#and it's safe to safe i have well and truly destroyed my own heart in the process | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deepouterspacecandy · 3 months

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Ink and Paper Hearts

I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.

Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.

It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.

Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.

The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.

It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.

Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.

Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.

It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.

The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.

A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.

The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.

A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.

It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.

Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.

It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.

Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.

Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.

“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.

“You better be talking to the dogs.”

“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, he does!”

A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.

“The bane of my existence.”

You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.

“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”

As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.

You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.

You’re safer by yourself.

Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.

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“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.

Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about.

“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”

As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.

“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“No, I—”

“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Promises? What did that have to do with anything?

“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.

You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”

“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”

Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.

“What’s your problem?”

In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.

She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.

“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”

You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.

It’s going to be a long night.

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Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.

“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.

“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.

When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.

“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”

The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.

“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”

You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.

“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”

The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.

There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.

“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.

As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.

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The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.

The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.

“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”

“Wait,” you say.

She blows out a frustrated breath.

“This better be good.”

The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.

“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”

“Any other suggestions?” she asks.

“I mean, no—but,” you begin.

Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”

“Fine.”

She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.

“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.

“Hey!” Abby says.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”

She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.

You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.

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It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.

Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.

Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.

Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.

Abby spots them as soon as she returns.

“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.

She doesn’t.

“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”

“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.

“Let me try,” she offers.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.

You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.

By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.

“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”

“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.

“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.

You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.

“Look, if you just—”

“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.

Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.

When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.

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Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.

Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.

Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.

It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.

But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.

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“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.

Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.

“Letters, mostly,” you say.

Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.

“What kind?”

You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.

You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.

“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”

Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.

“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.

Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:

When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.

Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.

“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.

You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.

“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”

“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”

You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.

“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”

You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.

It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.

“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.

She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.

You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself. The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.

“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”

The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.

When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.

“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.

Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.

It’s you who can’t stop squirming.

“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”

“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”

Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.

It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.

With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”

The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.

“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”

“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.

She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.

“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”

The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.

The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.

She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.

You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.

Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.

You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.

“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”

“Will you read it to me?”

Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.

“Only if you promise to read the next one.”

“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.

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The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.

It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.

The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.

Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.

Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.

A thunderous crash shocks you awake.

You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.

Someone appears to be banging your door down.

“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”

You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.

Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.

Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.

“What’s going on, Abby?”

She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.

You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.

“Anderson?”

The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.

When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.

Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.

The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.

It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.

Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.

“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.

Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.

“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”

It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.

Does she always talk in her sleep?

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”

Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.

You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.

Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.

As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.

The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.

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It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.

Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.

Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.

“Looking for me?”

“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.

She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.

“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”

“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”

Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.

“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”

“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”

As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.

You must’ve caught her on her way in.

“Are you busy later?”

“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.

“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”

It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.

“What do you have in mind?” you ask.

The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.

“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.

Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.

“Works for me.”

She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.

You amuse her. This much is obvious.

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A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.

“I wanted to.”

She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.

With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.

“Juice cool?”

The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.

“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”

With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.

She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.

“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”

Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.

“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”

“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”

As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.

“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.

The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.

“I see it.”

Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.

She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.

“I can live with that,” she whispers.

The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.

When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.

She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.

“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”

She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.

“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.

“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”

Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.

“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”

“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”

She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?

“I mean, this is just sad.”

“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”

“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”

Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.

“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.

The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.

“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.

Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.

“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.

The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.

“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”

There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.

Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.

She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.

“What on earth are you doing?”

As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.

A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”

“My bad,” she giggles.

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

Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.

Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.

“He says you’re a bad influence.”

“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.

“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”

You try to push that thought aside.

“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”

“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”

She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.

“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.

A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.

You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.

“Yes,” you say.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.

You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.

“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.

“I hope so.”

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

The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.

Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:

With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.

Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.

“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”

You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.

“Give it here, woman.”

She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.

“My dad told me about this.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”

“Like a holiday or something?”

“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”

She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?

“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”

The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.

“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.

“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”

You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.

“So, they danced together a lot?”

“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”

You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.

“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.

“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”

“Well, duh,” you murmur.

Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.

“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”

“I love that,” you say.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.

Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.

“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”

“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”

“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”

She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.

“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.

She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.

“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”

“Totally.”

“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.

As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.

“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.

As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.

“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

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

Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.

An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.

Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.

It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.

“You’ve done well.”

You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.

“Isaac. You scared me.”

If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.

You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”

“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”

“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.

Your heart sinks.

“What does this have to do with me?”

He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.

“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”

It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.

“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”

“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.

Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.

“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”

You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.

“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”

“I disagree.”

Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.

“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.

“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”

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

You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.

Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.

You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.

“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”

Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.

“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.

It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.

“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”

Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.

“I’m fucked,” you groan.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.

“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”

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

Hey you,

I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?

I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.

Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.

How did you get under my skin so fast?

I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.

What is it like over there? Are you safe?

I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.

Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.

Please write me back,

A.A.

You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.

Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.

You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.

You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.

Abby,

I read your letter every day.

Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.

It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)

The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.

Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.

My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.

It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?

The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?

Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.

Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.

P.S.

If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!

Yours truly,

You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.

To: My Favourite Inmate,

You sure know how to make a girl laugh.

It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.

Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.

It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.

Something I haven’t told anyone before…

Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.

Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?

I wish you were here beside me.

I’ve made it my mission.

A.A.

P.S.

When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.

#abby the last of us #abby x fem!reader #abby tlou #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #abby anderson #lesbian

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hana-no-seiiki · 9 months

Note

Hello! I hope you are doing well, I have an idea, feel free to ignore but I hope you like it.

Yandere Male Deliquent x GN Ex Bully

Like he tried to make them explode and being their “true self”, because in the past, when they were younger, they defend him and he became a delinquent just to see them again.

Sorry if my English is bad.

Bye!

YAN! DELINQUENT OC x GN! EX BULLY! READER

Also your English great anon! Dw about it.

AAAAAAA I’ve meaning to do more Yan! Delinquent recently anon!! You read my mind. For those new to my account. I already have a Yan! Delinquent OC named Mori Ban (see tag: hns.moriban) who was the first to really blow up from my yan! ocs. I always loved this trope with yan stories hhh

tw/cw: DDNE, mention extreme bullying, assault, and harassment. (brought out my trauma for this one). i imagine reader to be amab/masc for this one but there are no explicits allusions to that.

Uttering the name [L/N] [Y/N] was enough to strike fear in the hearts of men. Literally and figuratively speaking, your voice was enough to make even the highest of authorities piss their pants. Not only were you capable of destroying a person’s physical body with your very own hands, you were able to dismantle everything from their relationships and reputation to their financial situations in life.

People predicted you to grow up and become an even more menacing, ruthless person. You had the potential, and with the way you were it was simply the natural trajectory.

But like you always did, you broke everyone’s expectations.

