't be the end. With the clunk of the barn's door sliding open, with every step you hear thudding closer and closer towards your stall, you tremble harder and hurriedly wipe your tears dry while you pray to the Deity to shelter you from an early grave.

Kh-chunk. The clasp on your stall comes undone from the other side, and with bated breath, you watch as the door rolls open and lets in the streams of light you'd forgotten existed in this endless darkness.

“...Oh.” The farmer utters his surprise softly, his brow easing up as he looks you over. He's perched at the entrance to your stall still, not quite ready to cross the threshold yet. Maybe he's still trying to prepare himself as he sizes you up for the slaughterhouse. “You look…cold.”

You shake your head meekly and throw off the blanket. Straws of hay flutter about your knees as you do so, some of it already stuck in your hair and your meager clothes that don't cover enough for him not to blush and avert his gaze. “Uh…c'mon. We need to move you somewhere else.” He meekly produces a harness from his overalls, but it sits lightly in his hand like he's not really keen on using it. “It'll be safe. C'mon.”

If you weren't a lowly, domestic cow hybrid, one of the very lowest of the monster hybrid species, you'd be tempted to ask if he's always this awkward. He can't even look at you, he barely even breathes once you finally stand and skirt past him out of the stall. And he doesn't dare to touch you as he leads you out of the barn even though you're his property–it's like he doesn't even see you as cattle, but as…you don't even know what.

At the very least, despite the uncertainty around your new home, the first deep breath of fresh air as you step outside reminds you of the home you knew in childhood. Rolling grass in a sea of green, woods out across the field that are far from predators, safe fences and even a big, old farmhouse on the lawn that gives you a sense of homey nostalgia. As big and scary as he looks, maybe he's not so bad after all…maybe, as long as you do everything to appeal to him, he might treat you like nice cattle and not the nuisance you've long been defined as.

As you step out onto the grounds, the farmer introduces himself as Harley. He waits while you sniff around the fresh, clean air a bit before leading you around the side of the barn–that's where a small, shed-like attachment has been built on to the side of the structure, which opens into a surprisingly comfy and spacious area that he must have put together in a hurry. The floorboards have a nice rug over them and there's a soft, downy mattress in the corner on a little frame, and it's all built in and warm like it's an actual room. But when you turn to Harley with a quizzical look on your face and he tells you it's yours, you don't even know how to respond. So you just look at him blankly.

“It's…yours, y'know? It's, uh, like your…bedroom, I guess.” He looks around the space and rubs the back of his sweaty neck, seemingly sheepish about the simple construction even though you're standing there dumbfounded. “I didn't think you'd wanna live in the barn with the animals, but, uh, you wouldn't come in the house. So…yeah.” The silence between you is agony up until he just huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, this isn't ideal for me. I don't deal well with people, and you're…sort of one, I guess. To be honest, I hate the idea of sharing my farm with some stranger.” He sighs and runs a hand through his dark hair, incidentally messing up his long ponytail that's just barely keeping all that thick hair tied up. With his hands set on his hips, he looks you dead in the eyes in a way that makes you cower at his sternness. “But you're here now, so whatever. Just behave yourself–and if some guy in a cowboy hat comes around, make yourself scarce. I don't want him messing with my-” He catches himself, but in your bovine wisdom you finish his sentence for him.

“Cattle?”

Harley swallows dryly and nods. “...Cattle. Yeah.” In any case despite the awkwardness and the tense air between you, he shows you how to work the little water pump he built the shed around so you can wash up and drink, your bed and blankets, and where to use the bathroom–which he insists you do inside the house, for no reason that he elaborates on other than the fact that you're able to, so you should. With that he leaves you be, letting you sit and ponder this newfound haven that he so casually dropped in your lap.

By the third day in your little mock cabin, six days since you've arrived here, you're pretty sure you've fallen in love with Mr. Harley. He won't tolerate you calling him ‘Master’ because it makes him all red in the face when you say it, so despite him insisting on no formalities at all you've settled on referring to him as ‘Mr.’ Harley.

It's been an easy process to say the least. Mr. Harley is gruff and speaks bluntly, but he never lays a hand on you and has never called you any mean names. He feeds you more often than he does his other animals, and despite getting annoyed and scolding you if you don't eat like you didn't the first three days, he's always gentle and doesn't yell or kick things over when he's mad. Plus, he treats his other farm animals real nice–you've heard him cooing and calling them by their names when he pets them, and most of them come running or perk their ears up when they hear his voice from far away. One of the chickens even tried to peck you when Mr. Harley was showing you around, and had his hand on your arm as he showed you how to feed them. They love him so much they even get jealous, and it's easy to see why. Mr. Harley is so caring and kind-hearted. He's got pretty brown eyes and such a low, deep voice, and big muscles, and soft hair, he's more handsome than any other master or trader you've come across in your whole life. It's no wonder you've fallen in love with Mr. Harley.

Where it's becoming an issue, however, is with your milk.

The first little while you were here, Mr. Harley didn't even make a mention about your production. There wasn't any bucket around for you to show him anyways, so you've been sitting around letting the milk build up and up and up until you're sore and swollen. The only reason you're sat in your shed with a bucket in your lap now is because Mr. Harley noticed your discomfort (because he's such a nice and caring farmer…) but, with you being too worried about your quality and Mr. Harley being too red-faced to stick around and watch, you're coming up on the end of the day without a drop to show for it. If you don't give him anything, he'll think you're a disobedient cow! But if you squeeze out your milk and it tastes sour, or makes him sick…oh, you couldn't bear to think of making Mr. Harley hate you with the taste of your milk. It's quite the dilemma that you have no easy way of getting out of, so you do what's likely the better option: you milk out just enough to make the swelling go down, but not so much that the taste will be too strong if it's bad.

But even with your clever thinking, your knees shake as you perch on your bed and listen to the big, thudding footsteps of Mr. Harley coming towards the shed. The moment the door slides open you spring into action, and pick up the bucket a quarter full of milk to hand to him, hoping beyond hope that he won't be upset over how little there is.

“..Huh.” After he jolts slightly at your sudden movement toward him, Harley glances down at the bucket and back up at you as he takes it gingerly, peering down at the milk as if it's some sort of magic that you've managed to fill it even as little as you did. He raises his hand and your instincts force you to flinch, your eyes squeezing shut as you anticipate a hit or something equally awful. But the moment passes because Mr. Harley pats your head instead, stroking your hair and your fuzzy ears gently before hiking up the bucket to grab and hold it by the handle. “Good girl.”

Good girl? Are those words for real? Was that…praise? And so easily given, at that?

You're practically on your knees by the time he steps out of the shed, they're so wobbly and weak, but before he can make it outside he halts and turns back to you. “So…” He lingers at the doorway, the bucket hanging from his closed fist. “...Where does your milk come from, exactly?”

Oh. That's…hard to explain. You had a sense that Mr. Harley already knew, but then again he owns farm animals, not hybrids. So you meekly point at your own chest in answer, and Harley's reaction takes you by complete surprise.

“...You're shitting me.” He breathes out in what comes off as disgust, but is really shamefaced embarrassment as he tries to avert his eyes but can't tear his gaze off of your…well, udders. It was obvious that they were impressive, but he clearly wasn't expecting such a blunt and simple answer. Harley clears his throat and tries to get something out, but sooner than he's able to he gives up and just wishes you a good sleep as he shuts the sliding door behind him.

The rest of that night is full of whimpers and soft cries throughout the shed as you weep out all your worries. Mr. Harley doesn't like me anymore! He thinks I'm gross! You sniffle into your tear-drenched pillow as the thoughts grow so loud in your head that they overwhelm you. In time, you cry yourself so dry that you can't help but drift off, your sleep peppered with bad memories and anxious nightmares of what Mr. Harley might do with you tomorrow, now that he's seen how worthless and disgusting you really are.

Though by now you're used to the rooster's screeching to wake you up, your morning is riddled with half-awake mumbles and drool caking your pillow as you try to remember what you were doing. It's not until you rub your eyes and look around that you notice the light filling the shed, and realize with a cold twist in your belly that it's almost midday and well past the time you should've been up and about. The sounds of Mr. Harley's boots in the barn next door rattle you out of your covers and up to your feet, your knees knocking and hands shaking as you try to figure out what to do.

Mr. Harley always comes by your shed to check on you after he's done with the animals, and by the whinnying of the horses as he sprays the hose you can tell he's just about finished up with filling their water trough. And if that's what he's up to now, that means you're next–and gods know what he's gonna do now that he doesn't think you're cute anymore! You're not sure now if he would kill you, or chop you up to sell your bits in some underground meat market, but he might give you back to the traders! You can't let that happen, you can't!

Little do you know that while you've bustled around your shed in a panic trying to figure out what to do, Harley has been pacing anxiously outside the barn doors before finally slamming them shut and heading towards you. Each step rings out like thunder. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump-

The door to your shed slides open, eliciting a startled shriek from your lips as you drop the bucket. It clatters to the ground and rolls to a stop just by Mr. Harley's boot. The two of you lock eyes and he utters a string of words that totally throw you for a loop.

“You had trouble getting your milk out yesterday, so I'm gonna help you.”

The air that hangs between you is heavy once he says that, pierced only by the gentle clinking of the bucket's thin wire handle as he reaches down and plucks it up off the hay-scattered ground. Harley rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat, his steps taken slow and quietly as he slides the door shut behind him and approaches your skittish self.

“You want me to help you?” His voice remains stoic and strong, but when you nod so meekly that your ears twitch his face burns a bright red all the way down to his collar. He coughs into his hand and asks you to move into a comfortable position while he stands awkwardly and prepares himself for what's about to come. You can barely make eyes with him in the meanwhile, every bit of you is trembling as you sink down to your knees.

Mr. Harley sets the bucket down beneath you. The soft, almost imperceptible thunk rings in your ears like a dinner bell. A thought flashes over your head and you wonder if you should get on your hands and knees–but the shame of such a position quickly overcomes whatever else would compel you to do so, and you sit quietly and patiently with your ears flicking nervously in rhythm with your tail. He gets down on one knee and mutters something in your ear to soothe you, but you can barely hear anything over your own breathing as you try to will your heart into slowing down from its fervent pace. When he asks you to pull down your top, however, you certainly hear that command loud and clear.

The moment the fabric swishes down your chest in one clean motion, Harley has a look of utter redness and embarrassment all over his face. He's a bit more composed than yesterday, but he can barely tear his eyes away from them; your udders. They're so soft and weigh so heavy on your torso, it's a surprise you can even lift them up yourself. That's what he thinks, anyways–you can't even comprehend his awe when you're so self-conscious over your nipples pebbling in the drafty air. Your fingernails scrape against each other in a nervous tic while you wait. He has to get prepared, and he warms his hands by rubbing them together; the very action of which sends heat straight to your nethers and a twitch to your soft, fuzzy ears.

“M-My milk doesn't taste good…” You whimper to distracted ears, but still, Mr. Harley holds his hands back from reaching out and he meets your eyes in contemplation. Your worries explode out of you before you can halt yourself. “B-But I'll–I'll try really hard to make it sweet, Mr. Harley!”

To your shock, he just shakes his head. He scoffs, but then–then it's a chuckle. It's laughter, low and gravelly, but it's laughter all the same.

“You taste good.” Mr. Harley murmurs, and his eyes don't look at all daunted. He doesn't correct himself, either. He leans closer, reaches out, and then the callused pads of his hardworking fingers are brushing under the tender skin of your breasts.

The moment is…saccharine. It's divine. It's godlike! You can't see, can't hear, can barely breathe, and you've never felt more exuberance bubbling up in the back of your throat–you want to scream and cry and beg but the emotions jumble themselves all together and leave you stunned silent. You can hardly let out the gentlest exhale of disbelieving breath as Mr. Harley's hands fold over your chest, and you feel a warmth you thought was only reserved for cows of a much better pedigree than you. The man that's bigger and stronger and sweeter than you shuffles in closer, he wants his lips right against your skin; he wants to taste you and touch you while he gives you a squeeze, and when his tongue flicks out to dab the sweat off your neck you could just cry, it feels so exhilarating.

“M-Mr. Harley-” You gulp, your tone betraying your enjoyment in how it trembles with desperate need. Harley's hands start pressing and pulling on each teat, and in no time at all he's coaxing the milk from you as easily as he would his own dairy cows. No mess, no fuss, and no tears–not ones devoid of joy, anyways. You can't help your own instincts in this moment of pure, primal hybrid heat. “I-I love you, Mr. Harley.”

His head raises and tilts down to look at you. He doesn't even have to look to make sure he's getting it all in the bucket, he's so experienced. Something seems to brew behind those dark, cocoa-coloured eyes…and his words stir up the heat within you like a potent, bubbling love potion.

“I'm so fuckin’ glad they got you mixed up.”

With that admission of very Harley-like affection, he buries his tongue in your mouth and presses your lips firmly together in a wet, forceful kiss.

A kiss! From Mr. Harley! Your tail flicks to and fro with happiness while you're melting into it, into the softness and the strength of his tongue and the sticky wetness of your spit mixing with his. You've never been kissed like this, and when he pulls back you just have to lean in for more. He can barely stifle his lustful chuckles when you keep pecking his lips like a touch-starved harpy, hoping for more tongue and spit and warmth. He squeezes your left teat especially firm and a thick jet of milk spurts out, leaving you to hunch forward suddenly as a wet spot starts forming in the seat of your poor panties. Harley's slanted nose is the only thing keeping you up; he nuzzles it under your chin when your body threatens to pitch forward into the hard ground.

“So close.” He murmurs into your mouth as he seals his lips over yours again. His hair is mussed and he's blushing…a lot. “Almost there. Such a good product today. Nearly filled the whole pail. Good girl.” He whispers against your cheek as you try not to feel the delicate rumbles of his voice in your cunt. With a swish of movement, Mr. Harley maneuvers around your trembling body to slot himself up behind you, and lets his hands reach around you just so his thick, muscly biceps will keep you upright through to the end.

“M-Mr. Harley…I think I'm…I-I dunno, I feel-ah! Ah, weird. G-Good weird..” What feels like a brick presses up against your rear in that moment–you have a feeling you know exactly what it is.

“Yeah?” He scoffs with a thrilled smirk against your neck. “Dirty fuckin’ dairy cow. That's what you are, huh?”

“Y-Yes-!” You squeal, but whether that's an answer to his question or simply the reaction he's caused by bucking against you with a groan, it remains to be seen. Either way Mr. Harley is enjoying himself, and it floods your bovine head with vindicated glee that your master enjoys you. You're doing a good job. You're a good cow.

“Good fuckin’ cow,” Harley growls, completely lost in the softness between your thighs and the sweet warmth of your tits weighing heavy and milk-swollen in his hands. Your legs shake against his thick thighs as he pulls you back to practically sit on his lap, held up by the monster straining at his pants, begging to be let out. You've already left a soiled, sticky spot there through your clothes but Harley won't take any apologies–not right now, at least, when your milk is flowing at its peak and he's just about to lose his self-control completely…if he even had any left from the moment he held your soft, chubby body in his hands. A splash of milk jets from your swollen tits and splatters against the side of the pail rather than inside it, and with that you don't need to see Mr. Harley's face to know that he's reaching his end; in fact, he's already there.

A string of “fuck, fuck, fuck!”s erupts from his mouth that he buries in the juncture of your neck and your shoulder, his teeth not only grazing now but biting down hard into your sweat-soaked skin. The spot you'd left on his jeans is nothing compared to the damp mess he makes as his thighs shake beneath yours, his hips ruthless and powerful as he slams them up into you with the desire of chasing that invaluable heat between your legs. You've barely held back from spasming in pleasure this whole time, but once Mr. Harley has his needs sated is when you finally allow yourself to give in to yours. Groans, panting, and soft mooing resonate within the homey little room that you've incidentally turned into a den of pleasure. Mr. Harley finally slumps back with his arms tucked tightly around your middle, and a wobbly, satisfied smile makes its way across your face as you look down and see a pail full of warm, creamy-looking milk. A few spots and tiny puddles litter the hay-covered ground around it from where you spilled, and some still soaks Harley's massive hands, but you still managed to fill it–a whole bucket!

“I did…a good job, Mr. Harley?” You ask in such a sweet, timid voice that he can only manage a breathless scoff in response.

“You think you did a good job?” He asks, but not understanding his tone, you start to fuss and squirm in fear that you've disappointed him. It's only once he manages to wrangle you against his chest and pick you up off your feet with him that he manages to calm you down.

“Relax, little one. You did a good job.” Careful not to let you lose balance, he sets you down on your feet and holds you there, steadying you against his effortlessly strong body. The moment you look up at him with those sweet, wet cow eyes, he can't resist his affections and lovingly strokes your ears. “Very good. You're a good cow. Look at all the milk you made,” He reaches past you to pick up the pail and hold it out for you to see. The glistening milk swishes with the heft of the bucket, so he steps away and ensures he sets it aside amongst the empty ones to keep it from spilling over.

“So…c-can I stay, Mr. Harley?”

It seems your voice does more than earn you an answer from him–Harley whips around to look at you with a dumbfounded expression on his face, and his reaction is more than you ever could have thought you deserved.

“Stay? What d'ya mean, ‘stay’? You're part of the farm. You're my family now. You're not going anywhere.” He reaches out for you and in that moment it takes for him to get to you, the tears are already flowing and you're blubbering pathetically into his chest with gratitude, which he seems much less awkward in accepting now.

“Hey–quit sayin’ such stupid shit. Stay…are you crazy?” He murmurs into your hair, his arms so tight around you you're reminded of the soreness of your hollow chest as your tits press up against his firm body. What he whispers to you then, in the silence peppered only by your weepy cries of adoration and love for your ‘Mr. Harley’, is the one thing that will stay with you for a long, long time–perhaps for the rest of your life.

“Not just cattle anymore, little one. You're…mine.”

#harley kunuk #harley x reader #harley kunuk x reader #spicy writing #hybrid reader #yandere ocs #yanverse #fem reader #male yandere #ellie writes #4k

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writingquestionsanswered · 6 months

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do you have advice on how to write genuine dialogue? i have a very severe case of when getting into the mindset of writing, and specifically writing dialogue, i only regurgitate whatever i have heard/seen from other media. it just seems unoriginal, ingenuine, and for aesthetic value only (i end up writing something out of a poem and not real people conversations). please help 😞

Writing Dialogue That Sounds Natural/Genuine

1 - Know Your Characters Well - One of the most important elements of writing natural/genuine-sounding dialogue is making sure you know your characters well. If you don't know who they are... their personalities, their experiences, what they care about, what they know and don't know... then you can't accurately envision what they'd have to say in a conversation. See: Making Personalities Unique and Keeping Them Straight

2 - Flesh Out Character Voice - "Character voice" is how your character's background, experiences, and personality affect what they say and how they speak. This isn't about quality of voice... it's about vocal personality. See: Giving Your Characters a Unique Voice

3 - Know What They're Going To Talk About - There's nothing that sounds more unnatural and inauthentic than characters having a conversation that has no relevance to anything. That said, it's super important to understand why you're writing this dialogue scene... what are you trying to accomplish with it? How does that move the story forward, move character development forward, or deliver important information to the reader? What needs to be said and why? Being clear on this can help you craft dialogue that sounds natural and genuine because it's relevant and serves a purpose.