You were like the delinquent version Serena Van Der Woodsen. Mindlessly strutting in as if you hadn’t put several companies to bankruptcy because the owner’s kid looked at you the wrong way. Nonchalantly eating your lunch in the same vicinity of your old victims as if you hadn’t shoved their face into the toilet as a way to pass time. Cheerfully waving at the student council president as if you hadn’t constantly blackmailed and assaulted them for several years just so they’d do your homework and projects. No one was safe from you. You had no code. As long as you felt like it, any life could be destroyed.

Standing opposite to your current path was Mori.

He used to be the punching bag of your lesser goons. Known for being weak and poor, only good for his academic excellence.

He grew up to be almost as fearsome than you. Where-areas you were coldblooded, revelling in the pain you brought upon others. He was a lot more morally guided. Sure, his enemies often suffered worse fates physically, but he wasn’t like you in the way he picked his battles. He only brought hell to those that deserved it. Those that hurt other people first.

And then there was the way he treated you.

You technically belonged to the category he dealt with. You ruined dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands of lives in a whim. You were the devil in a pretty suit of skin. Despite your lack of hostility nowadays, you never apologised or took accountability, never attempted to atone for your mistakes. The only reason why others haven’t confronted you about it was because of fear. They didn’t want to potentially anger you and set off a bomb.

But Mori? Mori could handle you.

After all, he dedicated his whole life to being your equal; serving you, aiding you.

In fact, he was just so disappointed to see you this way. All disgustingly docile and horridly disciplined. What kind of monster tamed you to be like this? Mori chuckled at the thought. No one but him can match you. You must have started behaving yourself for the sake of appearance. All of this was just a façade. If you had truly changed you would have begged for forgiveness to those you’ve wronged. If you had become a better person then you wouldn’t be discreetly glaring at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

If someone had truly taught you to be a goody-two-shoes he would have killed them ages ago.

“Hey, [N/N]. Sweetheart. How ya doin?” Mori leaned forward. He grew to be quite a ways taller than you and had to lean over to meet you face to face. Much to your chagrin.

“Fine. It’s so nice of you to ask Ban. If you’ll excuse me.” You adeptly moved to the side. You had dealt with this man-child several times throughout the semester already and knew to just avoid him at all costs lest you lose braincells and precious energy talking to him.

However, you could only take two steps before his hands grappled unto your wrist.

“Woah woah woah there. We’re not done yet.”

You don’t look back, and firmly yet calmly stated, “Yes, we are.”

“It’s a little late but we have yet to give you a homecoming party. That wouldn’t be fair for the great [Y/N].”

You turned back. Eyes wide, not of surprise or anger, but from sheer awe of this man’s audacity.

“I know what you want, and you’re not getting it from me right now.” You scowled at his beautiful pink eyes and effortlessly yanked your arm away from him. You didn’t know it yet back then,

but you had already lit the match.

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

#hns.moriban #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere oc #yandere fic #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere core #yancore #dom reader #sub yandere #yandere drabble #yandere self insert #yandere x y/n

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scottishmushroom · 6 months

Text

Bildad the Shuhite - Cobbler, Obstetrician, and Liar.

Bildaddy does more than craft footwear and assist birthing people. He’s also a weaver of untruths. Let’s explore them, shall we?

#1:

Of course as the audience, we know from watching Crowley throughout the last 6,000 years there’s some shame and self loathing when it comes to his identity as a demon. He is a fallen angel, therefore a demon unworthy of forgiveness. So to hear him phrase this as he does, comes off to me a little bitter. On the exterior his delivery may be one of stating a fact (he is technically a demon), but his inner conflict of being cast from Heaven but still wishing good in the world is a painful reminder of his loneliness.

But a step further, we also know as the audience that he is in fact lying to Aziraphale (and Hell) in this scene. Not about having permission to destroy everything Job owns, we know that’s true. But when he turns around and blows up the goats and sarcastically quips, “Seems legit to meeee” he is in fact lying. The goats are fine, and it wasn’t legit at all.

#2:

Crowley sets Job’s house on fire, and Aziraphale, just short of clutching her pearls says, “But… you said you wouldn’t.” This is followed by the very first time we hear Crowley say “I’m a demon. I lied.” We then get a very scrumptiously assertive Aziraphale standing his ground and insisting the children are safe, and Crowley is not going to harm them. Crowley is being challenged here by an angel, again. An angel. They’ve had limited encounters up to this point since his fall, and here he is being forced by the opposition to question where he truly stands. By backing down and saving the children, he’s not just going against Hell’s orders but also appeasing an angel. Crowley really cares what Aziraphale thinks of him. I’ve already written a meta that talks about this that you can find here: https://www.tumblr.com/scottishmushroom/730259715377020928/gif-credit-dancingcrowley-i-think-by-now-we-can

#3:

This one is like a stab to the heart. He says it so gently, so soft. On one hand, there’s that shame again. Regret and sadness at his identity as a demon, the inability to embrace who he is. The other aspect of it is about protecting Aziraphale. During the cellar scene, if you’re not too distracted with the sight of Aziraphale going absolutely rabid on that ox, Crowley denies that it is lonely going along with Hell as far as he can. By then, he is well aware that Aziraphale and him have that in common when it comes to their respective home offices. He doubts Hell’s decisions, and knows Aziraphale doubts Heaven’s/God’s. But he recognizes that Aziraphale is going to have a much more difficult time with coping with this realization. He lied about it not being lonely to protect him. To soften the blow he knew was eventually coming. To gently ease him into this new reality.

His soft delivery of “I’m a demon. I lied” here is a kindness. This is the true beginning of them on this path together of figuring out how to do their jobs even when it conflicts with their personal beliefs/morals. And also the beginning of neither one of them truly being alone. They may not recognize it just yet, but they have each other now. A group of the two of them.

My favorite thing about Crowley as a liar is when he does lie, it’s either a redirection to hide the truth (that he’s actually doing GOOD instead of evil), or to protect Aziraphale. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking that he always pairs his identity as a liar to his identity as a demon. True demons that lie, do so to cause harm. He lies to protect. He’s not a true demon. Just an angel that sauntered vaguely downwards.

#good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale good omens #go2 #ineffable husbands #crowley good omens #ineffable idiots #bildaddy #bildad the shuhite #good omens meta #good omens bildad

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bookshelfdreams · 27 days

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Hiii I hope this isn't too forward, but your tags re: Ed's evolving reactions to abuse and Izzy as abuse-survivor-wish-fulfillment are incredible and it would lovely as its own post, if you felt comfortable doing so!

Aww thank you! The post in question

Also, tbf, I'm just obsessed with the rule of 3, whenever there's the slightest chance of seeing a pattern like this I'll pound on it with a sledgehammer until it fits.

Anyway. Ed has 3 abusive white men in his life; his father, Hornigold, and Izzy. And all 3 he deals with, to escalating effect.