4 - Balance Exposition, Action, and Dialogue - Overall, we want our stories to have a relative balance of exposition (explaining things), action (things happening), and dialogue. We want a relative balance of exposition, action, and dialogue in our scenes, too. What I mean by "relative" is you generally wouldn't want a scene that's all dialogue, very little action, and no exposition. (And I say "generally" because there can be exceptions... short scenes, scenes that serve a unique purpose, scenes with unique requirements, etc.) So, it's important to really think about the needs of your scene, what you're trying to accomplish, and make sure you've got a relative balance of dialogue, exposition, and action (as long as it works for the scene.) See: Exposition, Action, and Dialogue, and How to Pace Your Story

5 - Write Dialogue with Sensory and Emotional Depth - We never want our dialogue to be just words batted back and forth between two or more people. Dialogue needs to have depth, and we give it that depth in two ways.

-- Sensory Details in Dialogue -- Sight: what are the characters doing as they talk? What is their body language? Facial expressions? Hand gestures? How do they physically interact with their environment and others in the conversation? Sound: quality of voice (when characters voices get loud or soft, when a voice is gritty or raspy, when the speaker has an accent or speaks with a particular tone or cadence) as we as sounds like coughing, clearing the throat, or sighing... and sounds resulting from the character's interactions with the environment or others. Smell: bad breath or alcohol on the breath... or good breath... the smell of the speaker's perfume or body odor, the smell of a cigarette they're smoking, or a food they're eating.

Taste: there aren't many opportunities to include taste in dialogue, but possibilities would be tasting bile due to something awful someone said in the conversation, tasting food or drink sampled during conversation, or even "tasting" a smell associated with the environment during the conversation.

Feel: again, this will be more environmental... feeling a "chill" in the room when something cruel or scary is said. Noticing things felt due to the environment or interaction with the environment/others. Internal physical sensations felt during conversation.

*** And, it's important to note that I'm not suggesting that you include every sense or lots of sensory details. It's just adding a few that make sense can add depth and authenticity to the dialogue.

-- Emotional Details in Dialogue --

You also want to be sure to explore the emotional impact of the conversation as well as what characters are thinking as they participate in the conversation, and what they feel about what others are saying. As mentioned above in the "feel" portion of sensory details, you can explore the internal sensations caused by emotions felt as a result of the conversation. Stomach turning due to something unpleasant being said. Butterflies in stomach due to something exciting being said. Chill up the spine due to something scary being said. You can also explore emotions through visual emotional cues, which brings us back to things like body language, gestures, and facial expressions. Letting us know what characters are thinking and feeling (emotionally) during the conversation--or what they appear to be thinking and feeling if they don't say or we can't be inside their heads--adds depth and authenticity to the dialogue scene.

Happy writing!

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batterygarden · 7 months

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In the least creepy way possible, Yuuta’s been keeping tabs on you tonight. He’s a bit of a wall flower in places like this—loud shows with flashing lights, a dancing crowd roaring around him like an ocean’s waves—so he’s fascinated by people who manage not to be. He wonders how your type seems to have a gravitational pull when he can barely hear what the person next to him is saying.

He watches as you smile and dance and laugh and cup people’s ears to tell them something. He likes to think he gets to know you a bit from what he observes—he thinks you must be a good friend, when he sees your arm wrap around some drunk girl to hold her up. He thinks you must not be shy the way you shove bodies away when you get close to the chaotic mosh pit in the middle of the floor. And most of all, he thinks that you are not interested in finding a man to keep you company this evening.

Not one of your friendly smiles has been directed at a man, Yuuta can’t help but have noticed. Especially not to the few who’ve had the gall to approach you, the expression you gave them was always downright cold. Not that Yuuta faults you by any means, watching as you deliver a particularly cruel glare to the bearded guy who just bought you a drink—these men aren’t owed your warmth. And, if he’s honest with himself, your harsh rejections have him relieved—whether you’ve got a partner back home or simply aren’t looking (Yuuta doesn’t dwell on the idea that you might not be attracted to men at all), Yuuta doesn’t mind so long as he doesn’t have to watch some mediocre guy earn your approval—or worse yet, your interest. The idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth, stranger as he is.

It must be a lucky night, because not long after you ditch the beard man, you start making your way closer to the stage—to Yuuta. He tries to be subtle as he observes you swaying in time with the current of bodies, closer and closer until you stop right next to his shoulder.

He glances down when you do and gives a polite smile—something in his heart setting on fire when you return it, peeking up at him through your lashes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think your expression looked an awful lot like fuck-me eyes.

Before anything more can happen though, Yuuta once again watches as some guy from the crowd shoves his way closer to you–-pressing a hand to your back. Yuuta’s mouth falls open at the timing, barely making out the yelled proposal this man gives you, but having no trouble reading his lips. DANCE WITH ME?

He can hear your reply though.

“NOOO! I’M GOOD!” you take a baby step away, bumping into Yuuta.

Yuuta’s eyes flick to the man’s ugly little hand where it rests on your back, noting how it’s still there for some reason. Then the man makes a frown—it’s a much worse expression to see on his face than observing it on yours across the room earlier.

Before the guy says another word, Yuuta gives him a yank away using Rika, and thanks to the relentless crowd, he’s swallowed up easily.

You meet Yuuta’s eyes after that and your gaze lingers, expression warming—soon you’re leaning in close on tiptoes to shout something in his ear.

“DO YOU WANNA DANCE?”

��

Later in the night, after learning his name and thoroughly whipping Yuuta around on the dance floor, you drag him away from the stage towards the venue’s bar.

You like how his big palm engulfs yours when you hold it to lead him, glancing back often just to get another peek at his expression—he never disappoints, his wide dark eyes sucking you in like black holes. He’s intense—objectively scary and intimidating, but you like the way he covers it up in blushing cheeks and sweet smiles. He’s intriguing in a way you want to snatch up for yourself—territorial against every soul who’s gaze lingers on Yuuta’s tall frame, despite that he seems to be unaware of them.

The first time you noticed Yuuta tonight was when you watched some drunk woman in the process of an elaborate trip, losing her balance slowly but surely before falling completely over. You witnessed it from a bit away, wincing at what you were sure would be a messy collapse, but the girl never hit the ground. A handsome ink-haired stranger was spotted lifting her by the elbow, his other hand saving her drink from a spill.

You caught the way her expression faltered when she took in the man who helped her, eyes widening, cheeks reddening. She smiled so huge for him, looking back over her shoulder again and again as her friend dragged her away.

You’ve been eyeing Yuuta all night since then, intent on getting him to yourself. And now that you finally have, you don’t wanna let him slip through your fingers.

You already asked Yuuta his go-to drink, so you’re confident when you ask the bartender for two gin and tonics, fumbling with your phone case to retrieve your card. Yuuta’s quicker though, offering the man behind the counter his own instead, opening a tab. When you frown at him he gives you a sweet smile that says you’re stupid for thinking he’d let you spend your money.

“Thanks for paying, stranger.”

“Ouch! Still a stranger after all those twirls you had me do?”

You lean closer as you giggle, and Yuuta seems to relish in it, his gaze smoldering when he mirrors your smile.

“No, I’m just teasing. I know you like the back of my hand, Yuuta.”

You sip your freshly delivered drink, leaning even closer till your head rubs against his shoulder.

The laugh he gives you is boyish and light—the kind that catches in the back of his throat so you know it’s genuine. You want to gobble this man up, to swallow him whole, he’s so cute. So you let him know.

“Yuuta, I want to eat you alive. Like, everything in me is telling me to bite you.”

You catch the pretty flush that creeps up his neck then, the way his eyes darken when he looks down at you.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

#yuuta x reader #jjk x reader #yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #yuuta fic #yuuta fluff #yuuta drabble #🐞 writes

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blackgirlsuperherorants · 23 days

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IWTV rant incoming, spoilers for both seasons, be forewarned!

I've been seeing far too much Louis hate online recently, and while I'm of the opinion that none of these vamps are completely innocent by nature, I can't help but notice the disproportionate hate on my boy.

Honestly, it feels a little like fandom racism. And I think AMC IWTV fans have convinced themselves that they're beyond such things because of Jacob and Assad, but idk, everyone turning on the Black one at once seems... yucky?

First, I've seen a lot of "Louis is an abuser". Which... is a wild take on a show where most of the main characters hurt everyone around them?

I think some of it is coming from those who saw the episode in season 2 in which it is revealed that the big fight that Louis and Lestat had in S1 was more even than just Lestat beating up Louis, but y'all... we're not supposed to take S1 as a complete fabrication. A lot of y'all keep saying "oh, we haven't met the real Lestat." Sure, not in person and not from his POV until that ending, but we're not supposed to take it as Louis just lying outright. In the series, different from the books, OUR Louis calls Daniel back in 2022 to give him a more accurate version of the story. In the 1970s, he was just trash-talking Lestat. In 2022, he is remembering Lestat fondly while also remembering all the pain Lestat caused him. He only learns at the end of the season that Armand manipulated some of his memories. And only SOME. We're not supposed to think Armand made Louis misremember everything he and Lestat ever did together. So, we can take S1 as a version of the truth, even if it has some holes or misremembered parts... and in S1, Lestat is a scary guy. When Louis fought him, he was fighting a scary monster. You can't talk about it like he was a human man fighting his human partner because he got a little angry. He was a vampire fighting an even stronger vampire who, as far as Louis knew, was capable of awful things. And Lestat stalked Louis when he was still a human, fed on him without consent, killed the priests Louis turned to in fear... none of that was healthy courtship of a lover. To then turn around and call LOUIS the abuser? That's nuts.

And then there's Armand.

Armand is capable of great physical violence without even lifting a finger. You cannot look at me in the face and tell me that Louis slamming him into a wall was *abuse* after finding out that Armand mindfucked him for 70 years. After y'all saw what Armand did to Daniel. After Armand plotted Louis' death while manipulating Louis into thinking he was loved.

"Louis is an abuser" is a wild take after watching both of those seasons. Louis isn't an innocent princess, either, but compared to the two older vampires, he is the main victim of the story. Both Lestat and Armand emotionally abused him, manipulated him, and physically hurt him, and after all of it, he just ends up alone.

Now, believe me, I love Armand and Lestat. I think they're wonderfully awful people, and so much fun to watch, so fun to love, so fun to hate. But I think so many people left season 2 on their sides completely, just because Louis stood up for himself AND admitted that he was wrong about a lot of what he thought he remembered. And in all honesty, I think a lot of y'all like Sam and Assad because they're hot and... Jacob, while hot, is still Black. With Assad, you can give yourselves the benefit of the doubt because he's still a person of color, but he's a non-black person of color...

And Black people are not afforded softness or innocence, the way non-black people are. So, Louis doing something that's not good makes him not good, even if it's in the context of being a vampire. But Lestat and Armand get "brat prince" and "baby girl" even when they're cruel.

And also, it's not great to put the "abuser" label on someone standing up to their abuser. I dunno. Feels kinda yucky, in that sense, too.

Personally, I try to keep these people's vampire incarnations out of human morality, because being a vampire is inherently immoral because you need to kill to stay alive. So, like, when they physically fight, I can excuse it because they know they can't actually do much harm for the most part, because vampires heal fast and can't be easily hurt. But when... idk, you drop your fledgling from an extreme height, or cut someone's ankles and have them buried in rocks and locked away in a mausoleum... that's actually trying to hurt them (as Lestat admitted.)

And Louis' attempt to kill Lestat was because he and Claudia feared him. None of them disagree with that fact.

Anyway, have the same grace for the Black man that you do for your brat prince. Idk why y'all are trying to make Louis the bad guy. He never even asked to be a vampire. Lestat just wanted to keep him.

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #spoilers #amc iwtv #iwtv spoilers #louis de pointe du lac

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jessource · 6 months

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prompts:　random quotes + excerpts.

“ you are so vulnerably haunting; your eeriness is terrifying irresistible. ” “ we’re not that different, you and i. ” “ you are a child of the cosmos, a ruler of the skies. ” “ you’re just becoming more of what you’ve always been. ” “ i’m not changing, none of us are changing. everything is fine. lets have a picnic. ” “ my father had the kind of anger all fathers do – loud and terrible. it lingers for your whole life. ” “ girlhood rots between my teeth, a sickness so sweet it aches. ” “ i wished so badly to have my own life, but you wouldn’t let me. ” “ parts of me died in the house i grew up in and i visit them in dreams. ” “ today i heard your name and my hands started shaking. please make it stop, make it stop. ” “ i wasn’t even allowed to cry over any of it, anyway! i wish the only thing that i spilled in my life was milk. ” “ this is not fun! it’s just scary! ” “ but if i hadn't fallen, i wouldn't have met you. ” “ have you let go of the ails that anchor you yet? ” “ have you let this marvelous spinning earth pull you into its arms and sweep you off your feet yet? ” “ i dream, i dream, i keep dreaming. one word in my mouth crystallises like sugar: hope. ” “ the nights get heavy like they always do. ” “ heavy wind, cold rain, and yes the stars. ” “ drifting apart always seems to hurt more as it happens. ” “ i am trying to say: look at me. ��i am weightless. you make my heart grow light.’ ” “ right now, everything without you is almost sticky-sweet. it tastes like nectar. ” “ can you accept help or are you the eldest daughter? ” “ i swallow a bee for each ill deed done. i am a hive walking. i strain to hear you over the regret. ” “ i knew that it was cruel to be so optimistic, but, in my solitude, i couldn't resist the urge and spent entire days basking in idiotic fantasies, sometime verging on prayer. ” “ grief is not a feeling, but a neighbourhood. this is where i come from. everyone i love still lives there. ” “ there is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get. ” “ i was once very close to getting out of here. ” “ there is no moving on. only running away. ” “ i don’t love anyone. well, maybe my sister. ” “ i am infatuated with the private life, and with anonymity; perhaps even invisibility. ” “ sometimes you just need someone to tell you you're not as terrible as you think you are. ” “ i opened my mouth, almost said something. almost. the rest of my life might have turned out differently if i had. but i didn't. ” “ she is still inside of me. i carry her with me wherever i go. ” “ being a confessional human being for me is like a defense mechanism. if i can tell you the flaw before you see the flaw, then maybe it's okay. ” “ being a person didn't come naturally to me the way it seemed to for others. people who were sure of themselves awed me. i studied them and tried to mimic their ease. ” “look back at the mess you've made. try your best to pick up the pieces. ” “ not only had my brother disappeared, but– and bear with me here–a part of my very being had gone with him. ” “ i kinda wish i was buried six feet under ground. but oh god i also wish i was buried in your arms. ” “ we tell our stories differently, don’t we, you and i? ” “ you poor thing. sweet, mourning lamb. there’s nothing you can do. ” “ a golden cage is still just a cage. ” “ although i may not be yours. i can never be another’s. ” “ my mother didn't foresee what was going to become of us as a result of witnessing her despair. ”

#rp prompt #rp meme #rp sentences #rp starters #rp sentence starter #prompts #memes #rp starter #pinterest #quotes #rp quotes #mymemes.#*

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five-one-two-station · 7 months

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Everybody should have their own fun, and this isn't trying to harsh anybody's buzz, but I find the impulse to make your own cutesy/badass Replika oc doing funny or heroic or badass things a little odd. Like, that character you designed as a super badass soldier, or well-armed and armored steely eyed cop type... who would they have been built to fight or police exactly? Remember who all those guns and weapons were intended for use on?

I know we're all sick of discourse over who "gets" the game, and I'm by no means scolding anybody for something that harmless, but what's interesting to me is the sense that designing overtly "cool" Replika personas and OCs, complete with the propaganda poster style imagery, feels a little...

I mean, bluntly, it's like the in-world propaganda worked, unironically, on some level, for many people. Kolibris aren't scary, they're whimsical and fun! Storches aren't notably cruel enforcers and chain gang drivers, they're Protektors! Falke isn't a camp commandant, she's a beautiful angel!

The Replikas aren't cool and heroic figures in the reality of the game. They're the carefully crafted organs of a system of control so dreadful it could do what it did to Elster and Ariane. They're victims to that system themselves too, sure - and humanising them is a nuanced and valuable observation of how totalitarian regimes maintain themselves - but that doesn't negate the fact they're also the ones who operate, enforce and perpetuate it, a big part of what the game knows and communicates about such societies. It's notable that the game makes it clear few, if any, of the Replikas actually buy into the Nation as an ideal at all - they enforce it no less pitilessly anyway, incapable or unsafe to imagine anything else.

Their affectations, pasttimes, trinkets, and even affections for each other, all serve to draw a stark contrast to how callously they regard the gestalts they keep suppressed. Their disposability is something they're conscious and fearful of themselves, but fail to recognise as a commonality with the people they brutalise every day, their business as usual. The only grief, tragedy or suffering they acknowledge is their own - they have no regard for any such things in the humans they have... well, dehumanised.

But S-23 Sierpinski was such a hellhole for most of its denizens under "normal" conditions that the nightmare it becomes is arguably an improvement; if only because there are fewer people left now to suffer it. There's a dark poetry here - because the place's banal cruelty is "off camera" to us, it's very naturally less real to us than the grief of the crying Eule. It's only natural, too, to forget how grim the Replikas' purposes are when you don't have to see anyone endure the brunt of it.

And isn't that the very same effect a state like the Nation is seeking in the first place, by disappearing people away to such dark little corners to have it done? In our world, no less than that one.

That works like a kind of propaganda too, not being able to see it - a propaganda of hidden things, as powerful as any poster. A space that's been intentionally left blank.

Kolibris are literal thought police; they intrude on people's very minds, interrogating them to death as a matter of course, with hardly a care either way. The various Protektor classes are functionally concentration camp guards and slave drivers. Falke and Adler are overseeing what amounts to a gulag, one so unimaginably awful Ariane preferred to spend years of her life alone in space to the prospect of being sent there, and inevitably worked to death, far underground.

I think there's a reason we never see one of those posters for LSTRs in game. How could we be asked to forgive our own if we ever did?

#signalis #signalis spoilers

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riality-check · 1 year

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crossposted from twitter because it was inspired by this tweet!

Eddie's first character is a halfling rogue: small, stealthy, built to get in and get out, maybe cause a little damage along the way. He isn't built for taking hits or maximum damage, and everyone knows that magic isn't real.

Eddie's first scar is the one on his lip, from when he took a punch from his father wrong and split it on his tooth. It probably wouldn't have scarred if Eddie left it alone, but he worried at it with his tongue until it healed shiny with scar tissue.

He learns, from the sting of eating and talking, that he shouldn't fight monsters he isn't strong enough to beat. So, he runs. Gains XP.

He's small and quiet enough to go unnoticed. He hides in the corners of libraries for hours, steals extra food from school lunch, and on the rare occasion someone decides to pick on him, that's when he swings back, scared and vicious.