His father is the one who exerts the most power over him. Ed clearly comes from a violent household, and as a child, he is obviously completely at his fathers non-existent mercy. He beats Ed's mother, throws dishware against the wall, and there was a deleted scene where he yelled at Ed's mother for "turning my son soft" (oh how I wish they'd kept that in. I can understand why they thought this was expendable, but it would have made the connection between Ed's father and Izzy so much more obvious).

Ed cannot protect himself, or his mother, against this violence - up until the moment that he can. The moment he realizes he is no longer weak and helpless, he retaliates in the only way that he has ever seen conflicts be resolved. He knows that he can't intimidate his father into better behaviour, if he wants to end the abuse it has to be permanent. So he just fucking kills the bastard.

This is, of course, Not Ideal. Even 30odd years later, he feels monstrous and unlovable because of this moment. The violence scars him. Not because he was wrong in killing his father, necessarily; the show doesn't judge him for it. But Ed destroyed the life he could have had when he did it, and he wounded himself.

Violent solution? Possible, but he deserved better.

Next up, Hornigold, who is also a mean, abusive bastard. He represents the avoidance solution: Leave and never look back. We do not know what became of Hornigold after Ed left his ship, but 02x03 implies that Ed expects him to still be alive somewhere. Ed clearly suffered horrific abuse at his hands, both physical and emotional, and even though that is years in the past, he clearly never dealt with any of it. Gravybasket!Hornigold tells him "Sorry doesn't rebuild an abdominal wall. You gotta move on.": Don't expect an apology, don't try to make amends, just ignore what happened. Apologies are pointless, you can never expect your abuser to change his behaviour. So just try to get away from him and ignore him.

This also doesn't really work. In the gravy basket, Ed is clearly still desperate for Hornigold's approval - and is refused, as he probably was often when he sailed with him. "You're never good enough" is one of the core mantras of abusers. Hornigold is still living in Ed's head, and heart, and soul; the poison he fed him is still alive and well within him. Ed even tries a violent solution this time, but obviously that can't work.

Still, avoidance is better than violence. Hornigold is left behind, standing on that cliff, while Ed goes back into the light. Ed doesn't have to take him with him. He cannot make Hornigold regret what he did, but he can remove himself from his clutches.

And then there's Izzy. With Izzy, Ed obviously has the most ambivalent relationship. He seems to truly like Izzy, to some extend (why is that would be another post, but as briefly as possible: I think Izzy provides an interpersonal dynamic that is familiar, and therefore, a twisted kind of safe for Ed. Chronic mistreatment will embed in you the idea that there's something wrong with you, and that's something Izzy is all too willing to point out to Ed. Crucially though, Izzy is someone who's approval is actually attainable. Ed keeps around someone who will tear him down, yes, but who it is also possible to impress, and over who he has authority. He's going back to the previous relationships, only now he is in a position of power, and that may feel like he can fix them. Obviously this isn't exactly a healthy dynamic. Izzy, for his part, clearly gets a kick out of the power and status being Blackbeard's first mate gives him, and manipulating Ed into doing what he wants. Just watch how pissed he gets when his control over Ed starts to slip.).

And there's another, crucial difference: Izzy wants to come around. Izzy is the fantasy of the toxic person who realizes how shitty his behaviour is, and who deep down, cares enough to want to fix it. Who recognizes the pain he caused, and who tells Ed the things he most needs to hear: I hurt you, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this. I was wrong; you're fine.

And then - and this is also an important part of the wish fullfilment fantasy! - he dies. Ed doesn't have to deal with him anymore. We remove the possibility that he goes back on his apology, or tries to use that as a wedge to carve out a space for himself in Ed's life, or goes back to manipulating Ed. No. The apology has to be the final note this relationship ends on.

And this fixes it. Ed can look back on Izzy fondly.

He was a fucking nightmare. What a guy.

#of course this isnt too forward anon i love it when ppl notice my tag ramblings <3 #anonymaus #message #our flag means death #edward teach

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hentyehottie · 1 year

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i am so upset. we’ve been moots for like a month now and i haven’t come to throw some filth in your ask box yet 😩 buT it’s not too late!

alsO hI miya it’s nice to officially greet you 👉🏾👈🏾 i’m glad you enjoyed reading warm bodies! how are ya?

clears throat this is so long and i’m sorry but i like to ramble when i have ideas

So, I was lowkey just scrolling through your blog (i need to read more of your tasty ass work fr fr) and I noticed you reblogged a short fic about villian Kiribaku… A concept that has been untouched by my brain and was probably for good reason because now all I can think about is Red Riot the hardening villain who uses unbreakable to strike fear into civilians, heroes, and villains who dare to threaten his authority. Red Riot the villain is fucking huge and bulky and still has a smile of sunshine but a heart darkened by a selfish society. He honestly gives me Pain vibes, and idk if you’ve ever watched The Boys but I think he’d fit in perfectly with them, he definitely wants to kill heroes who don’t deserve to be called heroes.

Red Riot is very meticulous about the crimes he commits but there is one thing for sure— he loves a good fight. Doesn’t matter where the fight is or when it is, if there’s a fight brewin’ he’ll be there to find it. Also, random fact, he likes rocks soooo… he robs a lot of jewelry stores when he wants to add to his collection or he goes “shopping” at museums.

For example, big boy Riot has left the headquarters in search of a way to get his knuckles bloody, cruising around, looking for a hero to pick a fight with. Listen, even he’s got standards. He’s murdered a couple of people but never innocent ones, only heroes that don’t deserve their titles. And for that, he’s wanted by the Japanese government… Why’s he still walkin’ around like he’s some regular civilian though? I don’t even know. But… oh! Look at that, a hero.

The name of this hero doesn’t matter, he’ll scrapbook it later. A grin spreads across the villains face, a set of razor sharp teeth reveal themselves as he begins to approach the unsuspecting hero, following them to a more secluded part of the city to minimize witnesses as well as collateral damage.

This particular hero has quite a destructive quirk, so it’s truly no surprise that as soon as Red Riot attacks him, the hero begins to lay in blows that aren’t held back in the least. Indiscriminate waves of the disastrous quirk, that Red Riot easily dodges or blocks, cause nearly irreversible damage to nearby buildings, which no-doubt is putting civilians in even more danger than Red Riot’s presence alone. This is exactly /why/ he does the things that he does. With just one stupid fucking test, anyone could become a hero, even psychopaths like this.

As the hero is attempting to knock Red Riot down, the redhead villian doesn’t halter in anyway, getting closer and closer to the hero that looks like their about to shit their pants right in the alley. He’s nearly a foot away from the hero when he hears a blood-curdling scream that appears to be coming from above. He takes a moment to glance up and sees a woman plummeting to her death from the destroyed building that was just beside the alley. Then he looked back at the hero to see if he would do anything.

No. He was far too busy trying to keep his own ass safe. And for some reason, that pissed him off beyond comparison. He’d been holding back since the fight began, giving the hero a chance to defend himself, but it appeared time was running out. Hardening his fist, he aimed a blow directly to the hero’s face, satisfied with the sickening sound of flesh and bone breaking from the heavy punch, and watched the hero fly back into a pile of garbage bags, deserved.

With the screaming come closer and closer to where he was, Red Riot used the debris of the crumbling building to propel himself upwards and easily captured the woman who’d been falling, only then taking note of the bundle of life that she had protectively curled over. As they approached the ground, he hardened his legs and landed with ease, causing quite an indent in the earth.

While she’d been falling, hero eyes remained shut the entire time, but when she stopped falling, suddenly becoming hyper aware of her surroundings and the big strong arms that were wrapped around her rather protectively, she slowly opened one eye to take a peek at her savior.

In all his glory stood the infamous new Hero Killer, staring down at her with an arched brow on his handsome yet rugged face. The childhood scar on his eyelid had somewhat faded but fresh scars had been added to his face, a few nicks on his chin, cheek, and forehead, but they didn’t take away from his handsome appearance. He’d been wearing a red sleeveless hoodie, that showed off his muscular arms and a sleeve of ink that started from his right wrist, up the entirety of his arm, and disappeared under the hoodie no-doubt covering his right pec with a decorative tattoo, along with some plain black cargo shorts. His hair was spiked in the front and the rest flowed down his back in a mullet of sorts. She hadn’t realized she bad been silently staring at him in awe until he cleared his throat, asking if she was alright. Weirdly enough, she felt comfortable enough to answer him honestly, along with thanking him for saving her life. Unexpectedly, a cocky grin spread across his face and an idea came to mind.

“I’ve got other ways you can thank me, lil’ diamond.”

Next thing she knows, Red Riot aka Hero Killer 2.0 is mumbling some name that starts with a ‘K’ and a portal of purple smoke suddenly forms beside them out of thin air. Poor girl is basically kidnapped right then and there, but who woulda thunk Red Riot wanted a reward for taking down another hero and that reward just happened to be the lil’ milf who’d just dropped from the sky (or destroyed apartment building more specifically).

Don’t worry though, he may be a villain but he’s sweet and kind when he wants to be. And that includes taking care of you and your kid. Just like any normal abductee you question this motives and why’s he suddenly taken you from your home. He easily corrects you, saying that your home no longer existed and it was the manly thing to do to offer his surface to provide for you until you were able to get back on your feet.

(insert that one Soulja Boy audio where he says ‘HUH?!’ hella loud)

Why in the flying fuck would this man offer to take care of you? He had to have some kind of objective. But… to your surprise, he didn’t. In fact, you were free to leave whenever you wanted, and he made that clear.

Much to your surprise, Red Riot didn’t live in the LoV headquarters, he lived by himself in his own lil’ cabin in the woods that could easily fit a family or two. It was strange. You were thankful that he saved you and your baby’s life, but he was still a villain. A really, really handsome one at that. After his oh-so-caring suggestion, he mentioned if you wanted him to he would drive you back to the city and drop you off wherever you wanted to go. You dunno how it happened exactly but he’d been holding your baby while he was speaking to you, rocking the sleeping infant in his arms like he was their biological father. How was this man so fucking charismatic and sweet to you? He HAD to have some kind of ulterior motive.

Spoiler alert: yes, yes he did, but not the one you would expect from him.

Y’see… he’s always wanted a family. And here you were, dropped right into arms for the taking, and you didn’t seem to want to leave anytime soon, so he was going to use this opportunity.

A day turned into a week, a week turned into a month. And just as he promised, he took you out the house whenever you wanted and asked you each and every time if you wanted to be left in the city after your daily adventures (shopping and shit y’know, yes this man goes grocery shopping). But you always went back to his cabin with him, each and every time. Was this Stockholm Syndrome? No… couldn’t be, he openly told you to leave if you wanted to, then did that mean you were falling for the rugged mass-murdering villian? Looks that way.

As expected, the developing relationship between the three of you was not normal in the least, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He’d even introduced you to some of his buddies from LoV, only the ones he trusted tbh, and after that— you now had some willing and ready babysitters on call whenever you two needed.

Who wouldn’t abuse this opportunity? After some time convincing you, Red Riot, who had disclosed to you his real name was Eijirou Kirishima, managed to get you to go on a real date with him with just the two of you. And soooooo, ya did.

Who knew a villain could be so romantic? Certainly not you. He’d wined and dined you like his life depended on it and you were now putty in his hands. Perfect. The real games could begin.

He’s called a driver to take you both home and before you know it, Eijirou’s carrying you over the threshold like the two of you had just said ‘I Do.’

cracks knuckles

Now, this is where the real fun begins.

Red Riot, the hero-killing, tall, muscular, BDE, long-haired, thick-thighed, scarred, tattooed, smiling, thieving, hardening villain… has a breeding kink. And not just that, he’s got a big fucking dick that’s usually impressively hidden behind his usual wardrobe of loose fitting pants. But, you’ve seen him adjust himself more than a few times when he thinks you’re not paying attention, but you’re sure he just does it subconsciously without even realizing.

So there’s no real surprise when he’s dropped you onto your shared bed after a date and you can see the imprint of it through the black slacks he chose to wear. You coulda swore you saw the fuckin’ thing throbbin’ through the fabric but maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.

He’s now staring you down, noticing how your eyes have stayed glued to his crotch, with a timid look with some worry hidden behind your eyes. He grins and decides to have a little show for you. You’re struck back into reality when he suddenly grabs it, giving it a lil’ squeeze and a tug, causing your thighs to rub together in anticipation.

“No need to be nervous. It ain’t gonna hurt ya, baby. Promise.”

He purred, stroking his cock a few for times for you through his pants before moving his hands to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“Think you could strip for me, mamas? I like that dress on ya… Think I’d rip it to shreds if I tried to take it off.”

Sweet fuck, when’d you become so obedient???

Before you know it, you’re both naked and on top of the bed, not even bothering to get under the comforter or the sheets. Seems you two were impatient.

Eijirou was splayed out on his back, cock on fully display as it rested against his stomach that wasn’t exactly chiseled with abs, it was a lil’ squishy but the muscles in his arms and chest were hard to ignore. And would ya look at that, you were right, he did have a nagasode and hikae style tattoo with a dragon, flowers, and other symbols. His monstrous cock was almost teasing you with its ridiculous width and length, how was that going to fit in you? With its thick tanned shaft, and its fat brink pink circumcised tip that was dribbling precum despite being only half erect. The happy trail that led to a trimmed bush of onyx hair made you think about the hyped mane of hair on his head.

He’d decided to leave the gel out of his hair this evening so the bright crimson locks flowed in waves under his head… what kinda conditioner did this man use? Them locks shiny as a muhh’fucka- No, no, no, don’t get distracted.

Where were you?

He’d had you sitting on his chest, beckoning you to straddle his face with your thighs, and when you hesitated he took matters into his own hands and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you right onto his face.