He levels up, and, somewhere along the way, that character dies a quiet death in favor of one that better fits the campaign.

Somewhere between his father's arrest and starting school at Hawkins Middle, Eddie plays a new character. A tiefling sorcerer, one with bad blood on two fronts, for no one likes demons, and magic still isn't real.

Kids are cruel. They tease him for his secondhand clothes and his buzzcut (lice) and his loud hands and voice and his complete disregard for schoolwork, because if it isn't interesting, he won't do it.

Eddie takes it all, until a kid calls him a word he knows is right for him but isn't safe to be in Hawkins.

Then he puts his fist through his face.

Overnight, he goes from "weird and obnoxious" to "mean and scary," and he really, really hates how that makes him more isolated.

So, he switches gears in high school. Plays a half-elf bard, someone who's a little more than human, someone whose job it is to entertain, to make people laugh and feel right at home. He finds little lost sheep and makes them feel like they have a place to belong in his own little world.

He still has to fight sometimes, of course. Especially earlier on, he uses his fists, though he hates it. Later, when he levels up, he uses his words instead.

He doesn't know how those work. Magic isn't real.

Then Chrissy Cunningham dies in his living room, and magic is real, and it is awful and scary and cruel and fatal.

And Eddie Munson is just Eddie Munson. Not a hero, not a spellcaster, nothing special. But he can't be just Eddie Munson because that has never been enough.

In his rush, he picks his next character to be a human fighter. He has never played one before, and it feels odd and ill-fitting and wrong.

It's wrong. And Eddie forgets his first rule, the one that got him the scar on his lip, when the bats rush toward him.

He shouldn't fight monsters he isn't strong enough to beat.

He goes down, and he stays down, but the wonderful thing is that he has saving throws.

He just needs to succeed.

#ria writes #eddie munson #character study #stranger things #st #stranger things ficlet #st ficlet #tw abuse #angst #ambiguous ending

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meowcatsposts · 2 years

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Perfect [Neteyam]

✎⁾⁾⁾ note: reader is an albino omatikaya & neteyam is probably OOC

@tiddieshakeshownu, I hope you enjoy :)

Overview

Being born different, things don't go so smoothly for you

("Outcast is all they see" frfr)

So you learned to stay in the shadows

But Neteyam always finds you

You were born different.

Your skin–a pale baby blue, void of the rich pigment forest Na’vi usually had. It burned easily, too; you couldn’t stay beneath the blazing sun. “Useless,” the hunters would say. Useless.

Your hair–white as snow, that shines smoothly beneath any light. Children would flock around to touch it–some in awe, most in mockery. A few were mean enough to pull it, calling you, “Skxawng! Skxawng!” over and over and over.

Your eyes–an icy blue, from the lack of pigment. Like your skin the sun was their enemy, its bright rays nearly blinding you. And, unsurprisingly, they cursed you with clumsiness during your early years. Tripping over roots and gripping onto branches for dear life you were, often the source of other childrens’ amusement.

One day, you returned home shaking, biting tears at bay; you were a hair's breadth away from the snapping sharp maws of nantang, after all! That wasn’t even the worst part; the other children set you up. Their jeering, high-pitched laughter still rang in your ears, no matter how hard you tried to drown them out. How you would’ve loved to jump into mother’s arms, to tell her just how cruel your own people were. How you would’ve loved to tell father about those scary-looking wolves, cornering you between a dark rocky crevice.

Sadly, that wasn’t so.

As you scaled the Hometree you heard hushed whispers; among them was your mother’s.

“Will (Y/N) ever be able to ride an ikran?”

Then your father’s. “...fragile…don’t know…”

Fragile.

Something burned deep in the pit of your stomach and you wretched, but nothing came out.

Night was your only option. No sun to blister your skin. No one to push you off the edge. Only at night could you forget everything else and focus on the beautiful world that was so cruel during the day. It was dangerous, sure, but you fared better. Limb by limb, meter by meter, you soared across winding branches and leaped across slippery slopes, paying no mind to the soft looming shadows of night.

Eywa always lit a path for you. Always.

Long ago, a seed sprouted in your heart and it grew and grew and grew until its thick roots spread so much that your heart cracked and splintered and shattered. Those fragile broken pieces you stowed away in a box, somewhere no one could find–somewhere no light would shine. When no one was around, you glued those pieces back together, slowly and painstakingly, one by one, under the Pandoran night. No one should be able to find you deep in the forest, mending your broken heart–should.

“Neteyam?” you whispered. Your eyes blew wide; how did he know where you were at this ungodly hour? A moss patch, glowing blue-green, winded out and away from under his feet.

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hard cold ice encased your heart. You quickly shoved your broken pieces back into their shabby box and faced Neteyam with a cold, doubtful gaze. “Do you want something?”

Now it was his turn to be surprised–baffled, even.

“What…?” he spluttered. He was growing nervous, you could tell. His heart was thrumming. “I…was just wandering around and found you here…so I was wondering what you were doing.”

Not really convincing, was it? He was lying, probably. But it wasn’t so; Neteyam opened your eyes to so many things.

Pandora was beautiful at night. Everything glowed so prettily; even the animals came out to play. You giggled softly to yourself as you saw a bunch of kenten spin around and around, disk-wings unfurling like glowing umbrellas. A pack of nantang pups scampered along the ground, lighting up bright patches of moss in the wake of their paws and you smiled, hearing them yip around. Every night Neteyam chuckled beside you, his laughter spreading from his lips to your lips, and you didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

“Go, leave. Now.”

Neteyam was always there, somehow, when you were in trouble. He’d bare his teeth at those mean kids and afterwards, he’d take you on fun little shady adventures under big ferns and tall trees to cheer you up, and before you knew it, you were smiling–smiling!–and Neteyam would be grinning, too.

You gushed to your parents about a handsome boy who was so kind and caring and wonderful, and Neteyam, too, quietly told his parents about a beautiful Na’vi who had shimmering silk for hair and pretty skin like the skies.

He couldn’t understand why you called yourself a freak; it shattered his heart when you did.

“Sometimes I wish I was born different.”

One particular night the moon shone so beautifully, so radiantly. Everything seemed to glow just a little brighter, just a little more prettier. It was so serene tonight, but it wasn’t so, and you blamed yourself for this. Your soft sniffles carried through the wind and into Neteyam’s ears, and he bounded to you in an instant. His markings glowed a pearly white-blue under the night, and you smiled weakly, seeing the boy in all his beauty. He was skilled and handsome and kind and sweet; why was he rushing to comfort you?

“Don’t cry.” He hushed you with such sweetness that your heart melted into something gooey and warm–it scared you. Then with his thumb he gently swiped the hot tears streaming down your cheeks, never minding how wet his hands got. You nearly flinched; why so kind?

“Look,” he whispered, jabbing a finger to his chest, yellow eyes all wide and silly and desperate–oh how he hated to see you cry. “You might not see it, but I’m different, too–part demon, some assholes say.” He paused, biting his lip to suppress a hopeful grin. “We can be different together.”

A sliver of a smile creeped up your lips. Different. Together.

Then Neteyam murmured in that hushed-excited whisper, “Here, come closer,” and held out his arms to beckon you into a hug. Timidly and shamefully you scooted a little forward, wiping furiously at your eyes.

“Look at me. Please?” He wanted so badly to tell you how stunning your eyes were, how pretty your smile was. He wanted to give his eyes to you, just so you could see how radiant you truly were–but now wasn’t the time, he could tell.

So he gently bumped foreheads with you, closing his eyes. You closed yours, too. Then slowly, timidly, his hands oh so softly cupped your face as if he were telling you, “Stay, don’t go.” As more tears stung your eyes you rested your shaky hands atop his larger ones, feeling his warmth spreading to your fingers. It was just him and you now, glowing under the moonlight; you thought you could feel his breath on your lips.

“I see you,” he murmured softly. “Perfect.”

blue dividers by: firefly-graphics

#avatar 2 #avatar way of water #neteyam #neteyam x reader #omatikaya #na'vi #na'vi x reader #avatar #avatar x reader

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abitchnamedtia · 5 months

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Alastor Moody as a dad would include

Infos : fluff

Warnings : none

I know, it's been a while. I'll try to post more, but I won't promise anything!

----------------------------------------------------------

- Him being scared that the baby would be scared as his scars.

Alastor is very insecure about it, because he knows how he looks. He can see people's stares. He knows that his scars can be repulsive and make him look scary.

But when he holds your child for the first time and see their smile, all his anxiety vanished

- Him being VERY protective towards you and your child. Even more protective than he is with you (you didn't even know that was possible).

Your house would be protected with every spells he knows.

And when your child will be older, he'll teach them self defense. Just to be a bit reassured when they go out without him.

- Him scared that his child could be bullied or targeted because of him.

Kids are cruel. Very cruel sometimes. He was so afraid that his reputation of a "mad man" will tarnish his child's reputation.

But when your child was in kindergarten, your child told his classmates that his dad was an auror and explaining that he was "fighting bad bad guys", all of them were in awe. At the end of that day, when Alastor came at the end of the day to take his child home, a herd of small child came to him to ask him questions about his work. He was surprised, but happy to answer it.

- Him loving them to death and spoiling them rotten. But still teaching them to be humble.

Almost every time that he goes to buy groceries, he'll buy a little something for them. And let's not talk about birthdays or Christmas... He blew up the budget every time. But he just wanted to make them happy, he couldn't help it !

-Him playing a lot with them. Tea time with the dolls ? Of course. Playing the villain for your kid to play the knight? Absolutely.