Maybe I should have mentioned earlier that he’d got a forked tongue…? Y’know, the kinda tongue a snake has… He kinda got into a bit of body modification after dropping out of U.A.

And the way he uses his forked tongue on you is heavenly. So heavenly, that you nearly hunch over and run away from his skilled tongue, whining and whimpering his name, pathetically asking him to calm down and give you some time to adjust. The iron grip on your hips forces you stay right where he wants you, thick digits easily sinking themselves into your plush hips like memory foam. He’s absolutely ravishing you with the rapid fire motions of his tongue, writing out every Hiragana symbol in the charts, observing how you react to every trace of ever symbol. And when he draws out that one symbol, his tongue acting as a brush drenched in ink and your pussy acting as the paper, he notices the way you shudder and let out a guttural moan, clenching at his hair hard enough to make his scalp burn just a fraction— he smirks, abusing this new power.

ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki.

Ironically, the symbol that makes you shudder and silently scream sounds a bit like laughter, and laughter you shall receive. It is the best medicine after all.

Abusing this particular symbol, it is no surprise that the hardening villian soon rips an orgasm right out of your body, the searing heat that builds up inside you releasing into his mouth as you squeeze his head between your thick thighs.

Easily, Eijirou laps up your sweet nectar while groaning about how sweet and delectable you are, and gives you a moment to collect yourself, hearing the sweet pants and huffs that escape you as he rubs comforting circles onto your hips. That won’t last long, however.

“Think ya can cum on my tongue a few more times, lovely? Gotta make sure you’re slippery enough to bounce on my cock a lil’ later after all, hm? Be a good girl f’me, ya know ya can.”

my bad, my bad… went a lil’ crazy on this one 🧍 do with this as you please, aLsO i had an urge to draW hIm but i haven’t colored the lineart yet 😩 ill show ya when im doNe

You’ve been reduced to nothing but a whining, whimpering mess on the redhead’s tongue. He’s flipped and twisted your aching body so many times to get you in the perfect position, but nothing beats that good ole spread eagle.

Your hero turned villainous lover has both of those big hands holding you wide open for him, fingertips sunk into your plush flesh.

One knee is flush against the bed, the other is up against your chest, leaving nothing hidden from his fiery gaze. Your pretty pussy is his to abuse, at the mercy of that dexterous tongue and those razor sharp teeth.

Your moans and sounds are so cute to him, so pretty he wants nothing more than to keep fucking you on that long tongue.

You peer down at the beast between your thighs and the sight has you immediately tossing your head back, a breathy sigh passing through your lips.

Eijirou looks so precious—crimson eyes hooded and low, the thin sheen of your slick spread around his mouth while he licked and sucked you to another release.

‘Cu-cumming.’ Is how you’ll warn him before your pussy is creaming around that tongue again. You’re so sensitive, clit so swollen and red even the waft of his breath hurts.

But Eiji loves seeing you squirm, so much that he’s lathering your poor clit in spit, sucking the nub into his mouth just to hear you squeal as you claw at the sheets.

“Ei, p-please baby.” You’re begging, pleading for just an ounce of mercy from your lover’s tongue.

He raises his head to look up at you, or what’s left of you, granting a brief intermission as he flips you onto your belly.

He’s palming the fat of your ass, spreading you until he’s face to face with your delicious cunt and puckered asshole, his moistened lips curling up into a devilish smirk.

He loves this. He loves you and your perfect fucking pussy so much that tonight he plans on making you a mommy again. As soon as you cum for him one more time he plans to split you open and breed you.

“Just one more pretty girl, I promise.”

It’s nice to meet youuu, I love your work 🥺❤️Villian Kiri makes my pussy brain melt 🥹 I hate that it’s so short but I’m writing like 4 other one shots and my brain is a can of baked beans right now 😭

Hey bae, care to join us? @darkmajesty-xo

#kirishima smut #villain kirishima #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x you

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thebadgerclan · 9 months

Text

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: He'll come home safe and sound...he has to...

A/N: Not requested, but I wanted to sprinkle in some fluff between all my smutty requests 😂

Also this is very loosely based on "Timeless" by Taylor Swift (oops I'm a Swiftie now)

It wasn’t easy being a Prince’s intended, that was something that had been made explicitly clear to you before accepting Nikolai’s suit. But you loved him beyond measure and were willing to do whatever it took to be with him. And it was hard at times, but you learned to handle the scrutiny, the rumors, the criticism. So long as you had Nikolai’s arms to seek solace in, you could handle anything.

But you weren’t prepared for your intended to be sent to war. Nikolai, unlike his brother, truly enlisted, which came with the chance to be deployed with the rest of his unit. And he had been. He wasn’t going terribly far–only to Tsibeya–but that was where some of the harshest conditions and toughest fighting was. He was a Prince, they wouldn’t let him too near to the danger….would they?

You stood watching as Nikolai packed his things, looking handsome in his standard issue First Army uniform. No sash to indicate his status, no medals he hadn’t truly earned, he was a normal soldier. He turned to face you, a soft smile on his face. “Come here, darling,” he said, opening his arms. “If you look at me like that much longer, then I’ll start crying.” He was teasing, but you ran into his arms, burying your face in his chest, arms around his middle.

Nikolai held you tight, swaying back and forth gently. “It’s alright, my love,” he said. “I’ll be just fine.” “You don’t know that,” you cried. “You don’t know that you’ll be fine!” He nodded, though you couldn’t see. “You’re right, I can’t. But I promise that I will do my best to keep myself and my soldiers safe, Y/N. I promise, I will come back to you.” You only cried harder and held him tighter, dreading the moment you’d have to let go.

***

You received letters from Nikolai almost weekly, though there were some weeks that you went without word from your intended. But he was alive…if the Prince was struck down in battle, you’d know. Even so, you worried for his safety, pacing your rooms in the Palace for hours on end. When you received a letter, it consumed you, and you poured over the words for hours, tracing his looping scrawl with a finger.

Such was the instance now. You had already bathed and been curled up in bed with your new novel when there was a knock at your door. “Begging your pardon, my Lady,” the servant said. “But this was just delivered for you.” You snatched the letter from him greedily, thanking him before shutting your door, crawling back into bed to read.

My dearest Y/N, I am well, first of all. The entire unit is unharmed, and by the grace of the Saints, we will keep it that way. I miss you terribly, my love, I can barely sleep without you by my side. And that has nothing to do with the fact that my bed is a bedroll on the frozen ground. There has been little progress here as of yet, the Fjerdans are too cowardly to show themselves. But when they do, my dearest, we will destroy them.

Saints, I miss you. I miss your sweet smile, your soft kisses, your arms around me. I miss seeing you in the morning, before your maids come in to dress you, I miss watching you from across a ballroom, laughing at whatever the Kerch ambassador said, I miss seeing your face scrunch up when you read in surprise at what the characters have done. I miss you, Y/N, I miss you so damn much.