The sweetest thing you ever saw was him, sat on the ground at a small table with a tiny cup of tea in the hand with your child and a few dolls and stuffed toys. When you asked what was happening, he just answered "we are taking the tea, isn't it obvious?". ADORABLE.

And of course, he knows the dolls and stuffed toys' names by heart.

#harry potter imagine #harry potter #alastor x reader #alastor moody imagine #alastor moody #alastor moody x reader #mad eye moody x reader #mad eye moody imagine #mad eye x reader #mad eye moody

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t3a-tan · 1 year

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Failed Meeting - The Talk

A heart to heart.

Continuation of this!

---

Oliver was pretty upset with James when the human told him what had just transpired. James apologised profusely, but he knew that didn't make it right. Oliver told him not to push it, and he did exactly that…all because he was being selfish.

Oliver left immediately after, presumably taking Sammy back to his home to calm down after James had messed up so badly.

People could be cruel, but it genuinely sickened James to think of who could do such horrible things to not just a child, but a child the size of a finger. All he did for the rest of the day was go over what he had seen and what he had heard, spiralling with thoughts of what might have happened to her.

He was starting to understand why borrowers were raised to be so scared of humans. It was a miracle that Oliver was so calm and patient with him.

Oliver didn't come back for a week, and when he did he made sure to scold James properly.

"I told you that you would meet when she was ready..! I understand that you are happy about her returning to me, and I understand you want to help, but all you've done is made her more scared..!" He began, hands on his hips. Oliver was upset at James, though he did understand the human didn't have bad intentions.

"She's been having nightmares again, nonstop, and not only is that terrifying for her to experience but it hurts me having to watch her go through that. You hurt me by deliberately ignoring my warnings. Do you understand that?" He questioned, letting the hurt seep into his tone to drive home how severe James's actions were.

James kept his head lowered in shame, averting his gaze. He felt awful about it. He knew that if Oliver had gone behind his back and tried to meet his daughter before James was ready he would've been upset too…

"Is…is she okay..?" He asked, unsure if that was pushing it or not. Oliver stopped his rant, hands lowering to his sides. It was hard to stay mad at him— Oliver wasn't someone who held grudges easily, and he really cared about their friendship.

As much as he wanted to continue to vent his frustrations, doing so wouldn't help. He could see by the way James was sitting and how his voice was so meek that the human understood he had made a mistake.

"Other than nightmares, yes. They've been calming down now, which is why I was able to come here and speak with you." He explained, returning to a calmer disposition since yelling wasn't very productive.

James nodded slowly.

"I don't want to be scary. I fucking hate it, Oliver— I-I don't think I'm a bad human, but you're the only borrower who can even tolerate me apparently, and it's just… I don't know. I'm letting you down…" James spoke with an air of sadness and frustration, bouncing his knee anxiously.

Oliver bristled a little at those words. He hadn't really thought about James's perspective in this situation. Oliver was used to being the voice of reason, and used to being trusted, not feared. He hadn't been addressing James's feelings over other borrowers, because he had been focused on trying to prevent another incident.

He supposed some blame should be shouldered by him thanks to that; his pressure to not make a mistake again may have pushed James to want to prove himself more.

"Lean closer." Oliver directed, gesturing for James to lean in. The human finally met his gaze again with confusion, but leaned in nonetheless. Oliver could tell that his eyes were slightly watery, but he didn't mention anything about it, instead walking closer. Oliver placed his hands on either side of James's face, looking into his eyes with a serious expression.

"You do not need to impress me, alright? I am your friend. I will always be your friend, because as much as other borrowers struggle to see it, I can see you are trying so very hard to do the right thing." His gaze softened. "You are a good human, and I am not friends with you because you're perfect— I'm friends with you because I enjoy your company."

Oliver tilted his head.

"You do not have to be some human ambassador for borrower-kind. You don't even have to be an example… I like being your friend because you are funny and intelligent and caring— even though I may struggle to pick up on your humour." He offered a reassuring smile. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be frightened."

James blinked, wondering how on Earth Oliver had picked up on all that from what he had said. He felt denial on the tip of his tongue— he wasn't scared, he was scary. Oliver had it wrong, clearly…

His eyes stung but he wouldn't allow himself to show any weakness.

"Okay." He responded, feeling embarrassed to have his feelings so expertly picked apart. He leaned a little closer, moving his hands to surround Oliver as he ducked his head down, closing his eyes, leaning into the borrower's touch. His words were slightly muffled thanks to his head being down. "Thank you, mate…"

Oliver gently patted James's forehead, thankful that his words had gotten through as intended.

He was determined to make this work.

#g/t community #ocs #g/t artist #g/t #borrowers #g/t writer #giant/tiny #borrower au #g/t au #giant/tiny writing #g/t writing #g/t angst

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beatrice-otter · 2 months

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I'm so confused by your perspectives. So if you joke about right wing politics you could potentially normalize it to yourself or to others so just don't talk about it, but you can't do that with what you read on ao3, it's "just fiction." Make it make sense

One of my problems with antis who want to censor stuff is that having to fight back against censorship means it's hard to talk about the nuances of what a person chooses to read or say or write or watch, without it being twisted into "and that's why nobody should be allowed to do it and everyone who wants to is a pedophile so we should control what people are allowed to say and read!" So here's some nuance.

All words matter and affect the people who read and say them.

How they matter and how much they matter varies dramatically from person to person, and in any individual case you can't tell what that impact is going to be or control it.

The things that have the most impact are pretty much always going to be the things with a large driving force of the dominant culture behind them, or a complete social circle that you can be absorbed into advocating for those things both in fiction and in real life. In other words, while the things you read and say affect you, the people around you affect you a lot more.

"I said this" is much more effective at training your brain than "I read this."

"Pay attention to how you joke about things that our society counts as normal" is very different from "nobody should ever be able to read/write about certain topics."

Here's an example. When Jaws came out, people were terrified of sharks. The amount of shark killings--sharks killed by human beings--skyrocketed, and remained high for years. People saw a movie about a scary shark, and generalized it to "all sharks are bad and should be killed." Which was broadly in line with the message of the film. But note that it didn't result in a similar backlash about the other message of the film, the ways in which people are endangered by politicians and businessmen who care more about profits than people's lives. Why? Because "sharks are bad and dangerous" was already part of the larger culture, and "politicians and businessmen endanger people" had a lot of cultural weight both for and against, so there were cultural forces preventing people from taking that aspect too far.

Here's another example. Finding Nemo also had a huge impact in real life, but in that case the impact was inspiring people to do the opposite of the message of the movie. The message of the movie is clear: keeping fish in aquariums is cruel and evil, and something only a villain would do. But a lot of people saw that movie, went "wow, tropical fish are cool!" and completely ignored the message and went out to buy an aquarium with tropical fish in it. There was a huge spike in pet fish sales. Why? Because keeping fish in aquariums is a normal thing to do, that a lot of people find interesting, and there is no widespread cultural idea that keeping fish is bad, and so most people who watched the movie did not notice the messaging, and if they did notice it, they shrugged and ignored it because it didn't fit with the way they saw the world.

When we talk about problematic things in fanfiction, we are not (by and large) talking about things that our culture has normalized. Like incest or the Hydra Trash Party. You could read three incest fics a day for the rest of your life, and write one a week, and unless you had real-life friends who actively talked about how incest was good, you would be vanishingly unlikely to change your opinion about it.

When we write and read fiction (whether fanfic or not) about things like incest, it's very rarely about "incest is good, actually!" It's usually either "wow, incest is a fun kink to imagine in a safe space where there's no chance of it happening in reality" or "this is a thing that happens in real life, and it's devastating and awful, so let's explore that." Or even just "wouldn't it be fucked up if ..." The human brain is complicated. It's common to have fantasies about things that you absolutely would NOT want in real life. Fiction exists partly because it's a safe space to explore those things. Yes, that has an impact on the person reading it and the person writing it ... but that impact is usually catharsis or getting off or something, and not inspiring you to be more approving of that in real life.

Even if you're reading it on a fairly surface level and not engaging with the themes or stuff like that, it's still usually long and complex enough that the act of reading it requires at least a little bit of thought and nuance. It takes time. There's a lot there to notice, and the things that stick out to you--the things that affect you--might be totally different than what someone else might expect. You can't predict how any given individual will react or what they're going to take away from it.

Jokes, on the other hand, tend to be short and pointed. There doesn't tend to be much nuance. Either you find it funny, or you don't, and if you find it funny you're a lot more likely to have your hindbrain normalize it, because it is shorter and simpler.

What you say impacts how you think much more than what you read does. There's a reason that when people try to brainwash prisoners of war or whatever, they don't require them to read propaganda, they require them to write and say it. Because the brain is not good at compartmentalizing "I said X" from "I believe X." You may know on an intellectual level that X is wrong, but if you are saying it, and also hearing it from the people and culture around you, your gut is likely to accept X as true.

Right-wing jokes have a lot of cultural weight to them in real life, and a lot of people genuinely believe that they are true. If anything is going to slip through your defenses and affect you, an "ironic" right-wing joke is much more likely to do so than a Hydra Trash Party story on AO3.

Note that I am saying "hey watch out, this is a thing," and not "people shouldn't be allowed to do it" or "people who do this are secretly all fascists deep down."

I'm not calling for censorship, or harassment. I'm asking people to be wary of a larger trend in our culture and letting them do with it what they will.