Dream of me when you sleep tonight, my love, for I will certainly dream of you. I promise, I will continue to keep myself and my soldiers safe, and I am counting the days until I am back in your arms. You own my heart, sweet love, please do not return in. Forever yours, with all of my love, -Nikolai.

You held the paper to your chest once you’d read it, tears pricking at your eyes. He was alright, he was safe. Of course, there was a week-long delay in the post, but he was safe. You folded the letter up and added it to the collection in your bedside drawer, and over the next hour, you re-read every single one of Nikolai’s letters, imagining that he was at your side and speaking to you.

When you fell asleep, you dreamt of him; simple, mundane things. Waking up in his arms, sitting at his side, both of you reading, having dinner with him, dancing with him at a ball, falling asleep in his arms. But when you woke, your bed empty save for you, your heart broke all over again. Nikolai might be safe, but he wasn’t here. And he might not be for a long time.

***

This letter was different. It had been sent by a messenger from camp, who appeared to have ridden straight from Tsibeya. “My Lady,” she panted, exhausted from her journey. “A letter for you, from Prince Nikolai.” You took the letter and opened it, slightly concerned by its length. But then you read it, and you could have cried.

Y/N, I am coming home. The Fjerdans have been dealt with, and my unit is moving out tomorrow morning. I had Katya deliver this to you, my love, both so you would know that I am on my way back to you, and so she can get home to her ailing wife. Soon, Y/N, darling, I will be back in your arms. Saints, two months have never felt so long. I love you, dearest, more than life. -Your Kolya.

***

You’d been standing on the steps of the Palace for hours. Nikolai would arrive home today, and there was no chance you’d miss him. You barely felt the early winter chill as you paced. It was growing dark, and you knew that you’d soon have to retreat inside, but just then, you heard it. The sound of hoofbeats, the call of voices. And then you saw it: a battalion of soldiers approaching, with Nikolai at the head.

You let out a cry, and your husband kicked his horse into a gallop. “Y/N!” he called, and you cried his name back, hands covering your mouth. Once he was close enough, Nikolai leapt from his horse and ran to you, lifting you into his arms and spinning you around. “Oh, my love!” he said, peppering your face and neck with kisses once he’d set you down. “You are far more beautiful than I remember you being!”

“Kolya!” you giggled, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his lips. “You’re here, you’re really here…” “I am, beautiful. And I’m not going anywhere for a good long while.” Nikolai kissed you again, nuzzling his nose against yours. He then reached into a pocket, unlooping his arms from around you. “Y/N, if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that I cannot bear to be without you. And I can’t promise that I won’t be sent away like this again, but I need you like I need air, Y/N.”

He pulled back, taking your hands in his as he sank to one knee. “My love, I want to be yours for the rest of my life. I wanted to do this at a ball thrown in your honor, but life has other plans. Y/N, my dear, my darling, my love, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” You’d started crying, and when he pulled out a ring, sapphire surrounded by diamonds, you sobbed. “Yes!” you nearly screamed. “Nikolai, yes! Yes, yes, yes! Oh Saints, get up here!” He stood, and you launched yourself into his arms, crying and laughing with joy. “I love you!” you said. “I love you so much!” Nikolai held you tighter, tears of his own flowing freely. “I love you too, Y/N,” he said, completely unwilling to let you go. “I love you too.” The prayers you had said to the Saints had paid off, for your Nikolai was home, safe and sound.

#nikolai lantsov x reader #shadow and bone reader insert #nikolai lantsov x you #shadow and bone fanfiction

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detransraichu · 3 months

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seeing feminist events and protests etc being ruined breaks my fucking heart :( like what do they think they're even accomplishing? even if they hate radfems there should be alternatives to just thrashing every feminist good deed radfems do for women in their often impoverished communities

if AT LEAST they had been working hard replacing it with their own trans-positive feminist version or whatever in the area that would've been one thing. but often they just destroy and just go aha! job well done, that'll teach those bitches. when women in those communities actually really truly need these things and all they do is ruin those resources for others and losing the movement activists that the movement badly needs. if they only knew that other activist movements that they respectfully bow down to ARE ALSO FULL OF WOMEN WHO HOLD RADFEM BELIEFS!!! and if every woman who thought that sex mattered, which is especially common with woc from outside the west or with family outside the west since they know first-hand how horrifyingly bad oppression can get for afab people, if they all had gotten called out cancelled banished from the spaces etc the movements would've failed before they even began and that would've led to SO MUCH more marginalized suffering!!!!

i truly believe that these kinds of extreme trans activists tend to be more on the privileged side outside of being afab, and use that activism as a way to prove they're not bigots like their white middle-class parents were nope they're radical and they fight the cistem and are cooler than those freaky bigoted genitals-obsessed gays and transsexuals... the same ones that fought hard for decades to earn them all the rights they currently enjoy and were oppressed on the basis of being same-sex attracted and are now being thrown out of pride events

it's also interesting with different cultures, bc for example with french instances of trans activists going batshit, the french world is much newer to the concept of gender identity than english folks, like there's SOOO many stolen english words that young french qweer activists are trying to awkwardly make a Thing in french spaces and they have the intense righteousness of trans english tumblr but the people around them are just like huh ????? bc the words and the concept of gender identity just aren't as widespread in french spaces, esp since our language is so sex-based. it makes them feel even more like martyrs and seeing the entire french world as bigoted. it makes for some wild shit in france like sex-based feminist events being trashed and cis feminists being assaulted and only english radfems hear of it and call it out, bc english trans activists don't care about news like these, it makes them all look bad and they assume it's all just elaborate fox news type shit or cis women are being dramatic again

i just think that the way trans activists are treating the feminism vs gender identity divide is really unproductive, surprisingly violent, very dangerous, and negatively impacts the afab women who need feminist events and protests etc the most. especially woc, disabled women, senior women, and other women w few resources. i'm seeing women being turned away from SHELTERS and other life-saving resources for using the words man/woman in a sex-based way or wanting only people with vaginas in trauma victim spaces for safety and healing reasons. would a homeless dude spouting the same language be turned away from a shelter or lead to activists rallying and protesting outside the shelter for daring to home him bc he's unsafe for transmasc people??? would a trans activist say nope we shouldn't give him a safe home we shouldn't give him a space in a shelter we should record him and post a video of him and shame him and laugh at him???? I REALLY DON'T THINK SO

#rambling #radblr #gender critical

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gatheringbones · 1 year

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[“Most gaslighters seem to hold in reserve a secret weapon, an emotional explosion that flattens everything in its vicinity and poisons the atmosphere for weeks afterward. A person in a gaslighting relationship fears that if the gaslighter is pushed too far, he’ll invoke this Emotional Apocalypse, something even worse than the ongoing attrition of annoyed questions and cutting remarks. This apocalypse is such a painful experience that, eventually, she’ll do anything to avoid it.