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arlana-likes-to-write · 7 months

Text

Second Chance - Chapter 10

Masterlist

Warnings: mention of drinking and drug use, jealously, angst, italicized are text messages

Word Count: 4.1k

Relationships: Yelena x reader, Tony x reader (platonic)

It was a feeling Yelena wasn’t used to. Doubt. She was a Black Widow, trained to survive and overcome torture. She and her sisters could entire countries to bring down empires and start wars. They were trained to be the best, and Yelena was. But why was her anxiety spiking, her thoughts racing, and her stomach turning to knots just by looking at the brief conversations between you and her? She rewrote the message a hundred and one times, but nothing sounded good enough. With the time difference, Yelena knew you would be sleeping, especially with the late-night adventures you and your friends partook in. The blonde liked receiving the pictures you sent her. So she wanted to draft a message for you to wake up to, but why was it so difficult? “You know,” Val sat beside her with a protein bar. “Starring at a screen for a long period can cause eye strain which could lead to headaches,” Yelena rolled her eyes and took the breakfast bar the warrior offered her. “Come on, talk to your king.” Yelena scuffed, shaking her head. She never spoke to anyone about this. She was ignoring her sister and Wanda and snapping at Kate for the teasing comments. There were no words to describe what she felt when it came to you. She never felt this way before. The way her life was, she never had the time.

“There is this girl,” Yelena spoke slowly.

“Awe, young love,” the warrior teased, cutting Yelena off. “I remember mine like it was yesterday. It was-”

“You know what, if you are going to tease me like everyone else, then I won’t tell you,” she stood up to leave, but Val grabbed her hand and forced her to sit back down.

“Whoa, pump the breaks. I do want to help, but first eat that because you’re hungry, and I hate dealing with your sister when she hasn’t had food,” Yelena tried to fight her lips from curling up but failed as she opened the bar and took a bite. “So tell me, what’s going on? Who is it?”

“It’s Stark’s kid,” Yelena answered. “The one who is sick,” she refused to say ‘the one who is dying’ because she had to believe you would get better. “I feel drawn to her and don’t know what to do.” When she glanced at Val, the warrior was looking forward. She was watching Carol interact with one of the families affected by the missing people. There was a soft smile on her face, a kindness in her eyes. A slight pang of jealousy rushed through the blonde, but she pushed it away. “How do you do it?”

“Do you love her?” Val asked, looking back at her. She was a little startled by the straightforward question. What was love? She was told love was for children, a distraction, a way to make you weak and vulnerable to manipulation.

“Love is-” her voice trailed off.

“Complicated. Messy. Hard. Scary,” Val finished her sentence. “But also rewarding, fulfilling, and a lead of faith,” the warrior sat back on the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “Do you want the chance to be with her even though she could die?” It was like a boa constrictor wrapped around her throat. Death was a concept Yelena knew well; it surrounded her daily. Her biological parents were no doubt killed by the Red Room. She had no memories of them, but their death led her to Natasha, Alexei, and Melina, and they filled that role. In the Red Room, death was everywhere. As Alexei once said, she was the best child assassin the world had ever seen. Death followed her when she worked for Valentina, and even now, she works with the Avengers. Her hands were covered with blood that she wasn’t sure would go away.

But your death sent shivers down her body at the mere thought of it. It was unfair and cruel that the universe gave this disease to a kind and nice person. She cursed the serum that ran through her veins; she would give it to you in a heartbeat if it meant saving your life.

However, it wasn’t a guarantee that the disease would kill you. Everyone was destined to die one way or another. You could survive the treatment, be cleared as cancer-free, and get into an accident the next day. So, was the idea of you dying holding her back, or was it the vulnerability of opening up to someone outside her family? It was pathetic. She shouldn’t be scared of you. She was a Black Widow, a part of the Avengers. Even though she was those things, she was damaged, scared, and broken beyond repair. There was already a lot going on for you; it was unfair for Yelena to add her problems.

“I don’t think I deserve her,” Yelena answered.

“Did someone say that to you, or is that what you think?” Yelena refused to answer. “This life we choose to live is very lonely. We fight, put our lives on the line to keep others safe, and sometimes our best isn’t good enough,” she continued. “It can be exhausting, but I’ve learned that leaning on someone helps.”

“What if she doesn’t feel the same?” Yelena whispered. Even though America said you felt the same, it was impossible for the fear of rejection to find a home in Yelena’s mind.

“That’s the leap of faith part,” Val said, smiling. “She may catch you, or the ones around you will.”

“Guys,” Yelena looked in the direction of Maria’s voice. “We got a lead. Meeting in 5 minutes.”

“Duty calls,” Val sighed, stood up, and walked over to Carol. Yelena watched her as she wrapped her arms around Carol’s waist and rested her head on her back. The captain rested her hand on Val’s arms but never stopped her conversation with Steve. She sighed and once again found herself staring at the text conversation. Val called it a leap of faith. A leap of faith.

‘Hey,’ Yelena started to text. ‘We got a potential lead of the mission.’ She sent.

‘Not sure how often I’ll be able to text you, but I’ll be safe.’ Again, she sent the message. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for your old man too. Even though he’s a pain in my ass.” She had to add a joke; it was in her nature.

‘Good morning, by the way, lol,’ she wished her hands would stop shaking. ‘Enjoy your time with your friends, and I’ll text you when I can.’ She added a smiley face and locked her phone.

Maybe it wasn’t a leap of faith. Hopefully, it was a leap in the right direction.

“Oh my god,” Chelsie groaned. “Can you stop staring at your phone and help me pick an outfit?”

“Shit, sorry,” you dropped your phone on your open sketchbook. “I was,” your friend had a teasing smirk on her face. It was a clear giveaway that she wasn’t mad at you. “She hasn’t texted me back yet. Sorry, it’s stupid, but I’m worried.” Worried for your friend? Your friend who happened to be a superhero.

“She’s probably busy saving the world,” Chelsie turned back to face her closest. “She said she would text you when she could, so don’t stress about it.” Right, easier said than done. When you woke up this morning, you were surprised to find a few texts from her, especially a good morning text. A simple two-word text made your stomach flip; it was a message you haven’t received since college. But the bubbly feeling soon passed with anxiety due to now knowing what Tony and the others were facing. You weren’t sure how Pepper and those back at the tower could do it. The waiting. The uncertainty. You were about to have a panic attack. “Here,” you had enough time to catch the long leather jacket. “Put that one with these,” she threw a few clothing pieces at you. They hit you in the face.

“Excuse me,” you said, looking at the pile of clothes in your lap. “What are you talking about?”

“You are going to be a part of this shot,” she raised her hand to stop your protest.”You need a distraction, and what better way to look and feel hot for your girl.”

“She isn’t my girl,” Chelsie shrugged.

“Technicalities,” she smiled. “Go shower, put on some makeup, and get changed. We leave in 40 minutes.” You groaned, throwing your head back. There was no use trying to argue out of it; besides, it could be a good distraction.

Delete Created with Sketch.

“Stop moving,” Austin said, applying a few finishing touches to your makeup. Since you were a last-minute addition to this photo shoot, you had to wait till everyone else was done. Waiting wasn’t something you were good at, especially when you wore a black dress and knew high black boots. You swore every pair of eyes were on you. You huffed but relaxed as you felt a makeup brush on your eyelid.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m anxious.”

“Don’t be,” you heard the smile in his voice. “Raymond will make you look hot. Not like you need more help with that.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes, not wanting to get yelled at again. “Perfect, and just in time because he’s ready for you.” Ryan had to push you towards the photographer since your feet refused to move. He was messing with the settings on his camera but looked up when you got closer.

“Ah, our last model of the day. Raymond Mulrooney,” he extended his hand, and you shook it. “A friend of Chelsie is a friend of mine. Is this your first time in front of a camera?”

“It’s been a minute,” you admitted and walked against the chain link fence they used as a backdrop. The last time you were part of a photo shot was before your diagnosis, before the car accident. Your mom had a picture in her wallet. So you began to pose. You were a little stiff, nerves getting the better of you. You felt exposed, vulnerable in the face of the lens and each passing moment seemed to amplify your anxiety.

“Hey,” you felt a hand on your arm. Raymond was talking to Chelsie, so you looked at who approached you. “My name is Aria.”

“Hi,” you smiled. She was wearing black jeans with a fitted white long sleeve. Over that was a blue button-up and a gold chain. Her hair was curly, down to her shoulders, and she had a black beanie. She was pretty, and if you were at a different part of your life, you would ask for her number.

“You’re nervous,” she said. “Shake away the nerves.” You hummed in question. She grabbed onto your hands and began to shake your arms. The action caught you off guard, but her smile was infectious, and you smiled and laughed alone with her. “See, much better,” you felt better, a lot lighter. “Mind if I join you for a couple of photos, pretty girl?”

“Uh, sure,” your voice shook of it’s on accord. Aria was fun, and she made the shot entertaining, whispering funny jokes that made you smile and laugh. Even Raymond loved the poses she put you in. Her arms around you. Bodies pressed against each other. Aria was pretty, but you couldn’t help but wish her arms were someone else. You wished it was a certain Black Widow. What would her arms feel like around you? Your body is close to hers. Even when Aria pressed her lips against your cheek, you wished it wasn’t hers.

You tied the bathroom rope around your waist. It was nice to shower after a long day. Your phone buzzed that was charging on the nightstand. There was no way to stop your heart from skipping, and anticipation filled your stomach. But it wasn’t a text message from Tony or the Black Widow. Since you were alone, there was no need to mask your disappointment when it was an email from the photographer today. “Damn,” you whispered. He worked fast, but that was the nature of the industry. Book a job. Complete it. Move on to the next. If you even think about slowing down, you will lose your next opportunity to someone else. The photos he took of you were edited slightly; a filter he had no doubt had pre-saved was on them, and sent to you. You expected nothing less since you hadn’t paid him. He owed Chelsie a favor. Still, the pictures were stunning.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” You looked up from your phone, raising a questioning eyebrow at Chelsie. She wore a black dress like you wore in the photo shot but shorter and more skin-tight. “We are going out.”