The Emotional Apocalypse might happen only once, or it might never happen, but the fear of the Emotional Apocalypse is sometimes even worse than the event itself. The gaslightee is terrified that her partner might yell, or criticize her, or even leave her, and she’s sure that if her fear is realized, she’ll be completely overwhelmed. “You feel like you’re going to die,” one of my patients told me once, and she wasn’t much comforted by my replying, “But you won’t die.”

[……] For as long as he could remember, Mitchell had worried about letting his mother down and had hoped to make up for all the other disappointments in her life. As a result, he was vulnerable to her gaslighting. Although she rarely accused him of anything directly, her hurt looks were more powerful than words. “I feel like I’ve broken her heart,” he told me in one especially painful session. “I’d do anything to keep her from looking that way and knowing that I caused her pain.” Rather than ask himself what, realistically, were his chances of making his mother happy and how willing he was to sacrifice himself to do so, Mitchell insisted that his mother could be happy—if only he could be a better son.

Sometimes the gaslighter progresses to increasingly painful responses—from cutting remarks to outright yelling, from implied guilt to explicit accusations. And if a gaslightee resists, the behavior may become still worse—daily yelling, broken dishes, threats of abandonment. She may start to feel as though even thinking about resisting provokes an escalation, as though it’s not safe to disagree even in her own thoughts. Giving in completely—in thought and emotion as well as action—may come to seem like the only safe course.

When gaslightees try to tell me about their apocalyptic fears, they often have two contradictory positions. On the one hand, putting these fears into words may make them seem trivial, so my patients express a lot of shame and self-doubt. “I know it doesn’t sound like much…,” they’ll say. “Only an idiot would get upset about such a little thing.” Or “I’m sure it’s not that big a deal. It’s just that I’m such a wimp. He’s always telling me I’m too sensitive.” On the other hand, if I ask a gaslightee to wonder what might happen if she responded to the Emotional Apocalypse with a shrug or by walking out of the room, she may desperately insist that I don’t understand how bad it really is. “But he’ll keep yelling,” she might say. “And if I leave, or ask him to stop, he’ll yell more.” If I ask what makes the yelling so frightening, I get a stare of disbelief. It’s as though the gaslighter’s secret weapon—whatever it might be—really did have the power to annihilate the gaslightee and destroy her entire world.

I know when the Emotional Apocalypse threatens, it can be truly frightening. But in fact, the yelling will not destroy your world. The criticism will not end your life. The insults—however painful—will not actually bring your house crashing down in ruins around you. I know it feels as though the Emotional Apocalypse will literally destroy you—but it won’t. And when you’re able to see past the fear that is choking you and clouding your mind, you may be able to shrug off your gaslighter’s point of view and refuse to engage with it—neither believing it nor arguing with it, but simply holding on to your own inner truth.”]

robin stern, the gaslight effect

#robin stern #brainspace #cw abuse #currently reading

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mj-iza-writer · 3 months

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Sp Special Containment Part 11

If you are new to the story or need an update for how the story is going, please use the hashtag SP Special Containment. I hope you enjoy. -MJ

Andy peaked into Aramais's room.

"Hey the Director is here to talk to you. Are you okay with that?", Andy eyed Aramais, "keep your slippers on your feet."

"I won't throw them", Aramais laughed as he sat up on the bed.

The Director came in, "yes I'd rather not have those thrown at me, thankyou."

"I wont throw them", Aramais sighed, "so whats going on now."

"Well we may be getting another human weapon in the facility", the Director sighed, "I'm just checking to make sure everyone is okay with that. I've had a lot of meetings already. You three are my next meetings."

"I wanted to go to each of you individually if that's okay, that way you can ask your own questions and voice concerns", the Director leaned against the table.

"Who?", Aramais questioned.

"Mitch", the Director stated in annoyance, "I heard back from my higher ups, they said to destroy him. I can't bring myself to do it. So we are going to try our best to make it work. I just wanted to know what you three thought before I moved forward with this."

"Does what we think make a difference? You'll probably do what you want anyways", Aramais frowned, "didn't you say you didn't want him?"

"I did, and yes your opinions will be taken into account mostly on how we will protect you three from him", the Director smiled, "this will be a trial run, Cass says he is open to being the caregiver."

"Cass?", Aramais looked at Andy.

Cass watched nervously from the monitor room, Aramais was the weapon that intimidated them the most.

"Yes Cass. Is that okay?", the Director looked at Andy as well.

"I have two conditions before I say okay", Aramais sighed an looked back at the Director.

"Yes, let me write these down", the Director flipped a paper over.

"Mitch is to stay far away from Whumpee until I, me", Aramais pointed at himself, "say it's safe, Mitch could easily pretend to be good, until the guards are dropped, then target Whumpee again. This coincides with my second condition, do not trust Mitch alone with Cass. Words are easy to believe..."

The Director cut in, "they may be a junior, but I think they are ready..."

"Do not interrupt me", Aramais glared, "I do not care about Cass's age or rank. I know they can do it, but I also know more about Mitch's training than any of you. We are trained to be sociopaths, and you need to know the signs. Mitch can be a narcissists and twist his way into all of you trusting him. Whether Cass can do it is on them, but you need to watch Mitch."

Cass sighed in relief, they expected Aramais to be completely against them doing this. 'Why is he okay with this?', Cass thought to themself.

"I can agree to these", the Director nodded, "I'd appreciate any help you can offer as you are right, there is a lot I don't know about you guys yet."

Aramais nodded, "okay, I'm fine with him staying."

The Director came into the monitor room with Andy.

"Can I go in there with Aramais really quick, by-by myself?", Cass looked at them both.

"That's fine", they both smiled.

Cass went to the door and was buzzed in.

"What now.. oh", Aramais looked over at the door.

"Hey, I was um in the monitor room... I'm sorry", Cass looked down.

"I kind of figured", Aramais sat up again.

"I've had to fight tooth and nail for this position, everyone saying I'm too young or other things, and that I can't do it. I was expecting you to say the same, and I would have honestly respected your opinion more than any of them", Cass felt like their heart was going to explode.

"Cass, you need to relax before your heart jumps out of your chest, and I get blamed", Aramais looked at Cass with concern.

"I'm sorry, I'm truly terrified of you over any of the others", Cass admitted.

"I know you are", Aramais grinned, "you don't have to be though. I'm not going to do anything, Andy would withhold my slippers from me if I did", Aramais laughed lightly, "your age is of little importance to me, and your rank means nothing. If you want to do this, then do it."

Cass smiled and quickly wiped a tear, "thankyou."

"No need to cry", Aramais grinned, "now go on, take good care of Mitch for me."

On the way to Jaimie's room to see if she woke up an alarm sounded.

Several guards ran by.

"What's going on now?", the Director hurried, with Cass, Andy, and Caretaker trailing behind.

"Mitch is freaking out, guards are being called to contain him", a guard stopped.

"Crap", Cass started running for Mitch's room.

"Where are you going?", Andy yelled.

"Mitch needs me", Cass yelled back, "he said he was about to snap, and I totally forgot to tell the Director."

"Kid", Andy yelled as they ran after the guards.

"Buzz me in", Cass commanded the guard.

"I can't he's out of control", the guard turned quickly, "it's too dangerous."

"Just do it, no guards are allowed in unless I can't get through to him. I need to try first."

The Director came in, "do as he says, let's see what happens. I need guards to be ready though."

Cass took a deep breath before going in.

Mitch screamed loudly as the door closed behind Cass. The chair shook violently with him thrashing.

Cass hurried around Mitch to his backpack and pulled out the book they were going to read.

While opening the book, Cass stood in front of Mitch.

Everyone in the monitor room watched in shock while Cass read from a random page in the book.

Mitch continued to thrash in the chair, but stopped screaming after a few sentences.

Cass watched Mitch as they flipped the page.

"Come on Mitch", Cass looked down at the book and started reading more.

"This is taking to long", a guard complained, "we need to sedate."

"Anyone who disturbs them will be fired", the Director spoke over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with the monitors, "give Cass a chance."

Mitch gasped tiredly as he stopped thrashing. Cass stopped reading as Mitch started to pant.

"Mitch?", Cass stepped closer, "are you there."

"Water", Mitch whispered as sweat dripped from his nose.

Cass quickly grabbed the water and tipped it for Mitch to drink.

"Thankyou", Mitch squeezed, his eyes shut, "I need to get out of this chair, my body is killing me."

"I'm sorry", Cass frowned, "I'm working with the Director right now."

"Work faster, I told you I was about to snap", Mitch hit his head against the back of the chair, "I-I need to get out of this chair", he yelled.

Cass looked at one of the cameras.

"Cass you do not have permission to do it, do not remove the restraints", the Director clicked the mic on.

"I'm not, but his survival mode is being triggered, he's been sitting like this for a week now", Cass pointed out, "it is causing pain, that is not quality care to allow him to be in pain."

The Director sighed, and looked at Caretaker, "they are so much like you in your younger days."

"Okay, if Mitch can give us two days, we will work at having the room they're being transferred to ready", the Director watched the monitor.

Cass looked at Mitch.

Mitch roled his eyes, "fine."

"He says okay", Cass looked back at the camera.

"Can I at least have the head straps off? Give me something to move", Mitch pleaded, "I've been as good as possible, why can't I get a little mercy here."

The Director sighed, "Cass you may remove the forehead strap and chin strap. Mitch don't make me regret that."

"Thankyou", Mitch sighed as the straps were removed. He twisted his head to crack his neck.

Mitch sighed in relief

"Eww, that sounded disgusting", Cass grinned.

"Just wait until you hear my back crack once I get out of this stupid chair", Mitch moved his neck more, "mmm that feels good."

The Director sighed, "there has been way too many problems today", he watched Cass leave the room.

"Cass how did you know what to do?", Andy watched Cass sneak through the guards.

"He said earlier that reading always calmed him, so I though it would help", Cass smiled.

"Hmm", Andy though to himself, "I might have an idea for Aramais, I'll bring it up at dinner."

Jaimie quickly agreed to Mitch staying. Just under the same rule to keep him away from Whumpee.

"I'm glad that was easy", the Director sighed, "I'm not ready for Whumpee though."

"They're next so you better get ready", Caretaker sighed as they entered Whumpee's monitor room.

"Hey Whumpee, the Director is here for a visit, does that sound okay?", Caretaker spoke into the mic.

"Yes", Whumpee smiled.

"Aww look at their smile, now I have to ruin it", the Director sighed, "I'm not talking to Mitch until tomorrow, I'm about done with today."

Whumpee sat up as Caretaker came in, they happily eyed a bag of cookies sticking out his lab coat.

Caretaker grinned, "you caught me already."

The Director came in as Whumpee was opening the cookies.

"Oh good, you have a snack", the Director sighed, "um Whumpee, we need to talk."

"Okay", Whumpee made a concerned look.

"So this was not the original plan. Mitch was supposed to be transferred from this facility, but my higher ups messaged me to do as I pleased with him, but recommended I destroy him. I can't do it, I hate destroying things. I hope you understand, but Mitch is not leaving our facility. I wanted to check in with everyone before I finalize this, you are my last person Whumpee. Are you going to be okay with this?

Whumpee looked at Caretaker then at the Director.

"Uh", Whumpee looked down.

"Even if there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable, name it, and I will work to do it. Mitch will be roomed far away from you and the others. You will not see him until you say it is okay, he won't even be allowed out of his room if you are out", the Director promised, "Aramais and Jaimie have made it clear he is to stay far away from you. Even to the point I need to check with Aramais before that happens, if it happens."

Whumpee searched for words, their mouth felt dry.

"I... I... don't want Mitch to die... but I don't want to know he is near me", Whumpee whispered, "I'm not ready to see him again."

"You absolutely will not have to see him, I promise. There will be scheduled times he is allowed to be out of his room, and you three will be kept in your rooms. The rest of the time he will remain in his room."

"Who is even willing to be his caregiver", Whumpee looked at them in shock.

"Um Cass is stepping up to that role", the Director already knew where this was going.

"Cass?", Whumpee jumped forward.

"Easy Whumpee", Caretaker stepped over to them, "this is going to be a trial run, I truly believe Cass is ready. They will be watched closely by us. You don't have to worry."

"You better watch Cass as closely as possible", Whumpee pleaded.

Cass watched in the monitor room, they gulped.

"Okay, as long as I never have to see them, and you watch out for Cass. I guess it's okay", Whumpee begrudgingly stated.

"Whumpee since he's asking if you want any special favors, maybe you should ask right now", Caretaker whispered.

"Ask me what Whumpee?", the Director looked at them curiously.

Whumpee flashed an embarrassed grin before shoving their face into their pillow.

"Do you want me to ask?", Caretaker grinned.

Whumpee nodded into the pillow.

"Back when Cass was in charge of Whumpee they watched online videos together. Since then Whumpee has been asking for a Squish-um", Caretaker paused.

"Squishmallow", Whumpee mumbled into the pillow.

"Yes that, they look safe. No hard parts or anything. Honestly they're quite cute and soft from what I've seen," Caretaker grinned, "I wasn't sure if we could get Whumpee one to have. They say they want to cuddle with it. They've never had a stuffed toy before."

"We can do that", the Director smiled, "do you know which one you want."

"I've already found the one", Caretaker chuckled, and showed the Director.

The Director chuckled, Caretaker had found a cookie squishmallow.

"That's perfect", the Director nodded, "we'll put in the order for it."

"What one", Whumpee looked up.

"It's a surprise", Caretaker chuckled.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots

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