“Chels,” you groaned.

“There is no room for dis. This is your last night, and, and we don’t know when you’ll return back. So we are meeting the group for dinner then going to a small party,” you huffed, falling to your back. You needed to leave in the morning to get settled before your doctor’s appointment, which meant confronting Tony and Pepper. However, you weren’t a fan of spending your last night in DC in a cramped, sweaty house like your college days. Chelsie tapped your thigh, and you forced yourself up, leaning back on your arms. “Hi,” her smile formed at the pout on your face. “1 hour, maybe 2 at this party, then we can leave.”

“Who will be at this party that you want to see so badly?”

“A friend,” you smirked at the blush that covered her cheeks and chest. “A good and hot friend.” You rolled your eyes and stood up to join her in her closet.

“If you need my help getting laid,” you hit your hip against hers. “That’s all you had to say.” She flipped you off.

“I hate you,” you giggled.

“I’m too lovable to hate.”

You were happy that you brought ibuprofen to dinner as an annoying ache began to grow in your bones. Michelle had their arm lopped around yours. You hated how much you were leaning against her. Jeffrey was their other side while the three of you trailed behind Chelsie, Kandis, and Ryan. “Are you okay, Picasso?” Michelle whispered. You nodded.

“Just a little tired,” you answered.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jeffrey said. “I think we could handle Vogue.”

“No one can handle her,” you deadpanned, causing your two friends to laugh, but you knew if you stayed in, not even a movie could calm your thoughts. There was still no text from the blonde. However, Tony texted you advising he was okay and wasn’t seeing action. You wondered if he messaged you because of your panic call with Pepper when you went to the bathroom at the restaurant. If he wasn’t seeing action, who was? Kate? America? Wanda? Blondie? You were at your wits end with no word from her.

As a man hit your shoulder, a jarring impact pulled you out of your thoughts. The pain radiated through you. “Hey, jackass,” Jeffrey called out. “Watch where the fuck you are going.” The mysterious figure never looked back and continued on his way. You rubbed your shoulder and stared at the man’s back.

“What was that about?” Kandis questioned. Jeffrey’s yelling must have gotten the attention of the others.

“Just some idiot not paying attention,” you told her. The pain was going away, but you knew a bruise would most likely form. “I’m good, guys, I promise,” your friends gave each other a hesitant look. “Come on,” you laced your fingers with Chelsie. “Let’s go to this party.” Since your cancer treatment, you have been sensitive to smells. Even before you found yourself associating scents with people. Chelsie was cinnamon and vanilla. Ryan smelt of paint fumes. All of your friends were different but so did them. So that man passed you smelt of motor oil and copal, a woody fragrance used in spiritual ceremonies and often used by indigenous people of Mexico and Central America. Why was that odd combination so familiar to you?

Yelena rubbed her eyes with her free hand that wasn’t giving her coffee. It had been wild, with a quick undercover mission that required her and Wanda to be kidnapped and rescued by the rest of the team. The bad guys were caught, and Maria, Steve, and her sister were on clean up. She could not wait to be back in the city. She missed her bed, her shower, and most importantly you. The fact she missed you didn’t worry or scare you. She was toying with asking you to join her in Central Park or maybe Bryant. The zoo would be fun too with all the animals you could draw. Yelena needed a quiet moment with no pepping eyes from her team to text you.

American and Kate were sitting on the couch. They were nursing their cup of coffee. She had a feeling that Valkyrie would send Tony a bill for all the caffeine the team consumed. The archer turned her head as the sound of Yelena’s footsteps grew closer and slammed her phone down, the screen pushed into the cushions to conceal whatever she was looking at. The action caused Yelena’s eyebrows to rise to her hairline, and she sat in the space. “That was weird, Kate Bishop, even for you,” Yelena said, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “That was weird, right?” The blonde asked America, who was staring at her girlfriend.

“Extremely weird,” Kate cringed a her tone.

“What’s on your phone that you do want me to see?”

“It’s nothing,” Yelena sat back, crossing one leg over the other, and waited for the lie Kate was crafting in her head. The archer stared forward, but Yelena saw her blue eyes glance her way. “Stop looking at me like that.” The blonde smirked. She knew she was intimating. It was why when the Avengers needed to interrogate someone, Yelena or Natasha were sent it. It was a running competition between the two sisters on who could get them to break faster. Yelena was winning by 45 seconds. “Okay, okay,” Kate sighed. “We were Instagram stalking her friends.” Yelena sat up straighter at the mention of you. “Someone posted a picture of her that wasn’t part of her core group.”

“Are you going to show me it or…?” Kate looked at America for confirmation, but she shrugged. The archer handed Yelena her phone. Instagram was opened to a profile of a name she had not known or cared to find out. The model’s most recent post was two pictures. The photographer posed you and her with your arms around her waist, looking at each other. There was a warmth in your eyes as you smiled at the girl, and the genuine joy reflected on her face pierced through Yelena like a dagger. She swiped to the second photo. The model’s lips were against your cheek, and your arms were draped around her neck. Her fingers tightened around Kate’s phone, nails digging into the device as she tried to erase the images.

Rationally, Yelena knew it was nothing more than a photo shoot, a scene staged by someone behind the camera. Rationally, she knew the way you looked at her was acting. The kiss on your cheek meant nothing. These moments captured were probably the first time you and her met. It was the nature of being creative. All her rational thoughts went out the window when jealousy filled her chest and blinded her sight. The deadly emotion was poisonous. She was ready for it to consume her. However, the emotion was quick to leave. A surge of conflicting emotions swirled within her—disappointment, envy, and a pang of insecurity. She couldn’t help but compare herself to the girl in the photo, questioning what made her so special.

“Lena,” Kate’s voice broke her out of her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she forced a mile. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She handed her friend her phone back. The buzz of her watch reminded her to start her report. Perfect. She thanked her past self. “I have some stuff to do before we leave. Maybe we can watch a movie on the way back.” She quickly stood up and walked towards the room she used. Locking the door behind her, she could hear her heart beating against her ribs. Why was she feeling like this? You weren’t hers. You could kiss, love, and give your heart to anyone. It meant nothing to her.

She sat on the bed and pulled out her phone. She was angry, jealous, and upset, but she promised you a text. She never was one to break her promises. ‘Back and safe.’ Simple. It was all she could muster.

The sound of the bass vibrated through your bones. It was a pleasant hum as you were sandwiched between Kandis and Austin on a couch. The smell of alcohol and weed tickled your nose. You refused whenever someone tried to pass you a joint or a red solo cup. A game of King’s Cup was happening around you, but you were unsure how they could hear over the music. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, and your heart skipped when you took it out. Back and safe. Back and safe. It was strange how a simple two-word text lifted all your worry and stress away. “I’ll be right back,” you said to Kandis, not waiting for a response. You found a window that leads to a fire escape. The cool air caused goosebumps to form on your skin. A quiet sigh left your lips as the closed window blocked the music from the party.

‘I’m glad you’re safe,’ you typed. ‘I’ve been anxiously waiting for your reply.’ Maybe it was a little forward, but it was the truth. You saw that she read the message, but no dots appeared, singling that she was responding. Frowning, you typed out another message. ‘When will you be returning to the city? I leave tomorrow morning.’ Again, she read it, but there was no response. Was it something you said before that made her act like this? Quickly rereading the conversation, you found nothing. Maybe you were overthinking it. She was done with a mission, and she was tired. It wasn’t you. ‘Glad you are safe Blondie. Get some rest.’ This time, your message went unread.

You locked your phone and stared at the city you used to call home. It was strange, this feeling that bubbled in your chest. You felt trapped between this city and New York. Both places weren’t home. You haven’t felt at home since the accident, since the person who was home to you was ripped away.

You whipped away your tears. Mindlessly opening up your phone and pressed call. “Hi,” he answered on the first ring.

“Tony, hi,” you whispered. “I’m sorry I called. I know you’re probably busy, but I needed to make sure you’re okay. I can-”

“It’s okay,” he cut off your nervous rambling and heard movement on the other side. “I’m glad you called.” The sound of a door shut behind him. “Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m-” it felt stupid to lie. “I was thinking about Mom and the car accident, so I think that’s why I called you.”

“I’m fine, no injuries.”

“And the rest of the team?” You questioned. The way he sighed made your throat tighten up.

“Minor injuries,” he said. “Sam has a pretty nasty bruise, Natasha twisted her ankle, and Maria had her shoulder dislocated.” You let out a shaky breath, nodding her head. “Tell me what else is going on, butterfly,” you made a surprise squeak; the sound came from the back of your throat. “Do you like that one?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I do.” You had no energy to tell him that was a nickname your mom called you. It took a moment to collect yourself. “I’m sorry,” you told him. “About the conversation we had before you left. I’m sorry,” you ran your hand over your head and covered your eyes.

“There is no need to apologize,” he said. “We’ll-we’ll figure it out,” the stutter in his voice broke your heart. “If you won’t use Morgan’s bone marrow or continue with Plan B, we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“We’ll probably be back before you. We can talk more than,” you nodded, knowing he couldn’t see you. “You are a Stark. We don’t back down from a fight,” a smile graced your lips.

“Right,” you said. “Safe travels.”

“Same to you,” you hung up and stared at your hands. You are a Stark. His DNA ran through you. You are a Stark, and Starks never backed down from a fight, but it seemed easier to give up.

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#second chace #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you #tony stark x daughter!reader #tony stark x reader

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